From the Cracks, Light: A Tisha B'Av Reflection

We find ourselves once more in the narrow passage of the Nine Days, the waning light between Rosh Chodesh Av and Tisha B’Av. In this corridor of memory and longing, the walls of the ancient Temple crumble in our collective imagination. We remember not only what was lost, but why: not because we lacked might or stone, but because we had forgotten how to truly see one another.

The mystics teach that the destruction of the Temple was not merely a historical wound but a spiritual unraveling. The inner blueprint of oneness shattered. The Shechinah, the Divine Presence, like a bird with broken wings, took flight into exile. Sinat chinam, baseless hatred,

was not only an emotion; it was a misalignment of vision. A forgetting of our shared soul-root.

And so it is in all generations.

Here in our mountain town, during these 9 days, I am reflecting that there are now three flames flickering on the menorah of Jewish life. One burns bright with the steadfast oil of tradition, our Chabad neighbors. Another dances with the wind of human spirit, shaped by the hands of those seeking culture and connection, the Reform-rooted, now lay-led community, Congregation Lev Shalom. And then there is us: Congregation Ohr Beharim: a glimmering ember in the middle, kindled by a longing to merge spiritual depth with openness, soul with study, mystery with belonging.

I have been listening.

To some, the existence of three synagogues may feel like a fracture. But I see a prism. Each of us catching the light of Torah in a different hue. Each of us echoing a facet of the Shechinah's radiant crown. We are not three walls dividing space; we are three windows into the same sacred sky.

And yet, I know that some in our community carry heartache. I have seen, and heard, the ache in those who feel pulled between loyalties, unsure where to root. Some wonder if the creation of our congregation widened a divide. I carry that question gently within myself, too.

The truth is, I did not build this sanctuary to separate, but to return something sacred. I was raised here, in the only synagogue we had. That community, in its generosity and love, lifted me through rabbinic school. And though I was not ultimately called to lead there, I felt a promise etched in my soul: that I must give back (receive for the sake of sharing). Not with walls, but with welcome. Not with competition, but with compassion. And so this offering, Ohr Beharim, Light in the Mountains, was born. Free, open, rooted, and radiant.

The Beit HaMikdash, the Holy Temple, was said to have one heart but many gates. Each tribe entered through its own entrance, but all stood together before the Presence. That is the vision I hold for us. That the local streams of Judaism will not dry each other out, but flow toward a confluence, watering the spiritual landscape of Flagstaff with abundance and choice.

Go wherever your heart is nourished. Visit every well. Pray with those who lift your spirit. Grieve as you need. And know that here, you will always be received with open arms. The illusion of separation you see is just that, an illusion. Ultimately, we are all one with each other and with the Source.

We are living in a time when the spiritual stones are being gathered again, not to rebuild the past, but to create something new and alive: a Temple of relationship, song, study, silence, laughter, and presence.

May this upcoming Tisha B’Av not only remind us of what was destroyed but ignite in us a vision of what might yet be built. May our shared yearning become mortar. May our kindness become beams. May our diversity become stained glass, casting holy light across every corner of this mountain town.

And may the Shechinah dwell, not to a single place, but to every table where we bless, every circle where we sing, and every heart that says: Hineni, I am here.

With endless hope and with all my love,

Rabbi Shoshana Karlin