After a day glued to the TV, watching the release of three hostages into the arms of their mothers, I sat with my three teenage children, holding each of them individually and reminding myself how unbelievably lucky I am.
Those moments of reunion, the tears, the relief, the uncontainable joy – it felt like witnessing a modern-day redemption, a glimpse of the divine in human action. Yet, as I sat there, filled with gratitude, the weight of uncertainty about what comes next also pressed heavily on my mind.
Jewish tradition constantly pushes us away from rigid absolutes and toward the messy, holy work of grappling with nuance. It does not fear complexity; it embraces it.
Our Torah begins with God creating order out of chaos, separating light from darkness, land from sea. But even as God declares the world “good,” the text leaves room for complexity. Darkness is not banished; chaos is not eradicated.
Rabbi Charley Baginsky
The release of hostages is a moment of unspeakable joy. To see mothers embrace their children, to witness families reunited – it is a reminder of the infinite value of every human life. The rabbis teach: “Kol hamatzil nefesh achat k’ilu hitzil olam maleh – whoever saves one life, it is as though they have saved an entire world.”
And yet, as Jews, we know to temper our joy with responsibility. Many hostages remain in captivity. We cannot celebrate fully while some families are still waiting, while other parents’ arms remain empty. The work of redemption is unfinished.
In Gaza, aid is finally beginning to reach a population devastated by suffering. But even as we rejoice in this humanitarian relief, we are confronted with the evil of Hamas. Their violence, terror, and destruction have inflicted unbearable pain, not only on Israelis but on the very people they claim to lead.
Who will guide Gaza’s people toward a future of dignity, hope, and freedom? Who will emerge to lead the Palestinians toward peace, rather than more suffering? And how do we, as Jews, as humans, balance the need for justice with the relentless pursuit of peace?
After all, our Judaism demands that we care for the stranger, the widow, and the orphan, not only among our own people but among others.
Sitting with my children, I couldn’t help but think of our foundational Jewish stories. The Exodus, where freedom comes only after unimaginable suffering. The binding of Isaac, where joy and terror coexist on the same mountain. The prophet Zechariah’s words ring loudly: “Not by might, nor by power, but by My spirit, says the Eternal God.”
Peace will not come from domination or violence. It will come from recognising the divine image in every human being, even those we struggle to see as our equals. Our sages teach that true strength lies not in defeating others but in mastering ourselves.
This ceasefire is a moment of hope, but it is also terrifying in its fragility. How do we ensure that this ceasefire becomes a step toward real peace, rather than just a pause in violence?
The Talmud teaches: “Lo alecha hamlacha ligmor, v’lo atah ben chorin l’hibatel mimena – it is not your responsibility to complete the work, but neither are you free to desist from it.”
This day reminds us of the best and worst of humanity: the power of redemption, the evil of terror, and the fragility of hope. May we be worthy of this moment. May we strive for a peace that is not merely the absence of war but the presence of justice. And may we hold onto the belief that even in the darkest times, light is waiting to emerge.
As I held my children close, I prayed for every parent who still waits to hold their own child again. I prayed for the courage to see the humanity in the other, even when it feels impossible. And I prayed for the wisdom to navigate this moment with the nuance our tradition demands.
Rabbi Charley Baginsky is co-lead of Progressive Judaism
