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
18 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?
Dr. Styer,
Much of my experience in Israel was led by a Messianic Jewish tour guide. Looking back, many of his comments about Palestinians were quite derogatory. I still remember him saying, “Why can’t Arabs pronounce the letter ‘P’? Because they can’t say peace.” (The Arabic alphabet doesn’t include the letter “P.”) He also refused to take our group to Bethlehem, dismissing it as “not a nice place” because it was predominantly Arab.
At the time, I remember feeling uncomfortable, but as an inexperienced traveler, I didn’t know how to respond and simply went along with it. In hindsight, those comments reveal a lot about his attitude toward Palestinians and perhaps reflect a broader sentiment held by some within that community.
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?
Dr. Sullivan,
There’s a verse I read recently that’s given me a lot of perspective on the polarized world we’re living in. In Ezekiel 18:23, God says, “Do I take any pleasure in the death of the wicked? declares the Sovereign LORD. Rather, am I not pleased when they turn from their ways and live?” It’s such a powerful reminder that God’s heart is for life, not destruction.
I also think of Joshua’s encounter with the man holding a drawn sword. When Joshua asked, “Are you for us or for our enemies?” the man replied, “Neither, but as commander of the army of the Lord I have now come.” Joshua immediately fell facedown in reverence and asked, “What message does my Lord have for his servant?”
There’s so much unseen in moments like these. It reminds me that our calling isn’t to pick sides, but to stay grounded in God’s heart—bringing life, not death, to every situation we face.
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?
Dr. Kinard,
You ask a fantastic question—one that’s not always easy for me to live out. This has been a season to listen more and to ask questions that reach the heart of the person, not just their words. I’ve been surprised to find that behind the surface of parroted religious talk are often lonely, burned-out people who aren’t sure what they truly believe anymore.
There are moments when I feel deep grief for them because of how far they seem from truth and healing. Yet even then, I sense grace rising within me through the words of Jesus: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). Those words remind me to stay tender.
However, I sense this season of listening is shifting. With some friends, I feel called to ask harder questions—ones that may unsettle but also invite growth. It’s a tension I’m learning to hold with both conviction and compassion.
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. Christy,
I can’t say this subject has dramatically changed my perspective, as it’s something I’ve been studying and reflecting on for quite some time. Still, I appreciated this week’s reading because it reminded me of the calculated evil of Hamas. The atrocities committed on October 7th were not simply acts of war—they were acts of hatred, intended to destroy life and sow terror. There is a force behind such evil that seeks the extinction of a people and is even willing to sacrifice its own to achieve that goal.
At the same time, my heart grieves deeply for the Palestinian people who continue to endure immense suffering and devastation as a result of this conflict. So many innocent lives have been caught in the crossfire of an ideology that thrives on destruction. Life will never emerge from this kind of darkness. True peace can only be born from a reverence for life.
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.
Dr. Owen,
You ask a fantastic question: “Do you have any further thoughts on how to hold that tension—to stand in between?” Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how much pressure we place on ourselves to be the solution or to somehow make things work. When it comes to the Israel–Palestine conflict, it’s clear that the situation is far beyond our ability to fix.
Recently, I’ve seen well-intentioned people rush to act in ways that appear helpful and even God-honoring on the surface, yet I can’t help but sense that some of these efforts may cause harm in the long term. Because we are naturally inclined to lean toward one side or another, I believe we must intentionally pause and give that “in-between” space back to God.
I was deeply moved by the example of Desmond Tutu in South Africa—how often he would withdraw into solitude to pray and seek God’s wisdom before stepping back into the public arena. I believe that same posture is what it means to truly stand in the tension: not rushing to fix or defend, but creating sacred space for God to work where human striving falls short.
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.
Dr. Tuttle,
I really appreciate your reflections and can relate to a lot of what you’re processing. These aren’t easy things to navigate, but I value the thoughtful way you’re engaging with them. It’s encouraging to hear your perspective and to know I’m not the only one working through some of these same tensions.
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?
Dr. Eckert,
You ask a great question—one I often feel hardly equipped to answer. But I don’t think what I’ll say will be new to you, because you already live this way.
To my friends in the U.S., I would encourage them to step beyond the noise of public opinion and enter real conversations—to sit with people face-to-face, listen to their experiences, and ask questions with a genuine desire to understand. Step into the lives of those directly affected by government policy and hear their stories firsthand. Headlines and sound bites will never capture the whole truth.
Sometimes the spaces where we learn and grow most are the ones that feel uncomfortable, messy, or even a little scary. I think if more people in the U.S. took the time to do this, there would be stronger, more authentic voices speaking into what’s happening. Sadly, many prefer to let the government act on their behalf so they don’t have to engage personally—and that’s often where the abuse of power begins.
I’m not sure if that fully answers your question, but those are some of the thoughts I’ve been processing lately.
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?
Dr. Jaime,
You ask a really good question. I imagine that holding space while also holding people accountable could easily be misunderstood or even criticized. I think it was in Murray’s On Democracies and Death Cults that he noted how, when events like the Israel–Hamas war occur, suddenly everyone becomes an expert on what should be done.
I’m certainly not an expert, but I do know this—what’s happening right now is not bringing life. That’s where I wish more people would pause and think a little deeper, instead of quickly aligning themselves with one side. I’d love to see people begin asking, “What can bring humanity into this situation?” Because what we’re witnessing isn’t doing that. Yet, I also recognize that many don’t want to do that kind of hard, heart-level work.
Hello, Elysse, thank you for your sharing. One of the important lessons that I learn from you posting is the ‘weaponization of language’ which we have seen as fuel to these conflicts. I used to differentiate, but when having clearer perspective, I could see the difference. Thank you for sharing the lessons for Christian leaders.
Dr. Liemam,
Thank you for your kind words—I really appreciate them.