Hatov Vehametiv: Giving Thanks Even for the Burials

Last night, Israel brought two more of our sons home from Gaza. Not alive, but home.

Their names joined a list that has grown agonizingly long, a list that stretches from border towns to kibbutzim, from army outposts to unmarked tunnels. For many, the news brought another wave of exhaustion, anger, and grief. Yet in quiet corners of the country, in kitchens and synagogue courtyards, a few words were whispered that may sound strange to the modern ear: Baruch Hatov Vehametiv. Blessed is the One who is good and does good.

We say this blessing not when we rejoice, but when the heart trembles between relief and sorrow. It is spoken when uncertainty finally gives way to a grief we can touch, when we can at last bury the dead. In Jewish life, even that moment is called goodness, not because we deny the pain, but because closure itself is a form of mercy.

In a world that measures goodness by happy outcomes, this sounds absurd. Yet the Jewish soul has always been trained in paradox. We bless when a child is born, and we bless when a life ends. We bless when the rains fall, and when they stop. We bless when we understand, and when we do not. Faith is not the refusal to feel pain; it is the courage to sanctify it.

The past year has tested that courage beyond measure. For over twelve months, families have waited for the return of their loved ones from Gaza. Every update on negotiations is a clash of hope and despair. Politics roars. Opinions divide. And then, in the quiet moments, someone says Hatov Vehametiv, and the argument falls silent.

It is not a political statement. It is an act of spiritual realism. To bless God for the ability to bury the dead is to recognize that even this, painful as it is, is better than the void of unknowing. It is the soul’s way of saying: I will not let despair have the last word.

This blessing is rooted in Jewish history following the destruction of Beitar at the end of the Bar Kochba revolt in the second century of the Common Era. The Roman authorities initially forbade the burial of the slain. Years later, when the corpses were finally permitted burial, the Sages instituted a blessing over this event. They added a fourth blessing to the Grace After Meals (Birkat Hamazon) containing the phrase Hatov Vehametiv, to thank God for two miracles: Hatov (the good) that the bodies had not decayed, and Vehametiv (and does good) that they were finally given a proper burial. That same spiritual resolve echoes today in the mouths of Israeli parents, rabbis, and soldiers, each a living testimony that the covenant still stands.

We are a people who add blessings, even in war. When the news is unbearable, we look for the sliver of divine mercy hidden within it. When bodies are returned, we weep and we whisper: Hatov Vehametiv. Thank You for the chance to bury, to honor, to say goodbye with love instead of fear.

There is something profoundly defiant in that. It is the defiance of belief itself, the refusal to let death define us. For every headline that dwells on politics or anger, there is a quieter, deeper story: of mothers lighting candles, fathers saying Kaddish, and a nation still choosing faith.

The peace deals and ceasefires may come and go. The debates will rage. But somewhere, beneath it all, runs a current that cannot be legislated or negotiated: the current of a people who still bless, even through tears.

We added Hatov Vehametiv to our prayers centuries ago, and we still add it today, not because we are naïve, but because we are not. Because we know that goodness can exist even when joy does not. Because we have seen the face of darkness and still believe that light is real.

If there is one lesson this year has taught us, it is that faith is not about answers. It is about endurance. It is about blessing the fragment of mercy you find within the storm and trusting that the rest will one day be revealed.

Two more were brought home last night. We weep for them. We bless for them. And in doing so, we remind ourselves that even in the darkest nights of Israel’s story, the words still hold: Baruch Hatov Vehametiv. Blessed is the One who is good and does good.

Because even in mourning, we are still a people who bless.