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Okay, so, it's Tisha B'Av and I had some thoughts here about Av in general which you should read for context, but I want to talk about today specifically. https://twitter.com/Delafina777/status/1285980803235672065
Supposedly both times the Temple was destroyed, it was on this day of the year. The Talmud imagines the priests going up onto the roof as it was about to be destroyed and throwing the keys toward heaven, and a hand reaching down and taking them.
The Temple was the center of Jewish worship. No matter where you lived, you were expected to go there for certain holidays. Judaism at the time was a very place-oriented tradition.
So both the Babylonian exile and the destruction of the Second Temple *should* have been the end.
So both the Babylonian exile and the destruction of the Second Temple *should* have been the end.
The Babylonian practice of removing all the significant members of society from areas they conquered and sending in their own people usually *worked* to force conquered populations to assimilate and lose their sense of peoplehood.
And as far as post-2nd Temple exile, I'm not sure there *is* another example of a people who's managed to maintain their distinct peoplehood in the absence of a homeland for 2000 years?
Any way you slice it, both of those events should have marked the end of Jews as a people.
Any way you slice it, both of those events should have marked the end of Jews as a people.
But here we are. And that's in large part because of the genius of the early rabbis, after the destruction of the 2nd Temple.
They took a very geographically centered, agriculturally focused tradition and completely redefined its sense of *place.*
They took a very geographically centered, agriculturally focused tradition and completely redefined its sense of *place.*
They essentially turned the Torah into a portable homeland. Instead of the land being a home that holds the people, they turned the Torah into a home the people could carry with them, and that in turn could hold them wherever they went.
That metaphor of, on the eve of destruction, flinging away the representation of the physical--being willing to let go of what you can't take with you into exile--strikes me as a very potent metaphor for what we're experiencing during this pandemic.
It's different, of course, in that we're not expelled from our homes--we're stuck in them--but many of us are exiled from a lot of the physical places that our lives were centered around: offices, schools, favorite coffee shops and restaurants. Our *gathering* places.
And for a lot of us, trying to shift the activities we did there, and what we *got* from those activities, into virtual spaces does feel like an exile, and a hard one.
Moreover I think a lot of us are struggling with an existential sense of exile, especially if we grew up relatively safe and privileged.
And, like, look, a lot of people are going to--rightfully!--get annoyed if you say you miss the America you grew up in, that this isn't your America, that this isn't the real America, that this isn't what America is about.
Because where we are now *is* what America has always been for all but a privileged handful of its residents. The difference is now even that privileged handful is being forced to look at it.
But, like, look. If you were fortunate enough to grow up being able to believe that America was a land of freedom and equality, that our society was largely benevolent rather than a racist, capitalist, misogynist machine designed to suck you dry, that's not child-you's fault.
It's a problem if, as an adult, you insist that the America you believed in as a child exists or existed, if you aren't willing to face up to reality, but like, kids *should* grow up feeling safe. The point is to create a world where ALL kids grow up safe.
What I'm getting at here is that I think it's natural to still have not fully processed the loss of a home you *believed* in as a kid, and it's okay to grieve for it.
More, I think if we haven't grieved for it and accepted the loss, it's important that we do so to be effective in justice work. Otherwise we're going to keep not REALLY seeing all the ugliness, we're going to keep trying to *rebuild* a lost mythic past rather than *build*.
And what we try to build as a just society is still going to be infected by the ghost of an unjust Golden Age.
And it should go without saying that that grieving doesn't give any of us license to stop the work, either on society or on ourselves. It is something we need to do on our own time, not something that should be centered or made space for among people who didn't have it.
What I'm saying, I guess, is:
A) being able to have belief or faith that America is good, or free, or benevolent, or whatever, is usually a result of privilege
B) it's okay to grieve the loss of that belief
A) being able to have belief or faith that America is good, or free, or benevolent, or whatever, is usually a result of privilege
B) it's okay to grieve the loss of that belief
I think that adulthood itself can feel like a kind of exile, which doesn't obviate the need to grow up, but it's okay to feel sadness or pain about it.
Especially when it's coming at the same time as grieving all the things that *weren't* an illusion that we've lost in this pandemic, from convenience to human contact to actual people.
Our 1918 and our 1929 and our 1968 are all happening with our 2020. It's a lot.
Our 1918 and our 1929 and our 1968 are all happening with our 2020. It's a lot.
But to move forward, I think, to stop just *surviving* and start *living,* we have to figure out ways to give up our Temples, to throw some keys toward heaven.
Anyway, again, I don't have good answers for what that looks like. I don't know what our destination looks like, where it is, how long it'll take to get there, or what the journey will be like.
All I have is a sense of direction.
All I have is a sense of direction.
Here's some Tisha B'Av music.
The second half of Bruch's gorgeous "Kol Nidrei" for cello and orchestra is a setting of Isaac Nathan's "O Weep for Those that Wept on Babel's Stream." (I've advanced to the excerpt)
The second half of Bruch's gorgeous "Kol Nidrei" for cello and orchestra is a setting of Isaac Nathan's "O Weep for Those that Wept on Babel's Stream." (I've advanced to the excerpt)
And here's Don McLean's haunting rendition of the "By the Waters of Babylon" round.
Here's the traditional chant for Lamentations. (In Hebrew, the Book of Lamentations is Eicha--basically it's a book named "Alas!" or "Woe!".) https://open.spotify.com/track/1YLxUOG36H3U6f506KGZuX?si=Yie-3eiGS0iqQBxGMz7W4g
And here's Basya Schechter's gorgeous setting of the text:
And here's a lovely piece by @velveteenrabbi on Tisha B'Av this year: https://velveteenrabbi.blogs.com/blog/2020/07/approaching-tisha-bav-in-a-year-that-feels-like-tisha-bav-all-the-time.html
As well as Megillat Covid ("megillat" is "scroll/book of", so Megillat Esther, for example), contemporary readings in the style of Lamentations: https://velveteenrabbi.blogs.com/blog/2020/07/megillat-covid-at-builders-blog.html
(also, sorry, should have mentioned for non-Jews out there: Jewish-calendar days start at sundown rather than midnight, so Tisha B'Av starts tonight--the bulk of it is tomorrow)
