This past week, the lyrics of the classic Israeli song “HaKotel” (“The Western Wall,” written by Yossi Gamzu and Dubi Zeltzer and made popular by singer Ofra Haza) have echoed in my mind: “Yesh anashim im lev shel even, yesh avanim im lev adam, There are people with hearts of stone, and there are stones with a human heart.”
These words have lingered with me as we move through days that feel both fragile and profound. The ceasefires between Israel and Iran, and between Israel and Hezbollah in Lebanon, remain deeply fragile. Each report of a rocket or missile reminds us how quickly calm can give way to escalation, how urgently peace must be protected and sustained.
The reverberations are not distant. They reach us here in North America, shaping how we gather, how we pray, how we care for one another. Just days ago, Reform Congregation Beth Israel in Houston, Texas, and its school community faced threats that forced early closure. Fear entered a sacred space, a place meant for learning, for prayer, for belonging. Yet what followed was not silence or withdrawal. It was community. It was vigilance joined with resilience. It was a reminder that even when confronted with acts that attempt to harden hearts, we are called to respond differently. We are called to be among those who refuse hearts of stone, choosing instead to live with hearts open to life, connection, and responsibility for one another.
And this week as well, we marked Yom HaZikaron, Israel Memorial Day, for fallen soldiers and victims of terror in Israel and Yom Ha’atzma’ut, Israel Independence Day. These sacred days ask something powerful of us. We move from remembrance to celebration, from grief to gratitude, from honoring loss to affirming life. The transition is not simple. It is not meant to be. It reflects the fullness of our story as a people.
“Am Yisrael Chai – The Jewish People Lives!” is not only a declaration of survival. It is a commitment to purpose. It reminds us that even in moments of tension or uncertainty, our task is to hold fast to what binds us together: memory, responsibility, and hope.
In these days, I return to a moment of learning that has stayed with me. Years ago, I stood on Mount Herzl, Israel’s national cemetery, a place that carries the weight and the wonder of the Jewish story. Guided by Professor David Mendelsson, we were invited to see the site not only as a place of burial, but as a living testament to the values of a people still becoming.
We stood at the resting places of Theodor Herzl, Yitzhak Rabin, Shimon Peres, and Hannah Senesh, alongside countless young soldiers whose lives were cut short in defense of the State of Israel. Each name, each stone, tells a story of courage, sacrifice, and enduring vision.
As we walked, we saw how the diversity of the Jewish people is etched into that sacred ground. Communities from Morocco, the former Soviet Union, Ethiopia, and beyond have all shaped the unfolding narrative of Israel. Their voices, traditions, and dreams are woven into the fabric of the nation.
While we stood there, the rain began to fall. It came softly at first, then steadily, until we were soaked through. It felt as though the heavens themselves were joining in remembrance. We paused together and recited memorial prayers and Kaddish:
“Remember the fallen of the State of Israel, our brothers and sisters, the victims of terror. May the darkness of their loss not obscure the light of peace. …Yitbarach v’yistabach v’yitpa’er…”
In that moment, physical discomfort faded into the background. What remained was clarity. Memory is not passive. “Never again” is not only a statement of the past; it is a call that shapes how we live now.
To pray for peace is to commit ourselves to its possibility. To speak of hope is to act in ways that make hope real. To honor those who have fallen is to build a future worthy of their sacrifice.
The stones of Mount Herzl speak. They speak of lives lived with purpose. They speak of a people bound together not only by history, but by shared responsibility. They remind us that even in times of uncertainty, the human heart can remain open, resilient, and directed toward goodness.
The vision of Israel, and of Jerusalem as its spiritual heart, was expressed long ago in the words of the Psalmist:
“Pray for the well-being of Jerusalem;
May those who love you be at peace.
May there be well-being within your walls,
Peace within your citadels.
For the sake of my kin and friends, I pray for your well-being;
For the sake of the house of Adonai our God, I seek your good.”
(Psalm 122:6–9)
Jerusalem is more than a place. It is a vision of wholeness, a call to pursue peace with courage and with faith.
May we have the strength to listen to the stones. May we allow their stories to guide us toward compassion, toward unity, toward a future shaped by dignity and hope. May our hearts remain open as we continue the sacred work of building a world worthy of those we remember and those who will come after us.
Shabbat Shalom!