A Hope and A Prayer

I actually sat down and wrote a different post for this week, but my spirit told me I had not written the right words. I had scribbled something about bad faith and civil discourse and the like. It felt out of place. I am sitting here in New Orleans, watching Donald Trump’s speech at the Israeli Knesset and listening to the celebration over the release of the hostages and the cease-fire in Gaza. I watched as an Israeli family who lost their son talked about the moment, and I saw the grief in their eyes—a longing, perhaps, to hold their eldest son one more time. To see his smile. To hear his voice.

But what struck me, and it weighs on my heart, is that during it all there was no mention of what has happened to the Palestinians in Gaza. They are invisible. No matter what you think of Hamas and what they did on October 7th, the fact remains that thousands of innocents are dead. Babies with distinctive cries. Children who once smiled and laughed. Teenagers who dreamed of what the future could be. Uncles and aunts buried beneath the rubble. Families disappeared. Gone. They are now ghosts that will haunt Gaza and dreams.

It is not enough that war has destroyed so much of Gaza—that ruin and rubble remain. It is not enough that people, malnourished and weighed down with grief, must now make their way back to whatever is left of home. It is true that the bombing has stopped, if just for a moment. That the cease-fire has offered a glimmer of hope, a grief-soaked hope that clings to the skin like dried blood. But that isn’t enough. The suffering has to be hidden from view, made invisible to justify the smiles and celebrations. They have to be reminded that their lives really don’t matter as much. Grieve for your dead away from our eyes and ears.

The horrors of war cannot be denied even when it ends. But dehumanization — the idea that some lives matter more than others; that some babies are more cherished than others — lives on and corrupts the soul of those who dare to believe such a thing. And it sets the stage for ongoing misery.

We don’t know what lies ahead in Gaza. We do not know if the next steps in the peace plan will hold. The future is uncertain. But what we do know is that some families are rejoicing in the return of their loved ones. Others are wrapped in grief. Many thousands are gone. And those babies and loved ones deserve more than a passing remark. They deserve to be remembered, too.

One day, and more than likely I would have already taken my last breath, men and women will not find comfort in the idea that certain lives matter more than others. One day, perhaps, we will see the beauty and power in every human being. We will leave the evil of ethnic and racial and religious superiority behind and reach for the beloved community. One day…. That is my hope and prayer.