Mourning with those who mourn
On the morning of October 7th, before hearing of Hamas’s attack on Israel, I was reading Lamentations. In my journal, I noted: “All our enemies open their mouths against us… my eyes flow with rivers of tears for the destruction of my people” (Lam. 3:46–48). When the news broke hours later, those ancient words felt suddenly alive.
I grew up in an environment deeply sympathetic toward the Jewish community. Even as a child, I sensed—without the language for it—that antisemitism was real. At twelve, a visit to the Museum of Tolerance[1] in Los Angeles left a lasting impression; the piles of worn shoes and abandoned luggage made history tangible. Later, my aunt’s involvement in a Messianic Jewish congregation brought Jewish traditions into my own life. In Los Angeles, Jewish life was visible and familiar, while Palestinians were almost entirely absent from my awareness.
The first time I saw a Palestinian flag, it felt foreign, even threatening. In 2005, my aunt’s Messianic congregation sold artwork made by Jewish settlers preparing to vacate the Gaza Strip. My first trip to Israel in 2014 revealed the region’s palpable tension. At Yad Vashem[2], I was struck by a pair of glasses a young woman had hidden in her clothing—the last possession she kept of her mother. Later, at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C., a banner quoting Elie Wiesel—“This Museum is not an answer. It is a question”—seemed to capture all the uncertainties that history continued to stir within me: my understanding of Israel—and, inseparable from it, the Palestinian experience—their history and the complexity of their place in this shared history.
Zionism emerged in the nineteenth century from both religious and secular strands of Jewish life. As Howard Sachar notes, Jewish nationalism drew on “the messianic dream…the need for establishing Jewish colonies in the Holy Land as a necessary prelude to the Redemption.”[3] Rabbis Judah Alkalai and Zvi Hirsch Kalischer envisioned a spiritual return, while the Haskalah promoted integration into European society through assimilation and the cultivation of a modern Jewish identity. The pogroms of the 1880s shattered such optimism; Moshe Lilienblum concluded that “there is no home for us in this, or any, Gentile land,”[4] urging emigration to Palestine. While Zionism arose from Jewish hopes for restoration and security, a parallel and opposing current later took shape among Palestinians. Out of displacement, occupation, and resistance emerged new movements—most notably Hamas, whose vision fused religion with militancy.
The Harakat al-Muqawama al-Islamiyya (“Islamic Resistance Movement”), known as Hamas, is a Palestinian Islamist organization with both political and militant dimensions. Its founding covenant declares that “the land of Palestine is an Islamic Waqf [endowment] consecrated for future Muslim generations until Judgment Day.”[5] The group’s ideology fuses religion with resistance, sanctifying violence as liberation.
On October 7, 2023, that ideology erupted into horror. Douglas Murray recounts in On Democracies and Death Cults footage from that morning showing young Israeli women, bloodied and terrified, being bound by Hamas militants. Their pleas for mercy were met with mockery and cruelty.[6] It was one of numerous atrocities committed that day, including the massacres at the Nova music festival and several nearby kibbutzim, where entire families—including infants—were murdered in their homes. In the days that followed, global discourse grew increasingly polarized and volatile.
Language itself became a battlefield, with emotionally charged rhetoric shaping public understanding of the conflict. One frequently invoked example is the description of Gaza as a “concentration camp.” Murray challenges this characterization, arguing that such comparisons fundamentally distort reality. In 2005, Israel withdrew all Jewish residents from Gaza; since then, the population has grown from 1.3 million to over 2 million—an impossible statistic for what some call a “concentration camp.” As he notes, “That would make it the first concentration camp in history in which the population actually grew. There was no population boom in Auschwitz in the 1940s.”[7]
The language we use to describe conflicts carries immense power. As Stephen Hicks writes, “To most postmodernists, language is primarily a weapon.”[8] This weaponization of language is evident in the careless use of charged terms like “genocide” or “apartheid,” which often influence perception more than they convey truth.
Nigel Biggar reminds us that “Adolf Hitler and his spellbinding vision of things generated a coherent Nazi project, driven by powerful motives: revenge upon France for the defeat of 1918 and the humiliating peace of 1919; the yearning to restore Germany’s dominance in Europe; hatred of Bolshevism, cosmopolitan capitalism, America, and above all, Jewry; and the concomitant desire to purge the world of these evils.”[9] Who today is propelled by historic grievance, by vengeance, by hatred of Jewry, and by the conviction that the world must be cleansed of its perceived evils? Biggar’s description of the ideological fervor behind the Nazi project bears unsettling parallels to the hatred and violence that animate Hamas—not Israel.
I must be honest—it’s hard for me to separate Palestine from Hamas. I once admitted this to a close Muslim friend, who replied, “If it wasn’t for Hamas, Palestine would not exist today.” Although I disagree with her statement, her words have stayed with me. I do not wish to dismiss the pain felt by many in the Muslim community, whose sense of loss and injustice over Palestine is both real and deeply rooted. The conflict is so layered with history and suffering that clarity often feels out of reach. Living in a country that grieves for the Palestinians, I’ve learned to share in that mourning for those killed—to grieve their loss while continuing to love Israel and all who dwell within its borders.
As a Christian leader, I want to stay anchored in truth—resisting the pull of media and rhetoric—and guided instead by prayer, humility, and empathy. I’m learning that compassion requires holding tension: seeing suffering on both sides without surrendering to despair or distortion. My hope is simply to stand between grief and grace, mourning with those who mourn and seeking peace where it seems out of reach. As the psalmist writes, “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem: ‘May those who love you be secure'” (Psalm 122:6). The peace we pray for is a blessing meant for all.
In revisiting my journal entries from October 2023, I return to a line that I noted from Augustine:
“What matters is the nature of the sufferer, not the nature of the sufferings. Stir a cesspit, and a foul stench arises; stir a perfume, and a delightful fragrance ascends. But the movement is identical.”
[1] The Museum of Tolerance was founded by the Simon Wiesenthal Center, a renowned Jewish human rights organization honoring the legacy of Simon Wiesenthal, the legendary Nazi hunter. Dedicated to justice and tolerance, the Center created the Museum to address growing Holocaust denial and foster tolerance. Rather than a traditional museum of artifacts, the Museum of Tolerance was designed as an interactive space to inspire action. It utilizes interactive media and animated walk-through exhibits to engage visitors and initiate conversations about injustice and oppression.
[2] Established in 1953 by an act of the Knesset (Israeli Parliament), Yad Vashem, the World Holocaust Remembrance Center, is entrusted with Holocaust commemoration, documentation, research and education: remembering the six million Jews murdered by the German Nazis and their collaborators; commemorating the destroyed Jewish communities, the ghetto and resistance fighters; and honoring the Righteous Among the Nations who risked their lives to rescue Jews during the Holocaust.
[3] Howard M. Sachar, A History of Israel: From the Rise of Zionism to Our Time (New York: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2007), chapter 1, Kindle edition.
[4] Sachar, A History of Israel, chap. 1, Kindle edition.
[5] Beverley Milton-Edwards and Stephen Farrell, Hamas: The Quest for Power (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2010), 46, Kindle edition.
[6] Douglas Murray, On Democracies and Death Cults: Israel and the Future of Civilization (New York: HarperCollins, 2024), 76, Kindle edition.
[7] Murray, On Democracies and Death Cults, 121-122, Kindle edition.
[8] Stephen R. C. Hicks, Explaining Postmodernism: Skepticism and Socialism from Rousseau to Foucault (Expanded Edition; Ockham’s Razor Publishing, 2011), 184.
[9] Nigel Biggar, Colonialism: A Moral Reckoning (London: HarperCollins Publishers, 2023), 34, Kindle edition.
About the Author
Elysse Burns
8 responses to “Mourning with those who mourn”
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Elysse,
Thanks for your comments. On your trips to Israel, did you hear comments from Israelis and/or Palestinians about the existence/treatment of the other?
Hi Dr. Elysse,
Your post is a powerful meditation on history, ideology, and the spiritual vocation of peacemaking. It holds grief and complexity with grace.
In a conflict shaped by sacred longing, ideological extremism, and generational trauma, how can Christian leaders remain anchored in truth and compassion, refusing rhetorical distortion while mourning with both Israelis and Palestinians, and praying for a peace that transcends politics and partisanship?
Elysse, This is a lovely blog. I love the idea of standing “between grief and grace.” What is a way you are able to do this in dialogue with our friends who are misinformed and biased on this subject?
Hi Elysse, thanks for your post. I too have struggled to separate Palestine (at least in Gaza) from Hamas.
Have this week’s readings changed any of your perspectives on the situation?
Dr. Burns (I love this! I’m using it too),
I truly appreciate the wrestling and the honesty and the turning to ancient wisdom that you display in this post.
You write, “holding tension: seeing suffering on both sides without surrendering to despair or distortion. My hope is simply to stand between grief and grace, mourning with those who mourn and seeking peace where it seems out of reach.”
Isn’t that the difficulty that we face every day, in small conflicts and large? “Holding the tension” and “standing between” is like standing on a knife-edge! Lean a little too far in one direction or the other and you’ll fall off… and it will hurt!
Do you have any further thoughts on how to hold that tension, to stand in between? It’s OK if you don’t. Just wondering.
Hi Elysse, it puzzles me why much of the world will tolerate Jews but not really lament their sorrows. The readings this week make me want to assign blame and mourn for the Godlessness that spurs violence. My comments are more reflections than a question.
Elysse,
What a great post! This was perhaps the heaviest one of all for many of us, not only to write but to read others’ experiences, process and contemplate lessons from them. Your mention that “it’s hard for me to separate Palestine from Hamas. I once admitted this to a close Muslim friend, who replied, “If it wasn’t for Hamas, Palestine would not exist today.”” has given me pause.
During the big march in Cape Town, I saw a handful of people with t-shirt slogans that stated, “We are all Hamas.” The statement was familiar – something I have seen often in my work with Central and North American indigenous communities, often reading, “Somos Indios,” meaning we are all Indians. The sentiment was one of solidarity with those who have less power who struggle against the greater influence.
In your ministry context today, where power over others (over women, over lesser tribes, perhaps), what lessons could you extrapolate to share back with us in the states as we also struggle with power and abuse?
Elysse, I love this and can feel the authenticity throughout your post. I love how you are holding space and at the same time holding people accountable. Do you find that this position risks unfair criticism, although I think it is the nail on the head?