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As our boys defend our homeland, possibly with their lives, in the Gaza strip, we all must stop and take a few minutes to say Tehillim for them, or add a personal prayer for them into our daily routine. For the skeptics who don’t see how prayer can help such a situation, allow me to offer an example that might illustrate the power of prayer.

A friend related this short Dvar Torah to me today, and it struck a chord with me: Two of the most well known celebrations in the Jewish calendar are Purim and Chanukah. On Purim, we remember how Haman tried to wipe all the Jews in the Persian kingdom off the face of the map. He did not care if this Jew was assimilated or didn’t believe in Judaism, he wanted to physically kill out every single trace of Judaism he could. On Chanukah we remember how the Greeks tried to assimilate us. Our life was not their desire, just our culture. As long as we acted as Greek as we could, they were happy. They wanted to destroy Judaism not physically, but spiritually. On Purim, we combated Haman’s physical threat to our existence with prayer, fast and a slew of spiritual acts. On Chanukah, the Maccabim raised their weapons and waged war on the Greeks.

In both stories, the Jews were not destroyed. After all, here we are, reading Tzipiyah.com! Interesting to note that in both stories, the Jews successfully overcame their enemies with the force opposite that of the threat. When we were physically intimidated, we fought back with prayer, with spirituality. When we were spiritually intimidated, we fought back with war, the physical.

As a physical war wages on in the Middle East, as our boys put their lives on the line to protect those of the citizens of Israel, perhaps what we need to gain an edge is the force opposite that of the threat. Perhaps, to combat the physical attacks on our lives, we need some spirituality. Some prayer?

And, on another spiritual note, we are about to commemorate Asarah B’Tevet, the day that the Babylonian army laid siege to Jerusalem, eventually leading up to the destruction of the first Holy Temple. We commemorate this day spiritually, with fast and prayer. Over the course of the day, every time you get a pang of hunger, a desire to break the fast, if it really isn’t an emergency, think of our boys, risking their lives, and in their merit, overcome the hunger! Persevere as they are trying to do for us. A few hours without food is comparatively a small gesture for us to do for them.

May we soon see the end of this hardship, and may we merit seeing the light pierce this heavy, heavy darkness. May we witness the coming of Mashiach, Bimhera BiYamenu, Amen!

The ‘Three Weeks’ is one of the most difficult times in the year for me. Ashkenazi custom is not to listen to music, among other joyous activities, during the days between the 17th of Tammuz and the 9th of Av. This is because these three weeks are a period of mourning; the Talmud describes many national tragedies that happened on both of these days, which are designated as fast days, including critical stages of the destruction of the Temple, the Beit HaMikdash. The entire period is one of sadness, and one that has been reincarnated again and again over the generations as a time of Jewish tragedy — may there be no more! I, as a musician, find it very hard to leave my instrument aside and to minimize my music listening during these weeks.

I’m now living in Israel, and I must say that the Land is alive; there is a feeling of aliveness that is tangible in everything, and that pervades everything and every person. This sadness of mourning, too, is definitely tangible to me. While there are not many more things as joyful to me as to walk down Ben Yehuda street in central Yerushalayim, and to see Jewish men and women, boys and girls, rejoicing and celebrating life in Israel with Jewish music, my joy and pride is overshadowed with sadness and discomfort during these three weeks.

Have we forgotten that we need to be sad in this time? Have we forgotten what we need to be sad about, what we need to remember? Is the fact that the Beit HaMikdash is still in ruins, more than 2000 years after its destruction, a fact of life to be accepted as a given? What is a healthy balance between rejoicing in life, especially life as a Jew in Israel, and grieving for the destruction of G-d’s House on earth, and for our continued distancing from Him?

A living contradiction; a junction of opposites. How can you laugh and cry at the same time? How can you pray for the rebuilding of Yerushalayim, while thanking G-d for its continual rebuilding in our days? And… must we resolve these existential difficulties, or is it okay to live with them?