I did not know the Asheri family, but I could not help but be at the funeral of the murdered 18-year-old boy, Eliyahu. The people of Israel prayed for the well-being of the kidnapped Israelis Gilad Shalit and Eliyahu Asheri, and the news of Eliyahu's murder cut like a knife.

Eliyahu, a student at the pre-military yeshiva school in N'vei Tsuf, was hitchhiking back to the school and was picked up in the French Hill bus stop. It seems that within a very short time, he was murdered and the car of the terrorists continued towards Ramallah. It was not very long before Israeli intelligence was able to pinpoint the location of one of the kidnappers and an army unit surrounded the house in El-Bireh. The captured, frightened murderer quickly described the whole incident and took the soldiers to the location of the body.

I arrived at the funeral saddened and pained, and yet very angry. I was fuming at a world press that carried headlines like "Settler's body believed found".

This was not an eighteen year old boy murdered trying to hitchhike to a school outing. His body, according to CNN, was not really human. It was a settler's body. In any other situation and in any other part of the world, such a headline would be unheard of. Yet, when the hatred is so great, it negates news reporting standards and completely distorts simple standards of humanity.

I was equally aghast at statements by Israel's governing politicians that made powerful demands regarding the kidnapped soldier Gilad Shalit, but completely ignored any public statements regarding the resident of Itamar who was kidnapped as well.

At the funeral home, I found myself enveloped by the thousands standing in the hot Jerusalem sun. As we waited for the funeral to begin, the crowd said Psalms together and began to move closer to each other. At some point, the family arrived with the body and suddenly all the voices were dimmed as the sound of Eliyahu's family and classmates crying out in anguish and pain filled the air. The sound of those cries never abated throughout the long funeral service. There were no attempts to be strong or to present a restrained front. This was simple pain and grief, expressed freely.

Even though the thousands of people who were there were not related, and most did not even know the Asheris, there was a strong sense of being amongst family. The family cried out unabashedly and the thousands wept together with them. Someone had purchased bottles of water and they were being passed from one person to another in the blistering heat. The chief rabbi, Shlomo Amar, spoke and broke into tears. The same wave of sadness and pain overwhelmed every speaker.

They described a boy who believed in loving others and had begun to master the art of prayer. One of the cynics on radio, upon hearing this description commented that obviously prayer did not "work" this time. in addition to the inappropriate cruelty of these words , they reflect a deep level of ignorance and arrogance. Societies that are built around selfish needs cannot comprehend the depths of true prayer. Prayer, as Eliyahu clearly understood, is not about getting G-d to change His mind, but it is about us becoming changed through prayer.

That was the feeling at this funeral. Nothing was being changed with the recitation of the Psalms - except us. I looked around me and, though I did not recognize a lot of these people, I knew them all. These are the people who belong to that large, anonymous and intimate extended family to which I belong. They feel the same pain about the land of Israel that I do. They are all motivated by the same Divine vision that I pray motivates me, as well. They are discounted, and sometimes ridiculed, by so many others in this country and in the world for believing in the same things I do.

In the midst of all the pain around me, I felt so much a part of this family. Yet, at the same time, I began to feel so alienated from all those who were not at the funeral and who would never have been there. Was there any hope of uniting this family with their more distant relatives, who at that moment felt so distant? Was there a wall being built around me that was impenetrable?

Could I relate to those in Israel seemingly oblivious to Israel's destiny? Was I connected to my brethren in the exile who were constantly expressing their concern, advice and criticism, and yet continued living there? What was my relationship to my fellow Jews who were passionate about Judaism, but who remained silent and indifferent to the plight of the individual Jews of Gush Katif?

It was then that I heard Eliyahu's mother, Miriam, speak. "Eliyahu, our darling, you went up in a storm of the night like Elijah the prophet," she said. She described how the family would sit around the Shabbat table and Eliyahu would repeat again and again not to judge people, "not by outward appearances nor by stigmas."

"I have one big request for you, Eliyahu," Miriam said, "when you stand before God, please defend the people of Israel in the midst of all its actions."

Eliyahu's father, Yitro, read an article Eliyahu had written about prayer a short time before he was murdered. In it, he describes the elevated spirit of prayer and the understanding that all have a point of holiness in their soul that can be reached.

The wall that was built around me out of pain began to melt away. I am still aware that my difficulties with those with differing yearnings is mirrored by their difficulties with people such as myself. Yet, if Eliyahu's deep insight is to begin to flower and blossom, then it needs to be held on to ferociously.

In one of the national newspapers, a columnist described receiving a text message on his cell phone that gripped his heart. In the midst of the messages about travel opportunities and special sales, he received a message that said, "Please pray these psalms for Eliyahu Pinhas ben Miriam and Gilad ben Aviva and pass this message on to five other people." Throughout the country, he wrote, were people of different religious bents and differing views, all saying the same psalms for two boys they did not even know. Regrettably, he continued, it is only in such times that we begin to realize that we are all one family, and that we truly need each other.