The Book of the Letters

Friends,

An hour north of my farm there is a cliff with water pouring out of it. In the days of Jesus it was covered with pagan shrines. People called the cave there the gate of Hades.

Jesus took His disciples to that exact spot. He stood them in front of the darkest place in the land and asked, Who do you say I am?

He did not ask it in a synagogue. He asked it at the enemy's front door.

I have stood at that cliff a hundred times with pilgrims. Today the trails are empty. The border is loud. But the rock is still standing. It always is.

Friends,

Twenty minutes from my farm, on the north shore of the Sea of Galilee, sit the black basalt ruins of Capernaum. This was His town.

One day the house was so crowded no one could get in. So four friends climbed onto the roof carrying a paralyzed man. They tore the roof open with their hands and lowered their friend down to Jesus.

When Jesus saw their faith. Not the faith of the sick man. The faith of the friends who carried him.

That is what you did for me and my family these past weeks. You were the four friends. I was the man on the mat.

Friends,

From my farm I can drive down to a green hill that slopes gently toward the Sea of Galilee. On that slope Jesus sat down and gave the greatest sermon ever spoken.

The hill is shaped like an amphitheater. The breeze carries a voice downhill across the grass. The land itself helped Him preach.

And the first thing He did was bless the people nobody blesses. The poor in spirit. The mourners. The meek. Not the winners. The wounded.

On that hill, mourning is not the end of the sentence. For they shall be comforted. That is a promise spoken over this soil. It is still in force.

Friends,

East of my farm the land falls toward the Jordan. The river where Israel crossed into the promise. The river where Jesus went under the water and the heavens opened.

When Joshua led the people across, God told him to take twelve stones from the riverbed and stack them on the bank. Not a monument for God. A question for children.

When your children ask, what do these stones mean, tell them. Tell them what the Lord did here.

Every answered prayer in your life is a stone too. The question is whether you stacked it where your children can see it.

Friends,

Below my hill, on the eastern shore of the Sea of Galilee, there is a quiet ruin called Kursi. This is where Jesus stepped out of the boat and met the man no chains could hold. And healed him with a word.

The man begged to follow. And Jesus said no. Go home to your friends and tell them how much the Lord has done for you.

The first messenger Jesus ever sent was not a priest. He was a local man with a hard story and a healed heart.

I live above that shore. I am a local man with a hard story too. And these letters are me obeying that same verse.

Friends,

For weeks now I have written to you about a cliff, a roof, a hill, a river, a flame. But you have been praying alongside a voice without a face. So today I want to tell you who is writing.

My name is Amitai Elon. Everyone calls me Tai. I was born in this country in 1979. I live on a farm called Havat HaChaim, the Farm of Life, thirty three dunams on a hill in the southern Golan Heights, within sight of the Sea of Galilee.

I am a tour guide. For twelve years I have walked Christians through this land. Many of you reading this walked with me once.

I am a father. Three children. Oriya, eighteen. Eliya, sixteen. Yaheli, eleven.

And I am a son. My father was Rabbi Benny Elon. The work that outlived his titles was building a bridge between the Jewish people and the Christians of the world who love Israel. He spent his years telling the church one sentence. You are not strangers here. You belong to this story.

The ache I feel for my earthly father is the same ache, in a smaller key, that all of us feel for the Father in heaven. My father pointed me to the land. And the land keeps pointing me to the Father who never leaves.

I served at nineteen on a cold fortress in Lebanon called Beaufort, where I learned what a watchman is. He is not the strongest man. He is just the one who stays awake so others can sleep.

And in our own hardest season, the farm found a calling larger than tourism. Since October 7 we have opened our gates to the survivors of the Nova festival, and to soldiers and families across Israel who carry the trauma of this war. The same hill that welcomes pilgrims now also shelters the broken.

A guide. A farmer. A father. A son who misses his father. And I would be honored to pray for you by name too. If you ever want to tell me what to carry for you, just write back. I read every word.

A watchman has two jobs. To see what is coming. And to say what the Word already said about it.

The watchman reports again from the hill. This month the news moved fast, so I will move fast too. Three stones. Three verses that saw them coming.