WHEN HOSTAGES ARE RELEASED:  the sin of selective joy

I listened again to the voices of Christian leaders, proclaiming that the release of Israeli hostages is a sign—divine, decisive, and prophetic. They speak of answered prayers, of a nation rejoicing, of the God of Israel who will not be silenced.

And yet—Gaza groans. Its streets lie in ruins. Millions – millions- are homeless, displaced, and disoriented. No bread. No shelter. No breath of hope.

Has the God of Israel turned His face from “them”?  Has He forgotten the least that He came to feed and clothe (Matthew 25)?  Are they irredeemable? Forsaken? Excluded from eternity by association?  Or is our theology too narrow, our rejoicing too selective?

I have to ask the question.  How did we get here?

How did we get to this place… where compassion is selective, where mourning is measured, where the church forgot how to cry unless the tears are for its own?
How did we get to a gospel… that applies only to those who fit within our margins, an exclusive club for the saved and sanctified, a theology that baptizes silence in the face of suffering?
How did we get to prayers… That seeks the blessing of one at the cost of another, that name the fallen only if they fall on our side, with songs that rise for some but not for all?
How did we get to a place… where Gaza burns and pulpits stay polite, where hostages are headlines but prisoners are statistics, where mourning is seen as weakness and solidarity as betrayal?
How did we get to a church… that is more concerned about prophecy than about proximity, that forgets the One who wept for a city, who broke bread with enemies, who hung between two criminals and called them kin?

How did we get here?

In these days of hostage exchanges, the church watched with bated breath as it turned into a contest of victimhood, not a cry for dignity.  As the faces emerged from prisons, cages, tunnels and cells—some clothed with trauma, others lifted in celebration, Christians revealed a deeper ache: the asymmetry of suffering, the bias of empathy, the politics of pain, and the sin of selective joy.

The church—called to be the Body of Christ, broken and poured out for the world—has become brittle, tribal, and afraid of tears for those who are not our own.

We mourn selectively,
love conditionally,
and pray only for those who look like us, believe like us, or bleed on our side of the border.

The cross has been co-opted by flags, and the table of communion fenced by fear.

It didn’t happen overnight.

• It happened when we stopped washing feet and started pointing fingers.
• It happened when we built sanctuaries without windows, pulpits without mirrors, and altars without ashes.
• It happened when empathy was mistaken for betrayal, and solidarity with the suffering was branded as siding with the enemy.
• It happened when theology became a fortress, not a field hospital.
• It happened when we forgot that Jesus wept—not just for his friends, but for a city that would not acknowledge that Peace has arrived.
• It happened when being right became more important than being compassionate.
• It happened when prophecies replaced presence—when visions of victory drowned out the cries of the wounded.
• It happened when we traded mourning for triumphalism, and forgot that resurrection always passes through the tomb.
• It happened when we sang louder to silence the groans of the oppressed.
• It happened when we confused purity with distance, and holiness with indifference.

And yet…

There is another story still being written. And maybe this is our call:

To become again a people who mourn with those who mourn, even when their grief indicts our comfort.
To become again a people who carry crosses, not just wear them.
To become again a people who believe that every tear matters, because every life does.
To refuse to flatten stories into slogans.
To resist the temptation to dehumanize.

As followers of the Crucified and Risen One, we are called to stand in the breach—not to take sides, but to take heart. To advocate for:

• The humane treatment of all detainees, regardless of nationality or accusation.
• Transparent legal processes that honour justice and due process – for Presidents, Prime Ministers and Terrorist leaders
• A future where reconciliation is not a fantasy, but a fruit borne of truth and mercy.

Let our prayers be bold.
Let our giving be generous.
Let our voices be clear:
every hostage,
every prisoner,
every soul is beloved.

And until every chain is broken—literal and systemic—we will not be silent.