“The Reconciliation of Esau and Jacob (1624)” by Peter Paul Rubens. (Image courtesy of Creative Commons)

(RNS) — At the Thanksgiving table, the conversation quickly turned to the war.

Someone asked me: “Is it all right for us as Jews to say that we are upset about the deaths in Gaza?”

And, as well, to express rage about the shooting of three Palestinian college students in Burlington, Vermont, as well as the killing, several weeks ago, of the Palestinian American child in the Chicago area (neither, let me say, at the hands of Jews)?

Here is how I responded. “Yes, we can certainly say we grieve with all families who have lost loved ones.”

I hastened to add: “Full stop. End the sentence right there. No ‘buts,’ as in ‘But, of course, Hamas is to blame for those deaths. … ’ As any person who understands communication would know, the moment you insert a ‘but’ into a sentence, it negates everything that came before it. Our truth is: These deaths are tragic.”

How do I know that? Because for the last more than 40 years, I have been teaching Torah and Jewish texts. 

This is what I have in my theological back pocket.

I have a tradition that says: “When you encounter your enemy’s ox or ass wandering, you must take it back. When you see the ass of your enemy lying under its burden and would refrain from raising it, you must nevertheless help raise it.” (Exodus 23:4-5)

I have a tradition that says: “If your enemy falls, do not exult; if he trips, let your heart not rejoice.” (Proverbs 24:17)

I have a tradition that says, in a midrash, that when the angels saw the Egyptians drowning in the Red Sea, they broke into song. God rebuked them, saying: “My children are drowning, and you are singing?!?”

I have a tradition that just happens to resonate this week, with this particular Torah reading.

The patriarch Jacob is preparing for a reunion with his brother, Esau, from whom he has been estranged for many years. The estrangement had come about through Jacob’s actions: First, he had coerced Esau into selling his birthright as the oldest son; second, Jacob had deceived his blind father, Isaac, and had taken the blessing intended for the oldest son. Esau had threatened to kill Jacob. Jacob had been forced to flee from his brother’s wrath, and from his family.

Jacob has learned about life the hard way. He fled to his family’s homeland in Aram-Naharaim, and there his uncle Laban deceived him, giving him Leah as a wife instead of Rachel, for whom he then has to work an additional seven years. In the ensuing years, Jacob has a family. He becomes rich in flocks and herds.

The unfinished business of Jacob’s life has caught up with him. Jacob is about to reunite with Esau. Jacob knows he must make peace with him and he is frightened.

How does he feel? “Jacob was greatly frightened; in his anxiety, he divided the people with him … ” (Genesis 32:8). Literally: “Jacob was very afraid and he was also frightened.” We might also say that he was scared, even terrified.

Why doesn’t the text merely say Jacob was frightened? Why must it add that he was anxious as well? Isn’t that redundant?

Here is how the great medieval commentator, Rashi, explained it: “Jacob was afraid that he might be killed, and he was afraid that he would have to kill.”

What do we learn from this? Judaism is not a pacifistic tradition, though some would use Jewish sources to claim pacifism. Judaism understands that war is always horrific, and sometimes necessary. As much as we would not want to be killed, so, too, we do not want to kill.

Or, to put it differently: Sometimes, we see war as an absolute necessity but we do not take any pleasure in it.

A memory from my childhood. I am probably 10 years old. It is spring. My family is sitting down to dinner, and we hear the sounds of fifes and drums wafting through the air.

I asked my parents: “What is that?”

My father answered me: “Those are the Colonials. They dress up like Revolutionary War soldiers and they march around the schoolyard. They are rehearsing for the Memorial Day parade.”

This sounded great. This is precisely what I wanted to do! I asked my parents: “Can I join them?”

My mother looked at me over her glasses, and she said, clearly and crisply: “No.”

“Why not?” I protested. “It sounds like fun! I want to learn how to play the drums.”

To which my mother replied: “We don’t do that.”

It was one of the formative moments of my childhood, and years later, I would come to understand what she meant.

War is often necessary but we don’t glorify it. We don’t do that.

It took me years to understand who the “we” was.

It was us — the Jewish people.

My mother was right. The last military parade in Israel was in 1973, to commemorate Israel’s 25th anniversary. That was half a century ago.

Even when we had to fight, we did not celebrate those acts of fighting. In general, Israeli poems and songs about war do not glorify those wars; rather, they mourn the losses.

Consider Shalom Hanoch’s song “Avshalom,” which mourns the loss of his nephew in the Six-Day War.

One day, one day

There he was born to stroll in the forest

And an embroidery from strings of gold, a little prince

A stepmother and a white horse…

A second memory — this time, from popular culture, and from my own experience as a parent.

It was many years ago, and my son was about 6 years old. We were watching one of my favorite movies — “Patriot Games” with Harrison Ford as CIA analyst Jack Ryan. A band of terrorists, a splinter group from the IRA, has targeted Ryan’s family.

In one of my favorite scenes, the CIA has traced the group to terrorist training camps in north Africa. The CIA sends in a force that kills most of the terrorists, while Ryan and his former CIA superior, Vice Admiral James Greer (played by James Earl Jones), watch it happen on a satellite feed. It is swift and lethal. Ryan is transfixed by what he sees on the screen; his expression, solemn.

At the end of the operation, Greer takes a deep breath and says, quietly: “It’s over,” and leaves the room.

My young son asked me: “Why is that man so sad?”

This is how I answered him: “Because it is terrible to kill people, even in war, and there are times when you have to do it. But, even when you have to do it, it should make you sad.”

My mother was right, and so was Admiral Greer. Yes, “there is a time for war, and a time for peace” (Ecclesiastes 3:8), and horrifically, tragically, we have been brought into a time for war.

But, when it comes to the necessity of fighting, I am sticking with Rashi. Be afraid that you will be killed; be equally afraid that you will have to kill.

That is my (Jewish) story, and I am sticking with it.

This article has been corrected. An earlier version incorrectly reported that three Palestinians students had died after being shot in Burlington, Vermont.