As the Jewish people enter the solemn days leading up to Tisha B'Av, we mourn the destruction of both Batei Mikdash, the loss of Jerusalem, and the tragedies that have befallen our nation throughout history. We sit on the floor, read Eichah, and remember what was lost. Yet Tisha B'Av is not only about remembering the destruction of a building. It is about reflecting on the spiritual and emotional fractures that led to that destruction and asking ourselves what we can do differently today.
One of the most powerful lessons for this season comes from a story that many people have never heard.
It is a story about betrayal, heartbreak, responsibility, compassion, and ultimately hope.
Most remarkably, it is a story that the Lubavitcher Rebbe transformed from what appears to be a tale of failure into one of the greatest expressions of faith in the eternal holiness of every Jewish soul.
The story takes place during one of the darkest periods in Jewish history.
Nearly twenty-two centuries ago, the mighty Greek Empire sought not merely to conquer the Jewish people, but to reshape them. Greek philosophy celebrated human intellect, beauty, and culture. Many Jews admired aspects of Greek civilization, and over time, assimilation became an ever-growing challenge.
Eventually, the Seleucid ruler Antiochus IV outlawed the study of Torah, the observance of Shabbos, circumcision, and many other mitzvot. The Beis HaMikdash was desecrated, idols were brought into its sacred courtyards, and Jewish life was placed under relentless assault.
It was during this period that we meet a woman named Miriam bas Bilgah.
Miriam did not come from an ordinary family.
Her family belonged to Bilgah, one of the twenty-four priestly divisions established to serve in the Beis HaMikdash. Each division served for one week at a time, twice each year, with all twenty-four divisions serving together during the pilgrimage festivals.
Imagine growing up in a family whose identity revolved around serving in the holiest place on earth.
Imagine watching your father, brothers, uncles, and cousins preparing to perform the sacred service of the Beis HaMikdash.
The sights.
The sounds.
The singing of the Levi'im.
The fragrance of the incense.
The holiness that filled Jerusalem.
This was Miriam's world.
Yet somewhere along the way, something changed.
She abandoned Judaism.
She married a Greek military officer.
In doing so, she aligned herself with the very empire seeking to erase the faith of her ancestors.
Then came one of the most painful moments in Jewish history.
Greek forces entered the Beis HaMikdash.
Amid the chaos and desecration, Miriam walked into the Temple alongside the invading soldiers.
She approached the Mizbeach, the Altar upon which countless korbanos (sacrifices) had been offered, and struck it with her sandal.
Then she cried out:
"Lukos! Lukos! Wolf! Wolf! How long will you consume the wealth of Israel and fail to stand by them in their time of distress?"
For generations, this story has been understood as an expression of bitterness and rebellion.
But the Lubavitcher Rebbe heard something else.
The Gemara (Takmud Sukkah 56b) could have simply told us that Miriam became an apostate.
It could have told us that she married a Greek officer.
It could have told us that she desecrated the Beis HaMikdash.
Why preserve her exact words?
Every word recorded in Torah is eternal.
If the Gemara records this speech, it must contain a lesson that transcends history.
The Rebbe asks us to listen carefully.
What did Miriam actually say?
She did not declare that there is no G-d.
She did not say the Beis HaMikdash was meaningless.
She did not mock the Jewish people.
Instead, she cried:
"Why didn't you save the Jewish people?"
Think about that for a moment.
If she truly believed the Mizbeach was nothing more than stone, why would she be disappointed in it?
If she had completely abandoned faith, why would she expect the Altar to protect anyone?
Her very complaint reveals something astonishing.
She still believed.
She still cared.
She still identified with the Jewish people.
Hidden beneath years of assimilation, anger, and terrible choices remained a soul that expected holiness to matter.
The Rebbe saw what others overlooked.
He heard not only rebellion.
He heard pain.
The Rebbe's insight is as psychologically profound as it is spiritually inspiring.
The opposite of love is not anger.
The opposite of love is indifference.
People argue most passionately with those they care about most.
Children become frustrated with parents because they expect love.
Students become disappointed with teachers because they expect guidance.
A person who feels betrayed by G-d often speaks with emotion precisely because the relationship has not disappeared.
Miriam's cry was not the voice of someone who had stopped caring.
It was the anguished cry of someone whose expectations had been shattered.
That does not excuse her actions.
The Gemara certainly does not minimize the seriousness of what she did.
But it does reveal that beneath the surface, her Jewish soul was still alive.
The story becomes even more intriguing.
The Mishnah tells us that the entire priestly division of Bilgah was punished because of Miriam.
At first glance, this seems deeply unfair.
Should an entire family bear the consequences of one person's choices?
The Gemara itself asks this very question.
The answer teaches one of Judaism's deepest principles.
The Sages permanently diminished Bilgah's honor in three significant ways.
Their designated ring in the Temple courtyard, used to secure animals brought for korbanos, was sealed, forcing them to borrow another family's ring whenever they served.
Their designated chamber for storing Temple knives was closed, requiring them to borrow equipment from others.
Finally, when receiving their portion of the Lechem HaPanim, they lost the place of honor traditionally granted to the incoming priestly division.
Every time Bilgah came to serve in the Beis HaMikdash, they were publicly reminded of what had happened.
The Gemara explains this in two stages.
First, Abaye teaches:
"The speech of a child in the marketplace comes from what he hears from his father or mother."
Children absorb attitudes from the environment in which they are raised.
This does not remove personal responsibility.
Miriam alone was responsible for her choices.
But families shape values, language, and outlook.
Then the Gemara asks an even stronger question.
Even if her parents bear some responsibility, why punish the entire priestly division?
Abaye answers with a famous teaching:
"Woe to the wicked, and woe to his neighbor."
People influence one another.
Communities influence one another.
We are never completely isolated from those around us.
Most people stop there.
The Rebbe continues.
If a negative environment can influence someone toward spiritual decline, then surely a positive environment can inspire someone toward spiritual growth.
The Gemara itself immediately teaches the opposite principle:
"Good for the righteous, and good for his neighbor."
That is not merely a proverb.
It is a mission statement.
The punishment of Bilgah was not simply about assigning blame.
It was a call to responsibility.
The Rebbe explains that when someone drifts away from Judaism, we should not rush to ask, "How could they do such a thing?"
We should also ask:
Who noticed they were struggling?
Who reached out?
Who invited them for a Shabbos meal?
Who listened to their questions?
Who offered encouragement before disappointment became despair?
Who helped them feel seen?
Perhaps no one did.
This lesson is not about guilt.
It is about responsibility born from love.
Judaism teaches Kol Yisrael areivim zeh bazeh, all Jews are responsible for one another.
Not because we control another person's choices.
We do not.
Every individual possesses free will.
But because every one of us has the ability to influence another person's life through kindness, friendship, compassion, and genuine concern.
This is where the Rebbe's unique greatness shines.
Many people could identify Miriam's failures.
The Rebbe searched for her soul.
He did not deny her mistakes.
He did not excuse her behavior.
He did not rewrite the Gemara.
Instead, he taught us to read it more deeply.
Where others saw only rebellion, the Rebbe saw disappointment.
Where others saw only distance, the Rebbe saw longing.
Where others saw someone who had abandoned Judaism, the Rebbe saw a Jewish soul that could never truly be extinguished.
This reflects one of the central teachings of Chassidus.
Every Jew possesses a neshamah, a Divine soul that is literally "a part of G-d Above."
That essence can become hidden.
It can become buried beneath years of pain, confusion, or poor choices.
But it can never be destroyed.
The Rebbe believed this with every fiber of his being.
It is why people from every background—religious and secular, scholars and beginners, believers and skeptics—felt that when they stood before the Rebbe, they were not being judged by their past.
They were being seen for the greatness that still lived within them.
Perhaps today's Miriam bas Bilgah is not standing inside the Beis HaMikdash.
Perhaps she is the young adult who quietly stopped coming to synagogue.
Perhaps he is the Jewish college student who says, "Religion isn't for me."
Perhaps it is someone who was hurt by a community, disappointed by a leader, or overwhelmed by life's struggles.
The Rebbe teaches us to listen carefully.
Sometimes anger hides pain.
Sometimes criticism hides longing.
Sometimes the loudest rejection is actually a cry for connection.
The challenge is not only to see people as they are today.
It is to see the spark that Hashem still sees within them.
Tisha B'Av reminds us of what happens when we become divided, indifferent, and disconnected from one another.
This story reminds us that rebuilding the Beis HaMikdash begins by rebuilding relationships.
It begins when we refuse to give up on another Jew.
When we reach out, instead of turning away.
When we replace judgment with compassion.
When we remember that every Jewish soul, no matter how hidden, still carries an eternal flame.
Perhaps that is why this story was preserved for all generations.
Not to teach us whom to condemn.
But to teach us whom to love.
The Beis HaMikdash was built from stones.
The Third Beis HaMikdash will be built through hearts.
And perhaps the first stone we are each called upon to lay is the willingness to look at another Jew through the compassionate eyes of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, eyes that never stopped believing that beneath every struggle, every disappointment, and every mistake, the Divine spark still burns brightly, waiting to be revealed.
In this subtitled excerpt, the Lubavitcher Rebbe revisits the story of Miriam bas Bilgah and reveals what others might overlook: even beneath anger, distance, and rebellion, the Jewish soul can remain deeply connected. The Rebbe’s words challenge us to look beyond a person’s lowest moment and to recognize the hidden spark that may still be waiting to be uncovered.