Dear Folks,
The horror of the violence in Israel and Gaza over the last week may be that it feels so familiar—brothers again raising arms against each other, the one with thoughts of annihilation and murder, the sibling reacting with devastating force. Why, O God, our voices cry? When I reached out to an old friend, she wrote, “It has truly been disquieting and overwhelmingly sad. The hatred is so deep. We are connected by 2 degrees of separation to folks called up in the reserves, so it feels very close…” Another said, “My family is safe physically, but so beaten up emotionally… not sure anymore if the vision of peace is possible.” A third agonizes over the oppression the Palestinians have faced over the course of decades, naming “its own brutality,” but insisting there is no justification for what Hamas has done. And yesterday in Bible study, we reflected on the violence that happens weekly across our city and nation, often perpetrated out of religious or tribal convictions. Why, O God, our voices cry? And what can we do?
Heather Miller Rubens, friend and colleague in the struggle and executive director of the Institute for Islamic, Christian, and Jewish Studies offers this direction:
First—We mourn. We grieve the loss of life and weep with those who suffer. We condemn the violence, especially against civilians—and particularly children and the elderly, the most vulnerable members of our human family. We pray for peace.
Second—We commit to standing up for one another. We are deeply concerned that the coming days and weeks will see a rise in Antisemitic and Islamophobic bullying and bigotry. We pray for the safety and security of all religious communities in the United States and around the world.
Third—We reach out and we listen. Silence around this moment advances neither justice nor peace. But what do we say to our friends and neighbors? For fear of offending someone, we often say nothing. But our friends and allies want to hear from us. We can start by reaching out to friends impacted by this violence—those in our own faith community and beyond it—to ask how they are doing.
And I would add—We hope… not in a simplistic way, that denies our divisions and violent tendencies, but in a grounded way, that acknowledges our limitations while reaching for our highest human capacities: to make peace, not war, to sow justice instead of division, to embrace each person as a blessed child of God.
Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai sees the promise of new life in the rubble of broken hearts and temples and “being right.” There is more: that our hearts are broken means that we have loved and can love again. The dawning light of starting over shines in each one of us, through our darkest days.
From the place where we are right
Flowers will never grow
In the spring.
The place where we are right
Is hard and trampled
Like a yard.
But doubts and loves
Dig up the world
Like a mole, a plow.
And a whisper will be heard in the place
Where the ruined
House once stood.
Love is always rising,
David