One of the most singular Jewish contributions to Western civilization is the concept of hope. While this may seem like a universal human trait, it is not. Many cultures throughout history have viewed time as a closed circle—an eternal recurrence where what has been is all that will ever be. In such a worldview, history is a tragedy, and the highest human virtue is Stoicism: the brave, silent acceptance of a fate that cannot be changed.
Even within the Hebrew Bible, we hear the dissident, weary voice of Ecclesiastes:
"What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun." (Ecclesiastes 1:9)
But the mainstream of Jewish thought is a radical rebellion against this circularity. Judaism is the principled rejection of tragedy in the name of hope. It posits that time is a journey toward a destination, that change is possible, and that the world we see today is not the world as it must always be.
Hope as a Signal of Transcendence
The sociologist Peter Berger famously described hope as a "signal of transcendence." It is a point where something from beyond the physical world penetrates our immediate reality. There is often nothing "rational" about hope; it cannot be inferred from the grim facts of the past.
As Berger notes:
"In a world where man is surrounded by death on all sides, he continues to be a being who says 'no!' to death... through this 'no!' he is brought to faith in another world." (A Rumor of Angels)
This "no" is found most strikingly in the 26th chapter of Leviticus. The Tochachah (the Admonition) is a preview of history gone wrong—a graphic description of defeat, disease, and exile. It is an "obituary notice" written before the event. Yet, at the very moment when empirical reason would dictate total despair, the text pivots to the most profound "Yet" in history:
"Yet in spite of this, when they are in the land of their enemies, I will not reject them or abhor them so as to destroy them completely... for I am the Lord their God." (Lev. 26:44)
The Vision of Dry Bones
This theology was put to the ultimate test in the twentieth century. The Jewish people walked through the valley of the shadow of death, and many—including the prophets of old—feared the end had come. Ezekiel’s vision of the dry bones perfectly captures this moment of near-extinction:
"Then He said to me: 'Son of man, these bones are the whole house of Israel. They say, "Our bones are dried up and our hope is lost (avdah tikvasenu); we are cut off."'" (Ezekiel 37:11)
Hope vs. Optimism
It is vital to distinguish hope from optimism.
"Optimism is the belief that things will get better. Hope is the belief that, together, we can make things better. Optimism is a passive virtue, hope an active one. It takes no courage to be an optimist, but it takes a great deal of courage to hope."
This distinction is echoed by the Czech statesman Vaclav Havel, who wrote from a prison cell:
"Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out."
The Jewish people did not survive for two millennia because they were "optimistic" that the Crusades, the Inquisition, or the Pogroms would end well. They survived because they held onto the meaning of the Covenant—the certainty that God would not break His word.
The Geography of the Human Spirit
I differ slightly with Peter Berger’s view that hope is a universal human constant. In the Jewish tradition, hope is an emotional vocabulary learned through the Covenant. It is based on the belief that God cares, that He is involved in history, and that He has made a promise He will never rescind.
Without the "Yet in spite of this" of Leviticus 26, there would be no significant Jewish history after the Holocaust. There would be no State of Israel.
The literary critic George Steiner once remarked that the Jewish people are "at home in the text." Perhaps it is more accurate to say we are at home in the promise.
History, as seen in the Tochachah, is not a utopian dream. It is often a nightmare of "iron skies" and "bronze lands." No one who reads Leviticus 26 can be a naive optimist. But no one who hears the conclusion of that chapter can ever truly despair.
Jews kept hope alive; in the end, it was hope that kept the Jewish people alive. We are the living testimony that no defeat is final, no exile is endless, and no grave is deep enough to bury the promise of the Eternal.
