Hope is a Verb (Rosh HaShanah 5786)

Hope is a Verb
Rabbi Sarah Berman, Rosh HaShanah 5786

This Just In: Nothing Matters Anymore
That was the slogan I saw on a t-shirt at a concert this summer, and it stopped me in my tracks. Our historical moment, summed up in one cheeky garment.

We are weathering a time of existential despair that, to each of us, can be political, geopolitical, medical, emotional, and personal.

But, if the t-shirt was right, and Nothing Matters Anymore--why does it feel so lonely? So hard? So sad?

In the face of Israelis held hostage for 718 days now, escalating war in Gaza, rising antisemitism here at home, hunger, bombs and rockets still flying across borders, political reprisals, polarization in our government and universities and even in many of our homes…

It feels like we are being crushed under the weight of our worries.

Despair is easy, and it’s all around us, is even within us; Hope is hard, and can often feel out of reach. But this is a problem for Jews.

As you know, the Israeli national anthem, Hatikvah, means “The Hope.” It is a hymn of the Jewish people. But are we still a people who can hope?

We’ve asked this question before, in other moments of disconnection and despair. “Will Your wonders be known in the darkness, and Your justice in the land of forgetfulness?”¹ asked the writer of the Psalms.

Written 3,000 years ago, in a time when the ancient Kingdom of Israel was still young and vulnerable—surrounded by a combination of enemies and uneasy allies on all sides—the Psalmist asked if there was reason to move forward. Buoyed by his faith, he decided there was, continuing his verse, “But I, alive, cry [out]...” He chose to raise his voice in the face of darkness.

The Psalmist knew, hope was not something you can just find—it is something we must actively create.

Especially as we stand here in a time of real danger and justified fear.

In such a moment, reaching for hope may seem naive. Humans are, realistically, jaded by our experiences. Hopelessness is no sin, it is the armor we put on to face a punishing world. Cynicism can be a way to keep ourselves safe, to offer ourselves emotional protection in a dangerous time.

When American Jews and Muslims face unprecedented levels of antisemitism² and islamaphobia it makes complete sense that we are losing faith in the promise and protection of American society.³

As Israelis continue to suffer the impacts of October 7th and ongoing war with Hamas, as Palestinians continue to suffer from the ongoing war, it makes sense that hope is at an all time low⁴ that an Israel and a Palestine can exist in safety, security, and dignity alongside one another.

In the face of this reality, expressing hope can seem naive, and turning hope into action can feel impossible.

But our past shows us that hope is, in fact, the way forward.

Theological despair followed the Holocaust—where was God at Auschwitz?⁵ So many of us truly believed God had died inside those pernicious gates. But survivors came out, and somehow found a way forward. For them, the question wasn’t “where was God at Auschwitz,” but rather, “who was God at Auschwitz?”⁶ God was in the people retaining their humanity, in the love and care they showed one another. While surrounded by unspeakable horror, people still chose to lift one another up. Relationship—the line of connection between two people—was often their only source of hope.

Ben Touster—a leader of the Federation, UJA, HIAS, and AJC here in New York in that postwar era⁷—saw the horrific landscape of Jewish life after World War Two and urged us to look past statistics to find, “the human story behind each figure.”⁸

Ben Touster knew that charting a course forward required a centering of people. He saw how hope can help us take our pain and harm and hurt, and inspire us to move forward. Joe Levine was a survivor of the Holocaust. Ben met him as he was making his way forward in the world: Joe had chosen to make Aliyah to the brand-new state of Israel. Joe was leaving Europe behind, having received help from HIAS which Ben was leading. Joe gave Ben a gift as he started his new life: A haggadah from the first seder held after the camps were liberated. Joe’s inscription thanked Ben and his wife for making “it possible for our people to leave Germany and live as free men and women.” This was the clearest example of pragmatic hope — this haggadah symbolizing a new future and a new connection. The haggadah and what it represented were so meaningful that Touster kept that gift the rest of his life. Ben passed the haggadah on to his son, who eventually published it as A Survivors Haggadah.

75 years ago, survivors like Joe Levine gave us reason to hope. So did the establishment in 1948 of the State of Israel, with its national anthem HaTikvah.

What a radical choice — to stand in the ashes of the Holocaust and choose “Hope” as the hymn for the Jewish people.

The Hebrew Tikvah, comes from the word Kav, meaning “line.”⁹ This suggests to me that Hope is a line, a connection that can bring two disconnected points into relationship—and can direct us away from despair.

“Despair is not a strategy,”¹⁰ Ruth Messinger teaches us. 

Hope can be a strategy. It can be pragmatic. It can transform our lived experience into determination and action. Hope can be a verb, when it connects the disconnected.

In the Torah portions we read today and tomorrow, Isaac and Ishmael teach us this lesson. Reading their stories, we see them as men on diverging paths: Ishmael, the firstborn son, whom Abraham exiles¹¹; and Isaac, the best-loved son, whom Abraham offers as a sacrifice.¹² Their life lines lead them away from each other — brothers separated by circumstances, by time, and by their father.

Isaac and Ishmael each experience painful, destructive formative moments — but that’s not how their stories end. After their father’s death, they write a shared epilogue,¹³ a more hopeful ending: The two men reunite to bury their father together.¹⁴ It is their first meeting since Ishmael’s banishment. Rather than letting their histories keep them apart, Isaac and Ishmael choose to leave their homes, journey towards one another, and help each other say goodbye to their father. Somehow, both men can see beyond their circumstances to envision a different future. And so, they direct their diverging paths back together for this extraordinary reunion.

The Isaacs and Ishmaels of today are the peace seekers, the change makers, the courageous visionaries who can see lines of connection where most of us simply see the walls and borders of separation. These courageous few, who stand up in the face of despair, turn hope into action — one connection at a time:

This spring, I received an email: “We are a coalition of Muslim Women who have condemned the massacre of October 7th, [who have] spoken inwards and outwards about… rising Anti Semitism in the Muslim world.” This unexpected email introduced me to Soraya Deen. Soraya is the CEO of Muslim Women Speakers and co-chair of the International Religious Freedom roundtable in Washington DC, where she lives. Soraya is one of a community of Muslim women who are standing up to antisemitism with their presence, their words, and their actions.

Years ago, Soraya’s son was the victim of islamophobia — and their family felt alone and vulnerable. Until Jewish members of their community stood up and spoke out against this baseless hatred. This allyship left Soraya changed.

Following that incident, Soraya built a relationship with Jews in her community and across the country — and now she is the one standing up and speaking out, fighting against antisemitism. She leads workshops, and helps foster new interfaith relationships, leading to permanent change in the communities she visits.

Then there are Iris and Souli, who visited Central last winter. Members of Combatants for Peace,¹⁵ once upon a time, both supported the armed conflict between their peoples.

Iris is the Israeli daughter of a Holocaust survivor and a veteran of World War Two. She wholeheartedly supported her two eldest sons serving in Israel’s army; she understood that they were keeping Israel safe from dangerous insurgents and suicide bombers. As time went by, Iris started hearing Palestinian perspectives from her coworkers. As she listened, this school principal began teaching her own children and audiences around the world about the other people who also called their land home. “I believe most people want the same things,” she says. “A roof over their heads, food on the table, and a safe place to raise their children. Between the [Jordan River and the] Mediterranean Sea… live 14 million people. We have the capacity to create space for all of us to live together. We must—and I believe we can.”¹⁶

Souli is a Palestinian from Jerusalem, who took up stones, molotov cocktails, even a knife to fight against the Israeli soldiers patrolling the streets and entering Palestinian homes. He understood these soldiers as the enemy, whose only goal was to terrify and control his Palestinian friends and family. Souli was arrested and jailed for lightly wounding an Israeli soldier inside a friend’s recently demolished home. It was during his incarceration that Souli began to learn more about this conflict, about Jews, and about himself. “I realized that these “enemies” were actually human beings who were also suffering. The journey of my transformation was painful, but it was also deeply spiritual. Slowly, I reconstructed my worldview.”¹⁷ 

Iris and Souli have chosen to break the cycle they were in. They have put down their weapons, have lowered their defenses, and no longer see each other as the enemy. As Combatants for Peace recently wrote: “Our safety, freedom, and dignity are intertwined. We refuse to let hatred define our path. We choose another way….”¹⁸ 

This already-difficult work is made exponentially harder in wartime. But, instead of letting history and the despair of the moment divert them, these former enemies now meet, listen, and teach others how to envision a future of cooperation and promise. Never losing sight of their shared humanity, Iris and Souli and their allies choose to turn their pain into purpose… to process… to progress.

Last year, my colleague Rachel at the 92nd Street Y was invited to facilitate a new program, coordinated by the Y and the UJA: An opportunity for Jewish and Black communities to connect in ways we often don’t, even as we live—sometimes uneasily—side by side. The program is part Share Our America, dedicated to building trust and reducing polarization.¹⁹ Rachel was paired with Janille, a Black leader based in Harlem, to facilitate challenging conversations between our communities over several months. Israel, antisemitism, racism—no tough topic was off the table. Participants reflected on personal experience and scholarly writings, and through this hard work came away with allies—and friends.

As impactful as the experience has been on the participants, it affected Rachel and Janille even more deeply. Before facilitating conversations between their communities, first Rachel and Janille invited each other to see the world through their eyes. Together, they have shared their own difficult truths, explored their preconceptions and prejudices, and ultimately honored each other’s experience. They have both worked to understand each other’s lives—including the vulnerability and fear that come from living with racism and antisemitism. They have helped each other become better, truer, more dedicated allies. 

“All our communities are in crisis, we only see our own issues” most of the time, Rachel reflected. But Rachel and Janille have started dismantling the barriers between them and their communities. They are finding a new way of seeing the world, new allies to move through the world with—and are helping others in our New York community do the same.

Soraya, Iris and Souli, Rachel and Janille are visionaries, peace seekers, change makers. They are our Isaacs and Ishmaels, turning despair into resolve. Their work speaks to humanity’s best instincts. Are they in the majority? No. But majorities don’t start movements.

Change begins with one person, two people, a lengthening line, a community — insisting that we won’t let history or despair decide our future. We can choose to take our pain and turn it into purpose.

Tikvah hi pe-ulah, “hope is an action,” says Israeli coexistence advocate Maoz Inon.²⁰ So how can we turn our own pain and fear into hope and action? Is it even possible?

It is, if we choose
To learn
To support
To connect

We can learn about an issue and the situation on the ground; We can learn about the lived experience of someone who is suffering — whether through a Central program or podcast, or through other resources or connections and find the inspiration to act.

We can support an organization that is making a positive impact; We can support an advocacy group or institution or organization—one you have connected with at Central or beyond—and with our support, we can help create real change.

And we can connect with another human being; We can connect with someone we agree with, or someone we don’t agree with, but in sitting together and forging a real relationship, we can find the inspiration to stand up and make their world, our world, better.

The Talmud teaches, “for as long as a person lives, they can have hope.”²¹ Hope may feel remote to us now, but we will continue to strive for it as long as we live. Because, as Jews, that is what we do.

I think the t-shirt I saw at the concert this summer got it wrong. It should have said, This Just In: It All Matters, Still

It has never been more important to care… to hope… and to act.

Even—especially—in times of fear and despair, our job is to reach for tikvah. It is up to us to draw the lines of connection, to lead ourselves away from despair, to do the work that points to a better future.

The world is broken, in so many ways. We can despair, or we can hope. We get to choose, right now, whether we will treat hope as a verb… And act.

¹ Psalm 88:13-14, translation by Rabbi Jade Sank Ross, To You I Call: Psalms Throughout Our Lives, 2024
² https://www.ajc.org/news/ajc-report-majority-of-american-jews-changing-behavior-due-to-fear-of-antisemiti sm
³ https://www.pewresearch.org/2024/03/21/majority-in-u-s-say-israel-has-valid-reasons-for-fighting-fewer-sa y-the-same-about-hamas/
⁴ Ibid.
⁵ Richard L. Rubenstein, After Auschwitz, 1966
⁶ Melissa Raphael, The Female Face of God in Auschwitz, 2003
⁷ https://www.nytimes.com/1979/09/27/archives/ben-touster-dead-at-86-a-former-hias-president.html
⁸ Ben Touster, Rosh Hashanah report on postwar HIAS activities, quoted p. 73 in Saul Touster, ed., A Survivors Haggadah, 2000
⁹ Based on the teaching of Rabbi Michael Marmur, PhD, in his address to CCAR Convention 2025, and published in Living the Letters, 2025, https://library.oapen.org/handle/20.500.12657/100747
¹⁰ Lois Goldrich, “Despair is not a strategy,” in Jewish Standard, 12 April 2017; and elsewhere
¹¹ Genesis 21
¹² Genesis 22
¹³ Parashat Chayei Sarah
¹⁴ Genesis 25:9
¹⁵ https://www.cfpeace.org/
¹⁶ https://www.cfpeace.org/personal-stories-1/iris-gur
¹⁷ https://www.cfpeace.org/personal-stories-1/sulaiman-khatib
¹⁸ “We Choose Another Way,” email from American Friends of Combatants for Peace, 9.11.25
¹⁹ https://www.92ny.org/belfer-center-for-innovation-social-impact/share-our-america
²⁰ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0juLRi90kRg
²¹ PT Berakhot 9.1.26 (translation mine)