In the final days of the Second Temple, three factions of Jews battled each other inside Jerusalem, while the Roman troops camped comfortably outside. The carnage was indiscriminate, and every pedestrian was a target. Josephus describes the scene with shock and horror:
“The stones launched by the engines reached as far as the altar and fell upon the kohanim and those offering sacrifices. Many who had come from the ends of the earth to this celebrated and holy place, (revered by the entire world,) fell dead alongside their own sacrifices; their blood flowed down to the altar, which was revered by the Greeks and all other Gentiles. The corpses of the townspeople and of foreigners, kohanim and laymen were mixed together, and in every corner of the Temple Courts the blood of the slain gathered into pools.”
Josephus then exclaims:
“Woe, wretched city! ….You could no longer be a dwelling for God, nor remain part of His inheritance, after you had become a burial place for your own sons and your temple had been turned into a graveyard.”
Internal divisions had defeated the Jews even before the Romans invaded. The Talmud says that the sin of sinat chinam, pointless hatred, brought about the destruction of the Temple. This is doubly true. The sin itself is of divine consequence; a temple filled with the blood of innocents will be visited by God’s punishment. But the practical implications are dire as well. The type of infighting Josephus describes is a military and political failure, full stop; a nation so divided has no future whatsoever.
Hatred is an unfortunate Jewish tradition. Joseph was nearly murdered by his brothers. The first Jewish state in Israel divided into two kingdoms after King Solomon’s death. And there have been so many communal battles, between Karaites and Rabbanites, Chasidim and Mitnagdim, Orthodox and Reform. All too often, these disputes devolved into episodes of violence.
Why can’t Jews just get along?
Parshat Kedoshim includes the most famous of commandments: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” But, as Rabbi David Zvi Hoffmann points out, it is a mistake to read this oft-quoted commandment in a vacuum. It is one of a group of five commandments. The commandment to love your neighbor follows commandments against hatred, to communicate your concerns when in conflict, to avoid embarrassing others, and not to take vengeance or bear a grudge.
One must first set the stage to make love possible. That begins with avoiding hatred. And one must never underestimate hatred.
We assume people do what’s best for them. In negotiations, we offer incentives to the opposing party with this assumption in mind. We believe all conflicts can be resolved if the settlement satisfies everyone’s self-interest.
These assumptions ignore the power of hatred. In 1932, Sigmund Freud and Albert Einstein exchanged letters discussing the possibility of world peace. Einstein naively assumed Freud might have a way to teach the world to be peaceful and overcome the long-standing human tendency towards hatred. Freud was less hopeful. He responded to Einstein: “You surmise that man has in him an active instinct for hatred and destruction… [I] entirely agree with you. I believe in the existence of this instinct.”
Hatred is an ever-present instinct, and like its opposite, love, it can blossom into a full-blown passion. Suicide bombers are content to destroy themselves if they can murder others. We might imagine this example is some sort of bizarre outlier, the product of fanatical ideology. But divorce lawyers can tell you stories of people who have harmed themselves in order to harm their ex-spouse. And there are many other such examples of hatred getting the better of people in business, relationships, and diplomacy.
Rabbi Ahron Soloveichik once remarked in a lecture that hatred may even be a more powerful passion than love. He noted that in the famous story of Solomon and the two mothers, the “fake” mother was willing to cut the baby in half. Rabbi Soloveichik wondered: how could she want to do this? This woman had just taken the baby, hoping to raise it as her own son. If she had that much love for the baby the day before, why would she want it killed now?
The answer, Rabbi Soloveichik explained, is that even though the woman wanted to adopt the baby, her envy of the other woman was more powerful than her love for the baby.
Yes, hatred is that strong.
When the Talmud refers to “pointless hatred,” it is referring to a passionate hatred that ignores all self-interest.
Pointless hatred has become a tragic Jewish tradition; all too often we are drawn into absurd, self-destructive, internecine struggles like the one Josephus describes.
Yet despite their absurdity, these battles conform to their own logic. Freud used the phrase “the narcissism of small differences” to describe how groups with a great deal of similarity would often be caught up in constant feuds. That is because those who are most similar to us upset us the most, with minor differences stirring bitter criticism and jealousy. Differences within our own community are far more threatening than those of total strangers; they challenge our own identity.
That is why from the Book of Genesis onward, Jews fight. Because they are so close to us, other Jews have the capacity to make us particularly upset.
The point of pointless hatred is to protect our identity; seeing people who deviate from our expectations exposes our own worries. The challenge makes us feel fragile and alone.
And very quickly, this fury becomes a passion of its own, feeding on anger-induced adrenaline. All too soon, it metastasizes into pointless hatred.
Josephus’s depictions of the end of the Second Temple seem remote; but sadly, those passions continue to stir today. Social media incentivizes “pointless hatred.” Followers are more likely to respond to an angry post; that’s not just the algorithm, it’s human nature.
Before the October 7th war, there was a lot of pointless hatred; so much so, that one of Sinwar’s motivations in starting the war was to take advantage of the divisions in Israeli society. Sadly, this hatred is bubbling up to the surface once again, both in Israel and the United States. Jews attack Jews and become social media celebrities in return.
We must do several things in response. As the Torah explains, we must refuse to hate, we must communicate about tough issues, we must treat others with civility, and must put aside grudges. And we must learn how to love.
Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook said that “if the Temple was destroyed because of “unnecessary hatred” it will be rebuilt because of “unnecessary love.” This seems almost too cute to take seriously, which is why it is easy to gloss over it and treat it as some sentimental words.
In actuality, the idea is quite profound. It teaches us that the only way to overcome the passion for hatred is to cultivate an opposite passion, a passion for love.
On Tuesday night, our synagogue, Kehilath Jeshurun, along with Central Synagogue, Park Avenue Synagogue and the 92nd Street Y. held our annual celebration of Yom Haatzmaut, Israel’s independence Day, together. It was the sixth time that these Orthodox, Conservative and Reform synagogues had stood together in solidarity with our brothers and sisters in Israel. The rabbis and cantors stood on stage together, because we knew that far more unites us than divides us. We were one community and one family.
Afterwards, a couple that had driven in from New Jersey told me they came specifically because it was an evening of unity. They lamented that there are very few events like this one.
And they were right. It is time for us to develop a passion for other Jews.
If there were ever a time for pointless love, it is now.
