Compassion with a Compass 

Apr 23, 2025 | Rabbi Diamond's Corner

Message From Rabbi Diamond

In my freshman year of college, I fainted in the middle of a sociology class. We were watching a film on electroconvulsive therapy—an effective treatment for severe depression, which at the time, it looked far more jarring than it does today. Watching the patient’s physical reaction triggered something in me, and I crumpled to the floor. I’ve always been sensitive, especially to medical situations, but that day taught me something deeper: even noble sensitivity, when left unchecked, can overwhelm us and prevent us from functioning in the world. 

That lesson came rushing back to me last week when I attended a Sunday church service with a congregation deeply committed to justice, compassion, and inclusion. They acknowledge the Chumash people as the original inhabitants of the land, share their pronouns, and greet strangers with warm hospitality. Tragically, just two weeks earlier, their Zoom service had been disrupted by hateful images—swastikas and pornography displayed by intruders. My colleague from the Conejo Valley Interfaith Association and I attended to show our solidarity and support. 

After the service, a young man, probably in his twenties and holding a small dog, approached me. “Do you support the genocide in Gaza?” he asked. It was one of those questions that already presumes guilt—like asking someone, “Have you stopped beating your children?” There was no space for discussion, no room for nuance. 

What troubled me wasn’t the disagreement. It was the realization that this young man, part of a deeply caring and justice-minded community, had embraced a narrative so absolute that it left no space for compassion toward Jews or Israelis. He wasn’t just challenging policy; he was rooted in a story where one people is entirely good, and the other, entirely evil. That kind of compassion, when applied without discernment, can become harmful. It can even be used to justify cruelty. 

Jewish tradition calls us to a more complex form of compassion. Hillel teaches: “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?” Compassion must begin at home. I feel for the rabbi in Sderot, near Gaza, whose office was struck by missile shrapnel. I grieve for Yousef Zyadna, an Israeli Bedouin from Rahat, who was kidnapped and murdered along with his son by Hamas. I mourn for the residents of Kibbutz Be’eri and Kibbutz Aza, who offered jobs to Gazans in the hope of peace, only to be betrayed by some of those same individuals in the October 7 attack. These are not footnotes. These are human lives that matter. 

But Hillel continues: “And if I am only for myself, what am I?” Jewish ethics insist we also see the suffering of others, even our enemies. The Talmud tells us that when the Egyptians drowned in the Reed Sea, God silenced the angels’ song: “My creations are drowning, and you sing before Me?” Even justified defense should not blind us to human dignity. 

As we close the Passover season, a holiday centered on storytelling, we’re reminded that the stories we tell shape our identity and our moral compass. That’s why we can’t let others tell our story for us. We must continue to speak about the 59 hostages still held in Gaza, some living, some murdered, because their story is our story. Their story must be told. 

A group called Run for Their Lives walks every Thursday at 5:00 PM to keep that story alive. They communicate through this WhatsApp group. It’s a quiet, consistent act of compassion directed at real people. If your Seder was a celebration of freedom and justice, let this weekly walk be its continuation. 

In this painful and polarized moment, may we direct our compassion with clarity and courage, starting with ourselves, and reaching outward with wisdom and love.