That raw, visceral feeling is at the heart of a powerful story about Moses and the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem.
Imagine Moses, our leader, the one who brought us out of Egypt, learning that the Beit Hamikdash, the Temple, has been destroyed. The people, slaughtered or exiled. The world, irrevocably broken. According to Tree of Souls, by Howard Schwartz, Moses, overcome with grief and rage, doesn’t turn inward. He turns upward.
He cries out, "Cursed be you, sun! Why did you not become dark when the enemy entered the Temple?" (Lamentations Rabbah, Proem 24).
It's an incredible accusation, isn't it? Blaming the sun, this ancient symbol, perhaps the earliest symbol, of God's power and light. But the sun, in this story, has a defense. It replies to Moses, "By your life, Moses, how could I become dark when they beat me with sixty whips of fire, saying, 'Go pour forth your light!' I had no choice!" (Lamentations Rabbah, Proem 24).
The sun, too, was powerless. Forced to witness the horror, unable to intervene.
Then, Moses turns his anger towards God. He says, "Master of the Universe, You have written in Your Torah, 'No animal from the herd or from the flock shall be slaughtered on the same day with its young' (Leviticus 22:28). Yet many mothers and sons have been killed. Why are You silent?" (Lamentations Rabbah, Proem 24).
It's a searing question, a direct challenge to divine justice. How can God, who forbids such cruelty, allow this unimaginable slaughter to occur?
This story, found in Lamentations Rabbah, isn't just about Moses's grief. It's about the audacity of faith. We see it echoed in Abraham's bargaining with God over Sodom (Genesis 18:22-33). Moses, though, takes it a step further.
He confronts God directly, much as he did after the Golden Calf incident (Exodus 32:9-14). He's not afraid to question, to demand answers, because his relationship with God is so profound, so intimate, and his concern for the fate of his people, Am Yisrael, is so absolute.
The rabbis who crafted these midrashim, these interpretations, weren't afraid to grapple with difficult questions. They poured their own pain and anger into the figure of Moses, allowing him to voice the unspeakable grief of a nation in ruins.
What does this story tell us? Perhaps that anger, even anger directed at God, can be a form of prayer. That questioning, even challenging, is a vital part of faith. That even in the face of unimaginable loss, we can still find the courage to demand justice and accountability. And maybe, just maybe, to be heard.