Shabbat Chazon 5785 – My Fear This Tisha B’Av

As Tisha B’Av approaches this year, I find myself feeling particularly anxious. I want to be open with you about what I am struggling with, with what I am feeling in this moment.

First, I’ll say something about the day itself.

Originally, Tisha B’Av, the ninth day of the month of Av marked the destruction of the First Temple by the Babylonians in 586 BCE. It is described by the Prophet Zechariah as one of four fast days that will be transformed into days of celebration when the Temple is rebuilt. For Zechariah, that prophecy was fulfilled by the establishment of the Second Temple.

When the Romans brutally crushed the Judean revolt, they destroyed the Second Temple on the same date in 70 CE.

Now twice cursed, the ninth of Av became the day into which all national suffering and tragedies of the Jewish people would be folded.

The second-century Rabbis of the Mishnah looked back and attributed to Tisha B’Av the sin of the spies in the wilderness, who brought back news to the Israelites that the Promised Land was inhabited by giants whom they stood no chance of defeating. Their lack of faith in God’s plan doomed this day for eternity, says the Mishnah.

That is why, they explain, God selected that day to destroy both Temples. They add, further, that Bar Kochba’s last holdout at Betar fell on this same day in 135 CE. One year later, Hadrian plowed over the city, built a pagan Temple on the site, and banned Jews from entering, except for one day a year.

To rub in their suffering, Jews would be allowed, for a fee, to visit the Temple Mount on the ninth of Av, where two statues of the Emperor Hadrian greeted them amidst the ruins.

For two thousand years, our observance of the fast of Tisha B’Ab centered on the mournful chanting of Megillat Eichah, the Book of Lamentations. Eichah depicts, in tearful detail, the suffering of our ancestors during the Babylonians’ destruction of Jerusalem. While chronicling a specific historical event, Eichah’s description of human misery applies to countless tragedies through the ages.

Added to this, over the centuries, were the addition of Kinot, mournful elegies. These poems describe other tragedies that befell our people, whether or not they occurred on this specific tragic day.

Many Kinot were written during the Crusades, which saw the slaughter of so many Jews and the destruction of countless thriving communities. Kinot mourn the burning of the Talmud in Paris in 1242, and the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492.

Add to this the other expulsions and persecutions, the blood libels, the Chmielnicki Massacres, and the Holocaust. Tisha B’Av is the Memorial Day of the Jewish people. 

Already, and not surprisingly, the massacre of Oct. 7, 2023 is added to the list. I suspect that the plight of the hostages, for 665 days now, will also become part of our narrative of this tragic day. 

The liturgy of Tisha B’Av expresses three main ideas. The first is that the various tragedies that have befallen us are expressions of Divine anger. Punishments against the Jewish people for our sins.

The Rabbis attribute the fall of the First Temple to the sin of idolatry. Nebuchadnezzar was but a pawn, a tool wielded by God to administer judgment against our ancestors for failing to heed the message of the prophets.

The Second Temple fell as a result of the sin of Sin’at Chinam – senseless hatred of Jew against Jew.  Again, the Romans were mere instruments of Divine wrath.

This theological justification for our ancestors’ suffering leaves me feeling uncomfortable. It sounds like blaming the victim. But that is the dominant theology that the Rabbis express throughout the Talmud and midrashim, and that is picked up in the Kinot. “Oh, how these things have befallen us, we must have done something to deserve it.”

But then, we encounter another sentiment. The wailing and crying is turned against God, who surely must see our suffering and have compassion. We cry out against a God who has seemingly forgotten and abandoned us and shout, “Here we are! Don’t you see us?”

Some of the Kinot direct our rage against our oppressors, who make fun of us and mock God. They are not mere instruments of Divine wrath. It is their hatred and violence that caused our suffering. 

Finally, and importantly, Tisha B’Av contains elements of hope.  Most Kinot end on a hopeful note that God will remember us. We end our chanting of Eichah with the words: “Take us back, O Lord, to Yourself, And let us come back; Renew our days as of old.”

We sit on the floor during the evening and morning services. Then in the afternoon, the mood begins to change. We put on the Tallit and Tefillin that we neglected during Shacharit. It is said that the Messiah will be born on the ninth of Av. The seeds of redemption are sown in destruction.

The seven weeks after Tisha B’Av are referred to as Shiva D’nechemata – The seven weeks of consolation.  The Haftarot that we recite on those seven Shabbatot are filled with language of comfort, healing, and hope. 

The Talmud teaches, “Those who mourn for Jerusalem will merit to see its rejoicing…”

By concentrating all of our mourning into a single day, we make sure that it does not overwhelm us throughout the year.  During this day, we go through the three stages. First we look inward, and ask ourselves how we have gone astray. Next we look outward, to proclaim to God that our suffering is unreasonable, that it is our enemies who have wronged us. And then we look to the future, so that we can step back into the world after our mourning with hope.

This year, more than any in my lifetime, I find myself feeling increasingly worried as Tisha B’Av nears. Hatred of Jews and Israel has become more accepted in the world than at any time I can remember.

At the moment we find ourselves in, Israel, home to half of the world’s Jews, is becoming a pariah state. 

The images of starving children in Gaza, and the daily reports of civilian deaths, regardless of who is or is not at fault, take their toll. Perceptions of Israel and of Judaism around the globe are becoming increasingly negative.  This includes among our own people, especially younger generations of Jews.

We can complain about it. We can argue about whether it is misguided or naïve. We can point out how Hamas launched the war and has been stealing the food and supplies meant for Palestinian civilians, but those arguments are not working.

Pointing out how complicated it is cannot compete with a simplistic statement like “Stop the genocide.”

Explaining how Hamas hides underground, letting their people starve, instead of releasing the hostages, simply cannot compete with photos of children crying in a mass of people, pressed up against a metal grate in front of a food distribution center.

Declaring, “What about the millions of people facing war and starvation in the Congo, or Sudan, or the persecution of the Uighyers in China, or the Rohingya, or take your pick,” will never convince anyone.

Whether or not Israel’s War in Gaza is justified, and I do believe it is, anyone with a heart cannot but be moved by the suffering that is happening right now. Suffering which, by the way, is a lot like what we will be reading later tonight. Whether or not Israel is at fault, it is responsible to do everything it can to prevent starvation. I do believe that deep in my heart.

I don’t know what is actually happening on the ground. I read all of the same articles and accounts that you do, and I do not have any confidence in the actual situation. All I can say is that I hope that the IDF is operating according to its stated principles and is doing its best to prevent suffering.

I am afraid that the impact on attitudes about Israel and about Judaism and Jews is taking a hit that will take a long time to recover.

This will lead to continuing violence against Jews around the world, like we have seen recently in this country in D.C. and Colorado. It will be awful. But we know how to deal with that.  We have been doing it for thousands of years. That is why we have Tisha B’Av. We look inward. We look outward. We look forward to better times. 

What I am afraid of, and this is the first time I have voiced this in a sermon, is that a generation of Jews is going to decide, “It’s just not worth it,” and walk away from the Jewish people. And then that, too, will become part of the narrative of Tisha B’Av. That’s my fear.

I don’t have the secret formula to prevent this. But I suspect the remedy probably involves something along the lines of increasing our own commitment to Torah learning, Jewish practice, and living proudly as members of the Jewish people, despite the differences we have. 

I’ll add as well that living here in Silicon Valley, where there is such a large Israeli ex-pat community who have very different experiences of the war in Gaza, it is so important to be in open communication with that segment of the community.

I’ll add as well that programs like Camp Ramah, at which I was able to spend last week, is also critical. It is an explicitly Zionist camp. There is a large Israeli contingent. We are surrounding our kids with pride in Judaism, a love of who we are, and connections that last a lifetime.

Supporting kids within our synagogues who are surrounded by these kinds of experiences on a daily and weekly basis – that has to be part of the solution. We need to double down on that.

I hope my fear is unjustified. 

So I will end with the closing words of this morning’s Haftarah that we chanted just a few minutes ago.

וְאָשִׁ֤יבָה שֹׁפְטַ֙יִךְ֙ כְּבָרִ֣אשֹׁנָ֔ה
וְיֹעֲצַ֖יִךְ כְּבַתְּחִלָּ֑ה
אַֽחֲרֵי־כֵ֗ן יִקָּ֤רֵא לָךְ֙
עִ֣יר הַצֶּ֔דֶק קִרְיָ֖ה נֶאֱמָנָֽה׃ 

צִיּ֖וֹן בְּמִשְׁפָּ֣ט תִּפָּדֶ֑ה
וְשָׁבֶ֖יהָ בִּצְדָקָֽה׃

I will restore your magistrates as of old,
And your counselors as of yore.
After that you shall be called
City of Righteousness, Faithful City.” 

Zion shall be saved in the judgment;
Her repentant ones, in righteousness.

Migrations – Lekh L’kha 5776

Lekh L’kha  Go forth!  Parashat Lekh Lekha is a parashah of migrations.  From beginning to end, its characters leave behind their past and set out for the unknown.  They are driven to do so by the same causes that lead people today to become immigrants: religion, culture, economic opportunity, famine, war, and persecution.

The story actually begins at the end of last week’s parashah, when we first encounter Avram.  (He has not yet had his name changed to Avraham).  His family hails from a place called Ur Kasdim.  We are not exactly sure where it is.  It is either the major city of Ur which is located in Southern Iraq on the coast of the Persian Gulf, or it is a smaller town in Upper Mesopotamia.

Avram’s father, Terach, moves the entire household – including Avram, his two brothers, and their respective households – intending to eventually settle in the Land of Canaan.  For some reason, they stop in a place called Haran.

Haran was a major station along the caravan route between Mesopotamia and the Mediterranean Sea.  It is located about ten miles North of the present border between Syria and Turkey.  The Torah does not tell us what prompted Terach to move the family from Ur Kasdim, nor do we know why they interrupt their migration in Haran.  We do know that the rest of Avram’s family remains in Haran.  Only he completes the journey that his father had begun.

This morning’s parashah begins with God’s revelation to seventy five year old Avram.  Lekh L’kha – “Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.”  God has big plans for Avram.

Avram responds with alacrity, setting out with his wife Sarai, his nephew Lot, all of their possessions, and a rather large but unnamed retinue of followers that they managed to acquire while in Haran.  It is not a short journey, and Avram does not stop when he reaches the border.  Rather, he continues his migration until he arrives in Shechem (known today as Nablus).  This is the physical center of the land that God has promised his descendants as an inheritance.

Soon after arriving in Shechem and building an altar to God, Avram continues moving south for another 20 miles, pitching his tent in the hill country east of Beit El, where he builds another altar.  He then continues south by stages until he reaches the Negev, probably near Beer-Sheva.  By now, Avram has traversed the entire length of the Promised Land, from North to South.

How might we describe this migration?  What is Avram abandoning, and what is he hoping to find when he reaches his destination?  The Torah’s emphasis on leaving behind his native land and his father’s house suggests that there is something culturally or morally unsavory about his birthplace.  Although we know nothing about Avram’s first seventy five years of life in Haran, many midrashim fill in the gaps.  Legends abound describing Terach’s idolatry, the deviousness of the local King Nimrod, and the rampant idolatry of Babylonian culture.

Remaining in Haran will subject Avram and his progeny to bad influences which will prevent the realization of God’s blessing that his descendants will become a great nation.  To fulfill his destiny, Avram needs to make a clean break with his culture of origin.

We might describe this move as a religious migration.  But perhaps it also might be akin to moving to a better neighborhood, where Avram’s family will have access to higher quality schools, less crime, and a more cohesive communal environment.

It does not take long for a new situation to arise which will force Avram to pack up his tent and move his household once again.  The land is struck by a famine.  Israel is dependent on seasonal rains.  Several years of poor rainfall, therefore, are disastrous and result in famine.  In contrast, Egypt receives its water from the annual flooding of the Nile River, which is a much more reliable source.  While the text only mentions Avram, it is safe to assume that his household is just one of a deluge of refugees fleeing south to Egypt for food.

The typical experience of refugees is not a pleasant one.  They usually find discrimination in their host countries.  If refugees end up settling permanently in their new countries, it often takes several generations before full assimilation and acceptance is reached.

Avram somehow defies the usual pattern and acquires great wealth during his time in Egypt. In 1848, a Potato Famine prompted the massive immigration of nearly one million Irish to the United States.  In the mid 1980’s a massive famine and war in Ethiopia caused the deaths of over one million people.  Six hundred thousand fled Ethiopia for Sudan, where they remained in refugee camps for several years before finally returning home.

One of the factors in the current Syrian refugee crisis is a famine that has been exacerbated, or even perhaps caused by war.

When the famine ends, Avram returns with his family to his former home east of Beit El.  There, his situation seems to stabilize for a short time.  At this point, Avram has huge flocks.  His nephew Lot has also managed to become wealthy.  Both of them send their herds out into the surrounding fields each day.  Soon, their respective shepherds are quarreling with one another over access to grazing land.

Avram recognizes that the status quo cannot continue, so he offers his nephew a choice.  “This is a fertile land, with plenty of room for both of us.  We just can’t stay here in the same place.  Pick where you want to go,” he says.  “If you go right, I’ll go left.  If you go left, I’ll go right.”  Lot chooses to settle in Sodom, where he has access to the lush Jordan River plain.  Avram stays put.

This migration is not the result of a crisis.  Quite the opposite.  Avram and Lot have become too wealthy, and they need to expand their markets.  Lot moves so that he can have access to better economic opportunities.

God appears once again to Avram, reiterating the blessing.  Afterwards, Avram moves his tent to the terebinths of Mamre, near Hebron.  Again, the Torah does not give us a specific reason for Avram’s move, but like his original journey into the Land of Canaan, it seems to be a religious migration.

Lot, meanwhile, gets caught up in a war when the cities of the Jordan Valley, including Sodom, rebel against their vassal overlords to the east.  The rebel cities are defeated and the conquering armies plunder them and take their residents as spoils of war.  When Avram hears that Lot has been taken captive, he assembles a small army and launches a rescue mission.  His risky venture takes him all the way to Dan, which is located at the far northern point of the Land of Israel, on the slopes of Mount Hermon.  He then goes on a night raid to a location north of Damascus.

The mission is successful, and Avram manages to defeat the enemy armies and rescue his nephew, along with all of the other prisoners who have been forcibly removed from their homes.

We see in this story another kind of migration – one prompted by war.  In this case, residents are taken and enslaved by their conquerors.  As we are seeing vividly right now with the millions of Syrian refugees, people tend to flee from war-torn areas.

The final migration occurs towards the end of the parashahSarai is unable to get pregnant, and so she gives her handmaiden Hagar to Avram to bear a child in her name.  When Hagar gets pregnant, tensions rise in the household, and Sarai begins to treat Hagar harshly.  We don’t know how bad the mistreatment was, but it was enough to cause Hagar to flee.  She heads south, embarking on the Road to Shur, which leads eventually to Egypt.  Along the way, an angel of God appears to Hagar and reassures her that God will bless her son.  In the meantime, she should go back to Sarai and “submit to her harsh treatment.”

This is not an optimistic text, but it illustrates another cause of migration: persecution.  How many millions of Americans came to this country fleeing religious persecution?!  It is what brought the original Pilgrims.  The rise of modern Zionism came about when Theodore Herzl and the other early leaders realized that the persecution of the Jewish people in the Diaspora was not going to go away.  The Jewish people needed a homeland where Jews could immigrate.  Sadly, Herzl’s prediction that the reestablishment of Jewish autonomy in the land of Israel would eliminate antisemitism in the Diaspora has proved to be incorrect, and Jews continue to immigrate to Israel because of persecution.

The reasons that compel a person to leave his or her home and move to a strange new place have not changed in four thousand years.  We immigrate because we want better lives for ourselves and our families.  We want to provide our children with safer environments in which to learn and play.  We move to find better economic opportunities.  Sometimes, we flee dangerous situations like war and famine.  And we leave places in which we face discrimination in favor of communities that will accept us as we are.

All of these factors lead the characters in Parashat Lekh L’kha to become immigrants, just as they lead people in our world today to seek better lives in new lands.

While the reasons to immigrate may be the same, in our world, some of the barriers have changed.

Globalization and technology have made it much easier to travel from one place to another.  A journey that once might have taken an entire year can be accomplished in less than a day.  Images of drowned children vividly demonstrate how dangerous the world can be for someone who is fleeing their homeland in desperation.

While antagonism towards immigrants is certainly still with us, multicultural attitudes in many countries in the world allow for an easier welcome and integration than in earlier centuries.

And yet, legal bureaucracies and quotas place significant obstacles before immigrants.  I doubt Avram was asked to produce his passport and visa when he crossed the border into the Land of Canaan.

Let us each think about our own family history.  How did we get to this country?  On my father’s side, my family immigrated to the United States after surviving World War Two and the Holocaust.  My mother’s ancestors arrived a generation or two earlier with millions of other Jews from Eastern Europe who were fleeing persecution.  My parents migrated from Southern California to the Bay Area, to Atlanta, and finally to Seattle as they sought better economic opportunities and a healthy environment to raise my brother and I.

Illegal immigration is a serious challenge in our world.  There are currently over eleven million undocumented people in the United States.  European countries are facing hundred of thousands of Syrians crossing their borders.  Millions of Syrians have been displaced and are living in refugee camps in Jordan, Iraq, Turkey, and Lebanon.  Huge influxes of immigrants has the potential to be destabilizing for a country, especially when that country does not do a good job of assimilating the newcomers.  I don’t have answers to these challenges, but as a people whose founders are immigrants, we ought to approach the issue with compassion and understanding.