By sheer virtue of my role as senior pastor, I function as the on-demand library for words with weight. I am the go-to for hard theological questions, for important announcements and for preaching at funerals so tragic that people say, “There are no words.”

But I have my limits.

The war between Israel and Hamas is one such situation. Words flow with neither ease nor conviction. My pastoral prayers stumble between trite requests for “peace in the Middle East” and vague references to Jesus being from the Holy Land.

I struggle with what people to name, what points to make, what places to emphasize. Hamas are Palestinians, but not all Palestinians are Hamas. Israelis are a mix of ultra-Orthodox, religious, traditional and secular. And America’s role in the conflict is at the same time appreciated, demanded, contested and reviled.

The conflict is so layered with exceptions, caveats, history, politics and context that “it’s complicated” is the only universally applicable phrase I can come up with. But “it’s complicated” is a terrible prayer. And terribly weak in the face of the horrific events that started Oct. 7, 2023.

To make matters worse, what words I do offer expose my lack of expertise. As an American Christian minister who has made two pilgrimages to Israel, I am well-versed on Holy Land Bible sites but ill-informed on Israeli-Palestinian relations. I have walked where Jesus walked, but I have not been inside an Israeli settlement or a Palestinian refugee camp. Seeing young Israeli soldiers walking with assault rifles slung over their shoulders like crossbody bags is certainly jarring, but that hardly counts as deep knowledge.

In these moments when I am leading prayer, I am hyperaware of the people in the pews. Some sit up straight, rapt with attention, hoping my words will match their sentiments exactly. Others check out at the mere mention of war, overwhelmed by the news or numb to its impact. Some seethe with anger. There are even those who wear their sadness as if cradling the dead in their very own bodies.

The only thing I can really do is admit how hard it is to find the words to pray about the Israel-Hamas war.

Yet even as I struggle to speak, I know we can lose our words without losing our prayer.

Prayer exists along the same transcendent plane as art or music. It does not need words to bring us to a place of reconciliation and peace; prayer is already there.

Genesis 25:8-9a says, “Then Abraham breathed his last and died at a good old age, an old man and full of years; and he was gathered to his people. His sons Isaac and Ishmael buried him in the cave of Machpelah” (NIV).

These verses read like a footnote, so small we are prone to overlook them. But think about what they mean: Ishmael must have returned; he and Isaac buried Abraham, their father — together.

If the half brothers spoke to one another, Scripture does not record it. As far as we know, no words were exchanged. But this scene is the essence of prayer: Isaac and Ishmael, both “his sons,” with complicated, tragic, intertwining stories, side by side in the face of death.

When words end, true prayer begins.

Prayer exists along the same transcendent plane as art or music. It does not need words to bring us to a place of reconciliation and peace; prayer is already there.