In the Torah portion we read this weekend, Moses wanted to give a simplified, overarching perspective on the many commandments he had transmitted to our people.

“See, I set before you today a blessing and a curse,” it began. His message was simple: our task is to do the right thing, and walk in the ways of God. If we do, we will be blessed.

It is not always so easy. Today we are stricken with grief as we learned of the murders of six of the hostages in Gaza. The Israeli army recovered their bodies, and Israel will be overrun with sorrow in the next days as their families bury their dead, young people who we have spent the last eleven months praying would come home alive.

It is difficult to be hopeful today. Grief, shock, and anger, these are the emotions that rise to the surface, not hope. A part of us wants to lash out, not cling to each other in mourning and cry quietly.

At moments like this, we find ourselves looking to the stars, and asking simply: “Why?” But the stars refuse to answer. They continue wheeling through the sky, oblivious to our pain and our searching questions.

I believe a more relevant question today is “What?” What am I going to do with this pain, this searing in my heart, the knowledge that terrible people will continue to do terrible things as long as humans persist on this earth?

I am just one person. Tiny and insignificant. But the Torah brushes that aside and tells me that I too am responsible for others’ welfare, I too have a part to play on the vast stage of cosmic reality.

On Tuesday the new moon of the month called Elul will rise. Our sages taught that the month’s name is an acronym for the beautiful Hebrew phrase from the Song of Songs, Ani le’dodi ve’dodi li, “I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.” Elul is a month of preparation for Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur, which come just four weeks later.

Rabbi Daniel Nevins wrote of the month,  “By walking in God’s ways and attending to our faith, we can feel God’s love and cling to our Creator.”  

On days like today I tend to think that this is inadequate. But he went on to say, “You and I may never be world champions in any sport or other celebrated skill. But we each have a soul that was designed for challenges and that is waiting for attention. Let’s use this month to practice—to walk after God, to feel reverence, to guard the mitzvot, to listen for the Voice, to serve, and to cling. With God’s help, our practice will lead to great joy and love.”

Better. But still not good enough. I need more than great joy and love. I need justice, a cessation to war, the return of the remaining hostages. I need Hamas to crawl out of the tunnels where they are hiding. I need to cry hot angry tears and then pick myself up and begin again to do the impossible work of making the world a better place.

And I need to remember the smiling faces of the six who, I was told, were summarily executed just days ago. I’ve seen their photos but never met them. I never met any of the 250 who were kidnapped or the thousands who were murdered on October 7. But I am a member of their community, a sister to every Jew who ever lived, who ever will live.

Scientists and folk singers have told us that our bodies are made of stardust. Stars have been exploding since the Big Bang, and the dust has spent billions of years scattering throughout the universe. Each of us was formed from that dust.

If this is true, then we are all siblings, all children of the stars. Christian and Jew, Gazan and Israeli. 

The stars continue to move through the night sky, oblivious to us. But we are their kin, and we too can shine in the darkness, if we so choose.

I choose life. I choose light. I choose to remember those who died, and honor their lives.

Their physical essence will continue to exist just as it has for millions of years, and their spiritual essence will continue to inspire us to shine as brightly as we can. May their memory ever be for a blessing.