The Days of Miracles and the Hand of God

The Days of Miracles and the Hand of God

There are moments in history when the fog clears, and we glimpse—if only for a moment—the unmistakable imprint of the Divine. We are living through one of those moments now.

Over the past eighteen months, since the horrors of Simchat Torah 5784, our people have found themselves in the heart of a storm. The assault was not merely physical—it was existential. Hamas, Hezbollah, Iran: names we know, but what they represent is ancient. The same hatred, the same desire to annihilate, the same cruelty dressed in new language. And yet, the same enduring story of the Jewish people: survival, resilience, and somehow—always—hope.

There have been miracles. Real ones.

A bus bomb, discovered with seconds to spare. A missile fired, and for reasons no military expert can fully explain, it failed to detonate. A drone intercepted just metres before it would have struck a civilian target. The much-feared Iranian missile barrage weeks ago—over 300 threats from the skies—met with an Iron Dome not of steel alone, but of spirit, of science, of global cooperation and yes, of God. Every single one stopped. Every single life spared.

Some call it luck. Others call it technological superiority. But we know something deeper: this is Providence. The God of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps.

We are watching the miraculous unfold not in biblical parchment but in the headlines of today’s papers. In the quiet decision of a mother to take a different bus. In the instinct of a soldier to turn left instead of right. In the fact that a people once written off by history continues to write history.

As Shabbat draws near, Jews around the world will light candles, sing Shalom Aleichem, and pray for peace. But this Shabbat is different. Our thoughts, our hearts, our prayers are in Israel. With the soldiers in Gaza and the north. With the parents who’ve not slept properly in months. With the children who jump at every siren. With the hostages—still—who remain in darkness.

But our prayers are not only for Jews. Iran’s ambitions are not local. They are global. A regime that chants “Death to Israel” and “Death to America” does not confine its hatred. The Jewish people are the canary in the coal mine. What begins with us never ends with us. Our fate, in some strange and painful way, becomes a test of civilization itself.

And so, we pray—for the safety of Jews, and for the safety of all who stand for life over death, hope over fear, freedom over tyranny.

Here in London, too, we feel the tremors. Our security has been heightened, our schools watched more closely, our synagogues on alert. The threat feels nearer than it did a year ago. And yet, the atmosphere is not one of panic. It is one of determination. A quiet, firm resolve that we will not hide, we will not bow, and we will not let darkness win.

Something else has emerged in this painful time: a remarkable unity.

We Jews have a reputation for arguing. We debate everything, from halacha to hummus. But in times of danger, something ancient awakens. A primal, spiritual memory. We remember that we are family. Across denominations, languages, and lands—there is a newfound togetherness. Like in the days of Haman, in ancient Persia—modern-day Iran—when a genocidal threat led to the unification of the Jewish people, so too today, scattered as we are, we are once again standing shoulder to shoulder.

And how remarkable it is that this week, as these events unfold, Jews in every corner of the globe will open their Chumashim to Parshat Beha’alotecha—and read these words from Bamidbar (Numbers 10:9):

“And if you go to war in your land against the enemy that oppresses you, then you shall sound the trumpets, and you shall be remembered before the Lord your God, and you shall be saved from your enemies.”

What extraordinary timing. The Torah, eternal and alive, speaks to us directly. The battles may be modern, but the promise is ancient. In our moments of fear, we are called not to despair, but to faith. In our moments of danger, we are reminded that God does not forget His people.

And the feeling in the air now is strangely familiar. It recalls the Six Day War of 1967. Then, too, the world held its breath as a tiny nation stood alone against many. Then, too, people feared the worst. And then, too, the world watched in astonishment as the impossible happened. The map was redrawn—not just politically but spiritually. It was a moment when history itself was bent toward the miraculous.

Today, there is the same tension. The same uncertainty. But also, the same faith. The same prayer. The same quiet whisper that, somehow, we will prevail.

Because Am Yisrael Chai. The people of Israel live. Not merely survive—but live with passion, with vision, with mission. We are not here by chance. We are here by covenant.

So as the sun sets tonight and we bless the wine and the bread, let us carry that awareness into Shabbat. That ours is a story not only of suffering, but of destiny. That even in the fire, there is light. That the One who brought us through Egypt, Babylon, and Auschwitz is the same One who watches over us now.

And that we, the Jewish people—fractured, flawed, and fiercely faithful—are part of something far greater than ourselves.

May God protect His people. May He protect all people. And may we merit to see days of peace, swiftly and soon.