Comfort and Resolve: In Memory of Sarah Milgrim and Yaron Lischinsky

When a community is in pain, our tradition teaches that we must not retreat to our private comforts, pretending all is well. The Talmud (Ta’anit 11a) teaches that anyone who distances themselves from communal suffering has forsaken their part in the collective soul. Moses, the greatest of our teachers, chose to sit on a stone when his people suffered, though he could have had a cushion. Why? Because presence matters. Because leadership, especially in times of heartbreak, means being with your people in the pain.

Last night, our community was pierced with agony. Sarah Milgrim and Yaron Lischinsky z”l were murdered outside the Capital Jewish Museum, moments after leaving a diplomatic gathering hosted by the American Jewish Committee, where they had celebrated humanitarian diplomacy in the Middle East and shared hope for civilians in Gaza. Their dreams were luminous. Their hearts were open. Their love was just beginning.

Sarah was a cherished voice in the community, a passionate advocate for LGBTQ rights, for Israeli-Palestinian peacemaking, a brilliant public servant, and a tireless builder of bridges. She radiated warmth and principle. Yaron, a Christian who made aliyah from Germany, lived a proud Israeli identity rooted in service and vision. He believed in peace, in the sacred work of dialogue and mutual respect. He was preparing to propose to Sarah next week.

They were murdered in a space designed to remember Jewish pain—and now that space will remember them too. They were killed in a moment meant to celebrate our place in the world—and now we must, yet again, fight to affirm that very belonging. This was theft: of laughter not yet heard, of life not yet created, of love just beginning to bloom.

The Prophet Jeremiah’s words echo in our bones: “My eyes are spent with tears, my heart is in tumult, my being melts away” (Eicha 2:11). We are torn—between fire and tears. We rage and weep. And yet, our sages remind us: Who is strong? The one who subdues their fury, who holds fast to their humanity (Pirkei Avot 4:1). It is easy to be consumed. But we are commanded to stay human. That is strength. And we must be strong.

There is an ancient story (Sanhedrin 98a) in which the Messiah is asked when he will come. He replies: “Today.” But he does not dwell on a throne. He sits at the gates of the city, bandaging wounds, one at a time—so that he is never delayed should he be needed. Redemption does not live far from pain. It is born in proximity to the broken. Healing is holy, even when it is slow.

So we take up the holy work. Of weeping. Of remembering. Of showing up. Of demanding the return of the hostages still held in Gaza. Of binding wounds, one by one. We are not alone in this pain. The Holy One sits with us on the stone floor.

We will remember Sarah Milgrim and Yaron Lischinsky. We will honor their hearts. We will remember their love, their dreams, their lives of purpose. We do not forget. We do not rest. Our Kaddish for them will cry Am Yisrael Chai — the Jewish People Live — not because we are untouched by violence, but because we love harder and build louder in its face.

May the coming days offer us breath, tears, and resolve. May we never look away from each other’s pain. May we continue the sacred work these two sparking souls began.