צָעֲקוּ וַיהֹוָה שָׁמֵעַ … קָרוֹב יְהֹוָה לְנִשְׁבְּרֵי־לֵב
“They [the children of Israel] cry and God listens…God is close to the broken-hearted” (Psalm 34:18-19).
Last Tuesday, I read former Israeli hostage Amit Soussana’s testimony about the horrific sexual assault she endured at gunpoint by Hamas terrorists during her captivity in the tunnels under Gaza. And I cried. I cried and cried until my eyes were red and weary. I called my best friend. I texted my brother. I hugged my husband and my babies. And still, for the rest of that day, I cried. Nothing could comfort me except the thought of Amit reunited with her family and the hope, the feeling, the trust that God is by my side—maybe even cries with me—when I weep.
Tears stream through our sacred texts. Hagar cries in anguish when she is separated from Abraham (Genesis 21). Abraham wails for Sarah at her grave (Genesis 23). We cried together at the rivers of Babylon when we remembered Zion (Psalm 137). We even read about the city of Jerusalem weeping bitterly for our suffering (Lamentations 1). And Joseph, whose story takes up more biblical verses than any of the previous patriarchs and matriarchs, cries often: he sheds tears for his own pain, for the secrets and lies that eat away at his brothers, for the grief his father endures.
We cannot get through our shared story without crying, without releasing our sadness. And just like in the story of Noah and the flood, when the water stops, we can perhaps experience moments of hope, calm, and peace. Our tears are precious and help us ease our heaviest pains. May our darkest days be washed away by our unshakeable hope for a better next chapter for our People, for all the peoples of God’s earth. May we see all our hostages safely returned to us, a most sacred day when—God willing—we can weep in joy.
— Cantor Emma Lutz