We entered the Carriage Room of the Hermitage Palace Museum in St Petersburg and our guide stopped to tell us the story of the fire of 1837: "The peasants had never been inside the palace; only royalty could appreciate, even view, such treasures. When fire broke out in the Czar's Winter Palace, and as the Czar was authorizing the firefighters to sacrifice three halls to stop the flames, mourning the loss of so much of his priceless collection, the peasants ran into the burning building to save whatever they could from the fire. Everything saved was returned. Each object was worth enough to support the average family for years, but they risked their lives to save the Czar's possessions; they did it for their Czar, not them. I will tell you the rest of the story later," and the tour continued.
A few hours later as we entered yet another wing of the vast palace complex, our guide explained that this section was constructed as a place where the lowest peasant could visit and view some of the Czar's great treasures. It was his way of thanking the people who had saved so much from the fire. They had proven themselves worthy of viewing great masterpieces." I couldn't stop thinking that the lowly peasants comforted the Czar with their devotion and self-sacrifice.

I picture our prayers and Torah study during this, the saddest period of the Jewish calendar, as our running into the burning Temple, a place most were forbidden to enter, to save whatever we can from the conflagration. Judaism didn't die with the destruction of Jerusalem. Torah did not die in the crematoria of the Holocaust because we ran into the raging fires to save what we could. We continue to run into the flames to rescue God's treasures. We could have escaped the flames of the Crusades by running in the opposite direction, but we didn't; we ran right back into our synagogues and Houses of Study giving new life to God's priceless possessions, and, I am sure, offered comfort to the Creator, for He too mourned. He too, needed comfort, and we, through our devotion and self-sacrifice, comfort Him.

This Shabbat is named, "Nachamu," the Shabbat of Consolation, for Isaiah's loving prophecy that we will read as the Haftarah. Isaiah is offering more than God's words of comfort to us; he is reminding us that we also must comfort God. We have been reading Isaiah's prophecy for more than 2500 years, waiting for God to finally console us, forgetting that our willingness to wait for that comfort is our way of consoling God.

No wonder so many of the phrases of Lecha Dodi, our song to welcome Shabbat, come from the Seven Haftarot of Consolation; every single Shabbat we have observed is a source of comfort to God. We console Him with the message that we treasure His gifts to us, His treasures, His palace in time.

There are few memories more powerful than a parent hugging and comforting a child, assuring him that everything will be OK. Nachamu is that comforting hug from God. We respond to His hug by reminding God that we continue to risk dangerous fires to save His treasures, that we offer Him words of comfort, and that the time has come for Him to add that extra wing to His palace, a world of peace and stability, a place where the lowest person can walk as royalty with dignity and honor.

"Comfort, comfort My people (Isaiah 40:1)." The first 'comfort' is God reaching out to us. The second 'comfort My people,' is God asking us to continue comfort Him.

Be comforted, God. Be comforted by Your creations who continue to treasure what is so precious to You.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Simcha L. Weinberg
President 
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