SHABBAT SHALOM
While proofreading my latest archaeological action-adventure novel, I found myself once again walking—at least in my imagination—across the windswept heights of Masada, rising dramatically above the Judean Desert.
Masada is an extraordinary place.
Built upon a seemingly impregnable mountain and transformed by Herod the Great into a magnificent desert fortress, its hanging palace must have been breathtaking in its day. Even by modern standards, the view across the Dead Sea and the wilderness below is unforgettable. If Herod's palace were somehow a hotel today, I suspect it would have quite the waiting list!
Yet Masada is remembered for far more than its grandeur.
Years after Herod, Jewish rebels and their families sought refuge upon this mountain during their final resistance against Rome. Surrounded by the Roman army and watching the great siege ramp slowly rise toward their walls, Masada became the setting for one of the most tragic and haunting episodes of the ancient world.
Having travelled, worked, and excavated around the Judean Desert for many years—from Jerusalem to Qumran, Nahal Hever, and Wadi Murabba'at—I sometimes miss the dust, the heat, the excavations, and that wonderful feeling of standing where history unfolded thousands of years ago.
But as I reflected upon Masada this week and turned again to the pages of Scripture, another thought came to me.
Sometimes we forget just how great our God is.
Masada stands like a giant stone sentinel above the desert. For thousands of years, storms have beaten against its cliffs. Empires have risen and fallen. Armies have marched through the wilderness below. Kings have disappeared into history.
Yet the mountain remains.
And perhaps that is why the imagery of Scripture is so powerful:
“The LORD is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer.” — Psalm 18:2
Masada reminds me that a fortress is a place to which people run when danger approaches.
Its steep cliffs provided protection.
Its walls provided security.
Its enormous cisterns stored precious water in the dry wilderness.
Its storehouses preserved food for times of siege.
But even the strongest fortress built by human hands can eventually fall.
God does not.
When life becomes a wilderness, He remains our Rock.
When the road becomes uncertain, He remains our Fortress.
When our souls become weary and dry, He remains our Provider.
And when the noise of the world becomes overwhelming, there is still a place of refuge—not upon a mountain in the Judean Desert, but in the presence of God.
Perhaps that is one of the beautiful lessons of Shabbat.
For a moment, we stop striving.
We put down the tools.
We step away from the noise.
And we remember that our security does not ultimately rest in walls, possessions, governments, or human strength.
Our refuge is in God.
May you enter this Shabbat knowing that whatever wilderness you may be walking through, the Rock beneath your feet has not moved.
Shabbat Shalom.
May the Lord be your Rock, your Fortress, and your place of peace.
Have a peaceful and blessed weekend.
— MJ
While proofreading my latest archaeological action-adventure novel, I found myself once again walking—at least in my imagination—across the windswept heights of Masada, rising dramatically above the Judean Desert.
Masada is an extraordinary place.
Built upon a seemingly impregnable mountain and transformed by Herod the Great into a magnificent desert fortress, its hanging palace must have been breathtaking in its day. Even by modern standards, the view across the Dead Sea and the wilderness below is unforgettable. If Herod's palace were somehow a hotel today, I suspect it would have quite the waiting list!
Yet Masada is remembered for far more than its grandeur.
Years after Herod, Jewish rebels and their families sought refuge upon this mountain during their final resistance against Rome. Surrounded by the Roman army and watching the great siege ramp slowly rise toward their walls, Masada became the setting for one of the most tragic and haunting episodes of the ancient world.
Having travelled, worked, and excavated around the Judean Desert for many years—from Jerusalem to Qumran, Nahal Hever, and Wadi Murabba'at—I sometimes miss the dust, the heat, the excavations, and that wonderful feeling of standing where history unfolded thousands of years ago.
But as I reflected upon Masada this week and turned again to the pages of Scripture, another thought came to me.
Sometimes we forget just how great our God is.
Masada stands like a giant stone sentinel above the desert. For thousands of years, storms have beaten against its cliffs. Empires have risen and fallen. Armies have marched through the wilderness below. Kings have disappeared into history.
Yet the mountain remains.
And perhaps that is why the imagery of Scripture is so powerful:
“The LORD is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer.” — Psalm 18:2
Masada reminds me that a fortress is a place to which people run when danger approaches.
Its steep cliffs provided protection.
Its walls provided security.
Its enormous cisterns stored precious water in the dry wilderness.
Its storehouses preserved food for times of siege.
But even the strongest fortress built by human hands can eventually fall.
God does not.
When life becomes a wilderness, He remains our Rock.
When the road becomes uncertain, He remains our Fortress.
When our souls become weary and dry, He remains our Provider.
And when the noise of the world becomes overwhelming, there is still a place of refuge—not upon a mountain in the Judean Desert, but in the presence of God.
Perhaps that is one of the beautiful lessons of Shabbat.
For a moment, we stop striving.
We put down the tools.
We step away from the noise.
And we remember that our security does not ultimately rest in walls, possessions, governments, or human strength.
Our refuge is in God.
May you enter this Shabbat knowing that whatever wilderness you may be walking through, the Rock beneath your feet has not moved.
Shabbat Shalom.
May the Lord be your Rock, your Fortress, and your place of peace.
Have a peaceful and blessed weekend.
— MJ
SHABBAT SHALOM
While proofreading my latest archaeological action-adventure novel, I found myself once again walking—at least in my imagination—across the windswept heights of Masada, rising dramatically above the Judean Desert.
Masada is an extraordinary place.
Built upon a seemingly impregnable mountain and transformed by Herod the Great into a magnificent desert fortress, its hanging palace must have been breathtaking in its day. Even by modern standards, the view across the Dead Sea and the wilderness below is unforgettable. If Herod's palace were somehow a hotel today, I suspect it would have quite the waiting list!
Yet Masada is remembered for far more than its grandeur.
Years after Herod, Jewish rebels and their families sought refuge upon this mountain during their final resistance against Rome. Surrounded by the Roman army and watching the great siege ramp slowly rise toward their walls, Masada became the setting for one of the most tragic and haunting episodes of the ancient world.
Having travelled, worked, and excavated around the Judean Desert for many years—from Jerusalem to Qumran, Nahal Hever, and Wadi Murabba'at—I sometimes miss the dust, the heat, the excavations, and that wonderful feeling of standing where history unfolded thousands of years ago.
But as I reflected upon Masada this week and turned again to the pages of Scripture, another thought came to me.
Sometimes we forget just how great our God is.
Masada stands like a giant stone sentinel above the desert. For thousands of years, storms have beaten against its cliffs. Empires have risen and fallen. Armies have marched through the wilderness below. Kings have disappeared into history.
Yet the mountain remains.
And perhaps that is why the imagery of Scripture is so powerful:
“The LORD is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer.” — Psalm 18:2
Masada reminds me that a fortress is a place to which people run when danger approaches.
Its steep cliffs provided protection.
Its walls provided security.
Its enormous cisterns stored precious water in the dry wilderness.
Its storehouses preserved food for times of siege.
But even the strongest fortress built by human hands can eventually fall.
God does not.
When life becomes a wilderness, He remains our Rock.
When the road becomes uncertain, He remains our Fortress.
When our souls become weary and dry, He remains our Provider.
And when the noise of the world becomes overwhelming, there is still a place of refuge—not upon a mountain in the Judean Desert, but in the presence of God.
Perhaps that is one of the beautiful lessons of Shabbat.
For a moment, we stop striving.
We put down the tools.
We step away from the noise.
And we remember that our security does not ultimately rest in walls, possessions, governments, or human strength.
Our refuge is in God.
May you enter this Shabbat knowing that whatever wilderness you may be walking through, the Rock beneath your feet has not moved.
Shabbat Shalom.
May the Lord be your Rock, your Fortress, and your place of peace.
Have a peaceful and blessed weekend.
— MJ
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