Jerusalem | Shavuot 5785 / 2025
Today in the City of David, I walked the ancient road newly revealed by excavation—stone by stone, prophecy by prophecy. From the Pool of Siloam, where priests once cleansed and pilgrims prepared, I climbed toward the Temple Mount. This path, buried beneath centuries, is now breathing again. And as Jerusalem opened Shavuot tonight, it felt as though the stones themselves were whispering, “He is faithful.”
Shavuot—called the Feast of Weeks, and in Greek, Pentecost—is far more than an agricultural moment. It is the divine collision of Word and Spirit, covenant and power. For the Jewish people, it commemorates the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai. For those of us who follow Yeshua the Messiah, it also marks the descent of the Holy Spirit in Jerusalem—the birth of the Church through flame and breath.
I felt the weight of both today.
The biblical Shavuot is rooted in pilgrimage. God commanded the Israelites to come up to Jerusalem and bring their firstfruits—the very best of their harvest. Not to store it. Not to save it. But to bring it and wave it before the Lord. To acknowledge that everything comes from Him.
As I fasted in the days leading up to this Shavuot, I wasn’t bringing wheat. I was bringing my breath, my hunger, my silence. I brought the fast itself as my offering. And when it ended, I didn’t speak—I danced. Not with strength, but with surrender. Not as performance, but as worship. My movement was a wave offering to the Holy Spirit who had filled the secret place.
Shavuot is also about power. Before ascending to heaven, Yeshua gave His disciples the greatest command: “Go.” But He followed it with an equally urgent instruction: “Wait.”
“Stay in the city until you are clothed with power from on high.” (Luke 24:49)
It was not strategy they needed—it was the Spirit.
The disciples were told to wait in Jerusalem, to posture themselves in expectation, to become empty enough to receive. And at Shavuot, the Spirit came—not as a whisper, but as wind and fire. He filled the house. He filled the people. And the Gospel exploded into every tongue and nation.
We often overlook this: Shavuot is not merely a celebration of what was given—but of who was given. The Holy Spirit is not a symbol. He is not a doctrine. He is the very breath of God, the power of resurrection, the presence that abides. He is a Person—the third Person of the Trinity—who speaks, teaches, guides, grieves, and empowers. He is holy, and He is here.
Tonight, as candles flicker across Jerusalem and families read the Book of Ruth, I hear a deeper call rising in my spirit: “Wait for Him. Honor Him. Welcome Him.”
The Holy Spirit doesn’t fall on busyness. He descends on longing.
In the City of David, I remembered: this land is a testimony. This feast is a promise. And the Spirit is not finished.
We are living in the days when wheat is again being gathered, not into barns—but into the Kingdom. The harvest is ripe. The workers must be filled. And the road from Siloam to the Temple still beckons.
So I danced today—not as one who is finished, but as one who is beginning. Again.
Let the Spirit fall. Let the fire come. Let Shavuot rise in us.
Shavuot Sameach from Jerusalem.