Passover, war and faith: Moral clarity matters in Israel’s defense - opinion

According to multiple reports, the Pope declared that God does not listen to the prayers of leaders “who wage war” and whose “hands are full of blood,” invoking the prophet Isaiah. I have not yet seen the full official transcript, and caution is always warranted when relying on media summaries. But when such a line is consistently reported across outlets, it becomes part of the global moral narrative, and it demands a response.

Because the implication is difficult to miss.

When a Pope states that God does not listen to the prayers of leaders who wage war, it is almost inevitable that the modern world will interpret those words through a contemporary political lens. And indeed, much of the media coverage has understood this as a pointed critique of leaders such as Donald Trump and, more significantly in the current context, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu.

Whether or not that was the Pope’s intention, that is how his words are being heard. And that matters.

The Pope invoked the Prophet Isaiah to support his claim. But Isaiah’s rebuke, “your hands are full of blood” (Isaiah 1:15), is not directed at a nation defending itself from annihilation. It is aimed at a society hollow in its religiosity, corrupt in its justice, and indifferent to the poor, the widow, and the orphan. It is a critique of hypocrisy, not of self-defense.

To apply it to those engaged in defensive war is not prophetic clarity. It is a theological distortion.

The Torah does not pretend that war can always be avoided. It legislates it, regulates it, and seeks to impose moral boundaries upon it. The very existence of laws of warfare in the Torah reflects a sobering realism: evil exists, threats are real, and sometimes war is unavoidable.

But it also draws a critical distinction.

This is not a celebration of violence. It is a defense of life.

For Israelis, this is not theoretical.

For decades, Iran has openly called for Israel’s destruction. Its leaders have not hidden their intent. These are not rhetorical flourishes; they are strategic goals. And on October 7, 2023, the world saw what such intent looks like when carried out: a massacre of unspeakable brutality, civilians murdered, raped, burned, and taken hostage.

And yet, in the Pope’s reported remarks, there was no explicit condemnation of that atrocity. No naming of Hamas. No recognition of the genocidal ideology that underpins such violence. Instead, there was a sweeping denunciation of those who wage war, language that, in this moment, is inevitably heard as including those defending Israel.

This creates a dangerous moral equivalence.

To suggest that those who respond to such attacks have “blood on their hands” in the same sense as those who initiate them is not a call for peace. It is a blurring of moral reality.

The Pope’s argument also rests, implicitly, on a deeply Christian model of response to violence, one rooted in the figure of Jesus, who, according to the Gospels, did not resist arrest, did not fight back, and accepted crucifixion without self-defense.

That may be a powerful model of individual faith.

But it is not a model that a nation like Israel can afford to adopt.

A state cannot choose martyrdom. A people cannot collectively “turn the other cheek” when faced with enemies who have repeatedly and explicitly called for their destruction. That is not moral courage. It is a recipe for annihilation.

Jewish history has taught this lesson too many times.

Faith does not absolve us of responsibility. It demands it.

The Torah commands restraint in war. It insists on ethical conduct. It requires that peace be sought where possible. But nowhere does it suggest that we abandon the obligation to defend life.

Nowhere does it teach that self-defense invalidates prayer.

On the contrary, the preservation of life is among the highest religious imperatives.

This is why the Pope’s reported framing feels so one-sided. By condemning the use of force without equally condemning those who make it necessary, he risks placing the burden of moral scrutiny on those under threat, rather than those who create the threat.

There is also a historical resonance that cannot be ignored. The relationship between the Church and the Jewish people has undergone profound and positive change in recent decades.

That progress has been meaningful, and it matters.

But when moral language appears to single out Jewish self-defense, while remaining silent on those who seek Jewish destruction, it inevitably raises uncomfortable questions.

No one in Israel celebrates war. No one is indifferent to suffering. Jewish tradition itself teaches that even in victory, there is no room for triumphalism. Human life, on all sides, is sacred.

But acknowledging the tragedy of war is not the same as denying the necessity of self-defense.

Israel does not have the luxury of abstraction. It lives in a region where threats of annihilation are explicit and repeated. When enemies declare their intention to destroy you, it is not only wise to believe them, but also necessary.

And when they act on that intent, it is not only permissible to defend yourself. It is a moral obligation.

If the Pope seeks to be a voice for peace, his voice matters. But peace cannot be built on selective moral outrage or on interpretations of sacred texts that ignore context, history, and lived reality.

Isaiah called for justice, not for the abandonment of survival.

Faith does not demand that we accept destruction.

It demands that we endure, and that we live.