I spoke recently with Dr. Oded Adomi Leshem, a Political Psychologist and Senior Researcher at the Psychology of Intergroup Conflict and Reconciliation Lab at the Hebrew University. Leshem is also the Director of the International Hub for Hope Research and the lead researcher of the Fruits of Future Peace Project.

We talked about the idea of hope through the lens of very real events: the war in Israel and Gaza, the anguish of hostages and their families, the mass public mobilizations demanding their return, and the surge of antisemitism felt across Jewish communities worldwide.

In times like these, the question of hope becomes unavoidable. We ask it quietly and aloud: Is there hope?

Usually we are asking whether the odds are good, whether things are likely to improve, whether there is reason for confidence about the future. But Dr. Leshem, who studies hope as a social and psychological phenomenon, argues that hope has very little to do with optimism or probability.

In fact, when hope is reduced to likelihood, it loses much of its ability to move us, to shape what we feel responsible for, and what we are willing to do. Dr. Leshem offers a far more practical understanding of hope: not as a feeling we wait for, but as a practice we take on.

In this article, I’ll share some of Dr. Leshem's philosophies on hope as a moral practice built on three elements: desire, vision, and responsibility. These ideas are drawn primarily from his research and reflections, interpreted through a Jewish lens, and offered as a way to think and act more clearly in uncertain times.

Desire: Hope Begins With Longing, Not Likelihood

When people learn that Oded Leshem studies hope, they often ask him, “Is there hope for democracy? For peace? For reducing antisemitism?”

Leshem points out that this question usually refers to what he calls the expectation dimension of hope: an assessment of feasibility, odds, or probability. But that is only half the picture.

The second, and often more important, dimension is what Leshem calls the wish dimension: the strength of our longing, aspiration, and desire. As he puts it plainly: “We never hope for things we are indifferent to.”

This shifts how we understand hope. What we hope for tells us what we actually care about. Jewish history, after all, isn’t a record of realistic expectations. It is a record of sustained longing under improbable conditions: for freedom, for dignity, for repair. Long before any of these hopes appeared realistic, they were spoken aloud, written down, and passed from one generation to the next.

Let me invite you to pause here for a moment and reflect:

• What future do you find yourself longing for most deeply right now?
• If your hopes were judged not by their likelihood but by their intensity, what would they reveal about your values?

Desire alone, however, isn’t enough. Longing that remains private or inarticulate can't mobilize a community. If hope is going to do more than live quietly inside us, it has to be spoken, shared, and offered to others.

Vision: Giving Desire Language, Shape, and Imagery

One of Leshem’s observations is that many people and communities have become fluent in naming what is wrong, but hesitant, or even afraid, to articulate what they are working toward.

When it comes to antisemitism, injustice, or moments when democracy feels fragile, we are often very good at raising awareness. That work matters. But Leshem says it’s not enough.

“We also need to talk about how beautiful life will be when this problem is addressed,” he says. “How communal life will be better and beneficial for everyone.” If we never say it out loud or give it shape, that longing just sits there, going nowhere.

Jewish tradition has no shortage of imagined futures. Think about the prophets who spoke of a time when "nation shall not lift up sword against nation," not as a prediction, but as a picture meant to orient moral life. Or the language of messianic hope that insists the world, as broken as it is, is not finished yet. Even modern Jewish texts work this way: Hatikvah does not describe the world as it is, but the world Jews are still reaching for.

These are all acts of moral imagination. They don’t deny the present reality, but they insist that today’s reality isn’t the final word.

In other words, this kind of vision isn’t naive or unrealistic. It’s what leadership actually looks like in moments like these. It requires the courage to describe a future that does not yet exist, and to say it out loud even when doing so feels uncomfortable.

Let me invite you to pause here for a moment and reflect:

• How often do you describe the world you are against, and how often the world you are for?
• If someone asked you what a more just or humane future looks like in concrete terms, what would you say?

Responsibility: When Hope Moves Outward Into Action

Leshem says, “Hope is always attached to engagement.”

Drawing on thinkers like Erich Fromm, he argues that hope without action is not hope at all. It may be optimism, or comfort, or reassurance, but it lacks moral traction.

In his research on social movements and collective action, Leshem shows that when people experience hope as something shared and actionable, not just private reassurance, they are more likely to engage, persist, and take concrete steps rather than withdraw. In other words, when hope is real, it doesn’t just stay in our heads or hearts, it shows up in what we’re willing to do.

This is where Leshem introduces an important pull in two directions. Hope can function as a coping mechanism, helping individuals manage anxiety and stress. That function matters. Yet when hope remains purely internal, used only to endure reality rather than to change it, it can unintentionally preserve the status quo.

Oded gave me a couple of concrete examples of what this looks like when hope stays outward-facing.

First, he pointed to Zionism. If the earliest Zionists had started by asking only about the likelihood of establishing a Jewish homeland, he said, “the odds are zero.” And yet the movement advanced because people led with the wish dimension; the need, the longing, the insistence that this future was worth working toward until it started to feel possible.

He also spoke about the public mobilization around the Israeli hostages held in Gaza: hope was not only something felt privately by those held in captivity and their families, but something carried publicly. “Hundreds of thousands rallying,” week after week, until that shared desire became a pressure on political leaders to act, and a path toward a negotiated deal that ultimately brought many hostages home.

As Jews, we don’t wait until we can guarantee outcomes before we act. We act because something matters, and because responsibility is not a luxury.

Pirkei Avot captures it well: “It is not upon you to finish the work, but neither are you free to desist from it.” Hope, in that sense, isn’t a promise that things will turn out well. It’s the decision to stay engaged rather than step away, especially when the outcome is unclear.

Let me invite you to pause here for a moment and reflect:

• Where has hope helped you cope, but not yet compelled you to act?
• What is one concrete step, however modest, that aligns your deepest hopes with outward engagement?

Holding the Practice Together

In our conversation, Leshem emphasized that hope moves history not when people are confident, but when they care deeply, imagine boldly, and act with resolve. That resonates deeply with Jewish experience. Hope is not a prediction. It’s a commitment.

Today, the question isn't simply whether there is hope. The better question is whether we are willing to practice it through what we desire, what we dare to envision, and how we choose to act.

Rabbi Dr. Morey Schwartz, EdD, is the International Director of the Florence Melton School of Adult Jewish Learning.