After all, religion has often been front and center in these moments and movements. As anthropologist Talal Asad argues in Genealogies of Religion, “religious discourse depends on practices and discourses that are often not ‘religious’ at all.”⁶ Religion, one might argue, is as much about the ethereal concerns of spirit and its afterlife, the so-called intangible world of faith, as it is about the very tangible, corporeal conditions that define our everyday lives—struggles over land, geography, politics, power, and control.

Religion, with its hierarchies, its chosenness, its sacred geographies, its blessed and cursed peoples, can inspire the worst of human compulsions towards war and exclusion. At the very same time, religion can inspire the best of humanity, compelling us towards hope in the midst of great despair.

In preparing for our HDS community read, I was moved by a passage from Yosi Halevi’s Letters to My Palestinian Neighbor, one of our reads. Halevi, who is Jewish and Israeli, writes of his hope for Israel and Palestine. His hope—distinct from some other Zionists, he explains—is that Israel will stop the expansion of settlements and the two peoples can live peaceably alongside one another. Yet he writes this while also describing the many failed attempts over the decades at peace—the bombs by Israel, the intifadas by Palestine, the deaths, the destruction. He writes,

As a religious person, I am forbidden to accept this abyss between us as permanent, forbidden to make peace with despair. As the Qur’an so powerfully notes, despair is equivalent to disbelief in God. To doubt the possibility of reconciliation is to limit God’s power, the possibility of miracle—especially in this land. The Torah commands me, “Seek peace and pursue it”—even when peace appears impossible, perhaps especially then.⁷

And so in the midst of great tragedy, when people work to build back the ruins of history, they are often compelled to move forward because of the very faith that brought contention. The challenge in doing that work, however, is often the open wounds of discord, the need to reach beyond existential pain to possibility. We are indeed asking grieving people to find solutions. And, this indeed is possibly the greatest challenge.

Over the past year, as universities across the nation, including our own, were engulfed in conflict and burdened with the weight of the moment, I have had little time to truly process the range of emotions that accompanied my start as dean. As the year began in August 2023, as many of you know, my father passed away unexpectedly. Then, October 7th. I wasn’t here yet, but I was processing grief and grief compounded by heartbreak for what was unfolding internationally.

When I arrived in January to begin this historic journey as the first woman to lead Harvard Divinity School, I was struck by yet another great and surprising grief. My mother died in her sleep the day after attending my welcome reception. Amid both of what I have called great griefs, in hindsight I see that my sisters and I were in fact extended great grace. In their deaths, we were allowed space to grieve and remember, an opportunity for some form of tenuous closure.

For weeks, people came to my parents’ home, bringing food, telling stories, sharing deeply fond memories of our parents. Their funerals were attended by hundreds of people from across the community who celebrated their lives with us and told stories that, even at their funerals, made us laugh. The pastor of our home church offered heartwarming eulogies that spoke to their great humanity, and we all sang praises to God for the gift of their lives. They were somber, yet beautiful experiences. Great graces, I call them today.

The people of Israel—whose parents, children, and loved ones were lost or taken captive—do not have that grace. Many don’t even know if their loved ones are dead or alive. They walk daily with an open wound of the most human kind. The people of Gaza—parents, children, and loved ones who have been lost to war, homes and lives destroyed—their families, too, do not have that grace. Many are literally on the run, sitting in grief, unable to process the devastation of family, home, school, and community. How do you mourn with such uncertainty? What happens when grief has no place to go, no place to be honored? Sadly, we have seen that lived out over this past year.

Our great and common humanity, however, calls us to something better—to manifest hope in the midst of despair. This is aspirational, to be sure, but history has shown us, time and time again, that humanity has the propensity to persist despite catastrophe. As we grapple with our modern-day challenges and complexities—especially at a place like Harvard—we must focus on what is within our control to build toward a better future for all. How do we create space in the world for greater dialogue across our differences? How can a respect for difference mitigate violence and ultimately lead us to a world without war? How do we develop leaders who are attuned to the concerns of others, even as they advocate and work towards the concerns of their own communities? How do we develop leaders who are deeply informed about history and culture? And cultivate scholars who excel at examining the most intricate details of religious life and meaning?

Here, at Harvard Divinity School, we have a high calling, a lofty vision, a truly grand idea. We study and teach the world’s great traditions; we know and seek to understand the great sorrow and bitterness wrought by religion and religious divides; and, at the same time, we pursue and celebrate the great joy and connection inspired by faith and faith communities. I returned to Harvard, and to HDS in particular, in part because of the hope found here in these hallowed halls—the sense of possibility about what Harvard Divinity School has to offer a world in need. And we know that long before last year, there were already a plethora of issues that could benefit from the promise of our mission and vision.

In the United States, religion continues to play a role in our political debates and in society. Whether we were debating climate change, reproductive rights, gun laws, LGBTQIA+ issues, or the efficacy of public health efforts such as masking during a pandemic or the value of vaccinations, religion too often was wielded as a way to instigate social fracture. The things we label today as culture wars—from the banning of books to the fierce debates over the border, to the rise of particular forms of nationalism around the globe—are often rooted in issues of religious interpretation, religious difference, and ideas of dominance.

There is a way in which we as scholars of religion can take for granted the idea that everyone holds dear the values of pluralism and tolerance. These are often bedrock ideals in the humanities and in the social sciences, in particular. Indeed, as a form of practice, we scholars of religion intentionally think about the makings of our multifaceted religious worlds—the extensive histories, the sacred texts, the diverse communities, the balances or imbalances of power and resources, the affinities that make for religious devotion and care. How do we share these insights with a broader public amidst increasing social divisions, especially given that our hope for a multiracial and multireligious democracy depends upon our openness to others?

There is no shortage of reasoning as to why we need Harvard Divinity School and our many counterparts—schools, programs, and associations that focus on the study of religion. I’ve said many times as dean in these last months that HDS is a multireligious divinity school where we teach a multitude of traditions—Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism, African and Indigenous traditional religions. And we do so within a community that represents dozens of different faiths—including people who ascribe to multiple denominations or none at all, people who are discerning their beliefs and those who practice their faith religiously. This respect for pluralism within our community is intentional; it is intended to serve as a model for how to lead by example here at Harvard and beyond.

People from every background, belief system, family structure, class, creed, and ability are part of our shared humanity, especially here in the US. Ours is a multiracial and multireligious democracy, and this is not by accident, but by struggle and sacrifice. As a government “by the people and for the people,” the United States offers us a unique model: a representative democracy where the ideal of democracy is that everyone gets a vote and everyone has a voice.

But with that promise, we must also recognize that democracy is not a guarantee. It is a grand experiment that men and women have struggled to bring into being, and one that we have to struggle to keep. I learned this while conducting ethnographic research in Eastern North Carolina among Black Baptist women and men who advocated daily for the concerns of their community, whether for clean drinking water, justice for Black farmers, or educational parity. I learned by watching women in Georgia rally to register citizens to vote as civil rights workers had done generations before them, trying to bring all of God’s people to the table. And I learned it in reading the works of Mary McLeod Bethune, who—having dedicated her life to building what would become Bethune-Cookman University, argued that, “Education is the great American adventure, the world’s most colossal democratic experiment.”

We must participate in the process of democracy to protect and defend this way of life. This includes protecting and defending the foundation of education, which includes academic freedom and open inquiry. The very idea of this monumental institution, the historic Harvard University, incorporated before our nation was even founded, would not be possible without the ideals of democracy to guide us. Our ability to honor our diversity in background and diversity in beliefs will determine the future of our democracy and the potential for democracies around the globe. If we are to ensure that this multiracial, multireligious democracy that we ascribe to not only survives but thrives, we need the foresight that is at the heart of Harvard Divinity School’s vision statement: “To provide an intellectual home where scholars and professionals from around the globe research and teach the varieties of religion, in service of a just world at peace across religious and cultural divides.”

So, as we move into this new school year, I hold hope thanks to all of the good work HDS has already put into the world by way of our excellent faculty, our dedicated staff, our inspiring students, our remarkable alumni, and our supportive friends. And I hold hope for how HDS will grow into the future.

I hope for HDS . . . continued commitment to intellectual excellence. May we hold a sustained focus on the rigorous and engaged study of religion: to delve mindfully into the literature and sacred texts that inform religious communities; to excavate the unique and complex histories that explain their development; to wrestle with the anthropological and sociological matters that inform our contemporary realities; to always explore the ethical implications of their practices. And, this is only the start of our academic inquiries. Intellectual excellence is instrumental here at HDS for each degree program and each area of study, as well as throughout the field, as scholarly networks are built and strengthened.

I hope for HDS . . . continued commitment to character. May we have the foresight to engage in intellectual rigor that makes room for difference and honest debate; the type of character that holds in honor the humanity of those with whom we differ; the type of humanity that grieves with those who grieve, and cares for those in need regardless of our differences.

As I was reading Reverend Raphael Warnock’s memoir in preparation for tomorrow’s symposium, I came across a passage where he recounts a similar concern about character as he explains his decision to attend Morehouse College, his alma mater, which he holds in high regard for its commitment to the cultivation of what he calls mind and heart. As he considered matriculation at Morehouse, he came across a reflection by then 18-year-old Martin Luther King, Jr. in the school newspaper, where King shared his thoughts on education. King had observed that Eugene Talmadge, the “hate-filled segregationist governor of Georgia” held a Phi Beta Kappa Key. King reflected, “By all measuring rods Mr. Talmadge could think critically and intensively, yet he contends that I am an inferior being. Are those the types of men we call educated? We must remember that intelligence is not enough. Intelligence plus character. That is the goal of true education.” Training the head and tuning the heart, as Morehouse defines in its mission, exemplifies this essential element of teaching and learning. We will need character now more than ever to get through these dark days of discord, the type of character that insists on seeing and valuing the full humanity even of those with whom we disagree, and maybe even especially. This was in part the great genius of the Civil Rights Movement.

Finally, I hope for HDS . . . continued commitment to beloved community. May we have faith in ourselves and in each other that we can tend to our scholarly pursuits, our spiritual callings, and our dreams for a better future with care. May we work toward the possibility of a better future by creating more light and causing less harm. May we find solace in our sacred teachings, in our shared humanity, in the many ways that faith may sustain the spirit. And may we protect the privilege and the promise that education provides.

Please know that these hopes are ones I carry with me as a leader, as a scholar, as a mother, as a partner, and in each of the relationships I’ve been blessed with in my life. This emphasis on excellence, character, and community comes from the values my parents instilled in me since I was knee-high to a tadpole. In the face of adversity—particularly living through the Jim Crow era in the South—my parents held fast to their faith in the promise of a better future. They taught me the importance of education, the meaning of character, and the necessity of tending to one another with care. My parents may not be here with us today, but they are guiding me in spirit, and I pray that you feel that grace as I lead this extraordinary school.

In closing, I would like to invoke Zora Neale Hurston, a writer and anthropologist who inspired my love of stories with this keen observation attributed to her: “We are all storytellers, weaving the threads of our experiences into the grand tapestry of life.”⁸

May we listen to and truly hear one another’s stories. And may our commitments to intellectual excellence, character, and beloved community guide us now and always.

And yet . . . we hope.

Marla F. Frederick is Dean of the Faculty of Divinity, John Lord O’Brian Professor of Divinity, Professor of Religion and Culture at Harvard Divinity School, and Professor of African and African American Studies in the Faculty of Arts and Sciences. She is a leading ethnographer and scholar focused on the African American religious experience.