By Rabbi Evan J. Krame
People can improve when they’ve experienced challenge—perhaps even suffering. It’s a process of refinement, like gold passed through fire until it shines pure. The difficulty is that most of us would rather avoid the flames altogether. So we reach for self-improvement: spiritual practices, healthcare regimens, exercise routines. We tell ourselves that if we strengthen our bodies and purify our souls, maybe we can sidestep the inevitable pain life has in store.
Jewish tradition offers its own routes to refinement—no Pilates machines or self-help gurus required. Instead, we are given rituals, practices, and a collective memory that guide us through the existential fires we face.
Traditional Jews are familiar with the idea of purification, especially when it comes to preparing a kitchen for Passover or kashering utensils. The Torah tells us that objects made in fire—or those able to endure it—must be purified by it. That’s Numbers 31:23. And fire, in Jewish thought, is not merely a tool of destruction—it’s a metaphor for the Divine presence that distills, refines, and transforms.
If someone is suffering, they might find solace in the belief that their trials are divinely ordained. Faith can offer strength, patience, even meaning. Supposedly, your suffering “pays off” by making you a better person. Jewish tradition is filled with stories of resilience: Abraham, Jacob, Joseph, Naomi, Esther, Job—all tested, all transformed, all strengthened in faith. This is our Torah for today, teaching us both fortitude and hope.
We are now in the Three Weeks leading up to Tisha B’Av, a time of mourning for the destruction of the First and Second Temples. Those literal conflagrations redefined Jewish life. After the Babylonian exile, we learned to be Jews in diaspora. Following Rome’s devastation, we reshaped Judaism around prayer and community instead of animal sacrifice. The fire didn’t destroy us—it changed us.
At a recent dinner, friends shared their family stories of overcoming tragedy. One parent expelled from Algeria in 1962, then wandering through Morocco to France and then to America. Another’s father made his way in the 1930s from Romania to Prague, then Paris, and finally Philadelphia. A third whose mother survived Auschwitz, views each child, grandchild and great grandchild as the evidence of her redemption. Each story a personal blaze, each family refined but not consumed.
For decades, Jews have known the comforts of Western civilization. We planted gardens, raised children, found democracy and safety. But we are weary—exhausted, even—by the prospect of once again being tested by a world that seems hell-bent on our destruction. I dare not believe in a God who demands our suffering in order to purify us. Yet, I do believe that it’s the Torah, writ large, that has sustained us through destruction, exile, and genocide.
Today, the fires of antisemitism burn hot once more. We have yet to learn how to extinguish that ancient hatred. But we hold fast to the Divine promise that someday, all peoples will gather on the holy mountain in peace. Someday, the flames will no longer be needed. And we will be refined—finally—not by fire, but by love, justice, and enduring hope.
Rabbi Evan J. Krame
If this reflection resonates with you, consider sharing it with your community—or simply take a moment to reflect on the fire you’ve endured and the strength you’ve gained.
