“We’ve moved on. Life is back to normal. After all, it’s been two months . . .”

That’s appropriate to say after a mishap on the ski slopes, or a misunderstanding with a neighbor. How is possible that we’ve “moved on” . . . ?But how is possible that we’ve “moved on” from the deadliest act of violence against Jews in the history of the United States? Is it possible we haven’t moved at all, that instead we’ve simply let normal life intrude?

I think that’s the case. But it doesn’t mean we don’t feel; it might mean only that the feeling is too strong to carry.

True, there is a huge gap in the understanding of anyone who wasn’t in Pittsburgh at the time of the tragedy. Along with a universe of difference, in the perception of that horrific event, between those who have lost loved ones and those who, like myself, only read about it.

But, that said, there remains a deep, visceral and ineffable connection to the grieving families and the Pittsburgh Jewish community at large that should not be discounted—one that is based on shared values, on peoplehood, and on love for a fellow Jew.

As for the last piece: Love for a fellow Jew—or Ahavat Yisrael, in its original Hebrew form—there are those (perhaps Jews especially) who might look at the particularism, the echoes of tribalism and chauvinism inherent in the idea and be afraid, not only of evincing the idea, but of even exploring it.

That’s entirely understandable. After all, what is progressive about proclaiming a love that is not general or not spread out equally among all people? What good can come from being more empathetic towards one’s own people than all others?What good can come from being more empathetic towards one’s own people than all others?

But when I say that I love my brother more than my best friend, does that in any way discount or discredit my love for my best friend? And when I say I love my best friend more than an acquaintance, or that I feel a greater degree of kinship with an acquaintance than I do a total stranger, does that in any way negate my potential for loving that stranger? I know it does not. In fact, it does the very opposite.

The area outside of Tree of Life is filled with family members, friends, media, and community members, who were moved by both the girls' and boys' reflections of Jewish pride.
The area outside of Tree of Life is filled with family members, friends, media, and community members, who were moved by both the girls' and boys' reflections of Jewish pride.

This seeming hierarchy of loves doesn’t in any way diminish our capacity for love; it educates and informs us about the nature of love itself. Through my experience of loving my brother I can more easily love my best friend. Love, like a flame, doesn’t diminish when it’s shared; it increases in scope and in heat.

No matter where we found ourselves on October 27, the pain we felt surged through us like an electric shock. It ran as if through a wire with tens of millions of other wires attached, each of them unifying us, each of them letting us know that we are a people that for a myriad of inexplicable reasons has been the lightning rod for the animus of nations and individuals throughout the millennia. Our vitality and endurance owes nothing to our many oppressors.We should never make the mistake of thinking our strength lies in our shared persecution. Our vitality and endurance owes nothing to our many oppressors. What has allowed us to remain a people throughout our 2,000 years of exile has zero to do with anger or violence.

It has everything to do with love and faith.

Our success as a nation has everything to do with our love for one another, faith in G‑d, and an abiding faith in the ability of righteousness to always triumph over evil.

Am Yisrael Chai.