I’ve been thinking about the rhythm of the Jewish calendar lately. Every year around Tisha B’Av, I find myself reflecting a little more deeply. Part of that is personal. My mother died on Tisha B’Av in 2020, and every year this season draws me back.
One of the things I love about Judaism is that even the calendar has an emotional arc. We don’t simply remember history. We rehearse it every year.
As I was looking ahead to this season, I found myself thinking about the names we give certain Shabbatot. Shabbat Chazon. Shabbat Nachamu. Shabbat Shuvah. They’re names I’ve known for years. I’ve talked about them, taught them, and lived through them. But this summer I found myself wondering what story they tell when you put them together.
The answer, I think, is that the Jewish calendar tells a story of what it means to be human.
The Three Weeks
In the three weeks leading up to Tisha B’Av, we read a series of prophetic haftarot filled with warnings about injustice, corruption, and what happens when a society abandons its values. These readings come primarily from Jeremiah and Isaiah.
The last of the three is Shabbat Chazon, the Shabbat immediately before Tisha B’Av. Its name comes from the opening word of that week’s haftarah, Isaiah’s chazon—his vision. The chapter opens with God, through Isaiah, cataloging Judah’s failures: empty rituals, corrupt leaders, a people going through the motions of faith while ignoring justice. The tradition deliberately places these readings together. We don’t get to mourn the Temple’s destruction without first sitting with why it happened. Chazon means vision, but this is a hard vision. It asks us to look honestly at what a community becomes when it loses its way, right before we grieve what that loss cost us.
Then Everything Changes
After Tisha B’Av, the tone shifts dramatically. The very first words of the next week’s haftarah are Nachamu, nachamu ami—”Comfort, comfort My people” (Isaiah 40:1). That is why this Shabbat is called Shabbat Nachamu, the Sabbath of Comfort.
But here’s what has always struck me. We don’t receive just one week of comfort. We receive seven. Healing, the tradition seems to suggest, takes longer than grieving.
The seven Shabbatot between Tisha B’Av and Rosh Hashanah are called the Shiva D’Nechemta, the Seven Shabbatot of Consolation. Week after week, Isaiah reminds us that loss is not the end of the story, that hope can return, and that broken communities can be restored.
Think about that for a moment. Judaism gives us three weeks to prepare for destruction — but seven weeks to practice healing.
Comfort Before Change
Only after those seven weeks do we arrive at Shabbat Shuvah, the Shabbat between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Its name comes from the opening words of Hosea, Shuvah Yisrael—”Return, O Israel.” This is the Sabbath of return, repentance, and renewal.
I don’t think the order is accidental. The Jewish calendar doesn’t rush us from grief into self-improvement. It doesn’t demand that we immediately “move on” or become better people.
Instead, it offers comfort first. Only after we have been reminded that we are loved, that we are still in relationship, and that hope is possible are we invited to do the hard work of teshuvah—of returning.
That feels like deep wisdom.
I’ve been thinking about how often our culture reverses that order. We expect people to change before they’ve had a chance to heal. We tell ourselves to be productive before we’ve grieved. We mistake criticism for growth.
The Jewish calendar imagines another way. It says: Tell the truth about what has been lost. Sit with the grief. Listen for words of comfort. Then, when your heart is ready, begin again.
Maybe that’s why these Shabbatot have names at all. They serve as reminders that our spiritual lives have seasons, and that healing has its own sacred pace.
My mother died on Tisha B’Av. We didn’t always know how to love each other well. Part of what I grieve is the loss of possibilities. Six years later, I still mark that day in the dark.
But every year the Shabbat of Comfort comes anyway, right on schedule, whether I’m ready or not.
Maybe that’s the point. Comfort doesn’t wait for us to be finished grieving. It just keeps showing up, year after year, until we’re finally able to receive it.
Rabbi, thank you for the enlightening and uplifting essay.
Todah Tabah for this teaching, Rabbi.