Finding Hope and Compassion at Crane Lake on the Ninth of Av

If you want a hopeful glimpse of the Jewish future—one that is passionate and compassionate—visit the Union for Reform Judaism’s Crane Lake Camp in West Stockbridge, Massachusetts, on the Ninth of Av.

Yes, the Ninth of Av, one of the most mournful days of the Jewish calendar—the commemoration of the destruction of the Second Temple and the city of Jerusalem by the Romans in 70 CE, and a host of other calamities before and after.

This summer, the Ninth of Av fell while I served on the camp’s faculty—cantors, educators, rabbis who spend a week or two teaching, praying, and generally pitching in, inspiring Jewish engagement. (Twenty years ago, I met former HUC-JIR President, Rabbi Aaron Panken, z”l, for the first time, when he served on URJ Eisner Camp’s faculty, and I was a staff member. He encouraged me to pursue the rabbinate and graduate study, became a beloved teacher and a friend, and I hold a faculty chair at HUC-JIR in his honor. This summer was my first faculty summer, and my first opportunity to pay him forward.)

The Ninth of Av also coincided with the camp’s annual Maccabiah (color war). While the competitions continued as usual, the day was punctuated with opportunities for prayer, learning, and reflection, all implicitly pertaining to the question: What kind of world should we fashion in the ashes of the Roman destruction?

The resounding answer: A world of care and compassion.

At morning prayers—prayers usually sung (and danced) with gusto, but this day offered in more somber tones—I offered “Words of Wisdom,” a brief teaching inspired by the middah (virtue) of the week, in this case rahamim (compassion). There is perhaps no more appropriate virtue to consider on the Ninth of Av and during Maccabiah.

My teaching was inspired by the story of Kamza and Bar Kamza, attributed to Rabbi Yohanan, in the Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Gittin 55b-56a:

“Because of the [mixup of] Kamza and Bar Kamza Jerusalem was destroyed,” the rabbis tell us. A remarkable claim, one they explain thusly:

An unnamed man in Jerusalem threw a party and invited his friend, Kamza. But his servant mistakenly delivered the invitation to the host’s enemy—Bar Kamza. Bar Kamza, perhaps perceiving the invitation as an opportunity for rapprochement, decided to attend the party, to the shock and chagrin of the host, who promptly and publicly sent him packing.

“Since there were rabbis sitting there at the party,” Bar Kamza thought to himself, “and they did not stop him from humiliating me…they likely approved of his behavior. I’ll go and inform on them to the king.” And Bar Kamza did just that, he went directly to the Roman emperor and declared, “The Jews have rebelled against you!”

Bar Kamza’s public humiliation and subsequent slander, the rabbis explain, set in motion a chain of events that led to the catastrophes commemorated on the Ninth of Av.

“It is much easier to show compassion to a puppy or someone on the other side of the world, than a longtime enemy who shows up at your party or your opponent on the other team,” I shared that morning during services. “But it’s precisely our capacity to show compassion to these people, in the moments when it’s most difficult to do so, that can help us avoid the worst kinds of destruction commemorated on the Ninth of Av. It is this compassion that can rebuild Jerusalem and our world.”

It was this compassion that I witnessed on the sports field at Crane Lake, during an Ultimate Frisbee game, when one player fell to the ground and the members of both teams surrounded her and helped her up.

It was this compassion that I observed throughout the week when American staff members over and again embraced Israeli colleagues in moments of fear and foreboding amid the ongoing war in Israel.

It’s notable, moreover, that the word the Talmud uses for “friend,” rahamei, is etymologically related to rahamim (compassion); a friend is someone for whom we have compassion. And it is precisely the fact that the host of the party lacked compassion for Bar Kamza, that led to the horrible events on the Ninth of Av.

Later in the afternoon, I sat with a group of campers and staff, and we studied the story of the fateful party and Bar Kamza’s humiliation together. For most, it was the very first time they encountered a page of the classic Vilna Talmud edition (1870-80s), the first time that they encountered its Aramaic idiom.

We discussed why the rabbis had ascribed such world-historical magnitude to a seemingly insignificant social slight:

Perhaps, a camper suggested, the rabbis believed one person’s behavior could impact everyone. Perhaps, a counselor said, it’s because the problem was that these ancient Jews couldn’t get along. Toward the end of our conversation, one camper noted that the host of the party is not named in the story.

“Why do think that is?” I asked.

Another camper responded, “It’s because we’re all supposed to see ourselves as the host.”

Yes, indeed. We’re all capable of lacking sufficient compassion; we could all end up acting like him.

“It’s because if they named the host of the party,” a staff member said, “We would be inclined to blame him and see the events of the story as a one-time affair.”

No doubt. If we knew the name of the party’s host, we would be less likely to read the story as broadly applicable, and generalizable to any time and place.

All of us, whether here in the Berkshire Mountains or in Jerusalem, could find ourselves in the position of our ancient forbearers, their stories recorded in our people’s foundational texts.

Sitting under the broad arms of an oak tree, listening to these perceptive readings of the Talmud, I could not help but smile. The Ninth of Av is not a day for smiling, and yet I smiled because here at camp. I saw the seeds of a new generation of Jewish leadership being planted, leaders who take our tradition seriously and live its lessons maximally, whether on the soccer field or in the synagogue.

I am proud, as a faculty member at HUC-JIR, that I get to observe and guide that new generation as it takes shape.

Rabbi Jospeh Skloot, Ph.D. ‘10, is the Rabbi Aaron D. Panken Associate Professor of Modern Jewish Intellectual History at HUC-JIR.