The Power of Hope: A Cornerstone of the Jewish Experience

There’s one part of my previously emailed d’var torah that I kind of want to take back. In it, I shared the truism that “hope is not a strategy” (juxtaposing it to the notion that “neither is despair”).

It is true that hope is not a strategy: if you want to achieve something, you don’t just “hope” it happens; you will it into existence. You reflect, you consider, you plan, you work, you work, and you work some more. So it is definitely true that “hope,” on its own, rarely, if ever, gets you where you need to go.

But the phrase “hope is not a strategy” undersells the extent to which hope, if not a sufficient ingredient on its own for bringing about the world we want to see, is certainly a necessary one.

One could argue that there is no value more fundamental to the Jewish experience than hope. The name of the national anthem of the State of Israel is simply, Hatikvah — The Hope. “As long as, within our hearts, the Jewish soul sings,” its lyrics proclaim “our hope is not yet lost.” The lyrics, pining for a return to eretz yisrael, the land of Israel, were composed by Naftali Herz Imber in Poland in 1878, long before the possibility of the formation of the State of Israel showed any signs of becoming a reality.

Hope as central to the Jewish experience long precedes modernity. The experience of the redemption from Egypt is not remembered exclusively on Passover, a once-per-year recollection. It is central to the traditional, morning and evening prayer service every single day. We conclude the shema, the central prayer we are called upon to express morning and evening, whose name means “Listen,” with the words from the Book of Numbers, “אֲנִ֞י יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹֽהֵיכֶ֗ם אֲשֶׁ֨ר הוֹצֵ֤אתִי אֶתְכֶם֙ מֵאֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרַ֔יִם” “I יהוה am your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt.” 

The concluding note we are told to listen to is the reminder that we made it out of Egypt, that deepest, darkest of places. We follow up this declaration with a blessing centered around the experience of redemption. We echo the words our ancestors sung as they crossed the sea to freedom, this time from Exodus 15, the Song of the Sea, “מִֽי־כָמֹ֤כָה בָּֽאֵלִם֙ יְהֹוָ֔ה מִ֥י כָּמֹ֖כָה נֶאְדָּ֣ר בַּקֹּ֑דֶשׁ נוֹרָ֥א תְהִלֹּ֖ת עֹ֥שֵׂה פֶֽלֶא׃, “Who is like You, יהוה, among the celestials; Who is like You, majestic in holiness, Awesome in splendor, working wonders!”

Here, too, we are internalizing the lived experience of being freed from captivity—a seemingly hopeless place turning out to be one that was, in essence, the birthplace of our re-establishment as a people.

All of this is to say that there may be times when all seems lost; Jewish tradition has the muscle memory to say, “we can get through this.”

I see two crises confronting the Jewish people in this moment: One, a widespread souring on Zionism — an instinctive, often unconscious suspicion of the Jewish people, particularly Jewish people when they wield some collective power, that has been passed down through the generations, taking on different permutations in different moments. To be clear, this concern is not meant to sweep within it legitimate debate and disagreement surrounding the State of Israel’s policies. All nation-states, which are made up of human, fallible actors, are worthy of scrutiny and criticism, debate being a necessary part of how we steer towards common goodness. No, the crisis I’m identifying is the widespread souring on the narrative that the Jewish people hold dear — a deep connection to the land of Israel, the place we were exiled from, and to which we long longed to return; a place which has served for three-quarters of a century now as the internationally-recognized home of millions of people who have since been born there, the only home they’ve ever known. This land has not been without other inhabitants; Palestinian connections to the land also go back generations, and so we’ll continue to struggle for a resolution that holds space for two peoples. But the first crisis I’m identifying is one where large swaths of the population turn on the Jewish people as carriers of a narrative that they disregard.

The second crisis I would identify, as I did last week, is the threat of the rise of autocracy in our country and abroad. As I wrote, I pray that both major political parties in the United States nominate the candidates best positioned to stem the tide towards autocracy; towards consolidation of power in the arms of one office; towards the scapegoating of immigrants — whose journeys are not unlike Jewish journeys to this country — and other marginalized communities; towards a neglect of the responsibilities we have to cherish and protect this earth; towards a derogation of our electoral processes, the results they produce, and the peaceful transition of power.

Hope does not mean these crises will resolve themselves. My teacher, Rabbi Sharon Kleinbaum (the namesake of the internship that brought me here back in 2014), is fond of offering the following “reassuring” message: “Don’t worry. It’s going to get worse.” What I understand her to mean by that juxtaposition is (1) not to be in denial about the trajectory of the path we may be on. 

I haven’t foreclosed for myself the possibility that these crises won’t resolve themselves sooner rather than later; or, to say it without the double-negative: it’s possible these crises may resolve before they reach a crescendo. And they may not. The “don’t worry; it’s going to get worse” gallows humor is actually a profound teaching about preserving a sense of hope and resiliency in any event. Whether things get better or worse, our nurturance of our hopeful spirit will be an important part of the response, even if there is something of a roller coaster along the journey, and even while we channel that hope into action.

The Jewish experience has the muscle memory to respond to crisis with hope and perseverance. In a few weeks, on August 12 at 8:00 pm, we’ll commemorate Tisha B’Av; the Ninth of the Jewish month of Av, the date on which it is understood that both Temples in Jerusalem were destroyed, the first in 586 BCE, the second in 70 CE; along with a series of other Jewish tragedies: the expulsion of the Jews of England in 1290, Spain in 1492, and more. Tisha B’av serves as both a moment to grieve — we have to hold space for our sadness in response to the horrors of the world or else that sadness exudes from us in less healthy, conscious ways — and, once expressing that grief, as a space from which to build. Out of the ashes of the destruction of the Temple came Rabbinic Judaism; in response to the Spanish Inquisition, Lurianic Kabbalah; in response to modern antisemitism, the State of Israel. Creativity, resilience, tenacity borne out of that central ingredient we’ve been nurturing throughout our journey: hope.