Bridges of Grace at St. Patrick’s Cathedral

in memory of Pope Francis z”l

Today, I stood beneath the soaring Gothic arches of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, a place steeped in holiness and centuries of spiritual striving. I was there as part of the New York City rabbinic delegation, invited to bear witness and offer presence at a solemn, historic moment: the memorial Mass for His Holiness Pope Francis, of blessed memory.

The weight of the moment was already immense as I entered. A man who redefined humility, who reminded the world that the sacred resides in the margins, had passed. Pope Francis, whose soul bore the Gospel and whose heart beat in rhythm with the vulnerable of all faiths, had departed this world. And yet, his presence filled the space, not just in memory, but in the community gathered—Christian, Muslim, Jewish, people of no faith, and those whose faith burns like fire.

I found myself overwhelmed with emotion more than once. The solemn chant, the stained glass dancing in colored light, the deep breaths between prayer and mourning—in honor of a soul who brought kindness and courage – and a sense of human justice – into places of power. I’ve stood in countless sanctuaries, at many interfaith gatherings, prayed at vigils. But this was different. This was sacred ground consecrated by grief and hope intertwined.

As the Mass drew to a close, the moment became something even more intimate. His Eminence, Timothy Cardinal Dolan, rose to offer words of gratitude. He spoke not only of Pope Francis’ legacy but turned to the gathered faith leaders with warmth and conviction. “Thank you,” he said, “for being present today. For being of comfort.”

Then, something astonishing happened. As he descended to greet the faith leaders, Cardinal Dolan looked toward me, and seeing the small piece of metal around my neck—a dog tag bearing the words “Bring Them Home Now,” calling for the freedom of the 59 remaining Israeli hostages held captive by Hamas for 564 unbearable days—he stepped forward. Without hesitation, he reached for my necklace and gently held it in his hand. There was no fear, no pause. Only compassion.

“I have one of those,” he said. “I’m going to wear it in Rome.”

There are moments in life when language fails, when only silence can hold the sacred. But in that moment, even silence bowed. The Cardinal’s words weren’t political. They were human. They were a brother’s acknowledgment of another brother’s pain. They were the Church’s hand extended to the Jewish people in the hour of our continued anguish. In that gesture, I felt not just seen—but held.

Pope Francis was a man of bridges. He walked into rooms others avoided, famously escaping the Vatican precincts during the early days of his tenure to visit and care for the poor. He called us—not only to identifying Catholics—to embrace, to listen, to heal. Today, in the gesture of Cardinal Dolan, I saw the echo of Francis. I saw what faith can do when it leads with the heart.

This dog tag I wear, it is not metal alone. It is memory. It is presence. It is a prayer. For 564 days, families have waited, tormented by the absence of their beloveds—fathers, daughters, sons, grandmothers—stolen from their homes, from their lives. We carry them with us. Every day. And now, by the grace of that brief holy touch, I felt the weight of our grief shared.

That a Catholic cardinal, soon to enter the sacred deliberations of the Papal Conclave, will carry this symbol of Jewish pain and hope with him to Rome—it is almost too much to hold. And yet, hold it we will. We must.

We are living in fractured times. But not every story is of rupture. Some are of healing. Some are of hands reaching across divides, not to erase difference, but to embrace it. Today, I witnessed one such story. I was embraced by one such hand.

Cardinal Dolan, I bless you: may you wear this token of our shared heartbreak as a sacred amulet. May it remind all who see it that our fates are bound together. That no community’s grief is too distant to matter. That, as Pope Francis taught us, faith must always lean into love.

And may this simple act—one person reaching for another’s symbol of sorrow—become more than a memory. May it become a blessing. May it bring light to the darkest places. And may it speed the return of those still in captivity.

May the memory of Pope Francis be a revolution of tenderness in our world. And may we honor him, not only in eulogy, but in how we walk from this day forward—together.

Amen.