Samson’s final act isn’t just a dramatic end to a complicated life—it’s the collapse of a system that looked unshakable. As the pillars fall, so does the illusion of power built on spectacle and control. This ancient story still prompts a timely question: what happens when the structures we trust start to crack?

Samson’s story starts before he’s even born, marked by a divine announcement and a lifelong vow. But as his life unfolds, the idea of being “set apart” doesn’t look like discipline or devotion—it looks unpredictable, even chaotic. These chapters left me wondering how purpose and behavior interact when expectations don’t quite match reality.

Judges 10–12 brings us back to a familiar loop—turn away, fall apart, ask for help, repeat. It’s a pattern that raises more questions than answers about habit, change, and what it takes to really move forward. This post unpacks that cycle without tying it up too neatly.

When Abimelek destroyed Shechem in Judges 9, he didn’t stop at fire—he scattered salt over the ruins. Was it a curse, a warning, or just symbolic theater? This small detail opened up a whole series of questions about power, memory, and the meaning behind a simple handful of salt.

In Judges 7, Gideon's army is reduced to 300 men based on how they drink water—a detail that raises more questions than answers. Was it about vigilance, or something more arbitrary? Either way, this story flips expectations about strength and strategy in a way that’s hard to ignore.

In Judges 4–5, two women—one a prophet, the other a tent-dweller—steer the course of a national battle. Deborah leads with wisdom and confidence; Jael ends the conflict with a hammer and a tent peg. Their stories challenge typical ideas about strength, leadership, and who gets to shape history.

What happens when a generation loses touch with the stories that shaped its past? Judges 2:10 describes a turning point where memory slips, and the consequences ripple through everything that follows. This post explores how history can fade—and what that means for identity, continuity, and meaning.

At the end of Joshua’s life, he invites the people of Israel to make a choice about their loyalty—no assumptions, no pressure, just a clear decision. His declaration, “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord,” lands with a new tone when read in context. This post explores that moment and the questions it raises about choice, influence, and what it means to stick with a commitment.

What happens when one group doesn’t get land like everyone else? In Joshua 19–21, the Levites are given cities instead of territory, raising questions about roles, ownership, and belonging. This post explores how their unique inheritance invites a look at the different ways people contribute to a community.

Joshua 16–18 may read like a land survey, but beneath the boundary lines and place names lie some surprisingly relatable questions. What does it mean to belong somewhere? And how do we navigate the space between what we’re given and what we think we deserve?

Joshua 12–15 might read like an ancient land survey, but beneath the borders and city names lies a deeper story about identity and place. These chapters mark the transition from conquest to community, where the land itself becomes part of the narrative. What can we learn from a text that slows down to map the landscape?

Joshua 9–11 presents a version of God that’s hard to ignore—or explain: one who leads battles, stops the sun, and sends hailstones flying. These ancient war stories raise complicated questions about divine involvement in violence. Rather than offering answers, this post explores what happens when the text resists easy interpretation.

Joshua is instructed to remove his sandals because he's on "holy ground," echoing Moses's earlier encounter at the burning bush. What’s the significance of bare feet in these pivotal moments? It makes me wonder how we might symbolically mark important transitions in our own lives.

Before stepping into a new chapter, the Israelites had to cross a river—and mark the moment with a pile of stones. Why? Because memory fades, and some transitions are too important to leave undocumented.

Moses spends his final moments not stepping into the Promised Land, but looking at it from afar. It’s a quiet ending for a bold leader—and raises thoughtful questions about legacy, purpose, and closure. What does it mean to dedicate your life to something you won’t personally finish?

What happens when a leader knows their time is almost up? In Deuteronomy 31, Moses decides to write everything down—his way of preserving memory, meaning, and guidance for a future he won’t see. This post explores the quiet power of writing, and how words can outlast the people who pen them.

Deuteronomy 28–29 can feel like a broken record, but maybe that’s the point. In this post, I reflect on why Moses keeps circling back to the same themes and what that might say about memory, learning, and community. Sometimes, repetition isn’t just about remembering—it’s about shaping how we move forward.

Deuteronomy 24 isn’t just about laws—it’s about people. Tucked into rules about wages, cloaks, and harvests is a quiet focus on protecting those who might otherwise be overlooked. This post explores how an ancient legal code built compassion into the ordinary, and what questions that raises for us today.