Twenty-four years ago this week, in the days after 9/11, I stood in shul and tried to put into words what felt unspeakable. I remember describing the darkness, the paralysis, the sheer inability to process the enormity of what had happened. Evil in its purest form had broken into our lives, and we were left numb and ashamed at what humanity was capable of.
At this moment, in the aftermath of the assassination of Charlie Kirk, I feel a similar horror rising again. A young man, a voice of clarity, hope, and conviction for so many, murdered in broad daylight — a political killing in America. It is staggering. It is enraging. It exposes in the most brutal way the fractures and sickness that run through our society.
Rosh Hashanah is only days away. During this time of year, we reflect on the “Book of Life” and how uncertain our fates truly are. Those words often seem abstract, but in moments like this, they crash down with unbearable force. Life is, in fact, so fragile. We wake up in the morning, assuming we will have the evening. We go about our routines unaware of how thin the line really is between stability and chaos, between life and death.
This is not a moment for platitudes. It is a moment of despair, of outrage, of grief for a life stolen and for the world that made such a crime possible. But if there is any response worthy of the season we are in, it is to insist that despair not be the last word. Rosh Hashanah is not only about the awe of judgment — it is about the possibility of renewal. It is about the world we beg for: a world of justice, of compassion, of peace.
The assassination of Charlie Kirk is a massive tragedy in its own right. But it is also a mirror — reflecting back to us how deeply torn and broken our public life has become. It should shake us not only because a courageous leader is gone, but because it forces us to confront what we have allowed our society to become.
On Rosh Hashanah we will recite words that feel almost unbearable in their urgency: “וכל הרשעה כולה כעשן תכלה, כי תעביר ממשלת זדון מן הארץ…” “All wickedness will vanish like smoke, when You remove the rule of evil from the earth.”
These words don’t feel distant this year. They feel like a cry. A broken world, once again marked by senseless blood, by hatred that has gone too far. They remind us how much is broken, how much has been lost, and how badly we need repair.
And yet, even in the heaviness, we cling to the faint but urgent demand of these words — that wickedness not be the last word, that cruelty not be the only story we tell. The pain is raw, the fractures are deep, but these words also insist that another world is possible. Not easily, not automatically, but only if we refuse to grow numb, only if we choose to see in this tragedy not just loss but also the call to change.
That is the task of this season, and of this moment: to stand in grief, to name the brokenness honestly, and still to refuse to give up on the possibility of a repaired world.
To Whom It May Concern 