It’s a question that’s echoed through the ages, and Jewish tradition offers some fascinating insights.

Rabbi Simon, in Kohelet Rabbah, a commentary on the Book of Ecclesiastes, makes a striking observation. He points out a curious pattern: when people attend joyous occasions, their names often go unmentioned. But in times of sorrow, at a house of mourning, names are specifically remembered. Og, the giant, feasts with Abraham, but his name is glossed over. In contrast, Job's three friends – Elifaz, Bildad, and Zofar – who come to comfort him in his suffering, are clearly identified.

But it goes deeper than just names. Rabbi Simon takes it a step further: those who attend feasts often aren't spared from Gehenna – often translated as hell, it's more accurately understood as a place of purification. But those who offer solace in mourning are spared. Og, again, serves as an example of the former. Job’s comforters, it's suggested, are examples of the latter.

Rabbi Yissakhar of Kefar Mandi adds another layer. He suggests that the wicked are destined for the lowest depths of Gehenna, referencing Job 34:26, "He strikes them in the place of the wicked." Job's friends, however, avoid this fate. The verse, "Each man came from his place" (Job 2:11), isn’t just about physical location, according to Rabbi Yissakhar. He interprets the words “from his place” to mean from the very place that had been reserved for them in Gehenna. They were rescued from it by their act of compassion.

And here's where it gets really interesting. The Ruach Hakodesh, the Divine Spirit, doesn't rest upon those at the feast, but it does upon those who mourn with Job. This is evidenced by the fact that "Elifaz answered" (Job 4:1) and "Bildad answered" (Job 8:1). Rabbi Meir teaches that whenever you find the words aniya (answering), amira (saying), and ko/kakha (so), it signifies that the words were spoken in Lashon Hakodesh, the sacred tongue, with the inspiration of the Divine Spirit.

So, what does all this mean? Is it simply a condemnation of joy or praise for sorrow? Not necessarily. Perhaps it suggests that true connection, true meaning, is often forged in the crucible of shared suffering. Maybe it’s in those moments of vulnerability, of empathy, that we truly see each other, and in turn, are seen by the Divine.

It seems our tradition suggests it's not about avoiding joy, but about recognizing the profound power of presence, of showing up, especially when life gets hard. It’s about recognizing the sacredness in shared sorrow, and the transformative potential of offering comfort. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it, where we’re choosing to invest our energy, and what kind of impact we hope to have on the world. Are we showing up for the feasts, or for the moments that truly matter?