WHAT TISHA B'AV TEACHES US ABOUT VALUING COMMUNITY

Today is a Rosh Chodesh, a semi-holiday on which we celebrate a new Hebrew month.

The month we are celebrating, however, is Av, which culminates in Tisha B'Av (the "Ninth of Av"), the saddest day on the Jewish calendar. For generations, Jews have marked that day as the anniversary of the destruction of both the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem. It also became the day on which Jews mourned many of the other tragedies that shaped our history. The rest of Av may not be as sad, but the ninth day certainly does not make it feel like a month to celebrate.

Humanistic Jews generally do not observe the traditional rituals of fasting and mourning associated with this season. But Humanistic Judaism always invites us to reflect on Jewish history and what we can learn from it. When it comes to Tisha B'Av, Jews have been doing this for quite some time.

Even in the very aftermath of the destruction of the Second Temple, the Rabbis were already searching for lessons. "Why did it fall?" they lamented. "How could we have allowed this to happen?"

This was not merely an exercise in self-blame. They had lived through these events and understood that Jerusalem had not fallen solely because of Rome's military power. They also believed that their own behavior had helped make the catastrophe possible. To illustrate the point, they told a story known as "The Tale of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza."

It happened this way: In the final days of the Second Temple, a wealthy man arranged a lavish banquet for his friends and admirers. Intending to invite his dear friend Kamtza, he mistakenly invited his rival, Bar Kamtza, instead.

Upon Bar Kamtza's arrival, he was immediately asked to depart. Dreading that humiliation, he pleaded to stay, offering to pay for the entire feast rather than suffer the embarrassment of being expelled. The host refused and had him thrown out anyway.

Bar Kamtza was beyond humiliation. And his anger was not reserved for the host alone. Most striking of all, the respected leaders present among the guests said nothing about this affront to his dignity. Deeply hurt, Bar Kamtza sought revenge. His vengeance, in turn, helped to set in motion the chain of events that, according to the rabbis, contributed to Jerusalem's destruction.

Now, the rabbis who preserved this story certainly did not believe that one embarrassing incident, by itself, brought about the destruction of Jerusalem. Indeed, the power of the story lies precisely in the fact that we, too, know it could not have.

No, the story points to something deeper—something profound that we all recognize about human communities. They are never undone by a single soap-operatic event. For Bar Kamtza's vengeance to have such devastating consequences, the community itself must already have been weakened over time as humiliation, resentment, contempt, and silence were allowed to take root.

Judaism has never been a tradition of uniformity. From the tribes of ancient Israel to the spirited debates of the Talmud, disagreement has always been part of Jewish life. We argue because we care deeply about ideas, values, and the future. Indeed, our willingness to question and debate has often been one of Jewish civilization's greatest strengths.

The danger comes when we lose sight of the fact that, despite our differences, we still belong to one another. Communities need not agree about everything. They never have. But they cannot flourish if disagreement hardens into contempt, if opponents become enemies, or if shared purpose is forgotten.

This is true of Jewish congregations, too. Most are formed around shared ways of understanding Jewish history, identity, or practice. This is why we have different movements. But despite that shared core, every congregation consists of a diversity of experiences, convictions, and priorities.

That is not a weakness; it is the inevitable result of bringing thoughtful people together around something they cherish. In our case, it is a non-supernatural approach to Jewish belonging and belief. That is an important shared commitment, to be sure. But, as in other congregations, what sustains a community is not dependent upon unanimous agreement regarding every issue. What sustains a community is a common commitment to learning together, celebrating together, caring for one another, and ensuring that Jewish life continues to flourish for future generations.

As we begin the month of Av, perhaps that is the enduring lesson of Tisha B'Av. Communities are more precious—and more fragile—than we sometimes realize. They require not only strong convictions, but also humility, patience, and a willingness to remember that the things we are building together are ultimately more important than the arguments that may divide us.