“God has forsaken me!”
It’s not from a headline in The Times of Israel. It’s not the words of a family member of the hostages at the weekly vigil in Hostage Square, Tel Aviv. It’s the opening line of this week’s haftarah from the book of Isaiah, written some 2,500 years ago.
The context is one of loss, dislocation, and exile. Our ancient ancestors were still reeling from the destruction of the First Temple, along with the bloodshed and terror that came with it. Composed sometime after that catastrophe, Isaiah’s words fit our moment with disturbing precision.
It’s a heartbreaking cry—one that feels urgently, even tragically, relevant right now:
Our Israeli brothers and sisters today are traumatized by a terrible war—679 days and counting. Hostages languish in captivity as the clock ticks relentlessly, time running out for them. The humanitarian needs in Gaza remain urgent and heartbreaking. The sense of our being abandoned—by the world, and perhaps by heaven itself—feels overwhelming.
I find inspiration in Isaiah’s ancient words. He refuses to dwell in despair. Instead, he imagines God responding to our pain with extraordinary tenderness:
“Can a mother forget her child? Even if she could, I will not forget you.” (Isaiah 49:15–16)
Even in our most desperate hour, the prophet affirms that we are remembered, held, and cherished.
Then Isaiah gives us guidance for navigating such moments: “Look to the rock from which you were hewn.” (Isaiah 51:1)
Remember your roots, your story, and the resilience that has carried our people through every challenge and every storm. There will be suffering. There will be loss. But we will persevere. In time, the ruins will be rebuilt, deserts will bloom, and joy will return to our streets.
That promise is not only for the Zion of the past or even for our beloved Israel today—it is for us here in the United States and throughout the Diaspora as well. In this moment of rising antisemitism, in this season when we, too, may feel abandoned and alone, Isaiah reminds us: we are strong, we are resilient, we are hewn from ancient stone.
We have true allies, true friends. We have one another—our beautiful, supportive community. And we have our glorious tradition, filled with meaning, beauty, and wonder.
In the final verses of this week’s haftarah, Isaiah shares a hopeful vision: God comforting Zion, comforting her ruins—turning destruction into what the prophet calls “Gan Adonai,” the garden of the Eternal.
A garden doesn’t flourish on its own. It needs tending. It needs water, care, and patience. It needs people — us — willing to nurture it so that, in time, it can bring forth beautiful flowers and delicious produce.
I hold on to that vision. I am comforted by it. And I am inspired to do my part—alongside all of you—to tend God’s garden so that it can bring beauty and bounty to us all.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Yoshi