We watch and pray with deep concern for Iran, Israel and all the region. As we read in the Torah of how the Children of Israel rise up against slavery, we think of the courageous people across Iran who are risking their lives protesting for freedom and democracy, and we mourn with the families of the thousands who have been brutally killed.

I so didn’t expect it. It happened almost two years ago but I still feel it. I’d half walked, half run, to Whitehall after the Shabbat service to join the mass gathering of all Britain’s organisations that care about nature. Tens of thousands were there, from RSPB members dressed like birds, to Friends of the Earth, and you name it. We were showing the next government, whoever that might be, that people care about nature.

I was anxious, for reasons you’ll understand, about being visibly Jewish in such a crowd. As I stood there, two Imams rushed towards me: ‘My brother,’ they said, embracing me. ‘We care about this together.’

Those hugs kept my heart warm even when, a mile away on the route home, I walked round a small but noisy crowd of ‘From the River to the Sea’ drumbeaters.

I needn’t emphasise here how deeply disturbing and frightening a time this is to be Jewish, though I do want to stress the deep resilience and love of Judaism which, whatever our politics, sustains us and our communities.

I’m aware that many Muslim people have their own feelings of fear: “I guess most Muslims would say that they are perceived as either a security issue, a cohesion issue or an immigration issue.” Those words, from a Muslim leader, come from the 2025 report Questions of Hope Not Hate, launched this week.

It’s a highly important document. ‘We’re not just in an era of change, but in a change of era,’ said its co-author. The report notes the negative impacts of fatigue with democratic institutions, distrust in politics, growing populism, ‘identity-based mobilisation’, and a widespread sense of marginalisation, all of which drive people apart.

Where, then, does the report find hope? In local initiatives, where people meet, talk, share common concerns, drawn together by respected communal leaders, like clergy, mayors: – these groupings remain strong, and are ever more important.

I’m writing from Rose Castle, near Carlisle; it’s a centre for interfaith, reconciliation and conflict resolution. Tonight, Nicky and I are hosting a Shabbat dinner for the second week running, with Torah and prayers, and a table of almost entirely non-Jewish guests, who then share from their own spirituality.

My friend Andy Lester came last week; he’s head of conservation for A Rocha. He told me about his church in Carlisle: ‘This is messy space,’ the minister said on his first visit: ‘If you don’t like that, this isn’t for you.’ But he does like it. ‘It’s the most diverse community I’ve seen outside London,’ he explained: ‘people with African, Asian, East European backgrounds all together, and locals who walk miles to be there. ‘Come this Sunday. There’s the baptism of a man who’s been homeless.’ I missed it, but will go next time and I’m sure my heart will be opened. On the infrequent occasions I attend worship of other religions, I feel taken to the depths of my Judaism and strengthened both in my own faith and in the appreciation that the one God gives breath to us all.

Andy is in no way sentimental: ‘The forces are growing that want to drive us apart. That’s why we must deepen the bonds of togetherness now.’ He’s referring mainly, but not only, to humans: he can identify two-and-a-half thousand kinds of bird.

After the vile murders on Bondi beach, a Christian colleague, a Muslim colleague and I went with a small group of fellow-travellers first to a synagogue where we shared teaching from Islam and Christianity, then to a church where we learnt Torah. These things matter.

We can’t unmake the horrors or disregard the fears. But we can stand together as people who care about God, community, compassion, each other and our kinship with all life.