English version of the drasha delivered by Rabbi Delphine Horvilleur for the Kabbalat Shabbat service on February 21, 2025, at the JEM synagogue in Paris. French version here.

Da lifnei mi ata omed. Know before whom you stand.

In numerous synagogues, this verse from the Psalms is inscribed directly above the Holy Ark (aron hakodesh), so that every person in prayer may contemplate what lies beyond the self.

Know, the verse says, that you stand before the Eternal, the Transcendent, or whatever is greater than yourself.

At this moment, I too wish to speak these words… while right here in this synagogue, before all of you, two faces are present on the Holy Ark.

They are the faces of two very young children, whose bodies were returned to Israel this week and whose dreadful fate we now know. Two faces—the face of an infant and that of his older brother, Kfir and Ariel Bibas—whose names, features, and blazing hair have become symbols of profound pain, of an entire people’s mourning, and perhaps of all dignified humanity. Humanity that must look them in the eyes and awaken to the reality of this unspeakable and unforgivable crime.

Da lifnei mi ata omed. Know at this moment before whom you stand…

Not merely before someone greater than yourself, but precisely before these little ones—so much smaller than us, whom the world failed to save. Their gaze reminds us where the greatness of humanity ought to reside, and how it falters today when it abandons the innocent.

Da lifnei mi ata omed. Know that they are here, before us.

Recognize their faces and their names, and keep them ever before your eyes, in your heart, and in your memory.

Precisely at the moment when some would wish to forget them—to make them vanish by tearing their faces from the walls of our cities—as if their very birth rendered them culpable, as if their martyrdom occupied too much space, usurped the grief of other victims, or served as mere propaganda.

You have heard all these despicable arguments, just as you have seen their faces torn from the walls of our cities, their remains desecrated by the gruesome and vile staging of Palestinian terrorists.

And because the world is capable of such acts, because some will still offer excuses for those who commit them, then together—every one of us—we will forge something different.

Perhaps this is the solemn promise we must make tonight, as we prepare to lay them to rest: if some despise life, then all the more, we shall honor it; and if some desire that they be forgotten, then even more fervently, we shall remember them.

That is why, for the entire mourning period—the coming 11 months—their faces will adorn the doors of our Holy Ark.

And if hatred deforms so many of those around us, then together we will vow to safeguard our humanity.

These words may seem grandiloquent or even naive, but tonight they must be spoken.

Here in this synagogue—where all generations are gathered, from people of every age, bereaved families, and hopeful youth, to Jews and non-Jews who offer us such precious support—we form a united human community that must make this solemn commitment in the heart of this tragedy.

This week, I received countless messages from people who said they no longer knew where to find strength, asking: how can we avoid hating? How can we refrain from being overwhelmed by hatred, anger, and the thirst for vengeance, by the extinction of empathy or the rise of indifference?

And others asked: how can we still believe in God?

The answer to these questions is quite simple.

In the face of such ignominy, the question is never “Where is God?” but always “Where is humanity ? Where does humanity stand today? In what way is each person’s humanity being tested by such barbarism?”

And I believe, deep within, I hold a certainty and a confidence: we will not allow ourselves to be submerged by the rage and anger that deforms us. As we always have, we will find a way to be stronger and more human.

Stronger and more compassionate than those who make excuses for murderers, than those who shift the burden of responsibility, than those who dance before coffins, than those who seek to cover up crimes, and than those who resurrect ancestral hatreds or choose indifference.

We shall be stronger, more humane, wiser, and more caring because, before us, stand these faces.

In numerous synagogues, it is inscribed on the Ark, “Know before whom you stand,” while in many others a symbol is drawn. You have surely seen this design countless times without a second glance, for it is exceedingly common.

It depicts two lions facing each other, their paws raised above the Torah scroll, on the curtains or doors of the Ark.

According to our sages, these two lions represent the tribe of Judah—that is, the royalty and nobility of a people in its relationship with Zion, with Jerusalem, the capital of the Kingdom of Judah. In other words, the lions of Judah remind us that they are the guarantors of the unbreakable bond between a people and the land of Zion—whether or not this pleases the anti-Zionists.

You know it well if you have ever listened to that famous reggae refrain by Bob Marley, “like a lion in Zion,” which proclaims that the lion’s place is in Zion.

Imagine that this week, I suddenly realized something that had entirely escaped me until now. The Bibas family—Yarden and Shiri—in welcoming their two children, chose to name them Ariel and Kfir, two names which literally mean in Hebrew “lion of God” and “little lion.”

Da lifnei mi ata omed. Know before whom you stand.

The lions of Zion—the two lions that for centuries have adorned our Torah scrolls and the Holy Arks of so many synagogues—have this week forever acquired new faces. They bear the blazing mane of two children of our people, reminding us of our eternal responsibility toward Zion and to a humanity that, all over the world, must fight “like a lion” to remain worthy.

Just as a mother—a lioness—fights to protect her kidnapped children, I think of Shiri Bibas, wherever she may be. I pray that she is found soon, that this nightmare comes to an end, that the innocents on both sides are protected wherever they may be, and that the peacemakers—the prophets of peace, of whom Oded Lifshitz was an embodiment—have millions of heirs in this world, commensurate with their human greatness.

I pray that we never, ever forget their faces and their names…

*

Whatever the verses and symbols inscribed on our synagogues may be, they all point east.

At this moment, I invite you to stand and face that eastern direction—turn your gaze toward their faces.

It is not uncommon in this synagogue for us to sing hymns—and very often, La Marseillaise. Tonight, however, we will sing the words of the Israeli anthem, words that embody hope, even though our hearts are heavy and our grief immense. We will nonetheless repeat, “od lo avda tikvateinou…” meaning that no one, absolutely no one, will extinguish hope—nor barbarism, nor folly, nor ignorance, nor indifference… that we will always, like lions, know how to defend our children and our values.