Rabbi’s Message: July 21, 2026
For thousands of years, many of our people lived in a land nearby to Israel. According to the Bible, a couple of thousand years ago, we were defeated in battle, uprooted, and forced into exile, settling in the lands between the Tigris and Euphradies. In addition to archeological evidence, we see these forcible exiles all throughout the later parts of the Bible, including verses like 2 Kings 15:29, 1 Chronicles 5:26, 2 Kings 17:5–6, and 2 Kings 18:11–15. Texts like the Books of Daniel and Nehemiah chronicle some of the individual experiences of this series of exiles; the Book of Lamentations, which we traditionally read this week, is based on the grief of these collective experiences. Over the years, this land where many of our people moved went by many names: Sumer, Akkad, Babylon, Assyria, Persia. Throughout the generations, some were given permission to return to Israel, while others stayed where they had been replanted. Indeed, over time and because we are a people who have always done our best to thrive no matter where we are planted, the region became a center for Jewish life for thousands of years, and in many ways, the heart of Jewish scholarship for generations (Note: the Talmud that we most often refer to today is actually the Babylonian Talmud!).
Before the Arabian conquest, one of the most beloved deities throughout Mesopotamia was Ishtar. She embodied striking contradictions: goddess of passionate love and fertility, yet also of war, plague, and destruction. In the Epic of Gilgamesh she woos a hero before unleashing catastrophe, while the hymns of her high priestess, Enheduanna, from 2300 BCE praise her as both compassionate and terrifying. I have always found that combination bewildering. How can love and destruction occupy the same sacred space?
(Rabbi Lauren “Rabbit Hole”: Interestingly, Ishtar’s husband, Dammuzi/Tammuz, is the namesake for the most recent Hebrew month. He was the god of shepherding and agricultural abundance; and if you are interested in us doing a class on this part of the Mesopotamian pantheon and the Deuteronomical Author, please let me know!)
During Tisha B’Av – which begins tomorrow evening – we commemorate events like the destruction of the First and Second Temples, the failure of the Bar Kokhba Revolt against the Romans, the Crusades of 1095, the Expulsion from England (1290), and the Expulsion from Spain (1492). Each of these events wreaked utter devastation on the Jews of their time; so much so that these events also unrooted the Jewish generations that followed, forcing them to replant themselves in exile elsewhere.
And yet, during Tu B’Av – which begins next week – ancient Jewish women (and single men) celebrated by dancing joyfully in local vineyards under the full moon (Talmud, Ta'anit 30b–31a). This fervent celebration of love and romance and passion under the fullness of the sky, and amongst the buds of the growing harvest, was one of our most beloved holy days.
Whether by influence or by experience, in this month, Judaism developed its own remarkable way of holding grief and love together.
Tisha B'Av reminds us that there are moments in life when we are uprooted. A relationship ends. A loved one dies. A community changes. A dream falls apart. Like our ancestors, we may find ourselves standing in unfamiliar soil, grieving what once was.
But Tu B'Av reminds us that uprooted is not the same as ended.
The Jewish story has never been simply one of exile. It has been a story of replanting. Again and again, our ancestors took root in unfamiliar soil without forgetting where they came from. They carried Torah across deserts and seas. They built homes where none had existed before. They planted vineyards, established schools, raised children, and found reasons to celebrate—even after profound loss.
This month of Av invites us to do the same.
We acknowledge what has been uprooted, and then, with remarkable courage, we plant once more.
We plant acts of kindness where hatred has grown. We plant hope where despair threatens to take hold. We plant relationships, communities, and dreams whose fruit we ourselves may never fully see.
May this season give us the strength to honor our losses without allowing them to define us. And may we, like generations before us, find the courage to take root once again—wherever life has planted us—and to help one another grow.
