When my sister in Israel mentioned she would stop in New York on her way to our nephew’s wedding in Cartagena, Colombia, she casually noted that her trip coincided with the upcoming inauguration of the returning President, Donald J. Trump. Attending a presidential inauguration had never crossed my mind before. But recognizing how rare and special this moment could be for my sister and brother-in-law, I decided to try to make it happen.

I reached out to our congressman’s office to inquire about tickets to the event, and I was placed on a waitlist. Only a couple of days before the ceremony, I received confirmation that our group would have seats in one of the front sections — on the condition that we arrive early and brave hours in the freezing cold. We were willing. But then, the last-minute news that the inauguration would be moved indoors, to the Capitol’s rotunda, brought mixed feelings. The rotunda, surrounded by statues of presidents and icons of American history, seemed like the natural setting. Yet, something about standing outside, in the open air, witnessing history — even at a distance and in the bitter cold — felt more symbolic and raw.

During the ceremony, which we ended up watching on TV at the hotel, there occurred an unplanned moment of silence. It was a brief, yet profound interruption amidst the tightly choreographed and meticulously rehearsed proceedings. The microphones had stopped working, and just for a minute, everything went silent.

That unexpected moment of silence reminded me of the silence we allow during the Shabbat prayer services in our synagogue. On Friday nights and Saturday mornings, after completing the silent Amidah, I always pause, allowing each congregant to finish at his or her own pace, before we continue praying aloud. It’s a simple but intentional moment — a chance for everyone to catch up, to reflect, to breathe.

Silence is a profound and humble teacher. It invites reflection, presence and unity. In that stillness, we are reminded of our shared humanity. I can’t help but think that this is exactly what our country, and perhaps the world, desperately need right now: a collective moment of silence — a time to pause amidst the clamor and chaos, to catch our breath, and to allow one another the opportunity and the space to catch up.

As we marked Martin Luther King Jr. Day, we were reminded of his enduring message of justice, compassion and unity. Silence, too, can be an act of justice. It can be a reset, a gesture of humility and hope, an interlude in which to make a place for the voices of others and to reflect on our shared path forward.

May we find the courage to embrace moments of silence, not as interruptions but as opportunities — moments to heal, to reflect, and to breathe together as a nation.

—Rabbi Gadi Capela