Real People Provide Real Hope

On Sunday, I greeted the Jerusalem morning with news of the assassination attempt against former president Trump.  We are grateful that the assassin was unsuccessful, and that President Trump was not seriously injured.  We pray for the family of those killed (may Corey Comperatore’s memory serve as a blessing) and for the speedy recovery of those injured.  Regardless of our political affiliation we must offer these words of thanksgiving.

Although we do not know the would-be assassin’s motives, this is not the first-time violence has been used in an attempt to settle our differences.  We must affirm the conviction that such differences cannot be resolved through violence.  Bullets are antithetical to democratic principles.  We must cease the glorification of weapons.  We must avoid celebrating violence.  We must repudiate conspiracy theories.

In November, Americans will vote.  And in January we will declare our unity behind the candidate who wins the most electoral votes—at least that is how our system is supposed to work.  This occasion is an opportunity to offer thanks that violence has failed and to reaffirm our commitment to democratic principles.

We argue.  We vote.  We compromise.

On Tuesday, I traveled to Haifa to meet with participants in the Shalom Hartman Institute’s Shared Society initiatives. We met two teachers. One a Jew and another an Arab. Both teach in Israeli Jewish schools. (There are separate school systems for Arab and Jew.) Both shared how important it is for them to get to know their neighbors.  The Arab teacher spoke about his love for his students some of whom were murdered on October 7^th and others who are now fighting in the IDF.  He shared his worries about family members living in Gaza.  His heart is broken.  The Jewish educator offered a sermon about teaching.  “People only become teachers if they believe that human nature is good.”  Teachers can shape and influence character.  That’s why he teaches.

We then met with two Palestinian Israeli students from Technion University. They spoke about how they were not taught the complicated history of Israel’s founding. Did their relatives flee? Were they forced to leave by Israeli forces? They were astonished to discover the gaps in their knowledge of their own Palestinian stories. They knew nothing of what happened between 1948 and 1967. We asked if their families and friends evacuated their Northern towns like their Jewish counterparts. They did not. They carry scars about evacuating their homes. Some from their grandparents’ generation left their homes in the Galilee never to return. They shared how they cannot openly express compassion for Gaza’s children. They wondered aloud why their Jewish neighbors see them as a threat.

I was impressed with their intelligence and passion.  Their conviction was apparent.  They too want a better Israel.

In the United States we tend to mythologize Israel and brush over the nuances in Israeli society. We caricature Israelis. I spend time here again and again—even and perhaps especially, in wartime—to become acquainted with its depth of characters.

Only real people can provide real hope.

On Sunday evening, I joined 500 people at Jerusalem’s First Station. We were gathered together by the parents of Hersh Goldberg-Polin. We sang David Broza’s “Yihye Tov” and Naomi Shemer’s “Al Kol Eleh.”  The words resound, “Guard my God this house, the garden and the wall.  From sorrow, sudden fear and war.  Protect the little I have.  The light and the infants.”   I marveled at Hersh’s father sitting in the front row.  He seemed to be davening, rocking back and forth as he summoned the strength to sing.

We stood and joined together in the prayer for the hostages.  “Our family, the whole house of Israel, who are in distress, or in captivity — who stand either in the sea or on dry land — may the Omnipresent have mercy on them and take them out from narrowness to expanse, and from darkness to light, and from oppression to redemption, now, swiftly, and soon!”  We concluded with “Hatikvah.” The Hope perseveres!

How did Hersh’s family summon the strength to pray? To sing? To sing of peace?

David Broza’s words ring out, “People live under stress looking for a reason to breathe and between hatred and murder they talk about peace. Veyihyeh tov. And all will be good. Yes, all will be good. Though I sometimes break down. But this night. Oh, this night, I will stay with you.”

Were they gaining strength from our songs?

Why do we sing?

Why do we begin every morning with song?  Why do we exclaim the words of Mah Tovu?  “How beautiful are your tents O Jacob, your dwelling places O Israel!” (Numbers 24)

We sing to remind ourselves of what we can be.  We sing to restore hope.

We recall that our opening prayer was composed by Balaam.  He was not an Israelite.  He was sent to curse us but instead could only offer blessings.  It took an outsider to remind us of who we are and most importantly of what we can become.

Our tent has become bloodied by violence.  Can it instead become large enough to include differences?

Can it be expansive enough to encompass hope?

Only real people can provide real hope.