As this summer drew to a close and my eldest was packing for his first year at college my husband and I hid some slips of paper into his bags. Each had an inspirational quotation from a favorite sports hero or a favorite Talmudic rabbi.  (Basically Rocky, RBG, and Rabbi Nachman.) That way, in the dorm, as our son unpacks his duffle bag, excavates his bins, and—we pray—opens his box of laundry detergent, he will find these gems of wisdom. These quotations waiting to be discovered, while ostensibly for him, are really–who are we kidding – for us. Each note is a way to show love, to express faith in him, to share guidance when we are away from him, and to remind us that in fact, we need to stay away from him, for the sake of his own growth. And I believe they are, for us, an acknowledgement that we cannot know whether he will thrive. In our reality of worry, the notes serve as a sign of possibility; in our reality of uncertainty; they are a practice of hope.

We Jews know well the reality of uncertainty and the practice of hope. Now, hope does not mean the absence of worry, nor does it sweep the possibility of misfortune, under the rug. If wishing, is wanting without doing something about it; if pessimism, is the belief things won’t work out, so why try anyway; and if optimism, is the belief that things will work out, so no need to try; or, as the joke goes, the Jewish version of optimism is, it can always be worse…then what exactly, is hope?

I think Yom Kippur is Jewish hope. Hope is approaching God, and each other, and our own inner selves, in all of our imperfection, to say: For all these failures, forgive us, pardon us, lead us to atonement/V’al kulam. Hope is walking the path of repentance/teshuvah, believing people can change, not giving up on ourselves, taking responsibility for who we are, and who we ought to become.

Hope is neither an emotion, nor is it a mood. So many people I know feel despondence, about the hostages return, terrorism, wars, catastrophic weather, climate change, about Israel’s safety, about diplomacy for Israel and Palestinians to each have their own home, about polarization and Jewish safety in our own country, about family rifts from it all, and about the personal struggles we face in our own lives.  I know so many people who are not feeling hopeful. To expect a feeling of hopefulness, might sometimes be unreasonable.  That’s why it cannot be based on a feeling.

Hope is a disposition. Hope is the capacity to look at the seemingly impossible, and see the possible. The very name of our Israeli national anthem Hatikvah, means the hope. Embedded in that Hebrew word tikvah, teaches Rabbi Shai Held, is its root, kav, meaning, cord.  Hope is the cord, connecting our present reality to a future possibility; the lifeline pulling us out of those darker moments. Even if it’s slim, as in, hanging by a thread, the cord endures.

 

In her book, Hope in the Dark, Rebecca Solnit writes: “Hope locates itself in the premise that we don’t know what will happen and that, in the spaciousness of uncertainty, is room to act. When you recognize uncertainty, you recognize that you may be able to influence the outcomes – you alone, or you in concert with a few dozen, or several million others. It’s the belief that what we do matters, even though, how and when it may matter, we cannot know beforehand.”

Try Googling stories of hope and you’ll find most are stories about challenging circumstances, with a happy ending. Inspiring stories of resilience: the couple struggling with infertility who finally carries the pregnancy, the young person securing a scholarship who then graduates from college, the person on the dating apps who meets their beloved. But once things have worked out, it is no longer a story of hope– that’s gratitude.  Hope is choosing to expect, it can work out.

Those stories not yet resolved are unsettling, even scary or worrisome: the teenager who amid antisemitism wears the Star of David to school; the young adult who torn by family conflict seeks to approach a conversation for repair; the person struggling with mental illness, who perseveres through medications & therapy, wellness and unwellness; the one who is in addiction recovery, and does not take any day of sobriety for granted;  the one caring for a loved one with dementia and striving to know they are making a difference in the life of their loved one; anyone who pushing though fears takes steps to move their lives forward; anyone who, facing the darkness of our existence, determines that efforts to mend God’s creation are worthwhile; all of us who even in the discomfort of teshuvah, shine a light into our souls, to return to the right path. The unresolved stories, those people who believe no matter how things turn out, it’s worth working on—those people who fall, and then get back up, who tire and rest, and then get back in, those are the stories of hope.

When it comes to choosing hope in our broken world I think there’s a quality of, “in spite of.”  I recently attended a workshop by a community leader Maxine Rich, titled: Hope Anyway. Maxine Rich insists: e”specially when we are struggling, hope is our best way out of powerlessness and toward the belief that we can create change for better.”

Holding up a mirror to our society and to our own selves, she teaches: When there is an absence of hope it’s self-fulfilling– it fuels despair, inaction, complacency; the absence of hope lets us off the hook and keeps us stuck in the status quo. From global concerns to our most personal issues, hope means something better is possible, so it’s worth working on, even if things seem bleak – hope anyway.

Meanwhile, doesn’t Hope Anyway sound like a bit like a title for the entirety of Jewish history? For, in times of narrowness and seeming impossibility, ours is a narrative, of seeking expansiveness, possibility. Egypt/mitzrayim, our place of enslavement, even means narrow straits; the Exodus is a journey of spaciousness.

Imagine what it’s like for the Israelites, in the moments just before they cross the Sea of Reeds. A time of profound worry, terrifying uncertainty–we can relate.  Get into the mindset of those Israelites. In the story, God is about to say, Do not act on your fear/Al Tira-u. Flooded with anxiety, how do you imagine Moses and the people are even able to let those words in? How do they persevere, to take another step? When God says Al Tira-u: Do not cower/Do not let fear decide your future, how are Moses and the people even able to hear God’s message?

They must already have within them, a capacity for hope! After all, when the Israelites reach the other side of the Sea of Reeds, Miriam leads the people, in song and dance – with her timbrels!  It makes you stop to think—where did those musical instruments come from?  Did Miriam pack them?  Could she have had so much hope, that while still back in Egypt, fleeing enslavement, packing up a few belongings so quickly they did not even have time for the bread to rise–is it possible, in that anxious moment of departure, she had so much hope for redemption, that she packed musical instruments, so she would be prepared to celebrate liberation?  Miriam chooses to expect survival, to plan for the celebration on the other side, before the dry land of liberation is even in her sights!

When God encourages Miriam and those Israelites to move forward they have enough hope in the first place, to even be open to receiving God’s encouragement.  Somehow, even as slaves, the Israelites cultivate hope, prepare for possibility. Somehow, even in our darker times, even when we have trouble mustering hopefulness, we too can cultivate hope, prepare for possibility.

Today, we cultivate hope, in the very rituals of Jewish living.  Jewish wisdom offers spiritual practices that fill our well and help make hope available, so that we too, may be open to encouragement in the first place. How?

We retell our people’s story of the Exodus–a scene that is recalled each year at the Pesach seder, every Shabbat in the words of kiddush, and every day in the Mi Chamocha prayer.  And make no mistake, reaching the dry land of liberation, although worthy of gratitude, is not the story of hope. The story of hope is in those moments before liberation, when the outcome is unknown and the journey uncertain. It is the story of the Israelites, standing there on the shore in the first place, finding within themselves the spaciousness for possibility, the power to take a step.  And retelling that story helps us build our capacity for hope, so that together, we too can bring it from within.

So we train in hope-strengthening; hope is a Jewish orientation, a Jewish value, a Jewish choice, a Jewish practice. That training readies us, for this season of teshuvah. For today it is we who stand on the precipice of the shore, determining whether we have within us, enough of a foundation of hope that we can receive God’s encouragement to reflect, to repent, to forgive, to move forward, to take responsibility for who we are, and who we ought to become. We imagine all that is possible.  And we begin anew.  We worry through the uncertainty and we choose to prepare for the possibility. Even in a broken world, even in our broken lives, we never give up hope.

Now, what about those days, when it’s still hard to tap into the hope?  When that well seems dry?  A Midrash from our tradition, reminds us of a scene that follows the Exodus, a later stop on the journey.  When the Israelites are at the foot of Mt Sinai to receive Torah, Moses brings down the first set of the commandments that God reveals, and Moses finds the Israelites dancing around a golden calf they had created. Furious that the people had turned to idolatry, Moses shatters the tablets. A low-point for the people and for Moses, arguably a low-point for God. Still, despite the temptation, God does not give up on us; God decides to rebuild the covenant with us–to take what is broken and make it whole. God and Moses create a second set of tablets, to reveal to the Israelites. And according to the Midrash, on what day does God present this new set of tablets? On Yom Kippur! The very day every year, on which Jews will need to remember: people can change, God does not give up on us.

With the unknown ahead, with no guarantee that we will thrive, in a reality of worry, God exemplifies possibility; in a reality of uncertainty, God practices hope.

Amid narrowness, we seek spaciousness. Amid cynicism, we orient towards hope–that Tikvah—that cord–that connects present reality, to future possibility.

Today, as we stand on the shores before the dry land of redemption is even in our sights, may we discover within us enough of a foundation of hope that we can receive God’s encouragement to reflect, to repair, to forgive, to grow, to move forward, to take responsibility for who we are, and who we ought to become. With Yom Kippur before us, may we imagine all that is possible.