In the ancient city of Castulo, in the olive-covered hills of southern Spain, archaeologists have uncovered a building that defies easy labels. For decades, it was listed as a fourth-century Christian church. But as careful hands brushed away the dust of centuries, something older began to surface — fragments of oil lamps etched with seven-branched menorahs, a clay jar lid with faint Hebrew letters, and the stone base of a raised bimah, the platform where the Torah was once read.
Beneath what appeared to be a church, a synagogue was waiting to be recognized.
This discovery, quietly announced by Spanish researchers in 2025, may be one of the earliest physical traces of Jewish life in Iberia. Yet it also tells a deeper story — one that reaches into Scripture, empire, and the shared roots of the Christian faith.
A Synagogue at the Edge of Empire
When this synagogue stood in use, sometime in the fourth century A.D., Spain was part of the Roman Empire. The air carried the dust of imperial armies, the rhythm of Latin speech, and the tension of a faith in transition.
Barely 50 years earlier, Christianity had been a persecuted sect. Then came the conversion of Emperor Constantine and the Edict of Milan (313 CE), which legalized Christian worship. Within decades, churches rose in Roman cities, and bishops began to wield authority once reserved for governors.
But Jews had been there long before.
By the time of Constantine, Jewish families had already lived in Iberia for centuries — traders, artisans, teachers, descendants of those scattered after Babylon and Rome. They prayed toward Jerusalem, kept the feasts, and taught their children the Shema:
“Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one.” — Deuteronomy 6:4
That the Castulo synagogue existed at all tells us that, even on the empire’s far western edge, Jewish life flourished.
Faith under Two Crowns
The fourth century was a turning point — for both Jews and Christians.
Christianity was rising toward imperial power; Judaism, though tolerated, was losing its legal equality. By the reign of Theodosius I (379–395 CE), Christianity became the empire’s official religion.
In Spain, church councils such as Elvira (circa 305 CE) began to mark boundaries between the faiths. One decree forbade Christians from eating with Jews. Another discouraged intermarriage. What began as cautious distinction hardened, over time, into separation.
And yet, Castulo’s synagogue — possibly in use during this very period — hints at a more complex reality.
Here, Jewish worship persisted. Menorahs were carved, prayers were spoken, and the Torah was read aloud — even as the empire’s official faith changed around them.
Two Possibilities, One Mystery
Archaeologists are still tracing the building’s layers, and two main possibilities have emerged.
1. The Synagogue That Became a Church
In many parts of the empire, as Christianity gained strength, older synagogues were repurposed or taken over. The symbolism was clear: the “new faith” inheriting the sacred ground of the “old.” By the fifth century, some bishops had ordered synagogues to be converted to churches, interpreting Christian victory as divine approval.
If Castulo followed that pattern, the synagogue may have been consecrated as a church after Jewish worship ceased. The menorahs, left intact, became silent witnesses — their light replaced by the cross, their memory sealed in plaster.
Paul’s words to the Romans echo as a warning:
“Do not boast over the branches… You do not support the root, but the root supports you.” — Romans 11:18
This interpretation reminds us that whenever Christians forget the root of their faith — the covenant God first made with Israel — they risk losing sight of the very grace that redeemed them.
2. The Church That Protected a Synagogue
Yet another, more redemptive story is possible.
In remote regions of the empire, Jewish and Christian communities sometimes coexisted peacefully. Archaeologists in Galilee and Sardinia have found shared workshops, similar artistic motifs, and even evidence of cooperation in construction.
Perhaps, in Castulo, the local Christians protected the synagogue by reclassifying it as a church — a strategy that may have spared it from imperial confiscation. The two faiths could have quietly shared the same space: Jews praying toward Jerusalem, Christians celebrating the risen Christ — both believing in the God of Abraham.
If that is true, then this structure may represent not conquest, but compassion — a moment when the followers of Jesus remembered His words:
“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.” — Matthew 5:9
Echoes of the Early Church and the Covenant
Whether the Castulo building tells a story of displacement or protection, its stones carry the same truth: the Church and Israel are inseparably linked.
By the time this synagogue stood, Jerusalem’s Second Temple had been gone for over 300 years. Yet, across the Mediterranean, Jewish believers still lit lamps and read the Law — proof that God’s covenant people had not vanished. Their presence in Spain embodies the promise spoken through Jeremiah:
“I will gather the remnant of my flock out of all the countries where I have driven them.” — Jeremiah 23:3
Three centuries earlier, Paul wrote to the Gentile believers in Rome — the same empire that ruled Spain:
“Has God rejected His people? By no means!” — Romans 11:1
The Castulo discovery brings those verses to life. Long after empires rose and fell, the menorah still burned. The covenant still held. God’s promises had not been revoked.
The Light That Never Went Out
For Christians, this moment in history challenges and blesses us.
It challenges us to confront the Church’s own failures toward the Jewish people — times when power eclipsed humility. But it also blesses us with the reminder that God’s story is bigger than human politics.
The menorah and the cross, though often seen as symbols of two faiths, both speak of light overcoming darkness. The menorah’s seven flames represent divine wisdom and presence; the cross reveals that Light made flesh in Christ. Together, they testify to one God — the God who keeps His covenant and fulfills His promises.
“If they keep quiet, the stones will cry out.” — Luke 19:40
And now, the stones of Spain have cried out. They remind us that even on the farthest frontier of the ancient world, faith endured — not because of empire, but because of the eternal faithfulness of God.
For Modern-Day Esthers
For modern-day Esthers who stand for Israel, the Castulo synagogue-church is a mirror. It asks: Will we remember our roots? Will we stand with God’s people even when culture turns away?
History teaches that forgetting Israel leads to spiritual amnesia. Remembering Israel restores perspective.
Our Redeemer was a Jew from Nazareth; His first followers prayed in synagogues; His words fulfilled the Law and the Prophets.
The discovery in Spain is not just an archaeological footnote — it is a call to return to the foundation of our faith:
“In the beginning was the Word… and the Word became flesh and made His dwelling among us.” — John 1:1, 14
Today’s Prayer
Lord, You are the same God who walked with Israel through exile and return, through fire and through peace. Thank You that Your promises never fail. Help us to remember the root from which we have been grafted. Where there has been division, sow reconciliation. Where there has been silence, let truth speak. May the light of the menorah and the cross both point us to You — the God who redeems and restores. Amen.
From Spain’s forgotten hills to Jerusalem’s sacred soil, archaeology continues to confirm the promises of Scripture. To see how two remarkable discoveries in Israel—an ancient coin of redemption and a child’s 3,800-year-old find—reveal the same faithfulness of God, read “Redeemed in Stone and Soil.”
Discovering the Bible’s Historical Truth
