We begin where all mourning begins. We say their names: Hersh Goldberg-Polin, Almog Sarusi, Alex Lobanov, Carmel Gat, Eden Yerushalmi, and Ori Danino. These six young souls had lives to live, people to love, a world to see, brokenness to fix. None of that will happen now. They are the latest victims of a bloodbath that has taken too many lives. How many innocent lives is too many lives? Every innocent life is too many lives. Every. Single. One. But we become numb and thus immune to death. We hide life in numbers. We justify death for a higher purpose. We become blind to the beauty of creation, we become deaf to the sounds of laughter. “Life passes like a blade of grass,” laments our Rosh Ha-Shana liturgy, but we forget that death should be by the hands of the Creator, and not God’s creatures. We forget life, for it is only by forgetting life that we can kill. We began as lovers like Adam and Eve and quickly become adversaries like Cain and Abel. Genesis knew us too well.

These six young souls, caught in the web of human hatred, trapped in the snare of heartless anger. And these six souls were not innocent, they were more than innocent. They were life itself; they were smiles that brought joy to their neighbors, they were hearts that hoped for two people to share a land. But as the Talmud teaches, “the evil inclination is like a fly that sits between the two openings of the heart,” closing off the possibility of feeling, closing what the prophets say is the “fleshy heart” (lev basar) that enables human beings to love. Deuteronomy tells us to “circumcise our hearts” to remove the obstacle that prevents our humanity. But too often we use that knife of circumcision as a murderous weapon. And in doing so, whoever we are, we kill part of ourselves. All murder is, in some way, suicidal.

Rashi has a brief but piercing comment on Psalm 34:15, “Depart from evil, and do good.” Rashi writes, “Depart from evil – in your place,” and “Do good – elsewhere.” What might he mean? If evil exists “in one’s place,” there is no possibility of doing good “elsewhere.” And if there is no possibility of doing good “elsewhere” as the Psalmist continues, “seeking peace” is impossible. And if “seeking peace” is impossible, there is no future. For any of us.

As James Baldwin once said, “hatred is mostly a way to hide the pain.” Vengeance may satisfy a need, but it does so at the price of our humanity, it enables us not to feel the pain. Hirsch, Almog, Alex, Carmel. Eden, and Ori. They are all someone’s children. They were all someone’s hope. They were all part of our collective future. And now they have become victims of an ugly past. There is another part of our liturgy that says, “May God avenge their blood.” I cannot say that. I will let God do what God will do. Vengeance breeds vengeance. Vengeance lets evil live another day. Vengeance is a death sentence, body and soul, body or soul, for perpetrator and victim alike. I can only say, “May God help us remove the fly that sits between the two openings of our heart.” All of our hearts. I am afraid that if we don’t, evil will win. And, like a blade of grass, we too will be no more. May their memories be a blessing.

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Shaul Magid teaches modern Judaism at Harvard Divinity School and is a senior research fellow at The Center for the Study of World Religions at Harvard. His latest book is The Necessity of Exile: Esay from a Distance.

(This is a slightly revised version of a message sent to the members of the Fire Island Synagogue in Seaview, New York)