Ancient Faiths and Modern Worlds

Ancient Faiths, Modern Worlds is not an episode about geopolitics or theology.
It’s about what happens when travel quietly reshapes the way we see belief, belonging, and one another.

In this episode of Explorations All Over, I take you through sacred spaces across cultures and continents — from the Grand Mosque in Abu Dhabi to Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Masada, Vietnam, Antarctica, and Dubai. Along the way, I found myself unsettled, humbled, and unexpectedly changed.

Standing barefoot on cool marble, listening to prayers spoken in unfamiliar languages, I recognized something deeply familiar. The words were different. The cadence was different. But the intention wasn’t.

This journey confronts contrast:
 ancient faith and modern conflict,
 certainty and compromise,
 vastness and excess,
 humility and control.

It’s a story about moments that stayed with me long after the journey ended — the wall surrounding Bethlehem, the scent of frankincense, the quiet of Antarctica, the abundance of Dubai — and how they reshaped the way I hear prayer and think about faith.

I didn’t come away with answers.
 But I did come away listening more closely.

Because in the end, there is far more that unites us than divides us — and that might be the only thing that really matters.

Transcript

Ancient Faith, Modern Worlds: 

We are praying to the same God — just using different names.  The words change, but the hopes we carry with them do not.

Hey there!  I’m Russ.  Welcome to Explorations All Over.

This episode isn’t about geopolitics or modern conflict. It’s about what happens when you stand in sacred places across cultures and realize how much we share.

I didn’t expect a mosque to undo me.

Standing barefoot on cool marble in the Grand Mosque at Abu Dhabi, listening to prayers spoken in a language I don’t understand, I had a moment of recognition that caught me completely off guard. The cadence was different. The words were different. But the intention wasn’t. 

What I felt in that space — reverence, humility, hope — was achingly familiar. And in that moment, after visiting churches, temples, and sacred sites across continents and centuries, I realized something simple and unsettling: there is far more that unites our faiths and cultures than separates them. 

The prayers are the same.
 The stories are the same.
 We just tell them in different ways.

Long before Jerusalem or Abu Dhabi, I found myself thinking about Athens, the birthplace of Western thought — philosophy, democracy, early ideas about gods and meaning.  The home where thousands of years ago the people prayed to gods who live on a sacred mountain and controlled every aspect of their life including what they grew for food, the weather and the seasons, and love.

A place of stunning temples, built on high hills right in the center of the city, where people could go to pay homage or repent sins, ask for luck or pray for health.  Not far off in Rome the same was happening, the same gods just with different names.  But still providing the people with all their daily needs.

Poseidon was Neptune, god of the sea.  Aphrodite was Venus, goddess of love.  Zeus was Jupiter, king of the gods.

It felt less like history and more like a mirror: two ancient cultures with two seemingly very different religions.  But two religions more tightly knit than they ever knew.  How similar to today.

Let me take you back again to the Grand Mosque.  Grand is an understatement.  Gleaming white in the sun, gold ornamentation glinting in the light.  Long corridors of marble columns and floors spread out from the main prayer hall.

Stunning minarets stretching to the sky, like fingers reaching to heaven lent to the grandeur of the building.

We learned of the practices of the Muslim religion, fearful of a misstep, but being reassured that we were welcomed in this house of faith.  It was both elegant and simple, peaceful and alive with energy.

On the walls etched in gold leaf were the 99 names of Allah.

The Merciful.  The Eternal Lord.  The Embodiment of Peace.

My mind jumped to Christian scripture in describing Jesus.   Wonderful.  Counselor.  The mighty.  The everlasting father.  The prince of peace.

I held my breath.

My mind reeled and my heart sang.  These were two branches of the same tree.

The same tree.

We were in Jerusalem for a few nights.

Jerusalem, home of the Dome of the Rock from whence Muhammed was ascended from Islamic tradition.

Jerusalem, home of the Temple of Solomon and the Ark of the Covenant.

Jerusalem, where Jesus was tried, crucified and rose from the dead.

Is there a holier place in all of humanity’s history?

Is there a more disputed place between religions in all of humanity’s history?

We visited the West Wall of the Temple, donning yarmulkes to follow Jewish tradition to place our prayers in the Temple walls as is tradition.

Due to strife, we were unable to visit the Dome of the Rock and pay our respects.

We visited the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, one of the most revered sites in all of Christianity — the place believed to hold both the crucifixion and the tomb of Jesus. And there, in a space meant to embody humility, sacrifice, and resurrection, we witnessed two Christian sects fighting. Loud.  Verbal. Physically. Shouting, shoving, striking — until the national police were forced to intervene.

This wasn’t Christianity against another faith. It was Christian against Christian — each claiming superior ownership of the same sacred ground. Standing there, it was impossible to ignore the irony: a place built to honor a message of love and reconciliation had become a battleground over who had the greater right to it.

Here in this holy city, there were Jews, Muslim, and Christians.  All living together.  

Yet all living apart.

We also visited Masada — an ancient fortress remembered not for prayer, but for resolve; as a symbol of resistance, where belief and identity were held so tightly that surrender or compromise was never considered, which I feel still holds true today.

Standing atop that fortress, I thought about what it means to hold a belief so tightly that surrender becomes unthinkable. 

Looking out over the desert, it felt impossible not to connect that history to everything else we were seeing — walls, gates, sacred ground that had to be defended at all costs. Masada isn’t a story of faith as much as it is a story of identity — of what happens when conviction leaves no room for compromise.

Bethlehem lives in the Christian imagination as candlelight and carols. Silent night. Holy night. A place frozen in reverence — a baby in a manger surrounded by angels.

But before we ever reached Bethlehem, the reality of where we were — and what that meant — made itself known.

We were on a bus leaving our hotel in Jerusalem when we approached a security checkpoint. As we slowed, our guide stood up and explained that he wouldn’t be going any farther. Jewish guides, he told us calmly, aren’t permitted to enter Bethlehem. He stepped off the bus. We rolled forward maybe fifty yards, stopped again, and a new guide boarded. He introduced himself as our guide for Bethlehem — and he was Muslim.

Bethlehem is surrounded by a 50-foot concrete wall topped with barbed wire.  Sitting in that bus I couldn’t match the Bethlehem I grew up singing about with the Bethlehem just outside the bus windows.

The exchange was quiet. Efficient. Practiced. And in that moment, it became clear that we hadn’t just crossed a checkpoint — we had crossed an invisible line.

Beyond the gate, the landscape changed immediately. The luxury hotels, designer shops, and polished streets of Jerusalem disappeared. What replaced them was poverty — dense, worn, and impossible to ignore. We walked from the bus toward the Church of the Nativity, mouths agape at the conditions people were living under in the very place celebrated as the birthplace of Jesus.

One small detail broke the heaviness for just a second: a coffee shop called “Stars and Bucks,” its sign deliberately mimicking a familiar international chain. It was clever. It was human. And it was heartbreaking.

Nothing about the Church of the Nativity itself resonated with me that day. I couldn’t focus on the stone or the history or the markers on the floor. I was too distracted — moved, unsettled, maybe even angry — by the conditions surrounding it. I kept wondering how a place so central to a story of hope could feel so forgotten.

Eventually, we returned to the bus. 

As we left, the iron gates closed uncomfortably behind us, leaving that community to survive however it could.

We passed back through the security gate. Our Bethlehem guide stepped off. Fifty yards later, our original guide climbed back on.

The first thing he asked wasn’t whether we’d enjoyed the Church of the Nativity. It was, “What did he say? Did he talk about Israel?”

No one answered.

He asked again.

Finally, one voice broke the silence: “It’s none of your business.”

No one spoke for the rest of the ride back to the hotel.

I kept wondering how a place so central to a story of peace could feel so far from it.

“Sleep in heavenly peace,” we sing every Christmas. But standing in Bethlehem, surrounded by concrete walls and people with nowhere to rest, I couldn’t reconcile the lyric with the reality in front of me.

After Bethlehem, I needed something to slow me back down.

Back in Jerusalem, we visited the Upper Room — the space traditionally believed to be where the Last Supper was held. Walking in an area believed to be known by Jesus himself.  A place layered with meaning, memory, and disagreement, yet somehow quieter than I expected. 

No spectacle. No drama. Just a room holding centuries of reverence and interpretation.

We were invited into the nearby Har Tsiyion prayer space. It wasn’t a stop on the itinerary so much as an invitation — and it came with conditions. Men only. Heads covered. We were handed yarmulkes and asked to follow the customs of the space.

There was no debate. No explanation required. We covered our heads and stepped inside.

What struck me wasn’t what was said, but how naturally the traditions were observed. This was a sacred space, and the expectation wasn’t belief — it was respect. 

You didn’t have to agree. You just had to show humility.

Standing there, I realized how different that felt from so much of what we’d witnessed outside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. No one was fighting for ownership. No one was defending territory. 

The holiness of the space didn’t come from who controlled it, but from how it was encountered it.

It was moments like that — quiet, embodied, reverent — that made me realize how often faith is experienced not through words, but through the senses.

The smell of a fresh baked loaf of bread.  The scent of roses just cut from the bush.  Smell has the power to stimulate a memory.  I have so many.

One is the smell of Frankincense during high holy days in church.  Unmistakable.  Musky and deep.  Burning but not quite burnt.  Rich and earthy.  Some people hate it.  I love it.

Imagine my surprise in Muscat, the Frankincense capital of the world, feeling like I was attending a holy mass.  The scent was both overwhelming and unsettling.  Did it belong here, just in the street for everyone to smell?  And it was everywhere.  They even sold Frankincense candy.  Candy no.  Candles?

A resounding yes!

I realized that burning things are essential to many religions.  The smoke carries our hopes and prayers to the almighty.  Every faith uses incense and for the same reasons.  The ancient Israelites used burnt offerings to God in the temple.  Christians use it to sanctify and Muslims to create “a tranquil and peaceful environment”.

Smell brings us memories and is one of strongest triggers of emotion.

Who can’t close their eyes and smell a fragrance of a treasured memory?

If we share prayers, stories, rituals, even smells — why do we keep choosing division?

Long after we left, those moments kept resurfacing — the wall, the gates, the prayers, the scent of incense. I found myself hearing familiar words differently, noticing how often we pray for peace without quite knowing what we’re asking of ourselves.

I didn’t come away with answers. If anything, I came away more aware of how easily faith can be shared — and how hard it can be lived.

Before we continue, I just want to pause for a moment.

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Okay… let’s keep going.

What surprised me most was where my mind went next. Of all the places I’d traveled, it wasn’t another church or mosque I kept thinking about — it was Antarctica. A place with no borders, no walls, no gates. 

A place that belongs to no one, and therefore, in a strange way, to everyone. Standing there, at the edge of the world, I never once wondered who had the right to be there. There was no ownership to defend, no holiness to guard. 

Just presence. 

Just humility. 

And I couldn’t help but notice how different that felt from the places we call sacred — and how much lighter it was.

As strange as it sounds, Dubai made me think about Antarctica. 

In Antarctica, you’re insignificant — the landscape reminds you immediately that you don’t matter much, and strangely, that feels grounding. 

In Dubai, the opposite happens. Everything is built to remind you how much humans can control, accumulate, and display.

In both places, survival isn’t the concern. But the emotional result couldn’t be more dramatically different. I realized that faith often deepens when we feel small — when we’re dependent or uncertain. 

But faith can become optional when we feel completely self-sufficient, in control of everything ourselves and insulated from any need. Antarctica did the first to me. Dubai did the second.

There was one more place that kept nudging its way into my mind through all of this — Vietnam. That was where we were introduced to Buddhism, and I remember being struck by how different it felt. Not in a dramatic way. 

Quieter than that. It didn’t feel like a religion asking me to believe something new so much as a mindset asking me to notice how I was seeing things, living things, experiencing things and understanding things.

There was no sense of being right or wrong, no pressure to convince anyone. Just an emphasis on awareness, compassion, and 

Letting go.

Looking back to this journey, thinking back to walls and gates and sacred ground that had to be defended, I couldn’t help but wonder if that — the need to be right, the need to claim, the need to protect — is where things start to fracture. 

Not the faith itself, but the way we cling to it. That thought hasn’t left me.

Travel can be so much more than selfies. More than Instagram moments and quick snapshots meant to prove we were there. And it doesn’t have to be profound — but it doesn’t have to be superficial either. 

We can bring home more than trinkets and souvenirs. Travel can have an impact. How deep that impact goes is a personal choice.

What I remember most are the moments that stayed with me. I came home hearing prayers differently — prayers that had once been rote, spoken from memory more than intention. 

I find myself saying them more slowly now. More carefully, thoughtfully.

And along the way, I’ve been left wondering whether faith is meant to be defended at all — or simply lived. 

I don’t know the answer. But I do know this: after standing in so many stunning yet thoughtful sacred spaces, across widely diverse cultures and deeply rooted traditions, I’m more convinced than ever that there is far, far more that unites us than divides us. 

And in the end, that may be the only thing that truly matters.

Thanks so much for listening.

If this episode resonated with you, I’d love for you to follow Explorations All Over on Facebook, Instagram or YouTube.And if you’d like to go a bit deeper, there’s a subscriber level with bonus episodes and extended reflections — you’ll find all the links in the show notes.

Once again, I’m Russ.  Until next time, I’ll see you soon.