Before Shabbat

The other day, while walking past the conference room, I spied a bunch of old TBA newsletters sitting on the table. Remember those days of paper? There were 30+ years’ worth of Kadima bulletins in an impressively big pile. They aren’t there through happenstance. Instead, they are evidence of the massive effort to celebrate TBA’s upcoming 60^th anniversary. But more on that later.

I thought it would be fun to grab a random Kadima and give it a read, for old-time’s sake. It wasn’t fun. Instead, it was a very sobering window into seeing what we were all thinking and feeling about Israel. I picked up the March 2005 edition and drifted back to that period as I read my guardedly optimistic assessment. I wrote, “Maybe, we have reached the point where some semblance of sanity will at last emerge. “ I wrote, “Maybe the time has come where, anemic from all the blood loss, we can begin. It won’t be easy, but this is the only logical course… To believe that peace is possible this time: is it a pipe dream? I pray not.” Then, the last sentence, the summary conclusion, is: “I still believe in the power and the possibility of peace in the Middle East.”

Nineteen years ago, such sentiments and assessments did not seem foolish or naïve. Hoping out loud did not sound Pollyannish. For a brief and shining moment, hope made sense.

It’s almost embarrassing to read these old appraisals now and imagine I believed them. But I did. I held these possibilities for peace so close to my heart. I was part of a movement of Jews in America and in Israel who, along with Palestinians, were willing to move forward slowly and deliberately to a new understanding of our shared neighborhood.

I want to hope again. I want to imagine an Israel at peace, flourishing, dynamic, the “start-up nation” as committed to a thriving democracy as it is to high tech and industry. But I can’t see or feel it right now. The trauma of October 7^th continues to hang over everyone and everything like gun smoke powder. The fate of the hostages is like a piercing pain that does not subside. The tragedy of innocent Palestinian lives lost gets more horrible as it deepens. Where can we find hope?

 This search for something to hope for is made even more problematic due to the lack of clear guidelines for what should happen next. There is no clearly definable endgame stated other than “destroying Hamas,” something many people don’t necessarily believe is even possible. Over one hundred days into this war, and I can’t tell you what Israel’s political objective is for the morning after. Are we heading for a situation where 7 million Jews are going to permanently control 3 million Palestinians in the West Bank and 2.1 million Palestinians in Gaza? It’s hard to persevere when you can’t see the horizon.

When will I be able to sing a song of peace again? Where will I find the opportunity to celebrate? When will that time arrive? How many more sacrifices must be made?

Nineteen years ago, I dared to imagine a time for every purpose under heaven. I envisioned a better world, a time for coexistence. I thought that maybe we’d arrived at last at a tipping point. 

What is the algorithm for hope?

Over 100 days have passed since October 7^th. The world is shifting on its axis.

Or maybe it’s some planetary earthquake. We’re falling, flying, tumbling in turmoil (thank you, Paul Simon). We are holding on, as tightly as we can, to the ship’s railing, the plane’s armrests, and the grab handle above the door. The turbulence is awful.

Even the scariest roller coaster comes to a smooth and safe landing. But as we glance around for the comforting red glow of the exit sign, we see nothing but darkness, and the ride isn’t slowing down. I could use some training wheels, but not even Amazon carries them.

It’s feeling awfully precarious. Two days ago, I read a list of potential wars in the offing. I won’t even give you the link, lest it bathe you in the bitter waters of despair. But it shook me up.

An adolescent girl hid from the Nazis in Amsterdam and wrote in her diary, “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.” Of course, this turned out not to be the case. Her family was betrayed, and only her father survived the Holocaust. But she never lost hope. Until the end, hope kept her sane and alive.

In solitary confinement, Natan Sharansky endured harsh conditions. He spent long periods in a small, isolated cell, faced extreme cold, and had limited access to necessities. And yet, he survived: with hope, with Psalms, with the game of chess playing repeatedly in his head.

There are hundreds – thousands – millions of examples from our ancestors who held on even in the most extreme circumstances. Some saw redemption, and others did not. But all of them – all of us – have a heritage of hope. We have a long history of wars, fear, and sadness. And we have an unbreakable spirit.

We have to double down on that message of resilience and historical grit. We send our love, hope, and donations to the Israeli families waiting for word of their loved ones on the Gaza battlefields and the hostages in the hellish tunnels. We gather as a congregation to support each other with love and steadfastness, looking ahead to our potential to provide a handhold and open our hearts and doors to provide some shelter from the storm.