The Story of Shalom
In the beginning, when the world was wild and waste, when darkness covered the face of the deep, the spirit of God hovered over the waters and drew shalom out of chaos.
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
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
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
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
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
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 starts unseen can become sacred—because even invisible work can be an offering.
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.
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.
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.
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...”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.”