Sermon Text:

Ain milim. There are no words. This phrase has been repeated over and over again by Israelis since the horrors of October 7th – a catch-phrase of sorts. A way to signal that the pain is so deep, and so broad, that there is really no way to encapsulate it using the limitations of human speech. And now, the Shabbat after the IDF found 6 beautiful souls, murdered just a day or two before soldiers arrived, who had survived 11 months in the hellscape of captivity, that phrase is all that reverberates in my mind. Ain milim. There are no words.

We ache as we think about the brave, radiant young people who were slaughtered by Hamas in the last week. Six more innocent souls among the thousands of Israelis and Palestinian civilians who have been killed so far in this war. Hersh Goldberg-Polin, whose handsome, smiling face became a symbol of hope for so many of us. Carmel Gat, who was taken from her parents home in Kibbutz Be’eri and was a beacon of light for many hostages who were released in November. Alexander Lobanov, a 32-year-old father of 2 from Ashkelon. Almog Sarusi, the 27-year-old who attended the Nova concert with his girlfriend, who was killed in the attacks of October 7th. Eden Yerushalmi, the 24-year-old who was working as a bartender at the music festival when she was taken hostage. And Ori Danino, a 25-year-old Jerusalem native who was taken hostage when he drove back to the site of the Nova festival to help others escape during the Hamas attack.

Ain milim. There are no words. How do we explain their deaths? How can we even begin to speak to our children about them? How can we make sure that they did not die in vain? How can we regain some sense of hope after this devastating news?

I do not pretend to have the answers to these questions. At this moment, I find myself despairing, confused, and lost. Maybe some of you feel the same way. If you do, I see you. You are not alone. I’m with you.

A few disparate thoughts have been sustaining me over the past few days, offering me comfort and words when I have none of my own. I’d like to share some of them with you in hopes they will offer you comfort, as well.

First, the words of Israeli author Yossi Klein Halevi, in his podcast this past week with Rabbi Donniel Hartman. “I don’t know if I felt so devastated since October 7th,” Yossi said. “This sense of being violated in the deepest way. And to think that they survived for 11 months, they made it through and Hersh, with his amputated arm…There’s the sense of being in a nightmare that just keeps getting deeper and a feeling of a loss of control. And also rage, tremendous rage…The rage is so much a part of the grief. It’s another way of expressing the grief. And right now, at this particular moment, freeze the frame, everything feels hopeless. That’s a difficult place to be in. [But] It will pass. We’ve been there before.”¹

Yossi teaches us that as painful as it is, it is so important to acknowledge that it feels really bad right now. That this feeling will pass, and we will find a way to move forward, as our people have always done, but in this moment, we mourn as a community. We hold one another, affirming the notion of Klal Yisrael, Jewish peoplehood, and we cry about the impossible situation that the state of Israel has been forced into.

Second, the words of Rachel Goldberg-Polin, Hersh’s dear mother, who inexplicably found a way to express gratitude for her son amidst her pain. “I am so grateful to God,” she said on Monday at Hersh’s funeral, “and I want to do hakarat hatov and thank God right now, for giving me this magnificent present of my Hersh…. For 23 years I was privileged to have this most stunning treasure, to be Hersh’s Mama. I’ll take it and say thank you. I just wish it had been for longer.” This hakarat hatov, recognizing the good, is not about finding a silver lining where there is not one. With these words, Rachel is not sugarcoating her son’s tragic death. Rather, she is using the power of gratitude to lift herself and her family out of the darkness, and to honor her son’s memory in front of the entire world. With these words, she is telling us that she wants Hersh to be remembered for the amazing person that he was while he was alive, and not for the way that he died.

Third, the words of the ancient Psalmist.

²הַזּרְֹעִ֥ים בְּדִמְעָ֗ה בְּרִנָּ֥ה יִקְצֽרֹוּ

Those who sow in tears shall reap with songs of joy. One who goes along weeping, carrying the seed bag, shall come back with songs of joy, carrying the sheaves.

We might not be able to see the sheaves on the horizon, or feel the joy that will accompany them, but our tradition assures us that they are both there as long as we do the work of sowing as our tears fall. That our tears will not be wasted and our sorrow will not be in vain. So we do the work of caring for our family and friends in Israel, being present for one another here, demanding that the remaining hostages be brought home, and supporting those who seek peace. The Psalmist says that it is ok to cry in the process.

And finally, the words of Israel’s national anthem: Od lo avdah tikvateinu, our hope is not yet lost. Our hope is not yet lost for the remaining hostages, for a deal to be made, for the end of such violent division in the state of Israel, and for a brighter time for the Jewish people and all people in the region. From the beginning of our people’s history, we have withstood calamity after calamity. And time and time again, we kept enough hope alive to make it through the narrow straits. We have no choice but to continue, for the sake of our ancestors and for the sake of the generations to come. 

These are indeed disparate messages, but maybe that is what this time calls for. Yossi’s reminder that we are experiencing a nightmare, and that this too shall pass. Rachel’s unbelievable commitment to gratitude amidst the pain of losing a child after fighting 11 months to get him back. The assurance of the Psalmist that our tears are productive, that when we sow in tears we can reap in joy. And the words of Israel’s national anthem that remind us of a two-thousand year old hope that is still not lost to time.

Perhaps some of these words can serve as a salve for you during this time. Perhaps some of them resonate more than others. Wherever you are at this moment, I hope you find the words that you need to hear, and hold tightly to them.

May the memory of these six beautiful people be an enduring blessing for us all, and may they inspire a revolution of hope and change. It is time for our people to write a new chapter in this story.

Shabbat Shalom.

1 For Heaven’s Sake Podcast, 9/2/2024

2 Psalm 126