Life began in a garden, and so did death. Death died on a rock overlooking a garden, and new life was granted to all who believe that the tomb in the garden is empty.

If you pilgrim to Israel, you probably come because you want to see the places where Jesus lived, where He walked, and where He taught. You will see many beautiful and fascinating sites—Dan, En Gedi, Joppa, Masada, Qumran, Gideon’s Spring, David’s tomb, Beth-shan, and Megiddo—but the places that touch on the life of Jesus hold the deepest meaning. The garden tomb is one such place.

Many believe the garden tomb is the burial and resurrection site of Jesus. It probably isn’t. The tomb itself suggests an Old Testament date, rather than the new tomb the Gospels require (see Matthew 27:60). Still, the beautiful surroundings of the garden tomb lend themselves to meditation on the profound power of Christ’s resurrection, something impossible to do at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which is probably the actual site of Jesus’s crucifixion and burial.

In the solitude of the garden tomb you can stop and pray. It is a moving backdrop for the Lord’s Supper, when those who follow the resurrected Christ celebrate His victory over death.

In a garden very similar to the garden tomb, on the first day of the week two thousand years ago in the quietness of the morning, Mary and other women came and found the large stone used to seal the tomb rolled away. (Mark 16:4). Over the next few weeks, one by one, Jesus’s disciples learned that their Lord had been raised form the dead, delivered from the darkness of that cold tomb into a dawn of a new and glorious life.

Their witness to seeing the resurrected Christ and the empty tomb continue to convince people today that the Saviour lives. Though we do not see Him with our eyes or touch Him with our hands, we still fall down on our knees and cry out to Jesus the words of Thomas, “My Lord and my God!” (John 20:28). He is risen indeed!

Between the mountains of Israel and the mountains of Jordan lies the lowest place on the earth—the Dead Sea. It is an arid wilderness, haunted by ibexes, birds, and snakes. Caves dot the mountainsides. It is the place where the Jews, in their final revolt against the Romans in AD 73, saw that all hope was lost and decided to kill their families and then themselves on a high plateau called Masada.

In this desert, David found refuge from Saul. Hiding in one of the many caves near the spring of En Gedi, David had his chance to kill the king and claim the throne as his own. Cutting one corner of the king’s robe, David later repented and said, “Far be it from me because of the Lord that I should do this thing to my lord, the Lord’s anointed, to stretch out my hand against him, since he is the Lord’s anointed” (1 Samuel 24:6).

David could not take the throne by force though he was tormented in the wilderness . . . abandoned. As he poured out his soul before God, sitting in that dark and stifling cave, he wrote, “For there is no one who regards me; / There is no escape for me; / No one cares for my soul” (Psalm 142: 4). The wilderness of En Gedi is dead—except for the life-giving waters of the spring. The sea there is dead. It is a dusty, hot, parched, and rocky land. It is the picture of David’s life during his refuge there. So he cries out to God, “You are my refuge, / My portion in the land of the living . . . / Bring my soul out of prison” (142:5, 7).

David would eventually become king and write one of the greatest statements about the Word of God, Psalm 119. For David, God’s Word had always been a source of comfort and strength, even in the wilderness. Centuries after David, others came to this very same wilderness to preserve the Word of God.

During the days of Jesus, a small Jewish settlement existed near the Dead Sea. There along its blistering shores this band of men, the Essenes, laboriously copied the Old Testament onto parchment made of sheepskins. Then they hid them in the nearby caves at Qumran. The discovery of these copies, the Dead Sea Scrolls, in 1947 changed our view of the Old Testament forever. Two significant truths came from this discovery. First, it proved that the entire book of Isaiah was written by one man. And second, it reinforced our confidence in the integrity of the copies of Scripture that we possess today. The scrolls are now housed in a beautiful museum shaped like the pottery jars in which they were found—the Shrine of the Book.

Dedicated and godly men like David and the Essenes were the instruments God used to record and preserve His Word, even in a wilderness by the Dead Sea. Isaiah’s words, preserved in a place where little grows, are an apt reminder: “Surely the grass withers. . . . / But the word of our God stands forever” (Isaiah 40:8).

Outside the wall of the ancient city of Jerusalem, just to the east, there sits a garden. The ground has been manicured today, but it’s still rocky and covered with gnarled olive trees. Here at the “olive press”—Gethsemane—two thousand years ago the stench of death hung in the air, though no one had died . . . yet. Here, Jesus came to pray. Three times He asked the Father to remove the cup, and three times He submitted to the Father’s will so that we might not have to drink the cup ourselves (see Matthew 26:36–56).

Today, Gethsemane is noisy from the traffic passing by. And a church sits on the traditional spot where Jesus is believed to have prayed. But if you close your eyes and concentrate, you can almost feel the coolness of the night and hear a lone voice crying out in agony.

Tormented in the garden of suffering, Jesus could see a cohort of torch-carrying soldiers coming from the Golden Gate across the Kidron Valley marching His way. Arrested, tried, and convicted, Jesus struggled to find His footing as He carried the heavy cross beam through the narrow and steep cobblestone streets of Jerusalem. It was on the Via Dolorosa that Jesus lost His footing and fell. Simon the Cyrene was made to carry the beam (Luke 23:26) and on the long procession went. Women followed mourning and weeping. Turning, Jesus said to them, “Daughters of Jerusalem, stop weeping for Me, but weep for yourselves and for your children” (23:27–28). Taking Him to the place called the Skull, they crucified Jesus and laid Him in a barren tomb.

Today, the Via Dolorosa is crowded with shops and shopkeepers pushing their wares. One can almost imagine the crowds that must have lined the narrow streets to witness the spectacle of a public humiliation and execution. Jeers and taunts, laughter and tears must have filled the ears of the condemned men, just as prices and negotiations echo through the ancient street today.

If you pilgrim to Jerusalem today and walk the path of suffering, your journey will end where Jesus’s did—Golgotha. Tradition holds that Jesus was crucified and buried on the very spot where The Church of the Holy Sepulchre now stands. Upon entering the church you will immediately be struck by the ornate, almost gaudy religious symbols and icons. Faithful Armenians, Catholics, Copts, Ethiopians, Greek Orthodox, and Syrians will kiss the place where Jesus was crucified, or prepared for burial, or the open tomb. They will touch these places and rub their hands or legs in hopes of healing. But if you can look past the golden icons and the hope in religious objects, you can picture the death and resurrection of a Savior who came to set us free from the trappings of religion and the bondage of our sin. Jesus is that Savior—the One who suffered in the garden and on the street and on the cross, and the One who rose victoriously from the tomb.

Every Christian pilgrim who journeys to Jerusalem desires to walk where Jesus walked. Every Jewish pilgrim longs to pray at the “Wailing Wall” and sacrifice at the temple. Neither is completely satisfied.

The streets and corridors of the ancient city are not the ones Jesus trod; they remain buried under the debris of successive destruction and rebuilding. Sitting atop the temple mount is not a beautiful Jewish temple to God, but the Muslim’s El Aksa Mosque. The Western Wall or “Wailing Wall” does exist and draws faithful Jews who pray for the coming of Messiah and the peace of Jerusalem.

Around the corner from the Western Wall sit the Southern Steps leading up to the temple mount, but the gates are impassable now, filled in with stone. Overlooking the old city of David and the Kidron Valley, the Southern Steps were a common area where rabbis would teach. It was probably here on these very steps that Jesus, as a boy of twelve, was found by a worried mother and father as He questioned the teachers of the Law (Luke 2:46–49). Almost twenty years later, after His triumphal entry, Jesus walked these same steps when He entered the temple to clear the house of God of money changers (Matthew 21:1–12). And Jesus probably walked by these same steps on His way to the garden of suffering—Gethsemane.

After eating the Passover meal and singing one of the Psalms, Jesus and His disciples left the upper room to make their way to the Mount of Olives (Matthew 26:30). Just before walking down the Kidron Valley, they may have paused long enough at the Southern Steps for Jesus to pray, first for Himself and then for His disciples (John 17:1–19). Finally, Jesus prayed for us—those who would believe in His name though we’ve not seen Him (19:20–26). He prayed that we might experience the same unity that He and the Father have. He prayed that we might be in His glorious presence one day. And He prayed that the same love that flows between the Father and the Son might flow between us.

Whether you have the opportunity to pilgrim to Jerusalem or not, pray as Jesus did—pray for unity among His church, pray for His quick return so we might enter His presence, and pray for Christlike love. If you journey to Jerusalem, walk where Jesus walked, come to the Southern Steps, and read John 17 as a prayer. And while you pray, whether here in God’s city or at home, pray for the peace of Jerusalem and for those Jews wailing at the wall—that they might come to recognise Jesus as the Messiah.

Plink . . . plop . . . plink . . . kurplop . . .

Slowly, methodically rocks hit the placid surface of the water . . . plink . . . plop. Each one carries with it a person’s burden or care or fear or sin. In the middle of the Sea of Galilee five boats full of sinful, burdened pilgrims release their fears, their sins, their concerns to the depths of the lake. After the message of Jesus walking on the water and calming His disciples’ fear, all is silent . . . except for the plink . . . kurplop . . . plink of the rocks. As they hit the surface of the water, each one brings the realization of peace or forgiveness or hope or reconciliation. With each plink and plop the gentle power and grace of Jesus restores each pilgrim and reminds them anew not to harden their hearts, but to let go.

Plink . . . plop . . . plink . . . kurplop . . .

Too bad ancient king Saul couldn’t have been on one of the boats in the Galilee. He might have had a different end. Tall, handsome, and proud, Saul was a hard- hearted man, a man of disobedience—a sin which led to his tragic end. Defeated by the Philistines, Saul took his own life on Mount Gilboa (1 Samuel 31:1–6). In triumph the Philistines cut off his and his sons’ heads and hung their naked bodies on the wall of Beth-shan (31:7–10). And though the brave men of Jabesh-gilead came and gave Saul and his sons an honorable burial, his life ended in shame (31:11–13). If Saul had only given up his sin, released it and obeyed God, then his end might have come to honor instead of humiliation. But he chose to hold on tight to his disobedience, his pride, and his sin, and his life ended in ruin—just as the city of Beth-shan lies in ruins today.

Such is the fate of all of us if we choose to hang on tightly to our sins, our fears, our burdens—our lives will end in ruins. But if we choose to let go, trusting Christ to forgive our sins, calm our fears, and carry our burdens, then we can end our lives in peace, hope, and reconciliation.

It’s only a matter of softening your heart, of letting go.

Plink . . . plop . . . plink . . . kurplop . . .

Man-made gods are stupid, but frightful, things.

At the death of King Solomon the kingdom of Israel divided in two. Two nations, two kings, two capitals, and two places of worship. Though the people of Israel were only to worship in the temple at Jerusalem, King Jeroboam feared that the people would revolt against him. He said, “If these people go up to offer sacrifices in the house of the Lord at Jerusalem, then the heart of these people will return to their lord, even to Rehoboam king of Judah; and they will kill me and return to Rehoboam king of Judah” (1 Kings 12:27). So he devised a simple solution—give Israel a new god to worship. Jeroboam made two golden calves and said to his people, “It is too much for you to go up to Jerusalem; behold your gods, O Israel, that brought you up from the land of Egypt” (12:28). He set one calf in Bethel and the other in a temple in the far north at Dan.

In the mountains of Dan, where God planted lush shade trees watered by cool springs and rivers, Jeroboam led his people into worshiping a god made by man. A stupid thing.

Years later, in 722 BC, Jeroboam and Israel were punished for the sin of idolatry when the Assyrians conquered their land and took the people captive, according to the Word of God: "The Lord will strike Israel, as a reed is shaken in the water; and He will uproot Israel from this good land which He gave to their fathers, and will scatter them beyond the Euphrates River, because they have made their Asherim, provoking the Lord to anger. And He will give up Israel on account of the sins of Jeroboam, which he committed and with which he made Israel to sin" (1 Kings 14:15–16). A frightful thing.

Centuries later, in the same region of Dan, Jesus took His disciples to Caesarea Philippi, a village filled with idols. There, where pagans worshiped the Greek god Pan by throwing a sacrificial goat from the precipice above the cave thought to be the gates to hell, Jesus asked His disciples: “Who do the people say that the Son of Man is? . . . Who do you say that I am?” And Peter—there in the shadow of the temple to Pan—said, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God” (Matthew 16:13, 15–16). And with that great confession, that Jesus is God the deliverer, Jesus made this great promise: “And I say also to you that you are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of Hades shall not overpower it” (16:18).

Jesus then explained to His disciples that He must suffer and die, but Peter rebuked his Messiah and God—“God forbid it, Lord! This will never happen to You” (16:22). A stupid thing. Turning, Jesus silenced Peter, “Get behind me Satan! You are a stumbling block to Me; for you are not setting your mind on God’s interests, but man’s” (16:23). A frightful thing.

Rejecting the Christ—the God who can save your soul—is a stupid and frightful thing. As Jesus said, “For what will a man be profited, if he gains the whole world, and forfeits his soul?” (16:26). In the end, he falls from the precipice through the gates of hell and smashes his soul like the others who made their own god according to their interests.

Could anything be more stupid or frightful?

It was here that He called common fishermen to follow Him. It was here that He taught the crowds, using stories and parables. It was here that He slept in the back of a fishing boat on a storm-whipped sea and said to the wind and waves, “Hush. Be calm. Be still.” It was here that He appeared like a ghost walking on the water. It was here that He cooked a breakfast for His friends. It was here at the Sea of Galilee that Jesus demonstrated power and grace.

Serendipity is another way of saying that God is gracious. Watching the sun rise over the hills of Golan this morning—bright streaks of sunlight pierced low, hanging clouds while yellow and orange shimmered on the sea below—peals of thunder, in applause of God’s providence in waking the sun once again, ceased the silence. As I turned to Mark 4:35–41 to contemplate Jesus’s power over the violence of the sea, the darkening clouds released a gentle shower. No longer just a story of power over nature, but a story of grace. Grace in saving the lives of His friends. Grace in bringing refreshing rain at just the moment the page turned to the story of Jesus’s sovereignty.

It was there in the village of Nahum—Capernaum—just north of the sea that Jesus healed a centurion’s servant and a paralyzed man. It was there in Capernaum that Jesus brought the precious daughter of a synagogue officer back to life and healed a woman who suffered twelve years of humiliating torment. It was there in Capernaum that Jesus healed His dear friend’s mother-in-law. Grace. Power to be sure. But grace, all grace.

And it was there, up the easy slopes of Galilee, close to His own town, Capernaum, that Jesus sat on the grass, looking over the blue sea that His hands had made. He taught the multitudes: “Oh, how blessed you are to be humble, for you will be exalted in heaven. How very blessed you are when your heart aches to the point of breaking, for you will receive loving comfort. How blessed you are to possess a spirit like Mine, meek and mild, for you will receive the earth.” And on He taught—“How very blessed you are.” It was there, on the Mount of Beatitudes, that Jesus taught those who would follow Him how to live lives fit for His kingdom. Not rules and lists which can be checked off in pride or unchecked in shame, but how to live a life of grace.

It is here in Israel—amidst the water of the Galilee, the ruins of Capernaum, and the gentle hill of Beatitudes—that God declares the power of Jesus and whispers His grace.

“Why are the nations in an uproar, / And the people’s devising a vain thing? / The kings of the earth take their stand, / And the rulers take counsel together/ Against the Lord and against His Anointed. . . . / He who sits in the heavens laughs, / The Lord scoffs at them” (Psalm 2:1–2, 4).

The folly of humanity is not a funny thing. In fact, it is downright tragic. Always seeking to glorify themselves, men and women refuse to give glory to the only One worth of glory—the One who sits in the heavens. This truth was vividly illustrated in the places we visited on our second day in Israel.

Starting in Caesarea, the place Peter came to preach to the Gentiles, Roman glory was on display in full regalia. From the beautiful amphitheater to Herod Agrippa’s palace to the hippodrome where ancient chariot races circled the track, Caesarea dripped with the authority and pomp of Rome. It was here that Paul defended himself before the might and power of Rome, preaching the gospel of Christ to Herod Agrippa and to two Roman governors, Felix and then Festus (Acts 25–26). It was in Caesarea that the old, weather-beaten apostle, manacled hand and foot, almost convinced the corrupt and power hungry Agrippa that he should give up his power and bow before the crucified Savior (Acts 26:1).

From Caesarea we traveled north, and back in time, to Mount Carmel and the great battle between the pagan god Baal and the One who sits in the heavens, Yahweh (1 Kings 18:19–46). The Lord laughed as the prophets of Baal cut their flesh and cried for their god to rain fire down from the sky and consume the sacrifice. The silence was deafening. Then the great man of God, Elijah, prayed to the Lord and fire consumed the sacrifice, the wood, and the water which drenched the wood. The folly of humanity is no match for the glory of God.

Having celebrated the great victory of God over Baal, we came to the site which will end the folly of humanity—the place where the Lord’s scorn for those who fail to glorify Him will leave foolish men and women decimated: Megiddo. The ancient city of Megiddo lay in ruins. Its rocks overlook the valley where Jesus will bring to ruin those who would presume to exalt themselves over the King of kings and the Lord of lords. Down in the valley, a beautiful patchwork stretches for miles. Life is down there—groves of luscious fruits and vegetables, cars and trucks pass through driven by people the Lord longs to give eternal life. But a terrible day is coming when the valley will turn into one vast graveyard for those who refuse to give glory to King Jesus. It will be a day of death and destruction, a day when that beautiful patchwork of greens and browns will be watered by the blood of sinful humanity (Revelation 19:11–21). What a terrible day that will be.

And to think, the boy who grew up across the valley from Megiddo, in his hometown of Nazareth, will be the One to speak but a word and judge the foolishness of humanity for glorifying themselves and not the boy who is God. Truly, God sits in His heavens and laughs at such folly and will one day bring the wrath of His scorn against those who stand against His Anointed. Such foolishness . . . and such glory.