In the Northern Hemisphere, July and August are particularly hot and humid. The Old Farmer’s Almanac calls these days “the Dog Days of Summer.” Why “dog” days? I always thought it had something to do with how we start to pant like dogs in the sun, but turns out it has to do with the star Sirius and its connected constellation - the dog.
Sirius is the brightest star in the sky this time of year - a time of extreme weather patterns that impact a harvest’s yield. Throughout history, people have understood the star’s rising as ominous - signaling storms, drought, and other dangers. The Old Farmer’s Almanac warns:
Dog Days bright and clear
Indicate a happy year;
But when accompanied by rain,
For better times, our hopes are vain.
While the lilt is light, these are words of warning and worry. They’re filled with vulnerability and the memory of knowing hunger and hardship in prior seasons.
Judaism has its own form of “dog days,” as well as a poetic expression of our suffering. We’re in the dog days of the Jewish calendar right now: the 17th of Tammuz through the 9th of Av. The 17th of Tammuz (last Tues, July 23) remembers the breach of Jerusalem’s walls just before the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE. These three weeks are known as “bein hametzarim,” within the narrow straits.
For the next three weeks, here in the heat of the summer, we pace the hot sands of grief, culminating in the 9th of Av, the day of destruction. It is the day that mourns the ravage of Jerusalem with the fire of war and hate, culminating in the ruin of both its temples (in 586 BCE and 70 CE, respectively).
On Tisha b’Av, we read the Book of Lamentations, our scroll of memory and anguish:
From above [came] a fire
Down into my bones…
[God] has left me forlorn,
In constant misery… (Lamentations 1:13)
Tisha b’Av has come to mourn all the calamities that have befallen our people over time and space. That said, it is most deeply rooted in one geographical location - Jerusalem and the Land of Israel.
Lamentations often speaks from the perspective of Zion, the birthplace of our people and the cradle of many civilizations. She is the contested homeland for her many children and their fighting has rendered her battered and destitute. The poet is explicit about the impact of this violence against her:
Zion spreads out her hands,
She has no one to comfort her…
Jerusalem has become among them
A thing unclean. (Lamentations 1:17)
Lamentations expresses isolation and abandonment. It wonders if God has left forever. It looks around at the destruction and wonders if it is possible to survive all the pain.
How real these ancient words feel to the modern ear! It has been nearly a year's worth of raining fire, smoldering ruins, and death. Israeli hostages are still locked away in torture.
My eyes are spent with tears,
My heart is in tumult,
My being melts
Over the ruin of my poor people,
As babes and sucklings languish
In the squares of the city. (Lamentations 2:11)
Could it be that the ancient poet wrote this about the children of Gaza who have had their childhoods stolen by leaders who would use them as pawns in a twisted game?
How real it sounds when we call to mind the Israeli children of Majdal Shams and their broken bodies scattered over the soccer pitch!
It has been nearly a year of anguish, and yet in these dog days of summer, the heat of the mideast reality has multiplied tenfold. Like the writer of Lamentations, I could continue my litany of woes and worries - especially given the threat of all-out war with Iran and the reports of abuse in an Israeli detention center.
These 3 weeks are indeed “bein hametzarim,” within the narrow straits. We are pressed tight by grief and guilt. And even though we know this is a shared feeling, when the walls are this narrow, we inevitably feel cut off from others, alone in our grief.
I am here to tell you that you are not alone in this pain. I cannot alleviate it, but I can assure you that you are not alone. I am also not sure of what hope I can provide, but I can send you to people and organizations doing hard work not to lose hope. I’ll mention some in just a bit.
I can also point out that it is not a coincidence that on the other side of these three weeks we start to head into Elul and the High Holy Day season. Just beyond that we meet the rainy season, when rain quenches the parched fields of Israel and our hearts. It is a season of reflection, repentance, and determination and it’s just on the other side of this narrow place.
Visualize a shofar - narrow at one end, wide open at the other. Rabbi Margie Jacobs, inspired by hasidic sources, finds significance in this: “The shofar is narrow [at the bottom] and wide [at the top]. You have to blow specifically from the narrow place. If you blow from the wide part, nothing will come out. [This release from the narrow place] is the voice of truth…as it is written [in Psalm 118,] “from the narrow place I have called to [the Eternal] and have been answered in spaciousness.”
These dog days, these three weeks of what feels like impending doom, are met every year with a cry out into the expanse. Yes, it is a call of desperation, yet it is also a call to possibility. It is a call out to hope.
After the first destruction of Jerusalem, the prophet Jeremiah wrote to the priests, prophets, elders, and populace of the exiled Jewish community. They were helpless, hopeless and on the brink of annihilation as a people. He encouraged them: “Build houses and live in them, plant gardens and eat their fruit. Build families and increase the generations…seek the welfare of the place where you find yourself, for in its prosperity, you will prosper” (Jeremiah 29: 5-8).
His message is simple: in the face of destruction, be a builder. In the blistering heat of a world on fire, channel your grief into constructive action.
I suggest getting involved with ARZA and the IMPJ - progressive, Zionist voices speaking out for a democratic, compassionate Israel and an end to this war. Send your support to organizations that promote a shared society in Israel like the Hand in Hand School Network and others.
Remember, the shofar's narrow end, the place of our deepest pain, is also where our most profound transformation begins.
הֲשִׁיבֵ֨נוּ יְהֹוָ֤ה ׀ אֵלֶ֙יךָ֙ וְֽנָשׁ֔וּבָה חַדֵּ֥שׁ יָמֵ֖ינוּ כְּקֶֽדֶם׃
Take us back, O Eternal, to Yourself,
And let us come back; Renew our days as of old! (Lamentations 5:21)
May we merit a return to this place of bounty and goodness. May we renew our pledge of peace and begin to live in Oneness with you, Eternal God, as in days of old. Amen.
