Yesterday was the 17th of Tammuz. Here in Chicagoland, it rained off and on and I thought maybe that those were the tears of G-d. There is much to cry about. The hope of a cease fire, shattered by Hamas before it even began. The idea that the only solution is to smash Hamas into oblivion. The death of innocents. How can any of this be good.

The 17th of Tammuz is a Jewish fast, not well observed in modern American Judaism. It commemorates the day that the walls of Jerusalem were breached in 69 CE ahead of the siege and eventual destruction of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. It also commemorates the day Moses smashed the 10 Commandments after witnessing the Israelites dancing around the Golden Calf. That last piece I didn’t realize–but the Torah portion for the 17th of Tammuz is my Bat Mitzvah Torah portion, the very one that led me to become a rabbi and that I wrote about for my rabbinic thesis. The very one that I have a book being published later in the summer.

That portion talks about reconciliation–that G-d is a forgiving G-d, endlessly patient and slow to anger. I actually talked about it last night without knowing that it was the actual text for the day.

Last night I was at the Batavia Islamic Center. I had said that I was going to fast for peace (as much as I as a diabetic fast). This is also the month of Ramadan. When we arrived at the mosque we were immediately greeted with water and “Iftar”. I had heard about iftar, I thought it was the “breaking of the fast.” and it is. Those are the appetizers! After noshing on yummy Indian food and lots of discussion, the women at one table, the men at another, we were told it was time for dinner. And feast we did. Fruits–watermelon, pineapple, figs, almonds, grapes, blueberries, strawberries. There were vegetable samosas, and lentils, and yoghurt, zucchini cakes, potatoes, a dish we were told was moussaka with chickpeas, tomatoes and eggplant. Everything was yummy–and so plentiful.

And that is the point. Most of the people who gathered to celebrate Ramadan were from India and Pakistan. They were not Arab Muslims. They welcomed us into their home–their spiritual home (which they rent from an Episcopal church), greeted us warmly, gave us water, fed us ambly. They live out the idea from Abraham and Sarah that we hold in common–of radical hospitality. Their “tent,” just like Abraham and Sarah’s–is open to all. They shared their traditions about fasting and feasting, about prayer and purity, about peace and submission. They shared their pain, concerns and hope for the future.

I said in my brief “formal” remarks that I thought I was not so naive to think that the world was more peaceful because of this evening. That bombs were still raining on both sides of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. That while Judaism and Islam both teach peace, it seems it is politicians who muck it up.

I was challenged by the Imam, who said that when he lived in New Mexico in the aftermath of 911, he participated in a dialogue that included rabbis and imams called by a two-star American general. This Jewish woman was convinced in the need to dialogue, to reach mutual understanding, to pursue peace. And it was a rabbi who argued with her that it was wrong to “spy on Muslims, spy on mosques.” When the imam asked why the rabbi was speaking up so strongly, the rabbi explained that he could not remain silent. In words that echoed Niemoller after the Holocaust:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.
Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

The imam said that events like ours last night–impromptu but tied to others doing the same thing–show the world and the media another way–the way of mutual respect, of peace, of reconciliation. This is exactly what the “selichot” prayers are about. This imam, who I had not met until last night returned something precious to me–my hope. Perhaps he is right. Perhaps by speaking out, by speaking up, eventually we will have a world that is at peace.