How Do You Hold On to Faith When You Don't Understand What G-d Is Doing?

What emunah actually asks of you during the hardest month of the Jewish year

There are seasons when emunah feels easy. And then there is Av.

You know the feeling before you can name it. The air gets heavier around the Three Weeks. Old griefs you thought you'd made peace with resurface, right on schedule, like your body remembers something your mind has tried to move past. You sit with a question you've probably asked more than once: why does HaShem feel close one day and impossibly far away the next?

Here is the direct answer, the one worth sitting with before anything else: emunah, faithful trust, does not require you to understand what HaShem is doing. It asks something smaller and, honestly, harder. It asks whether you can stay in relationship with Him while you don't understand. That single shift, from "can I explain this" to "can I remain," is the entire hidden invitation of the month of Av.

Key Takeaways

• Emunah is not the absence of grief. Torah gave an entire mourning season to Av, which means the pain is meant to be felt, not bypassed.

• The real question during hard seasons isn't "can I understand this," it's "can I stay in relationship while I don't."

• Psychological research on meaning-making backs up an old spiritual instinct: people cope best with loss not by finding an explanation, but by finding a way to hold the loss inside a larger, ongoing story.

• The name Av means father. The same month that carries the nation's deepest grief also carries its most intimate name for HaShem, Avinu, our Father.

• Consolation, nechamah, isn't returning to who you were before the break. It's permission to let the story be larger than the page you're currently on.

Why Av Feels So Heavy, and Why That's Not a Malfunction

If you've ever felt guilty for how much this season affects you, hear this first: you are not doing faith wrong.

Av carries the memory of everything that was lost. The Beit HaMikdash. Security. Closeness. The felt sense that HaShem's Presence is right here, visible, undeniable. That kind of loss doesn't stay in the past. It shows up in your chest during the Nine Days whether or not you can articulate why.

I've sat with enough women in my community to know this isn't rare. It's the woman who is tired of trying to understand her life. Why did this happen? Why hasn't that prayer been answered yet? Why does HaShem feel close one week and unreachable the next? Av doesn't invent these questions. It just makes them impossible to ignore.

And Torah does not rush you past them. Our Sages built an entire season for mourning, not because grief needs an excuse, but because a broken heart deserves the time it takes to actually break. Emunah was never meant to be a bypass around that. It's not pretending destruction doesn't hurt.

What the Research Actually Shows About Faith, Grief, and Not Knowing

This is where Torah's ancient instinct and modern psychology land in the same place, which is worth knowing, because it means what your tradition asks of you isn't naive. It's borne out.

Psychologist Crystal Park's meaning-making model, one of the most cited frameworks in the psychology of coping, distinguishes between two kinds of meaning: the deep, global beliefs we hold about how the world works, and the situational meaning we assign to a specific loss. Her research found that when an experience feels discrepant with those deeper beliefs, people experience real distress and spend real effort trying to make meaning of it. In plain language: pain that seems to contradict everything you believed about a fair, ordered world hits harder, and healing depends less on explaining the event and more on finding a way to hold it inside a larger, still-intact story.

A 2007 review published in Palliative Medicine, looking across decades of bereavement research, found that roughly ninety-four percent of studies showed some positive effect of religious or spiritual belief on bereavement, though the same review was honest that the research is inconsistent in design. Faith helps, broadly and repeatedly, even when science can't fully explain why.

But there's a real nuance here, and it matters. A University of Southampton study following bereaved spouses for two years found something specific: uncertain faith, marked by doubt as much as hope, was more often associated with depressive symptoms and lower levels of experienced meaning than either devout belief or a well-articulated secular worldview. The people who struggled most weren't the believers or the non-believers. They were the ones stuck in between, unsure whether to trust what they couldn't feel.

That finding lines up almost exactly with what Av is teaching. The danger isn't doubt itself. It's staying suspended in it, unable to choose whether to remain in relationship. A 2022 study on religious coping during grief found something similar: mourners who experienced their faith as abandonment, feeling punished or forsaken by God, showed more intense and prolonged emotional dysregulation than those who leaned toward closeness, even amid the same loss.

The difference wasn't whether the pain was real. It was whether the relationship stayed open.

The Reframe: Av Isn't Asking You to Understand. It's Asking You to Stay.

Here is where I think most teaching on faith during hard seasons gets it slightly wrong. It rushes from "this hurts" straight to "everything is for your good," and skips the step in between. That skip is where people quietly stop believing the teacher, even if they nod along.

You may not be able to see the good from where you are standing. Torah does not ask you to call the pain painless.

But it does ask you to consider something. Chodesh Av carries two letters, aleph and bet. Our Sages teach that from the first of Av until the ninth, the month is arur, constriction. From the tenth, the turn already begins. By the fifteenth, Tu B'Av, it turns baruch, blessing. The month itself was architected to move from lack toward wholeness. Not despite the lack. Through it.

And here's the detail I don't think gets said enough: the very name of this month, אָב, Av, means father. In the exact month that carries the nation's deepest grief, we are handed its most intimate name for relationship. אָבִינוּ, Avinu. Our Father. Not a distant judge. Not an explanation owed. A father, present in the room even when the lights are off.

That is the reframe. The question Av is actually asking you isn't "can I understand what HaShem is doing." It's "can I remain in relationship with HaShem while I do not understand." Chazal teach that Mashiach is associated with the very day of the Beit HaMikdash's destruction, a Torah pattern stating plainly that redemption can already be germinating inside what looks, from where you're standing, like an ending (see Eichah Rabbah 1:51).

This is nechamah, consolation. And it is worth being precise about what that word does not mean. It is not denial. It is not spiritual bypassing. It is not forcing yourself to say "everything is wonderful" while your heart is hurting. Nechamah is allowing the possibility that the story HaShem is writing may be larger than the page you're currently reading.

What This Looks Like When You're the One Standing Inside It

So if you enter Av carrying something unresolved, you do not need to manufacture perfect emunah. You need one honest sentence, said while you're still inside the not-knowing.

Put your hand gently over your heart. Take one slow breath and say:

רִבּוֹנוֹ שֶׁל עוֹלָם, אֲנִי לֹא מְבִינָה, אֲבָל אֲנִי עֲדַיִן פֹּה אִתְּךָ.

Ribbono Shel Olam, ani lo mevinah, aval ani adayin poh Itcha.

Master of the Universe, I do not understand. But I am still here with You.

That, too, is emunah. Maybe especially in Av.

You do not have to rebuild the whole Beit HaMikdash today. You just need to find one small place inside yourself where HaShem can dwell again.

Five Ways to Practice This During the Nine Days

1. Name the specific ache, don't generalize it. "I'm struggling" is vague enough to avoid. "I don't understand why this prayer hasn't been answered" is specific enough to actually bring to HaShem. Specificity is what makes the relationship real instead of theoretical.

2. Say the one sentence, out loud if you can. Ribbono Shel Olam, ani lo mevinah, aval ani adayin poh Itcha. Let it be a practice, not a one-time line. Say it in the car, at the sink, before candle lighting.

3. Take five quiet minutes to listen, not to explain. Hasket u'shema Yisrael, be still and listen, is the actual instruction for this season. Not forcing an answer onto the grief. Growing quiet enough to notice one place where something might already be rebuilding, even if you can't see its shape yet.

4. Track the turn, don't just endure the constriction. Mark the tenth of Av on your calendar as the day the energy begins shifting, and Tu B'Av as where it lands in fullness. Watching a hard period move toward an actual, dated turning point is different from just waiting for pain to end.

5. Let one honest tear count as a full spiritual act. You are not failing at faith if you cry this month. One prayer, one honest tear, one whispered "I am still here," is nechamah in progress, not a lack of it.

Frequently Asked Questions

Is it normal to feel distant from God during the month of Av? Yes. Torah itself designates the Nine Days and the Three Weeks as a mourning period, which means the felt distance is expected, not a sign your faith is weak. The goal isn't to eliminate the feeling but to stay in relationship through it.

What does nechamah, consolation, actually mean if it isn't "everything happens for a reason"? Nechamah means allowing that the story HaShem is writing may be larger than what you can currently see, without requiring you to explain or accept the pain as good. It's relational, not explanatory.

Why is the month called Av if it's associated with destruction and grief? Av means father. The same month carrying the nation's deepest historical grief also carries Avinu, our Father, one of the most intimate names for HaShem in Jewish prayer, a deliberate pairing of loss and closeness.

What's the difference between Tisha B'Av and Tu B'Av? Tisha B'Av, the ninth of Av, marks the destruction of both Batei Mikdash and is the height of mourning. Tu B'Av, the fifteenth, is one of the most joyous days on the Jewish calendar. The month is built to move from one to the other.

What can I actually say when I don't understand what's happening in my life? Ribbono Shel Olam, ani lo mevinah, aval ani adayin poh Itcha, Master of the Universe, I do not understand, but I am still here with You. It's a complete prayer on its own, honest rather than resolved.

The Story Isn't Over

You do not have to rebuild the whole Beit HaMikdash today. Just find one small place inside yourself where HaShem can dwell again.

One prayer. One honest tear. One whispered "I am still here."

And then allow yourself to consider something quietly courageous: perhaps HaShem is still here too.

Devarim: From Hearing HaShem's Voice to Becoming His Voice

The book of Devarim (דְּבָרִים, Devarim, "Words") is unlike the previous four books of the Torah. Rather than recording primarily what HaShem spoke to Moshe, Devarim consists largely of Moshe Rabbeinu's own words as he addresses the generation preparing to enter Eretz Yisrael. Ramban explains that this final book is Mishneh Torah, a review and explanation of the Torah, designed to prepare the people for a life in which they would no longer rely on daily miracles but would instead serve HaShem through faithfulness, responsibility, and remembrance.

This shift is deeply significant because it marks the transition from receiving revelation to living revelation. Throughout the wilderness, Bnei Yisrael experienced open miracles every day: manna descended from Heaven, the Clouds of Glory surrounded them, and the Well of Miriam sustained them. As they stood on the threshold of the Promised Land, those miracles would become less visible, and they would need to cultivate emunah (אֱמוּנָה, eh-moo-NAH, faithful trust) that remained steady even when HaShem's presence was hidden within ordinary life.

One of the most remarkable features of Devarim is that Moshe's own voice becomes the primary instrument through which Divine wisdom is communicated. The Zohar and later Chassidic masters explain that this does not represent a lower level of prophecy. Rather, it reveals that Moshe had refined himself so completely that his own speech had become a transparent vessel for the word of HaShem. This teaches every generation that the goal of Torah is not merely to hear Divine truth, but to allow it to become so deeply integrated within us that our own words, choices, and actions begin to reflect that truth.

The opening words of the book, "אֵלֶּה הַדְּבָרִים" (Eleh HaDevarim, "These are the words"), invite us to pay close attention to the power of speech. The Midrash observes that when Moshe begins rebuking Israel, he does not immediately list each sin in painful detail. Instead, he refers to locations and events that gently remind the people of their past failures while preserving their dignity. This demonstrates that genuine correction is not meant to humiliate but to awaken the heart with compassion and hope.

This approach offers profound wisdom for emotional healing. Many people carry wounds because correction in their lives was accompanied by shame, rejection, or harsh criticism. Moshe models another way entirely. He tells the truth without stripping the people of their kavod (כָּבוֹד, ka-VOD, dignity), reminding us that HaShem's goal is always restoration rather than humiliation.

Ramban explains that before reviewing the commandments, Moshe intentionally recounts Israel's repeated failures alongside HaShem's constant mercy. He wanted the people to understand that although they had stumbled many times during the forty years in the wilderness, HaShem never abandoned His covenant with them. The purpose of recalling their history was not to reopen old wounds but to strengthen their confidence that Divine compassion would continue to accompany them in the future.

This insight speaks powerfully to anyone who has experienced discouragement or spiritual exhaustion. Many sincere people do not struggle because they lack desire to serve HaShem. Instead, they quietly believe that their past failures have permanently disqualified them from drawing close to Him. Devarim begins by dismantling that lie and replacing it with the truth that the pathway of teshuvah (תְּשׁוּבָה, te-shoo-VAH, returning to HaShem) always remains open.

Rabbi Nachman of Breslov echoes this message in Likutei Moharan II:48, where he teaches that every descent contains the hidden seed of a greater ascent. The wilderness years were not a detour that ruined Israel's destiny. They were the very training ground that prepared the nation to enter the Land with greater humility, dependence upon HaShem, and spiritual maturity. What appeared to be wasted years became the foundation upon which their future would be built.

This perspective can gently reshape the way we understand our own journeys. Seasons of confusion, waiting, grief, or apparent failure often feel meaningless while we are living through them. Yet Devarim encourages us to believe that HaShem wastes nothing. Experiences that once seemed like evidence of defeat may eventually reveal themselves as preparation for the calling He has been patiently preparing us to fulfill.

A simple practice inspired by this teaching is to spend a few quiet minutes in hitbodedut (הִתְבּוֹדְדוּת, hit-bo-de-DOOT, personal conversation with HaShem). You might pray, "Ribbono Shel Olam, help me recognize that my wilderness is not my identity. Open my eyes to see how You have carried me through every season, even when I could not perceive Your hand. Transform my memories from sources of shame into testimonies of Your faithfulness and mercy."

After your prayer, take a journal and reflect on one question: "What experience that I once called a failure has actually become preparation?" Allow yourself to answer honestly without rushing. Sometimes HaShem reveals His deepest kindness only when we look backward with eyes of gratitude rather than regret.

Ultimately, Devarim teaches that the generation worthy of entering the Promised Land was not the generation that had never fallen. It was the generation that had learned how to rise again, trust HaShem again, and keep walking after disappointment. May we each discover that our own wilderness has not been evidence of abandonment, but a sacred place where HaShem has been quietly preparing us for the next chapter of His purpose.

Two Fires: What Av and Kislev Teach Us About Flame

The Jewish calendar assigns fire to more than one month, which struck me as strange the first time I noticed it. Av and Kislev both burn. But they burn in opposite directions, and sitting with that contrast has done more for my understanding of both months than any amount of reading about either one alone.

Av: The Fire That Arrives

Av's fire is not something you light. It comes for you.

The Temple burned in Av, and the imagery of the month is saturated with that flame: consumption, ash, the smell of a sanctuary that no longer exists. Av's sign is Aryeh, the lion, and the sages read the lion in two directions, the one who ascended and destroyed and the one who will ascend and rebuild. But notice the verb. The lion ascends. It acts upon you. Nobody in the story of Tisha B'Av chose the fire.

The season reinforces this. Av sits at the peak of summer, when heat is already ambient and inescapable, when the body is oppressed by an intensity it never asked for. Desire runs hot in this month, which is why the tradition links Av to ta'avah, appetite, the thing that surges hardest exactly when we are least equipped to examine it. The fire is simply there, pressing in, and the spiritual work is not to generate it but to survive it without becoming someone smaller in the process.

What Av's fire does is expose. It burns away everything that was never actually holding the structure up, and what remains standing afterward was load-bearing all along. This is brutal work. It is also, I think, the only honest way to find out what your life is really built on. The month is called Menachem Av, Av the comforter, and the name is not a euphemism. The comfort does not come after the burning. It comes from inside it, from what the burning could not touch.

Kislev: The Fire You Have to Light

Kislev is the inverse in almost every respect.

Where Av sits in blinding summer, Kislev sits at the bottom of the year's light, in the shortest days, in a darkness that would happily fill every room if nobody objected. And Kislev's fire is small. It is the menorah, a single flame lit by hand, then two, then three, added one at a time in the ascending pattern Beit Hillel taught us. Nothing about it is overwhelming. Nothing about it arrives on its own.

That is precisely the point. Kislev's sign is Keshet, the bow, and a bow does nothing until someone draws it and aims. Av's lion needs no assistance. Kislev's bow needs a hand, a target, a decision. So the work of Kislev is not endurance but initiative, the discipline of producing light in an environment that offers you none, and doing it again the next night, and the night after that.

Kislev's flame does not expose. It illuminates. There is a real difference. Exposure strips things away and leaves you with what is left. Illumination adds something that was not there before, pushing the darkness back incrementally, without ever fully defeating it. You are not asked to end the winter. You are asked to light one more candle than you lit yesterday.

The Same Fire, Seen Twice

Here is where the two months stop being opposites and start being a single teaching.

The sages made a point of saying that what burned in the Temple was wood and stone. The flame consumed the building. It could not consume what the building was for. And that surviving essence, the thing fire cannot reach, is exactly what the Chanukah lights are about: a small sealed flask of pure oil, hidden away, overlooked by everyone who came to desecrate, burning longer than it had any right to.

Av destroys the vessel. Kislev reveals that the light was never really in the vessel to begin with.

I find this pairing quietly consoling, though it took me a long time to get there. Av teaches that some things are going to burn and you will not be consulted about it. Kislev answers that when the burning is finished, you can still strike a match. Neither month is complete without the other. The one that takes everything from you and the one that asks you to make something anyway are, in the end, describing the same relationship to flame.

The lion comes whether you are ready or not. The bow waits for you to pick it up.