Tonight is the 17th of Tammuz, the anniversary of a variety of things breaking in our ancient history and in our mythic memory.
It is the day the Romans broke the walls of Jerusalem, leading to the destruction of the Temple three weeks later, on Tisha B’Av, the 9th of Av. And, according to the Jerusalem Talmud (Ta’anit 4:5) it is also the day, some 700 years earlier, that the Babylonians broke the walls of Jerusalem, leading to the destruction of the Temple three weeks later on Tisha B’av. And earlier than that! Our midrash tells us this is the anniversary the breaking of the tablets of the law, when Moshe came down the Mountain and saw the Golden Calf that the people had made in his absence.
The 17th of Tammuz – a day of breakage.
It is what we call in our tradition a “light fast” day. A fast from sunup to sundown, as opposed to the stringent fast of Yom Kippur. And unlike Yom Kippur, when the 17th of Tammuz falls on Shabbat, as it does this year, the fast is postponed for a day.
In three weeks it will be Tisha B’Av, and the Jewish world will fast again – a stringent fast, sundown to sundown. We will read the Book of Lamentations and we will keen and we will weep.
But there’s a difference in posture, in outlook, between these holidays, between the 17th of Tammuz and the 9th of Av, and I’m trying to put my finger on it. I think it is that one of these holidays is about the past and one is unexpectedly about the future.
On Tisha B’Av, we mourn. The Temple is destroyed, the terrible deed is done, the destruction has happened, there is nothing more to do. We sit in the ashes with our ancestors and we mourn.
But the 17th of Tammuz still somehow holds the possibility of redemption. We fast, and we also offer special prayers of petition. We add a paragraph to the Amidah that opens, aneinu Adonai aneinu – “Answer us, Adonai, answer us.” And we close that paragraph with Barukh Atah Adonai, ha’oneh b’et tzarah – “Blessed are You, Adonai, who answers in time of trouble.”
This can’t possibly be about the breach of the walls in Jerusalem, because we know how that ended. How can we pray to be saved from something that is already a fait accompli?
That’s not all. On the 17th of Tammuz we read a special piece of Torah (Exodus 32:11-14) even if it’s a day we wouldn’t have read Torah otherwise. It is the bit after the Golden Calf where God declares the intent to destroy the faithless Children of Israel, and Moshe pleads for their lives. “Don’t do this,” Moshe says. “What will the Egyptians think? That you brought the people out of Egypt just to destroy them? And besides, you made promises to Abraham and Isaac and Jacob.” God is won over, and abandons the plan to destroy the people.
And we read another bit of Torah (Exodus 34:1-10), a passage in which Moshe goes back up the Mountain and is moved to pour out words that we say over and over on the High Holy Days before the open ark: Adonai Adonai El Rachum v’Chanun. The “Thirteen Attributes” – God, compassionate, gracious, slow to anger, extending kindness for one thousand generations, forgiving our sins.” Moshe goes on in this passage from Torah, saying, “I know we are a stiff-necked people, but pardon us anyway.” And God does, and renews the covenant with that generation.
Thes 17th of Tammuz practices – the fasting and the petitions and the Torah portions about escaping calamity – these are not the practices of a post-destruction people in a post-destruction moment. These are practices clearly gauged to avert destruction. They are of the same ilk as community practices we read about in Talmud (Mishnah Taanit), in which the community fasts together and offers special prayers in time of drought or pestilence or famine or epidemic or military invasion. These are acts akin to those of the people of Nineveh in the Book of Jonah that we read every year on Yom Kippur, people who, faced with their own impending destruction, put on sackcloth and they fast, including the king, and the destruction is averted.
Tisha B’Av, coming up in a few weeks, might be a cautionary tale. This is what destruction looks like. This is what it looks like when there’s nothing left to be done.
But the 17th of Tammuz is a blueprint for possibility. “Do something now,” it seems to tell us. Fast. Plead. It’s not too late. It’s not over yet. Calamity can be turned back. Maybe, just maybe, this time around the breach of the walls does not have to lead to the destruction of the Temple.
This is the message that feels compelling to me today. Because we are living in a broken time, a time of desperate peril. Multiple peril. A polycrisis. Climate collapse. Pandemic. Threats to our democratic institutions from both outside and inside. We have witnessed the curtailment of women’s rights over their own bodies. We have seen brutal acts of racism. We stare in disbelief and undeserved surprise at the continued surge of gun violence.
We are all in this together. That is a thing that we say in such times. We are all in this together. But it doesn’t always feel that way. I feel alone so much of the time. Helpless. I read the news and I am stricken. I talk to my family, maybe a friend or two. I might put a few words in a drash. But then, unaware of anything I can do to make anything better, I go back to the everyday of my life.
But our ancestors were onto something with their fasting and their communal prayers. For them, fasting was a way to pray with their bodies. It was an act of ultimate humility. It connected people, heart to heart, spirit to spirit, in times of grave danger. And it defiantly declared “no business as usual today.”
Fasting was also a way to stand in solidarity and support of those who have to d o the dangerous work in dangerous times. Remember the story of Queen Esther, when she had to dare to go in to the king unbidden to plead for the lives of the Jews? Remember how the entire Jewish community fasted with her for three days leading up to her dangerous mission. As if the community were bringing their fear and their determination into alignment with one another.
Those of you who attended my teaching at our Tikkun Leyl Shavuot (and if you didn’t you can still watch it, below) know that this fasting thing is something I’ve been stewing about. How in these situations where we feel helpless, we can join together, even from afar and put our bodies on the line through fasting. We can share some of the suffering, stand in solidarity, communicate our seriousness and our moral resolve to each other and to the world. And even that bit of agency feels powerful to me right now.
I’m bringing this idea to fellow clergy in our interfaith community in the hopes that when we need to, Sonoma County synagogues and churches and mosques can, like our ancestors of old, declare a fast in response to desperate events, or in support of urgent change. Such a fast can be done in community, and it can be tailored for each participating person according to their needs and hearts – fasting from food for some, but for others fasting from commerce or entertainment or even small talk. From sunup to sundown we stand together, we stand up together. So that we’re not condemned to just feel bad and then move on to the next email in the inbox.
My friend and teacher, Rabbi Diane Elliot, talks about one more value in any kind of fasting. She reminds us that fasting – from whatever we are fasting from – empties us out. It clears out actual time and psychic space. Who knows what new idea, insight, or solution will emerge in the negative space that our fasting creates? May it be so!
If this idea takes root, you will hear more about it from me in the coming months.
But in the meantime, it is the 17th of Tammuz. Our delayed fast day will be Sunday, sunup to sundown, for those who are interested. And most important, we take away the unexpected message of this day: Things are breaking, danger is at the gate. But it is not too late. Act now. Pray. Fast. Lift your voices together. Destruction happened once. But it does not need to happen again. Act now. Fast.