There are weeks when the news feels like a constant drumbeat of dread, when each alert or headline chips away at our sense of safety and certainty. And then there are moments, just barely, when the rhythm shifts. When the air holds something quieter, more tentative. A pause. A ceasefire.
That is where we find ourselves now.
After a week of escalation and dread, the world has stepped back from the edge. America, with decisive clarity, helped arrest the spiral. And now, at least for now, there is a stillness.
I do not pretend to know how long it will last. Ceasefires in the Middle East are fragile things. But I know this: I am holding onto it with both hands.
Because a ceasefire, for all its impermanence, is the closest thing we have to a prayer answered.
And so tonight, and every night, I return to the words of Shalom Rav, the prayer for peace that has been on Jewish lips for centuries. We recite it each evening not because we are naive, but because we are persistent. Because our tradition teaches us that peace is not a wish, it is an aspiration – one that begins with words, and ends in deeds.
שָׁלוֹם רָב עַל יִשְׂרָאֵל עַמְּךָ תָּשִׂים לְעוֹלָם
כִּי אַתָּה הוּא מֶלֶךְ אֲדוֹן לְכָל הַשָּׁלוֹם
וְטוֹב בְּעֵינֶיךָ לְבָרֵךְ אֶת עַמְּךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל
בְּכָל עֵת וּבְכָל שָׁעָה בְּשְׁלוֹמֶךָ
Grant abundant peace to Your people Israel forever.
For You are the Sovereign, Master of all peace.
May it be good in Your eyes to bless Your people Israel
at all times and in every hour with Your peace.
There is a line in that prayer that always gives me pause:
“בְּכָל עֵת וּבְכָל שָׁעָה” – “at all times and in every hour.”
Because peace is not seasonal. It is not something we pursue only in the wake of war or terror. It is something we are meant to seek always. It is something we are meant to build, not just after the smoke clears, but while the world still trembles.
Even now. Especially now.
I spoke to Liv tonight as she walked by the sea. Her voice was calm, her steps steady. Just hearing the waves behind her brought tears to my eyes. There was something about that moment, a father listening to his daughter find peace in the rhythm of the water, that made the words of the prayer feel real again.
So tonight, I say Shalom Rav a little slower. A little softer. I savour the hope tucked between its lines. I pray not only for a peace that holds, but for the strength to hold onto it.
For Israel.
For her neighbours.
For all of us.
May our words carry more than worry.
May our prayers carry more than hope.
And may the Eternal, who grants peace each night, let it last a little longer this time—
long enough to become the world we live in, not just the one we long for.
Photo Credit: The image “Shpatzir” was created with ChatGPT.