Hebrews 10:19-22 Therefore, brothers, having boldness to enter into the Holy of Holies by the blood of Jesus, 20 by a new and living way which He has consecrated for us through the veil, that is to say, His flesh; 21 and having a High Priest over the house of God, 22 let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled from an evil conscience and our bodies having been washed with pure water.
God has always longed for intimacy with us. He formed us for Himself–to walk with Him, to know Him, to delight in His Presence. This is the very heartbeat of creation: relationship, not religion. Yet sin drove a wedge between us. A veil was drawn, shutting out the light of His face and placing distance where there was once communion.
But now, the veil has been torn.
When Yeshua (Jesus) died, the veil in the Temple that once separated the Holy Place from the Holy of Holies was ripped from top to bottom–heaven’s own declaration that the way into God’s intimate Presence had been opened. The blood of Yeshua didn’t merely forgive us; it opened a door. Not just to salvation, but to intimacy.
We are not invited to stand in the outer courts, content with distance and ritual. We are summoned into the very heart of the throne room. Into the Holiest. Into the place where God dwells in glory. Into a communion deeper than words, where His love fills every crevice of our being and His whisper becomes our life.
This is not a metaphor. It is a reality. The torn veil is not just a symbol–it is a passage. A blood-stained trail that leads into the very arms of the Father. And it calls for boldness. Not arrogance, but a confidence grounded in Yeshua’s finished work. His blood has made the way. There is nothing left to earn. Nothing left to prove. Only one thing is required: come.
Yet many remain outside–not because God holds us back, but because we have not yet surrendered our inner veils. Pride, fear, shame, self–these are type of veils that must be torn. But the Spirit is ready to do the tearing. He waits for our surrender. For the heart that says, “Whatever it takes, I want to know Him.” And when that veil is removed, the soul enters a realm not of theory but of encounter.
Intimacy with God is not a privilege for the spiritual elite—it is the birthright of every soul redeemed by the blood of Yeshua. To draw near is not striving for favor, but surrendering to love. The veil is no more. The way is open. And the Father waits — not with judgment, but with joy — to welcome you into the fullness of His embrace.
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[worthy_plugins_devotion_single_body]God has always longed for intimacy with us. He formed us for Himself–to walk with Him, to know Him, to delight in His Presence. This is the very heartbeat of creation: relationship, not religion. Yet sin drove a wedge between us. A veil was drawn, shutting out the light of His face and placing distance where there was once communion.
A beachhead is the first critical objective in a military invasion–the spot where a force lands on enemy territory and secures a position for greater advancement. It’s the place of breakthrough. And it’s also the place of fiercest resistance.
David wrote Psalm 3 while running for his life — betrayed, heartbroken, and hunted by his own son, Absalom. The weight of rebellion wasn’t just political; it was personal. His household had turned against him. Friends became foes. Loyal hearts grew cold. The throne he once held was now surrounded by enemies, and the whispers grew louder: “There is no salvation for him in God.”
Psalm 2 is a divine announcement — a heavenly decree that demands the world’s attention. It begins with a question: “Why do the nations rage, and the peoples plot in vain?” (Ps. 2:1). The nations rise up, not against injustice or tyranny, but against the rule of God’s Meshiach (Messiah). That Anointed is Yeshua — the Son whom the Father has set on His holy hill in Zion (Ps. 2:6). The psalm strips away all pretense and exposes the heart of human rebellion: it is a refusal to be ruled by His Messiah.
Psalm 1 opens with a sobering warning about the quiet, deadly slide into sin. The man without God doesn’t become a scorner overnight — he drifts there gradually. First, he walks in ungodly counsel, entertaining worldly thoughts. Then, he stands in the path of sinners, embracing their way of life. Finally, he sits in the seat of the scornful, hardened in heart and mocking what is sacred. This progression — from a man without God to scorner — reveals how small compromises grow into full rebellion, dulling the conscience and deadening the soul.
Last night marked the beginning of Shavuot–a feast that many Christians recognize as Pentecost, the day the Holy Spirit was poured out in Acts 2. But the roots of Shavuot stretch back much further. Long before that upper room encounter–about 1,500 years earlier–Shavuot was the day God gave the law to Moses on Mount Sinai, writing His commandments on tablets of stone.
In a world trembling with uncertainty–political unrest, economic turmoil, natural disasters–God is speaking again. Not in whispers, but with the shaking that reorders lives, redefines kingdoms, and removes everything that cannot stand in the presence of His glory. He is preparing us for a kingdom that cannot be moved. But in the midst of the shaking, there is rest — a deep, unshakable rest reserved for the people of God. Not rest as the world gives — temporary relief or distraction — but the kind that anchors the soul in the storm, the kind that is rooted in Yeshua (Jesus), our rest.