Over and over again, I have found myself saying—both to myself and out loud—“there just aren’t any words.” I have said this so many times that it has become a refrain, a longing for words that refuse to come. Explanations that do not exist. Evil that cannot be understood. I speak these words, proclaiming their absence, because silence feels impossibly inadequate. And yet, too many are silent.
There are, however, three words that our tradition offers us in moments of confronting death: Baruch Dayan HaEmet. These are the words we utter upon hearing of a death. Today, I find it difficult to say them—to bless God as the True Judge in the face of such devastation. I often wonder what these words mean in moments like this. What could they possibly offer in the face of such profound brokenness? In this moment of collective grief, in this moment of witnessing the depths of human cruelty, what meaning could blessing hold?
Our tradition teaches us to offer blessings to God for both the good and the bad. And indeed, in recent days, we have offered abundant blessings as our brothers and sisters have returned home. But to bless God now feels almost unfathomable. And yet. Baruch Dayan HaEmet. Blessed is the True Judge. These words must mean something beyond what I can grasp; they cannot be about gratitude, nor can they be about praise.
Perhaps, in this moment, blessing is an acknowledgment that the vastness of the universe—its goodness and its horrors—is beyond our comprehension. To invoke God here is to give voice to the overwhelming grief that defies language. To name God as the arbiter of Truth is to remind ourselves that God, too, must be shattered by the witnessing of such evil. This blessing is not about giving thanks—certainly not—it is the language we have for articulating the unbearable weight of this moment.
This week, we are overwhelmed by grief and rage. This week, I am shattered all over again. There are no adequate words, only tears of devastation. Only the unbearable weight of what I cannot possibly comprehend about this world.
The prophet Jeremiah wrote: תֵּרַדְנָה עֵינַי דִּמְעָה לַיְלָה וָיוֹמָם וְאַל־תִּדְמֶינָה כִּי שֶׁבֶר גָּדוֹל נִשְׁבְּרָה בְתוּלַת בַּת־עַמִּי מַכָּה נַחְלָה מְאֹד. Let my eyes run with tears, day and night let them not cease, For my people have suffered, a grievous injury, a very painful wound (Jeremiah 14:17).
The wounds our people have suffered will not heal easily; they will leave eternal scars. As Jeremiah writes, the tears will continue to flow. But our tears remind us of our humanity, of our capacity to care. They remind us that we uphold life, even when others do not. They remind us that we know the difference between good and evil, even when others do not. And they remind us that we still hold onto hope for the future for our people. Our tears will continue to flow for these beautiful souls. Baruch Dayan HaEmet.
