What are the Chances?
A coincidence is a striking occurrence of two or more events at one time, apparently by mere chance. For example, on July 4th, 1826, the last remaining founding fathers’ Thomas Jefferson and John Adams died within hours of one another. The wonderful office staff in our congregation are Beth Jarvis and Michele Israel—put that together, and you have “Beth Israel.” Some coincidences may feel guided by Divine providence, others are quite mundane, and still others seem impossible to believe.
The Talmud speaks of two separate series of coincidences that took place in our history at this time of year. To set the stage, let us remember that we are in the midst of a three week period that started last week on the 17th of Tammuz.
This stretch of time is traditionally met with communal mourning, as it culminates with the 9th of Av—the anniversary of the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem.
The Mishnah states: Five tragic events befell our ancestors on the 17th of Tammuz. It is the day that Moses came down from Mount Sinai, and found the Israelites worshipping the Golden Calf. Moses’ reaction was to break the very tablets—the ten commandments that he had just received from God. The rabbis go through a painstakingly creative read of the Biblical narrative to arrive at this date, but their logic is reasonable, I can accept it. Our text continues: it is the day that the daily burnt offering ceased from being offered at the Temple. The rabbis further teach that it is the day that the scrolls of the Torah were burnt and an idol was set up in the Temple.
Regarding these 3 events the rabbis simply say that they learned their date from “tradition.” That’s the rabbinic version of the parental “I said so.”
Here are four things attributed to the 17 of Tammuz. And while for at least three of them the rationale is questionable, many of us can likely accept that this was, indeed, a series of coincidences.
You might have noticed that I left out the most famous tragedy connected to the 17th of Tammuz—the breaching of the walls in Jerusalem that was the catalyst for the ultimate destruction of the Temple. But in their discussion of the tragic events of 17 of Tammuz the rabbis find themselves in a bit of trouble. You’ll remember that the Temple was destroyed twice—first in 587 BCE and again in 70 CE.
So, regarding this calamity, the rabbis ask, “was the city of Jerusalem really breached on the 17th of Tammuz? After all, we learn from Jeremiah regarding the First Temple, that on the ninth of Tammuz the famine in the city became severe and the city was breached.” For the rabbis that is pretty strong evidence that the breaching of the walls during the first Temple period did not occur on the 17th of Tammuz. How will they resolve this contradiction? Our sage Rava comes in to save the day. He states that our Mishnah is referring specifically to the breaching of the walls of Jerusalem in the 2nd Temple era. Still, we are left with a problem. The 17th of Tammuz is commemorated in our community and observed as a fast day. If we are going to observe the breaching of the walls of Jerusalem during the 2nd Temple period shouldn’t we offer the same treatment to the parallel occurrence during the 1st Temple period?
This question is addressed in the Tur, a fourteenth century Jewish legal code. The treatment of this issue displays a key principle of Jewish observance. According to the Tur, “the rabbis sought not to burden the community with two separate fasts; therefore, they selected the seventeenth rather than the ninth as a fast day, for it recalls the destruction that ushered in the present exile.” It is the first part of this statement that is of interest to us this morning—the rabbis sought not to burden the community with too many fasts.
Judaism—Jewish observance—is not meant to be a burden; it is not meant to force adherents into a constant state of sadness or mourning. For example, when considering the enactment of penitential fasts meant to address famine or drought, the rabbis insisted that there be space between fast days, even if the situation did not improve.
Regarding our holidays, the laws regarding cooking are relaxed in comparison to Shabbat, a reflection of the possibility of three days in a row of a holiday making it impossible to create joyful meals, particularly in the era before refrigeration. The laws of mourning were also developed to minimize the legal restrictions of mourners. Traditionally we are expected to follow the rules of mourning for 30 days for all direct relatives other than our parents. While this seems harsh in a modern context, it was instituted in a very different time. One of the factors during this time was that infant mortality rates were high. By limiting the formal, legal requirements for the mourning period, our rabbis sought to avoid the situations of a community in constant mourning.
All of this is to say that our sages recognized that there needed to be balance between penitence or mourning and the realities of the world. They wanted to balance necessary expressions of grief and sorrow with the ability for society as a whole to function.
In attributing five sorrowful events to the 17th of Tammuz, the rabbis found a way to recognize and commemorate events without marking the calendar with regular, sorrowful observances. They use the same strategy with the 9th of Av—and this has been extended for generations. You can find lists of events that are said to have taken place on this date in history. Some are historically accurate. It is factually true that the deportations from the Warsaw Ghetto began on the 9th of Av in 1942. Others are a bit of a stretch. To say, as is often done, that the Jews were expelled from Spain on this date in 1492 is not factually true. The deadline for the Jews to leave Spain in 1492 was about two weeks earlier.
With the long, complicated history of our people it is not surprising that we have many things to remember, many things to mourn. By attributing many events to the same date, our ancestors invite us to employ memory in a manner that does not lead to constant mourning.
A few minutes ago we announced the impending arrival of the new month, the month of Av, set to arrive Friday evening. Regarding the arrival of Av we are taught, mishenichnas av mimaatin bisimcha—with the arrival of Av our joy is diminished. We take seriously our obligation to observe and remember, but we do not let communal mourning dominate our calendar. In fact, within a week of tisha b’av we arrive at tu b’av, the 15th of the month, said to be one of the two most festive days of the year—the other, incidentally, is designated as Yom Kippur.
We seek to minimize communal mourning—to create systems in which the burdens are not too great to bear. Yet regarding joy, we do the exact opposite, we aim to spread joyous events throughout our calendar. This is present in the rabbinic teaching ein maarvin simha b’simha–we do not combine two joyous occasions. For example, we do not permit people to get married during a festival holiday. We want to be sure that the holiday receives our undivided attention—our undivided joy. We also want to be sure that the newlyweds get our undivided joy, and so diverting our attention with a festival would be unfair to the couple. Every joyous occasion merits its moment in the sun.
And so we spread our celebrations, our holidays, our joyous moments as widely as possible throughout the year. We do this, of course, to allow each occasion to enjoy its own moment, without being eclipsed by another deserving simcha.
But we also do this to express a deeper truth about living the Jewish year, a truth the Rabbis embedded in our calendar of holy days and times of mourning: that the story of our people from the Bible and through history offers us many reasons to rejoice and many causes for sadness and solemn reflection. When given the choice between feasts and fasts, between grieving for our losses and exulting in our blessings, whenever possible, we choose to celebrate. During this period of our year, one dedicated to our sorrows, we nonetheless look forward to a time when we can again come together in joy, when our experience will reflect the words we say each day from Psalm 30: hafachta misp’di l’machol li, pitachta saki vat’azreini simcha – You have turned my mourning into dancing, you have removed my sackcloth and robed me in gladness.