As we prepare to chant the mournful melody of Eikha - The Book of Lamentations - we recall the tragedies of our collective and individual histories. As from the mouth of Jeremiah, the plaintive wail escapes our lips, "Eikha?" How can this be? It is the cry of a breaking heart that emerges. On Tisha B'Av, the culmination of the three dark weeks of the cycle that begins with the Fast of the 17th of Tammuz, we commemorate the destruction of the first and second Temples. We shed bitter tears in memories of generations long turned to dust, Jews driven from their lands, from their Torah. We mourn the loss of possibility and potential. What might have happened if only...? Eikha? How can this be? How can a G-d of mercy let us perish? How can a G-d of love raise his hand so violently against his children? This "Eikha?" is a rhetorical question and one I cannot hope to answer. None among us pretends to understand the ways of Adonai and when we meet someone who professes to hold the answer to our plea, we greet the response with skepticism, or with outrage as many Jews did earlier this week when Shas party leader Rabbi Ovadia Yosef proclaimed in a Shabbat sermon that the six million Jews who perished in the Holocaust died because they were reincarnations of sinners in previous generations. How horrendous! How presumptuous!

The Sages tell us that the desolation of Tisha B'Av is a result of the incident of the spies in the Book of Exodus who, frightened beyond their faith when they perceived the power of the Canannites, drove Israel to unnecessary tears with their lies. According to the rabbis, G-d then commanded that because, "You wept without cause, I will make this day an eternal day of mourning for you." Hardly a satisfying reason.

In truth, the date of Tisha B'Av through the millennia has been marked by cruel instances of practical and spiritual exile of the Jews. Practical because we were on many occasions physically expelled from the Temple or our Promised Land or our centers of worship or our homes and communities. Spiritual because of the corruption of our hearts, minds and souls by temporal concerns and desires that separated us from G-d. The recurring theme of desolation in Lamentations refers not merely to the blackened and battle-scarred landscape, but to the people's ruined and miserable state. Desolate can mean "uninhabited; it's root is "solo" - alone. The spirit of the people was uninhabited by G-d. They were pursuing life alone - cut off from heaven and from their fellow people. But not until it was too late, not until G-d "made the rampart and the wall mourn," did the people, harder than the very stones crumbling in their midst cry out, "Eikha?" How can it be? Where is the justice?

Perhaps the lesson for us on this Tisha B'Av is that if we desire an ongoing relationship with G-d, we must open our eyes this minute and examine our world, our nation and our lives with Jeremiah's restlessness. Before another neglected child becomes a ward of the state, we must cry out, "Eikha?" Before another woman fears for her life tonight as she sleeps on a San Francisco street, we must ask "Eikha?" Before another man is put to death because our nation would rather eliminate than rehabilitate a human life, we must ask "Eikha?" Where is the justice?

And if we can rally those around us to ask these questions in this age so rich in cash, yet so poor in true compassion, we can understand how even Jeremiah salvages a message of hope in the fallen city. "Hashem's kindness surely has not ended!" he exclaims. There is hope. And though we sink in the mire again, the Book ends with a burst of faith that we repeat as one: "Turn us to you, O Lord, and we shall be turned. Renew our days as of old." The elegy for a nation becomes a plea for intercession. The people pledge that, given one more chance, they will do right. They will turn back and walk in the way of G-d.

Ours is a history of falling and redemption. It is a history of a brave, imperfect people struggling to hear and obey the still small voice of the G-d of the ages. If we are to truly commemorate our national tragedies and honor the memory of our ancestors, let us view honestly their flaws and our own. "If I had not fallen, I could not have arisen," says Midrash Tehillim. "Had I not sat in the darkness, G-d could not have been a light for me." It is the journey, no matter how terrible at times, that has made us, and our people, stronger.

Let us follow in their footsteps. We can ask G-d for forgiveness and blessing. We can ask his love and guidance. But this time, let us demand loudly of human beings "Eikha?" Let us find the courage to ask our national leaders, our clergy, our neighbors and ourselves, "How can this be? Where is the justice?" This time, we cannot afford to ask rhetorical questions. This time we have the power to take action and work together to realize G-d's mercy and peace. Barukh dayan ha-emet.