There is a time for commentary, and there is a time for kavod, for reverence.
Over the past several days, the world has witnessed events that will no doubt be analysed and debated for weeks and months to come. Military strategists will speak of precision, journalists will report on politics, and analysts will try to make sense of Israel’s decision to act pre-emptively in response to overwhelming and credible threats from the Iranian regime. Yes, this time, Israel struck first. But it did so not in aggression, but in defence. With a heavy heart and sober intent, it acted to protect life, as any nation must when faced with imminent danger.
Yet amid all this noise and narrative, I find myself drawn not to the battlefield or the headlines, but to something far quieter, far holier.
Our daughter Liv is currently living and studying in Israel. These past few days have tested our faith and resolve in ways we could not have imagined. As parents, we know what it is to worry, but this is something deeper. To witness your child under threat, from afar, with nothing more than WhatsApp messages and voice notes and short video clips to reassure you, is to feel the fragility of life in your bones.
And yet, it is precisely in that fragility that I have discovered an awe I can barely articulate, a profound respect and admiration for the people of Israel, whose spiritual resilience is nothing short of miraculous.
What moves me most in this moment is not the might of Israel’s defence, but the quiet strength of her people. The mothers and fathers who raise their children in a land where fear and faith are constant companions. The young adults who don’t just study texts of heroism, they live them. The elders who have seen war and terror before, and still speak the language of hope.
Even now, as many remain indoors, as schools and streets lie quiet, there is an almost sacred insistence on normalcy. Meals are shared. Children are soothed. Songs are sung at bedtime. And amidst the trembling and the sirens and the relentless phone alerts, life continues, not in defiance of fear, but in sanctification of life, a stark and sacred contrast to the cult of death that seeks Israel’s destruction, and ours.
They are not going to work and school and synagogue and supermarket. But nevertheless, they are trying to lead lives of meaning and presence. They are clinging to routine where they can. And in so doing, they remind us that strength is not found only in arms or armies, it is found in lullabies and in liturgy, in steadfastness and in love.
For me, that truth has taken shape in a single prayer, one that is traditionally recited each night as part of the evening liturgy, and again during the bedtime Shema. It’s called Hashkiveinu, a plea that the Eternal spread sheltering peace over us as we lie down, and help us rise again in renewal.
But in recent days, I have begun saying this evening prayer each morning. Because my morning here is their evening there. And as the sun rises for me, it sets for my daughter, and for our friends and family in Israel. In that quiet, liminal hour, when they should be laying their heads down to rest, I offer these words on their behalf. Words of protection. Of comfort. Of yearning. That they may lie down in peace. That they may wake up whole.
And yes, I include in my prayer the innocent people of Iran, those caught in the grip of a regime that acts in their name but without their consent. I wish them no harm. Only safety, dignity, and freedom from fear.
This is the prayer I say, each morning, for those who should be finding rest:
הַשְׁכִּיבֵנוּ יְיָ אֱלֹהֵינוּ לְשָׁלוֹם, וְהַעֲמִידֵנוּ מַלְכֵּנוּ לְחַיִּים. וּפְרוֹשׂ עָלֵינוּ סֻכַּת שְׁלוֹמֶךָ, וְתַקְּנֵנוּ בְּעֵצָה טוֹבָה מִלְּפָנֶיךָ וְהוֹשִׁיעֵנוּ לְמַעַן שְׁמֶךָ. וְהָגֵן בַּעֲדֵנוּ, וְהָסֵר מֵעָלֵינוּ אוֹיֵב וְדֶבֶר וְחֶרֶב וְרָעָב וְיָגוֹן, וְהָסֵר שָׂטָן מִלְּפָנֵינוּ וּמֵאַחֲרֵינוּ, וּבְצֵל כְּנָפֶיךָ תַּסְתִּירֵנוּ, כִּי אֵל שׁוֹמְרֵנוּ וּמַצִּילֵנוּ אָתָּה, כִּי אֵל מֶלֶךְ חַנּוּן וְרַחוּם אָתָּה. וּשְׁמוֹר צֵאתֵנוּ וּבוֹאֵנוּ לְחַיִּים וּלְשָׁלוֹם, מֵעַתָּה וְעַד עוֹלָם. וּפְרוֹשׂ עָלֵינוּ סֻכַּת שְׁלוֹמֶךָ, בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, הַפּוֹרֵשׂ סֻכַּת שָׁלוֹם עָלֵינוּ וְעַל כָּל עַמּוֹ יִשְׂרָאֵל וְעַל יְרוּשָׁלָיִם.
Lay us down, Eternal our God, in peace, and raise us up again, our Sovereign, to life. Spread over us the shelter of Your peace. Guide us with Your good counsel. Save us for the sake of Your name. Shield us. Remove from us enemies, plague, sword, famine, and sorrow. Remove the adversary from before us and from behind us. Shelter us in the shadow of Your wings. For You, Eternal, are our guardian and deliverer. For You, Eternal, are a gracious and compassionate ruler. Guard our going out and our coming in, to life and to peace, from now and forevermore. Spread over us the shelter of Your peace. Blessed are You, Eternal, who spreads the shelter of peace over us, over all Your people Israel, and over Jerusalem.
Each day, as the sun begins to set over the hills of Jerusalem and the shores of Tel Aviv, as kibbutznikim close their gates and families lock their doors, I offer these words, on behalf of Liv, and on behalf of all who dwell in the land.
May they lie down in peace.
May they rise up in renewal.
And may the day soon come when this ancient prayer is no longer whispered in fear,
but sung in gratitude, under skies that are quiet, and hearts that are whole.
Photo Credit: The image “Bedtime Prayer” was created with ChatGPT.