🏠 Pastor Jamie Tseng｜BBPN Beit Simcha｜November 30, 2025
“For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in.” (Matthew 25:35)
After my mother went home to be with the Lord last December, her room became cluttered, and during my own illness I lacked the strength to clear it. Many Israeli backpackers wrote asking for lodging, but I could only decline. Until yesterday—suddenly I felt a stirring: even if the guest room was in disarray, if God asked me to open my home, would I be willing to offer even just the living room? After a brief talk with my father, we decided to try. Astonishingly, within less than an hour, H, a 23‑year‑old about to set off alone to Okinawa, messaged asking if he could stay. It felt as if God Himself had hurried a soul to my doorstep.
Because everything was so rushed, we could only offer him a folding bed in the living room. At the door, H kept thanking us, saying that without a place to stay he had planned to sleep outdoors in the mountains. I noticed the large pack on his shoulders, the posture of one freshly discharged from the army—resilient yet pure. After dropping his bag and taking a “combat shower,” he immediately went out to climb Elephant Mountain. In those few minutes of meeting, one thought rose in my heart: “Lord, the one You bring will not be an ordinary child.”
While he was out, I looked up the meaning of his name. To my amazement, it meant “the heart of the altar, the place where fire burns.” I sat stunned before the computer. Was this not perfectly aligned with the vision of our “Burning Bush Prayer Network”? A young Jewish man marked by fire, sent to my home in less than an hour—I knew something wondrous was about to unfold.
I began to pray for H, and immediately a vivid rainbow appeared before my eyes, while in my ears resounded the Hebrew song Hineh Lo Yanum (“He who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep,” Psalm 121:4). I had not expected such visions, but the Spirit’s prompting was so strong I knew the Lord was preparing comfort for this child.
That evening H returned, carrying a bottle of red wine as thanks. I quickly told him it was unnecessary, but he asked earnestly: “Isn’t tomorrow you will drink the blood of Yeshua?” I laughed: “That’s Holy Communion—we usually drink grape juice, rarely wine.” That simple exchange opened a hidden door, leading to a whole night of deep conversation about faith. He asked whether we were Catholic, Protestant, or Evangelical; why Taiwanese people believe in Yeshua; whether Christianity had the Replacement Theology like Islam. He was sincere and perceptive, a soul searching for truth.
I shared with him the gospel hidden in ancient Chinese characters, the history of the Temple of Heaven with no deity names, and how Old Testament prophecies of the Messiah were fulfilled in Yeshua. He listened quietly, sometimes thoughtful, sometimes astonished, and admitted: “As a Jew, I don’t believe Yeshua is God.” I replied, “That’s alright—honest questions are precious.” His eyes softened, as if someone had finally allowed him to be himself.
As we sipped my homemade Ning’s Brew kombucha, he began to tell his story. He had served first as a medic, then in combat units. His grandfather, like my mother, died of lymphoma; and his deepest wound was losing five friends during service. His closest friend, Naveh (meaning “spring” or “oasis”), was killed on October 7 while rescuing neighbours. H carried a photo of him everywhere, inscribed with Naveh’s last words to his mother: “Wherever I am needed, there I am.” At that moment, I was speechless.
H said he travels the world to see, on Naveh’s behalf, the sights his friend will never see. He confessed he is angry with God, unable to understand why war took his friend’s life. Yet after a pause he added: “Alright, Lord… You are right in the end.” It was not resignation, but the voice of one who has walked through death and suffering, still holding on to a final thread of trust in the Creator.
Before bed I asked if I could pray for him. He said, “Anything.” So I shared the rainbow vision—the sign after the flood, God’s eternal love. I told him I saw he was a digger, one who seeks roots and truth. He nodded vigorously, as if I had named his deepest longing. Finally, I blessed him with John 16:33: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” After prayer his heart opened further; he even shared that his commander and a friend were Messianic believers who often spoke to him about Yehua.
The next morning over breakfast, he suddenly said: “Jews are hated everywhere. I’m not used to being loved like this.” His words pierced me like an arrow. Love is so rare, yet so precious. We chatted joyfully; he spoke of his girlfriend, of names he hoped to give his future firstborn son—his eyes still full of hope for tomorrow.
Before he left, I placed a small bottle of Ning’s Aroma massage oil in his hand, along with a prayer tassel and feather keychain, blessing him with joy and peace wherever he went—for “under His wings you will find refuge.” At that moment he told me that during the darkest night in the army – when despair nearly crushed him – he survived by singing Psalm 121, Shir Lama’a lot (“Song of Ascents”). And it overwhelmed me, because yesterday the Spirt had stirred in me by the same psalm – even though the only verse I actually know by heart in Hebrew is verse 4.
I knew this was no coincidence, but God’s own confirmation. From battlefield to foreign living room, He had never ceased to watch over this child.
Two hours after H left, my phone lit up with a message: “Thank you for the hospitality and your support! The Jewish people and Israel love you!” As I read those words, warmth surged through my heart. I knew that in those brief twenty‑four hours, it was not only I who had welcomed him, but God Himself who had welcomed us both—through the rainbow vision, Psalm 121, His truth, His peace, late‑night conversations, and a cup of kombucha, gently embracing a Jewish boy weighed down with grief, anger, and questions, and drawing him back beneath His wings.
I firmly believe the Lord will continue to heal the wounds left by the loss of his dearest friend, and will prepare for this “son of the altar hearth” a path filled with light, truth, and love. Even while war still rages afar and shadows linger over his people, God’s love has not been extinguished; His truth will keep rooting and growing in the heart of this digger.
May this one night of hospitality become a turning point in his journey—transforming tears into strength, suffering into depth, and travel into hope.
May he walk through every corner of the world carrying gratitude and joy.
And may he one day recognise the Messiah who has overcome the world, who gave His life for him, and who has prepared eternal peace.
