Letter to the Gentile Church

The words below belong to my friend Matt Davis, a Jewish believer and the co-founder of The Jewish Road. Matt has dedicated many years to helping others better understand Israel, the Jewish people, and the Jewish roots of our shared faith—work that has positioned him as a trusted and leading voice on these questions. I asked him to write a letter to the Christian church, sharing what was on his heart in this moment. It is a privilege to publish his letter here, and I invite you to read it prayerfully and with an open heart.

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Dear friends,

I write to you as a Jewish follower of Jesus, our Jewish Messiah, and as a teaching pastor who has spent years inside the modern American church. I love the Church. I have given my life to her. And because I love her, I need to speak plainly.

We are living in biblical times again. Not as metaphor. Not as hype. In the same sense the prophets, apostles, and early believers lived with the awareness that God was actively moving history toward His promises. The pages of Scripture are no longer distant. They are pressing in.

Here is what I see.

The Church loves the Israel of the Bible. We teach the stories. We preach the promises. We quote the prophets. We sing the psalms.

But when it comes to the Israel of today—the Jewish people who are still here, still scattered, still returning, and still contested—things get uncomfortable. The storyline that once felt clear now feels debated. Redefined. Complicated. Safer to keep at arm’s length.

Somewhere along the way, the solid line between Scripture and history became dashed. Then dotted. Then faint. And for many, it has all but disappeared. But God has not broken the line.

From the inside, covenant is not an idea. It is not a theological category. It is identity. It is memory carried in the body. It is promise passed down through generations that have known exile, survival, hatred, and hope all at once. When the Bible speaks about Israel, it is not speaking about a concept. It is speaking about a people God refuses to forget.

This is why Paul’s words in Romans 9 are not academic to me. His anguish is familiar. “My heart’s desire and prayer to God for them is that they may be saved.” That tension, love for his people, faith in Messiah, grief over blindness, hope for restoration, never goes away. It lives in me, too.

And I will tell you something that may be hard to hear.

It is painful to watch others define or redefine Israel while standing at a distance from the people themselves.

It is painful when Jewish identity is flattened into symbols, headlines, or arguments.

It is painful when the people of the Book are discussed endlessly but rarely listened to.

And yet, I remain hopeful. Because I also see Gentile believers who genuinely want to understand. Who sense that something matters here, even if they cannot yet articulate it. Who feel the weight of Scripture and refuse to dismiss what God has said, simply because it no longer fits neatly into modern categories.

So how do you love Israel rightly, from afar?

You start by refusing shortcuts.
You let Scripture speak before social media does.
You resist the urge to rush to conclusions without first sitting with the story.
You remember that God’s faithfulness to Israel is not a side issue. It is evidence that He keeps His word.

And you make room for Jewish believers like me, who walk between worlds.

I live in that tension every day. I know the language of the Church. I know her systems, her strengths, and her blind spots. I also know what it is to carry Jewish identity in a Western world that does not quite know what to do with it. I stand in Messiah, yet I remain Jewish. Those things are not opposed. They never were.

What gives me hope is this: the same Messiah who tore down the dividing wall is still doing that work. Not by erasing difference, but by redeeming it. Unity does not require sameness. It requires truth, humility, and faithfulness.

As the end draws nearer, clarity will matter more than comfort. The Church will need to remember her roots, not out of nostalgia, but out of obedience. The God who keeps covenant with Israel is the same God who grafted the nations in. If He can forget Israel, He can forget anyone.

But He will not. He never has.

My prayer is not that you would take a side, but that you would take God at His word. That you would hold fast to the storyline even when it feels costly. That you would love both the Jewish people and the Gentile Church enough to seek truth instead of ease.

The line is still there. God is still writing the story. And we are living in the middle of it.

With respect, urgency, and hope,

Matt

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If Matt’s words resonated with you as they have with me, you can continue listening and learning through the The Jewish Road’s blog or latest podcast episode, and learn more about supporting their important work here.

The True Israel

People sat scattered across the sofas and armchairs in my living room, Bibles open. We were wrapping up two years of studying the Torah together. The room felt thick with both accomplishment and unfinished business, like like we had reached a summit only to realize there was another massive ridge beyond it.

Then someone finally asked the question that we had been circling for weeks—maybe months:

“Okay, I get that this is about ancient Israel. I get that the Torah is their story. But where are these people today? Who is the true Israel? Who are these people now?”

It was an important and heartfelt question, and one that has seen heated debate by popular commentators. I swallowed, and opened my Bible to Romans 9, trying my best to help a room full of Christians make sense of a letter we’ve so often treated like a theology textbook. But as I began to guide us through the passage, something unexpected happened.

I felt anguish.

Paul’s words “not all Israel is Israel,” have come to mean so many different things and unleashed devastating outcomes he never intended. While the question itself was good and asked by someone sincerely searching for an answer, the fact that we even have to ask it left me deeply bothered me.

I was grieved that I—a Gentile follower of Jesus, disconnected from any Jewish community—was the one trying to answer it. What right do I have?

It doesn’t matter who I say Israel is. It matters who God says Israel is—and who the Jewish people themselves say they are. I felt that absence of a Jewish voice so sharply. But since I had no better option, I read Romans 9:2 aloud, feeling every word of Paul in my bones.

“I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart.”

— Romans 9:2

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The Tears Behind Romans

One of the most theological books in the New Testament contains a guttural lament.

Behind Paul’s careful reasoning stands a man with tears running down his face. A Jew born into Israel’s story, he now watched many of his own people reject the Messiah he believed was promised to them. The pain ran so deep that Paul said he would trade his own salvation if it could mean their redemption.

Romans, for all its theology, is still a letter—written to real people by a real person at a real moment in history. Like my small group, the believers in Rome were mostly Gentiles. Years earlier, Emperor Claudius had expelled the Jews from the city (around AD 49), scattering the Jews and Jewish followers of Jesus. By the time Paul wrote, the Roman house churches were Gentile-majority communities. That shift shaped how they saw themselves in God’s plan. They wondered, was God done with the Jews who had been run out of town?

So when Paul confronts this and asks, “Has God’s word failed?” (Rom. 9:6), he’s not condemning Israel’s disobedience. He’s defending God’s faithfulness in the face of Israel’s unbelief.

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The Famous Line

“For not all who are descended from Israel belong to Israel.” — Romans 9:6

Few lines in the New Testament have shaped Christian theology more—and perhaps few have been more misunderstood.

Over time, many interpretations have taken root:

• “Ethnic Israel isn’t the true Israel; the Church is.”

• “The modern state of Israel is different than the biblical nation of Israel. The true Israel is spiritual, believers in Christ.”

• “Israel is a symbol of God’s people—Christians.”

• “The true Israel is a lost group, scattered among the nations—not the Jewish people today.”

And on the sayings go. Together, these kinds ideas form what’s known as Replacement Theology—the belief that faith in Jesus replaces Israel’s covenantal election.

Toward the end of the first century, the Jew/Gentile house-churches in the Roman world became increasingly Gentile-majority. Over time, and for a variety of reasons, these Gentiles began to reinterpret Israel’s story as their own, recasting the Hebrew Scriptures through a distinctly Christian lens. Gradually, this led to a theology that redirected Israel’s promises to the Church—until “true Israel” came to mean believers in Jesus, and the Jewish people were seen as rejected, replaced, or set aside.

This shift left a deep interpretive scar that the Church has struggled to move past. Even today, most of us have inherited a story that strips of Israel of her biblical identity, and that has affected nearly every area of modern life and faith.

Our reasoning assumes Israel’s covenant identity depends on spiritual performance or political ideologies rather than divine promise. Yet Paul’s whole argument in Romans 9–11 rejects that idea.

Paul’s line, “Not all Israel is Israel,” doesn’t pit Israel against the Church. In his day, there was no “Church” to oppose Israel.

Instead, Paul was distinguishing between Israel—the unbelieving majority—and Israel—the faithful remnant within. Throughout Israel’s history, a faithful remnant preserved the covenant while others rebelled (see Elijah in 1 Kings 19, Isa. 10:22, Deut. 30:1–6).

The contrast Paul refers to is within Israel, not between Israel and the Church, or Israel and some other group. When Paul grieved over Israel, he wasn’t lamenting the faithful remnant but the unbelieving majority of his own people, the same covenant people still scattered among the nations and within the land today.

His hope was not in human persuasion or missionary effort, but in God’s faithfulness to redeem them. Israel’s story, in Paul’s view, is unfinished, but not forsaken.

That’s the part Christians so easily miss. It seems we have so easily allowed our doctrines and geopolitics to define Israel, rather than take God’s word for what he says about them.

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Who Israel Says She Is

That’s why I felt anguish that day in my living room. I have no right to answer the question.

For too long, Christians like me have done most of the talking about Israel. We interpret her Scriptures, stories, and prophecies. We define her identity, usually without hearing from the people to whom the story actually belongs. The Jewish people wrote and preserved the Scriptures we stake our lives on. Maybe we ought to listen to what they have to say about them, before forming our own conclusions.

If Paul’s words about the remnant are true, then that remnant still exists today.

So rather than simply explain what Paul meant in this article, I want to let someone who embodies Paul’s message do the talking.

My friend Matt Davis is a Jewish follower of Jesus and co-founder of The Jewish Road. He carries this tension in his own life. Matt feels the deep joy of knowing Messiah, a pastoral love for the Christian church, and the ache of longing for his people to know the Messiah too. Like Paul, Matt believes Israel’s story doesn’t end in rejection, but in redemption.

Here’s how Matt explains who the Jewish people are and what hope still burns for Israel’s future:

“The Jewish people, including those living in Israel today, are still part of that covenant family God chose through Abraham. But I understand why the question [of Jewish identity] comes up.

Some people assume that because most Jews today don’t believe in Jesus (about 98%), they must have forfeited their status as God’s chosen people. Others have heard conspiracy theories, that the modern State of Israel is just a political project, even a plot funded by wealthy families like the Rothschilds. Still others look at the return of Jewish people from all over the world and say, “How can these scattered, mixed-heritage people possibly be the same as the Israelites in the Bible? Too much time has passed. The diaspora has blurred it all.”

From there, it’s an easy leap for some to say, “Well, if the question of Jewish identity is that muddled, maybe the only real answer is that all the promises God made to the Jewish people now belong to a ‘new Israel’ - the church.”

But before you accept that conclusion, you have to ask: If the Jews living in Israel today are not the ‘real’ Jews…then who is?

History itself seems to have no confusion on this point. From the early church’s persecution to the Crusades, from the pogroms of Europe to the Holocaust, and even to the attacks of October 7, the Jewish people have carried a unique mark since the days of Abraham. If they are not the covenant people, why has the enemy - whether spiritual or human - been so consistent in identifying them as such? The Jewish people have been singled out again and again as those Jews, the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

God’s covenant was never based on flawless genealogy or perfect faith. It was based on His own promise. Throughout history, Israel has been exiled, scattered, and regathered - just as the prophets said would happen (Isaiah 43:5–6; Ezekiel 36:24). That scattering didn’t dissolve the covenant, it fulfilled the very warnings God gave through Moses. And the regathering we see today isn’t a random political accident - it’s part of the long, slow return that God Himself said He would accomplish.

As for unbelief, Paul is clear: “As regards the gospel, they are enemies for your sake, but as regards election, they are beloved for the sake of their forefathers” (Romans 11:28). 

The gifts and calling of God are irrevocable. Unbelief may break fellowship, but it cannot break the covenant.

So when you see Jewish people in the land of Israel today - whether they came from Ethiopia, Russia, America, or Yemen - you are looking at living evidence that God keeps His word. The covenant conversation is not about who holds the most pure DNA or whether the state of Israel’s politics are perfect. It’s about the faithfulness of the God who made an everlasting promise and has not gone back on it.[1]”

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Listening to the Voice of the Remnant

Matt’s words humble me, “Unbelief may break fellowship, but it cannot break the covenant.” I spent many years believing the deception because I was too naive and complacent in my own faith to go meditate in the Scriptures for myself. I believed because of my faith in Jesus I was “in,” and that was all I cared about. I tuned out in Romans. I did not heed the voice of the remnant God has so mercifully preserved. I read Paul, but I didn’t listen to Paul.

That was terribly wrong.

Now, I sit in repentance. God has been so merciful to bring me along. People like Matt have been so kind. They’ve helped me grow and welcomed me to the table to learn with them. But anguish still washes over me.

I grieve because I didn’t know God’s promises to Israel were still alive.

Paul grieved because he knew God’s promises to Israel were still alive.

Matt grieves, and also rejoices, because he knows those promises still reach into the present.

As Gentile believers, we must learn to carry that grief with the faithful remnant like Matt—not by speaking over Israel’s story, but by learning to honor the root that supports us.

Romans 9–11 is not an academic puzzle. It is a window into God’s heart.
A heart that refuses to abandon his people.
A heart that gathers the nations without discarding the firstborn son.
A heart that binds Jew and Gentile into one olive tree rooted in Abraham’s covenant.

We must find the humility to hear story of Israel as told by the faithful remnant today. To believe in who God says Israel is.

The Messiah of Israel will complete what he began—here, in the world he made, among the people he chose, for the sake of every nation he longs to bless.

This is the hope we stake our lives on. This is the gospel of the kingdom going out to the nations.

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Up Next: Matt’s words, and the questions that emerged in our small group, moved me so deeply that I knew the conversation couldn’t end there. I asked him to write a letter sharing what was on his heart for the non-Jewish American church. His words are honest, powerful, and carry a message we can’t afford to ignore. I’ll be publishing his letter here next week. Stay tuned and subscribe to stay up-to-date.

Notes

[1] The Jewish Road, Are the Jews in Israel Today Still the People of Promise?, accessed December 10, 2025, https://thejewishroad.com/blog/are-the-jews-in-israel-today-still-the-people-of-promise.

The Story of Shalom

This is spoken-word liturgy, originally shared as a testimony at my church, December 2025.

Creation

In the beginning—
when the world was wild and waste,
and darkness covered the face of the deep—
the Spirit hovered over the waters,
and the voice of God drew shalom out of chaos.¹

In the ancient days—
when giants walked the land
and violence devoured man and beast—
God sent a flood to cleanse the blood-soaked earth.
The Spirit hovered once more over the waters,
and His favor rested on Noah.
As the offering rose from the mountain of curse,
God hung His shalom in the sky
like a banner of promise.²

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Fathers

In the days of the Fathers— Abraham, Isaac, Jacob—
a promise followed the covenant family wherever they wandered:
blessing in the field, blessing in the womb;
thunder in the heavens, wrestling in the dust.
Yet the gospel of shalom glittered in the stars
and whispered in the sand.³

In the wilderness, Aaron the anointed one
lifted his face toward Israel and declared,
“Yahweh bless you and keep you;
Yahweh make His face shine upon you
and give you shalom.”²

To Israel God said,
“I will bless you… and I will give you shalom.”³
To them He promised,
*shalom in the land;
and shalom when you lie down
None will make you afraid.”⁴
He said,
“My presence will go with you,
and I will give you rest.”⁵

In the days of the holy tent,
He taught us through the shelamim—
the offering of peace—
that shalom is communion,
shalom is worship,
shalom is life in his presence.⁶

In the days of David,
he vowed a covenant of shalom,⁷
a promise stronger than exile,
wider than the wilderness.
Even the weary were told,
“You shall go to your fathers in shalom.”⁸

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Seers

And in the days of the great seers,
they lifted their voices and cried of Messiah:
“He shall be called the Prince of Shalom.”⁹
“Of the increase of His shalom there will be no end.”¹⁰

They gazed toward the mountains and proclaimed,
“How beautiful upon the hills
are the feet of the one who brings good news,
who proclaims shalom in Zion…”¹¹

They lamented Israel’s rebellion:
“You cry ‘shalom, shalom’—
but there is no shalom.”¹²

Yet even in grief they foretold hope:
“Upon messiah will fall the chastisement
that brings us shalom.”¹³
God’s covenant of shalom shall not be removed.¹⁴
“You shall go out in joy
and be led forth in shalom.”¹⁵

They promised a Shepherd
who would stand and guard flock of Yahweh—
and He would be their shalom.¹⁶ ¹⁷
And in this place—
this land of war and desolation—
the Most High God declared,
“In this place I will give shalom.”¹⁸

In the days of the psalmists,
days of exile and insecurity, they sang:
“In shalom I will lie down and sleep,
for You alone make me dwell in safety.”¹⁹
“Yahweh will bless his people with shalom.”²⁰
“Seek shalom and pursue it,”*²¹ they sang.
“The meek will inherit the land
and delight in abundant shalom,”²² they sang.
“In the days of Messiah may shalom abound
till the moon is no more.”²³
“He will speak shalom to His people.”²⁴
“Righteousness and shalom shall kiss.”²⁵ “And great shalom have those who love Your Torah.”²⁶

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Son

And then—
there was silence. Centuries of silence.
No seers. No songs.
No voice.
No shalom in Zion.

Until one night,
angels burst through the sky like radiant diamonds and declared,
“Glory to God in the highest, and shalom on the land
upon those on whom His favor rests.”³¹

A priest trembled in the temple as heaven broke in:
“Do not be afraid, Zechariah…
your son will prepare a people for Yahweh—
feet fitted with the gospel of shalom.”²⁷

A young woman in Nazareth
received a greeting of impossible peace:
“Shalom Mary, for Yahweh is with you.”²⁸

A child leapt in the womb,
and a mother cried blessing.²⁹
And an old priest prophesied
that the rising dawn from on high
would guide Israel’s feet
into the everlasting way of shalom.³⁰

An old man in the temple held the baby Yeshua
and whispered,
“Now dismiss Your servant in shalom—
for my eyes have seen Your salvation.”³²

And a prophetess watching nearby proclaimed
that the redemption of Israel had drawn near.³³

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Messiah

When that baby grew into a rabbi—
he looked out on a sea of brokenness from a dusty hillside,
and saw souls who knew more of oppression than exaltation,
more of hunger than fullness,
more of conflict than calm—
he lifted His voice and said,
“Blessed are the shalom-makers,
for they shall be called sons of God.”³⁴

And when He entered the city of peace—
Jeru-shalem—
He wept with holy anguish:
“If only you had known
for the things that would make for your shalom.”³⁵

At the table before His death, He said,
“My shalom I give you—
but not as the world gives.”³⁶

And at the stake of His execution—
when the serpent of old stirred the wild and waste in the hardened hearts of the rebellious,
when the powers of darkness surged and surrounded like dogs
to mock, mar, and make ruin of the Chosen One—
He made shalom
by the blood of His life.³⁷

He reconciled Israel,
and sprinkled clean the many from among the nations,
making us one family,
tearing down our walls of hostility,
preaching shalom to those near
and shalom to those far.³⁸

And after rising from the dead—
in rooms thick with fear,
in hearts sinking beneath the face of the deep—
He came and said:
“Shalom.”³⁹

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Until the Day

In the unsteady waters of our own lives, in the chaos waters of our own world—
we are able to look with great courage
for the day of the shalom of our God to visit us from on high.

For we know of His shalom there will be no end—
no end to the forever He brings.

He will soon crush the adversary under our feet,⁴⁰ because his shalom guards our hearts and minds,⁴¹
and shods our feet
to steady us for what is yet to come.⁴²

Even at Christmastime,
the present powers of darkness do not relent outside these church doors.
The wars do not stop.
The innocent find no reprieve.
They are plundered and preyed upon
while the great ones of the world say,
“Peace and safety—shalom is here.”

But the wise among us see their empty words for the delusion that they are.
For sudden travail will seize the foolish
like a thief in the night;
as a rider on a red horse awakens,
and it is given to him
to take shalom from the land.⁴³

But we—we who know the story of shalom—we who dwell in the shadow of the Most High and hold heavy the hope of Zion—we will not be moved.
The earth may quake,
the hills may melt,
and the hearts of the mighty may fail.
Though arrows fly by day
and the powers of the heavens are shaken,
we stand firm—
planted in the shalom that has been
since the foundations of the earth.

So we will not be surprised when a great harvest of righteousness
comes to those who have sown faithfully in shalom.
It grows right in the places
that today
are anything but peaceful.⁴⁴

So even when there is no fruit on the vine,
even when we tremble in the night,
our delight is in the shalom of the Lord—
the One who makes our burden light,
the One who makes our feet
to walk upon the heights.⁴⁵

NOTES (Scripture References)

1.      Gen. 1:2.

2.      Gen. 9:8–17.

3.      Gen. 12:1–3; 15:5; 22:17.

4.      Lev. 26:6.

5.      Exod. 33:14.

6.      Lev. 3; Lev. 7:11–21.

7.      2 Sam. 7:11; Ps. 89:3–4; cf. Ezek. 34:25; 37:26.

8.      Gen. 15:15.

9.      Isa. 9:6.

10.     Isa. 9:7.

11.     Isa. 52:7.

12.     Jer. 6:14; 8:11.

13.     Isa. 53:5.

14.     Isa. 54:10.

15.     Isa. 55:12.

16.     Mic. 5:4–5.

17.     Jer. 33:6.

18.     Hag. 2:9.

19.     Ps. 4:8.

20.     Ps. 29:11.

21.     Ps. 34:14.

22.     Ps. 37:11.

23.     Ps. 72:7.

24.     Ps. 85:8.

25.     Ps. 85:10.

26.     Ps. 119:165.

27.     Luke 1:13–17.

28.     Luke 1:28.

29.     Luke 1:41–45.

30.     Luke 1:78–79.

31.     Luke 2:14.

32.     Luke 2:29–32.

33.     Luke 2:36–38.

34.     Matt. 5:9.

35.     Luke 19:42.

36.     John 14:27.

37.     Col. 1:20.

38.     Eph. 2:14–17.

39.     John 20:19, 21, 26.

40.     Rom. 16:20.

41.     Phil. 4:7.

42.     Eph. 6:15.

43.     Rev. 6:4; 1 Thess. 5:2–3.

44.     James 3:18

45.     Hab. 3:17–19.

A Small Beginning

Even the smallest beginnings belong to God. What an encouraging truth.

When I first started writing, I didn’t have a goal. I only knew that I loved the process of searching, asking questions, and writing out words that helped me make sense of things I didn’t yet understand. Most of what I wrote never made it past my hard drive. It was invisible work. But over time, that small start became sacred. I had no idea I’d eventually write a book.

Most of God’s work begins that way: hidden, unrushed, and often unnoticed. Seeds take time to grow. Roots form long before fruit appears. And sometimes, what looks like silence and waiting is only the sound of something taking shape beneath the surface.

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Learning to See in the Small

Writing is one of the ways God has taught me to see. For a long time, I studied and wrote without an audience. I trusted that insight would lead to something more concrete—maybe a clear teaching role that would emerge in a traditional place. But now I see that the small moments took me in a different direction.

I expected God to call me to something, but looking back, I see he called me out. I took what seemed like a sharp turn from the main current—the river split, and there was a small tributary. A slower pace, meandering its quiet way to what looked like nowhere in particular. Yet on those narrow banks, God met me. And he was faithful to bring me along.

He kept telling me his story—again and again—until I finally slowed down enough to listen. Somewhere out there in the wild frontier, he pointed toward a mountain barely visible on the horizon and said, “Follow the tributary. Keep walking.”

So many times, I looked around—alone. No one ahead. Sometimes, no one behind. And I felt impossibly small.

But I’ve learned that small doesn’t mean insignificant. Faithfulness often looks like repetition—returning to the same page, the same desk, the same story that still has more to say. The labor of study and writing has become, for me, a kind of prayer. Some days it’s worship. Other days, it’s wrestling. But always, it’s an act of trust that what God began out on that little stream—out there on the frontier—he will finish.

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Gratitude for the Process

Writing my first book has made me deeply grateful—not only for what has been written, but for what the process itself has done in me.

For the patience it has required.

For the courage it’s summoned.


For the humility it has forged.


For the way it’s taught me to depend on God’s vision instead of my own.

I’m thankful, too, for the people who have walked beside me in these early steps—the ones who read drafts, offered encouragement, and reminded me that obedience matters more than outcomes. What began as a solitary journey into the unknown has, over time, gathered a few loyal companions—fellow travelers who can see that same distant mountain peak and are willing to keep walking toward it too.

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Thanksgiving and the Worship of Remembering

As we approach the season of Thanksgiving, I find myself reflecting on how often Scripture calls us to remember. Israel was told to remember the manna, the wilderness, the deliverance, the covenant, the bread and the cup—all the places where God had already been faithful.

Gratitude, at its core, is memory turned into worship.

Looking back now, I can trace the small beginnings that led here: the first time I opened my Bible with a small group waiting for me to lead; the first time I dared to write something honest; the first time I admitted, “I think I’m reading this wrong.” None of those moments felt extraordinary, but together they’ve become the path that brought me here.

I don’t know where this next chapter will lead. I never do. I only know that the words keep coming—never when I expect them, never how I imagine them—but they always come. The Spirit brings them and lays them before me: persistent, unceasing, waiting for me to write them down.

And I’m starting to believe that small beginnings matter. Not because they’re perfect or promising, but because they’re real. Because they remind us that God delights in beginning things—families, promises, and sometimes, even words.

So I give thanks for small beginnings—for honest starts, and for the quiet faith that keeps us at the desk when no one’s watching, that keeps us walking toward that distant mountain when no one else seems to care.

It’s out there—in the ambling tributary, far from the main current—that grace grows unseen.

And somehow, out here in the wilderness, I can feel it now: he is bringing back the force of the single river.

“Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin...”

— Zechariah 4:10 (NLT)

A God I Have Not Known

The headlines flicker like static on a broken radio: Israel accused, Gaza in ruins, the Middle East a tinderbox waiting for a spark. At first, urgency stirred prayer. But as the rage simmers on, prayer drifts to the background. It’s easy to grow numb while the war groans on.

In the static, I asked the Lord what he was saying in this season. He led me not to prophecy or psalms, but to four quiet chapters in the Hebrew Bible: Ruth.

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More Than a Love Story

The first time I studied Ruth, it was sold to me as a dating manual: “Wait for your Boaz, girls!” Later, I heard it taught as a Cinderella story of struggle and grace, or a women’s guide to friendship and redemption. Those readings aren’t wrong, but they are small.

Ruth’s story reveals something far deeper—and more dangerous.

The story begins with tragedy. A family from Bethlehem flees famine and resettles in Moab, enemy territory. There, the father and both sons die, leaving Naomi and her daughters-in-law destitute.

It’s a grim outlook for the vulnerable women bereft of their husbands. Naomi decides to head back home, perhaps hopeful that she can somehow scrape out an existence within the borders of her homeland. But as a displaced, aging widow, she’s in a dangerous position. In order to avoid dragging her daughters-in-law into it, she releases them from familial obligation, charging them to go back home to their own families and their own gods. Naomi implies “I’m a lost cause. Save yourselves while you still can.”

One daughter-in-law, Orpah, departs. But Ruth clings to her.

The Hebrew word for “cling” is the same as in Genesis 2: “a man shall cling to his wife.” Ruth utters the famous vow to Naomi:
“Where you go I will go, your people will be my people, and your God my God.”

The passage rings with the echos of Eden: bone of my bones, flesh of my flesh. Ruth welds herself to Naomi, willing to accept whatever lies ahead: poverty, debt, humiliation, danger, possibly even death. United as one, they head back to Israel. 

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Faith in the God of Israel

Those familiar with the story know how it goes. After returning to the land, Ruth, the young and able-bodied member of the impoverished duo, gathers leftover scraps from the barley harvest in a relative’s field. Boaz notices Ruth’s devotion. He blesses her, not merely for kindness, but for seeking refuge under the wings of Israel’s God. Her loyalty to Naomi is evidence of faith in the covenant-keeping God.

“She asked him, ‘Why have I found such favor in your eyes that you notice me – a foreigner?’

Boaz replied, ‘I’ve been told all about what you have done for your mother-in-law since the death of your husband – how you left your father and mother and your homeland and came to live with a people you did not know before. May the LORD repay you for what you have done. May you be richly rewarded by the LORD, the God of Israel, under whose wings you have come to take refuge.’”

Boaz blesses Ruth—an average, Gentile woman—because of her faithfulness to a powerless, wandering, Jewish refugee. He doesn’t just praise her benevolence and compassion. Instead, Boaz proclaims Ruth’s wisdom to stand by Naomi even when things looked bleak, trusting that Naomi’s God—the God of Israel—would come through for them both. Later in the story, Boaz comes through for Naomi by marrying Ruth, effectively saving both women from a life of misery and probable death.

But curiously, this time reading through Ruth I noticed it’s not the women that are the focus of the salvation narrative. It’s actually Naomi’s property and the family name that become the object of attention.

“Then Boaz announced to the elders and all the people, ‘Today you are witnesses that I have bought from Naomi all the property of Elimelek, Kilion and Mahlon. I have also acquired Ruth the Moabite, Mahlon’s widow, as my wife, in order to maintain the name of the dead with his property, so that his name will not disappear from among his family or from his home town. Today you are witnesses!’

The story ends with the birth of Obed, Ruth and Boaz’s son, grandfather of King David. But the true redemption rests with Naomi—her land restored, her family name secured, her hope renewed. And all because a Gentile woman refused to abandon her.

Ruth is not just a tale of romance or personal friendship. It is a call to the nations: love the Jewish people in their darkest hour, and trust the God who promised to bless the world through them.

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The Question Ruth Sets Before Us

In times of war and rising hostility, Ruth’s story pierces me. Am I willing to love a people—and a God—I perhaps do not fully understand? Am I willing to cling to their story, even when it costs me comfort, reputation, or safety?

Too often I’ve read Ruth as if it were about me—my needs, my redemption. But Ruth confronts me with something larger: faith in Israel’s God revealed through love for Israel’s people. This dainty, often trivialized book is, in fact, a powerhouse of wisdom for Gentiles in an age of love grown cold.

The world still trembles like a tinderbox. Israel’s neighbors rage. The nations plot. And the family of Messiah suffers in the shadows of our indifference.

In Israel’s dark days—much like today—when the world was hostile and everything seemed broken, the book of Ruth revealed truth and human inadequacy. It forces us to look plainly at our hearts, prayers, commitment to scripture, and the role God expects of those who bear His name. To read Ruth responsibly, to pray rightly for neighbor and foe alike, requires humility to take ourselves out of the center.

That preaches well. But it lives hard.

Love was hard in the days of Cain, harder in the days of Noah. It was hard in Naomi’s day, and it remains hard now.

Too often, I have read Ruth in a way that remakes God in my image. I’ve settled her story into my own framework, quick to dismiss Proverbs 3:5, quick to follow Orpah’s path—turning away from a God and a people I did not know. But as scholar John Walton reminds us,

“[God] has given us sufficient revelation so we might have some sense of his plans and purposes and trust him sufficiently to become participants in those plans and purposes...Our response ought to be to acknowledge the wisdom and authority of God...our response is to trust him.”

— John Walton

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Ruth—a powerhouse of wisdom for Gentiles in an age of love grown cold.

Meanwhile the nations reel, and the family of Messiah withers in the shade of Jonah’s tree. Like Jonah sulking under his vine, I sometimes find myself nursing resentment there too. Yet our God is faith to meet broken people under the trees. He asks: “Should I not have compassion on them too—the people I’ve loved and named as my own? If you are not willing to embrace them, you are not willing to embrace me. Am I a God you do not know?”

The chance to love like Ruth is now. The book of Ruth insists that Gentile faith is proven not by words alone, but by loyal love for the people God calls his own. Will I look on God’s people with compassion? Will I look on their enemies this way?

Give us the eyes to see, oh Lord. Give us the ears to hear. Awaken us to the call of your word and prepare our hearts for the frontier that awaits.

Don’t let our love grow cold. 

The Plea of the Lamb

Half of the world is hopeful and drunk
while the other half burns to the ground.
Sipping on cocktails and telling the tall tales
while survivors sweep ash off burial mounds.
Deception hangs thick, the shofar blasts sound,
the days of Noah counting us down.
Glasses in hand, raise a toast to the future,
glazing right over the foreboding picture
while dust collects on our leather-bound scriptures.
Labor pains start.
It’s cold in the human heart.

In Judea the hills still echo the pain
of Mary’s soft wails, a lament for the slain.
But in churches her mourning's drown out by our shouts.
"Death is no more! I was lost, now I'm found!"
When a Passover Lamb is hung up on a tree,
blood over the door, I claim it’s for me.
We shout, “He is risen! He is risen indeed!"
Deaf to its meaning: Israel’s redeemed.
And the songs of Zion
all tangled in Babylon's trees.

Holy land polluted with rivers of blood
fresh as a daisy as envy goes crazy.
Your people stumble, always war and infighting,
missed their Messiah, now Your face is hiding.
A blessing, a promise, all the good in the world.
You’ll bring it through them, yet we twist Your words,
"Did God really say? No way, its not true.
Our theology fixed that. See these New Testament moves?"
Golden calf, on our knees,
worshipping our sound beliefs
as Abel’s blood cries,
“How long will you wait, oh Lord?”

Baby in a basket floats strait to the hunter.
Daddy’s dream saves the baby boy destined to suffer
for the red-headed babies ripped from their mother.
Their caskets float past us while we sit and wonder
which store has the best price on the candy and baskets,
the trinkets we’ll hide to keep ourselves distracted
from the blessing we stole, from the heel we have grabbed,
plant our cross on the hill and claim the side that was jabbed.
We wave palms high and preach, “God died for you.”
Erasing his crime: King of the Jew.

This world goes blind as Rachel's children are dying.
They fade into dust, yet we never stop crying,
"We love you, Lord Jesus!”
Forgotten, the least of these.

So we spurn ‘em, burn ‘em, don’t return ‘em.
Use ‘em, defuse ‘em, execute ‘em.
Back ‘em, sack ‘em, counter-attack ‘em.
Leave ‘em, chide ‘em, evangelize ‘em.
Complain ‘em, frame ‘em, downplay ‘em.
Hate ‘em, grate ‘em, devastate ‘em.
Wreck ‘em, deck ‘em, what-the-heck ‘em.

They’re still God's chosen ones,
still wrestlin’ with the worst of us.

So the Nile runs red,
and Judah’s scepter’s still true.
The stars in the heavens
know he loves you.
His love rests on you, dears,
his love rests on you.
Word in the heavens
is he still loves you.

Yeah, Jacob’s in trouble,
'cause we beat him up.
Sold him for rank,
our silence casting his lot
while they ransack and pillage,
terrorize, rape.
Us emotionless watching, stoic our face.
Lips rehearse empty prayers and hollow we stand,
bloodguilt of our brothers stains our holy hands.

The Son reigns on high
at the right hand,
but the bowls grow heavy
as blood soaks the land.
“Worthy is the Lamb,
at dawn you must ride!
Mount the great clouds
and rescue your bride!”

Still he pleads with the Father
to remember his land,
remember the people he numbers like sand:

      "Remember your promise to Abraham,
      remember Egypt, and your outstretched hand.
      Don’t pour out your wrath yet.
      Wait one more generation.
      Just a little more time,
      for the sake of the nations.
      The hatred will grow, yes,
      but so will the love.
      So the whole world will know
      the God of Jacob.
      Forgive them all,
      great God of Jacob.”

“Through us and the church, infinite wrong was done...We accuse ourselves for not standing to our beliefs more courageously, for not praying more faithfully, for not believing more joyously, and for not loving more completely.”

— Stuttgart Declaration of Guilt, German church leaders, October, 1945