It is hard to be an optimist these days.
Wars rage without resolution, terrorism strikes without warning, political discourse grows increasingly toxic, and natural disasters remind us of our fragility. In such a climate, hope can feel like naïve denial, and faith in a better future can seem more like wishful thinking than rational conviction. Yet for thousands of years, Judaism has offered the world precisely this paradoxical gift: the courage to hope amid despair, the vision to see purpose within chaos, and the faith that history is moving toward redemption rather than destruction.
Judaism has always been known for a singular gift to civilization: the belief that history is not condemned to endless cycles of suffering, that evil is temporary, and that human destiny bends toward redemption. Against the backdrop of Greek and Roman thought—which saw history as repeating itself in an unending circle, a kind of eternal return in which nothing truly changes—Judaism introduced a revolutionary alternative: linear time. From Creation to Revelation to Redemption, the Jewish vision insists that history has direction, purpose, and a divinely assured end.
This was nothing less than a world-changing optimism. It shaped Western religion and philosophy, inspiring even secular notions of progress, utopia, and human perfectibility. When modern political theorists speak of the “arc of history bending toward justice,” they are unknowingly echoing a profoundly Jewish belief: that time is not random or meaningless, but infused with divine intentionality. To put it plainly, Judaism is the original source of the messianic hope—the idea that the human story will conclude not in despair but in fulfillment.
Recent months, culminating in the horrifying events of the past week and the shocking assassination of Charlie Kirk, make it painfully difficult to hold fast to that belief. His murder was not only a personal tragedy but also a symbol of the moral decline and poisonous atmosphere that increasingly defines our age. When even public figures are struck down in acts of political or ideological hatred, it feels as though society itself is fraying at the seams. Each headline brings new reminders of hatred, violence, and injustice. For many, the very notion of redemption feels almost cruelly out of reach. And yet, Jewish teaching offers an insight that allows us to reconcile our despair with our hope.
The Talmud records a striking remark by one of its great sages: “Let him [the Messiah] come, but may I not see him.” At first glance, it is shocking. How could a rabbi—whose life was devoted to Torah, faith, and hope—admit that he did not wish to witness the arrival of humanity’s ultimate redeemer?
The explanation is profound. The rabbi longed for the Messiah as much as anyone. But he also knew the prophets’ warning: that the age immediately preceding redemption would be marked by chaos, upheaval, and moral collapse. These “birth pangs of the Messiah” would bring untold suffering before yielding salvation. His prayer was paradoxical—affirming both the certainty of redemption and the unbearable cost of the days that will precede it. Without collective spiritual commitment, we condemn ourselves; only by reminding ourselves globally that we were created in the image of God can we earn divine blessing.
That paradox is our reality. We cling to hope, yet we watch the tragedies mount. We continue to believe in divine purpose, even as we endure horrors that seem to defy it. Perhaps, though, this is precisely the point: a world stripped of God-awareness and moral responsibility inevitably destroys itself. The assassination of a prominent leader, carried out with chilling disregard for human life, is not random—it is part of the pattern the prophets foresaw. If our times feel like they are unraveling, maybe that unraveling itself is part of the divine lesson. The prophets did not promise a painless march toward redemption; they warned that humanity would first taste the bitterness of its own arrogance and forgetfulness.
And yet, Judaism refuses to let despair be the final chapter. The messianic hope is not naïve optimism but an act of spiritual defiance. To proclaim that history has meaning in the face of apparent meaninglessness is a form of courage. To insist that suffering, however great, is only the prelude to fulfillment, is not to deny the pain but to place it within a larger horizon of hope.
Living with that hope is not easy. It demands resilience, faith, and the discipline to see beyond the present darkness. But abandoning hope is even harder, for it would mean surrendering to chaos and conceding that human existence has no purpose. Judaism teaches that to live without hope is to betray the very essence of what it means to be human—and to forget that we are partners with God in shaping history toward its ultimate redemption.
In this way, Judaism does more than offer comfort; it provides a mandate. The messianic vision is not a passive waiting for divine intervention but an urgent call to moral action. Each mitzvah, each act of kindness, each moment of justice brings the world one step closer to its intended destiny.
Judaism insists that the story is not over, that despair is not the last word. The messianic hope endures as both promise and challenge: a reminder that even in the darkest hours, light is not extinguished but hidden, waiting to emerge. To live with that hope is difficult. To abandon it is impossible.
