The news rolled in like a wave—loud, urgent, inescapable. Reports of rockets overhead, sirens screaming through Jerusalem’s night sky. You’ve seen the images: parents clutching their children, smoke spiraling upward, soldiers standing at the gates with tired eyes and steady hands. And somewhere, deep in your heart, a question surfaces—not from fear exactly, but from awe—quiet and trembling: Is this it? Is the Bible unfolding before our eyes?
Jesus once said these days would come. “You will hear of wars and rumors of wars, but see to it that you are not alarmed. Such things must happen, but the end is still to come” (Matthew 24:6 NIV).
Maybe you’ve felt that too—a mixture of dread and marvel. A sense that history is repeating itself in future tense. We wonder about Jerusalem, about Israel, about what God might be whispering through the chaos. Zechariah offered a direct word centuries ago: “I am going to make Jerusalem a cup that sends all the surrounding peoples reeling... On that day, when all the nations of the earth are gathered against her, I will make Jerusalem an immovable rock for all the nations” (Zechariah 12:2–3).
And there she is—Jerusalem. Ancient, beautiful, burdened. Both battlefield and bride.
But before we race too quickly from headline to heaven’s timetable, we must ask: what does God want us to see in these moments? Not just in the sky, but in our souls?
Prophecy points us in the right direction, yes. But it doesn’t replace the journey of trust. Take Ezekiel 38, where long-forgotten nations rise and conspire against Israel—a scene echoed in today’s alliances and tensions. Or Jesus' own words in Matthew 24, where wars, earthquakes, and betrayal are not the end, but birth pains of something more.
These Scriptures were never meant to send us spiraling into fear. They were written to anchor our hope. Not in governments. Not in perfect peace treaties. But in Christ—and His return.
I remember once, when I was little, sitting with my grandfather on his porch. The sun was folding into the hills, shadows stretching like prayers across the land. He had his Bible open, pages worn at the edges. He pointed to Jerusalem on a faded map, then quietly said, “Watch her. Not for fear, but for faith. The world will wrestle for that stone. But God has already claimed it.”
Maybe that’s our reminder. Not to panic when battle breaks out, but to remember whose hands hold Jerusalem—and us.
Because in the middle of every war and rumor, there is always a call: Look up. Not just to the sky, but to the Savior. When we focus only on the trembling ground, we forget that heaven does not tremble. And neither does the One who commands it.
It’s okay to wonder. It’s okay to weep. But don’t let confusion turn to despair. Let it be a doorway into deeper longing. Because Jesus also said, “When you see these things… lift up your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”
That’s not a threat. That’s a promise.
We live in a world fraying at the edges, a tapestry unraveling from centuries of broken promises and shattered peace. Yet through every war, through every rising smoke column above Jerusalem’s skyline, God threads a scarlet thread of redemption—the cross, the tomb, the throne.
So what do we do as the nations rage?
We watch. We wait. We trust.
And we remember the Rock beneath our feet is more secure than the shaking of the earth.
The headlines may scream, but God still whispers. The world may spiral, but heaven stands still. And when all feels lost, we remember:
He’s coming.
And Jerusalem—she may be the center of the world’s conflict, but she is also the beginning of its hope.
So look up. Even now. Especially now. The story isn’t over. Not for Israel. Not for the world. Not for you.
The news rolled in like a wave—loud, urgent, inescapable. Reports of rockets overhead, sirens screaming through Jerusalem’s night sky. You’ve seen the images: parents clutching their children, smoke spiraling upward, soldiers standing at the gates with tired eyes and steady hands. And somewhere, deep in your heart, a question surfaces—not from fear exactly, but from awe—quiet and trembling: Is this it? Is the Bible unfolding before our eyes?
Jesus once said these days would come. “You will hear of wars and rumors of wars, but see to it that you are not alarmed. Such things must happen, but the end is still to come” (Matthew 24:6 NIV).
Maybe you’ve felt that too—a mixture of dread and marvel. A sense that history is repeating itself in future tense. We wonder about Jerusalem, about Israel, about what God might be whispering through the chaos. Zechariah offered a direct word centuries ago: “I am going to make Jerusalem a cup that sends all the surrounding peoples reeling... On that day, when all the nations of the earth are gathered against her, I will make Jerusalem an immovable rock for all the nations” (Zechariah 12:2–3).
And there she is—Jerusalem. Ancient, beautiful, burdened. Both battlefield and bride.
But before we race too quickly from headline to heaven’s timetable, we must ask: what does God want us to see in these moments? Not just in the sky, but in our souls?
Prophecy points us in the right direction, yes. But it doesn’t replace the journey of trust. Take Ezekiel 38, where long-forgotten nations rise and conspire against Israel—a scene echoed in today’s alliances and tensions. Or Jesus' own words in Matthew 24, where wars, earthquakes, and betrayal are not the end, but birth pains of something more.
These Scriptures were never meant to send us spiraling into fear. They were written to anchor our hope. Not in governments. Not in perfect peace treaties. But in Christ—and His return.
I remember once, when I was little, sitting with my grandfather on his porch. The sun was folding into the hills, shadows stretching like prayers across the land. He had his Bible open, pages worn at the edges. He pointed to Jerusalem on a faded map, then quietly said, “Watch her. Not for fear, but for faith. The world will wrestle for that stone. But God has already claimed it.”
Maybe that’s our reminder. Not to panic when battle breaks out, but to remember whose hands hold Jerusalem—and us.
Because in the middle of every war and rumor, there is always a call: Look up. Not just to the sky, but to the Savior. When we focus only on the trembling ground, we forget that heaven does not tremble. And neither does the One who commands it.
It’s okay to wonder. It’s okay to weep. But don’t let confusion turn to despair. Let it be a doorway into deeper longing. Because Jesus also said, “When you see these things… lift up your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”
That’s not a threat. That’s a promise.
We live in a world fraying at the edges, a tapestry unraveling from centuries of broken promises and shattered peace. Yet through every war, through every rising smoke column above Jerusalem’s skyline, God threads a scarlet thread of redemption—the cross, the tomb, the throne.
So what do we do as the nations rage?
We watch. We wait. We trust.
And we remember the Rock beneath our feet is more secure than the shaking of the earth.
The headlines may scream, but God still whispers. The world may spiral, but heaven stands still. And when all feels lost, we remember:
He’s coming.
And Jerusalem—she may be the center of the world’s conflict, but she is also the beginning of its hope.
So look up. Even now. Especially now. The story isn’t over. Not for Israel. Not for the world. Not for you.
