Title: The Character of God in the Crater of Sin
Text: Exodus 34:10–26
Originally delivered on 26 July 2026 at Stonington Baptist Church, Paxinos, PA
For more content like this, visit www.graceupongrace.net

If one is eager for evidence that corroborates the fact that the Bible is a divinely inspired book, the juxtaposition found in Chapter 15 of Exodus is a good place to start. Throughout the first twenty-one verses, a sense of euphoria surges through God’s people, as they sing at the top of their lungs about how the Lord “triumphed gloriously” for them (Exod. 15:1). As Moses waxes rhapsodic about God and the uncanny grace by which and through which he rescued them, it’s not hard to imagine the exhilaration that coursed through that Israelite congregation as they joined the victory chorus. And if we had our way, we’d put a bow on their story and say they lived happily ever after, and call it a day.

1. There Are No Hallmark Movies in the Wilderness

The Bible isn’t a man-made book, though. It’s God’s revelation to us, wherein he meets us and finds us right where we are, even in life’s bitter places. The irony is, if God’s Word were merely a series of euphoric songs and stories, you’d probably dismiss it for not being realistic enough. It’d be regarded in the same vein as Hallmark’s filmography, panned for its saccharine storytelling and apparent lack of risk. (Sorry, Hallmark.) Thus, one of the ways we can know that the Bible isn’t an offshoot of human imagination or religious fantasy is the fact that it includes and sometimes even highlights the nasty, gnarly stuff of life — the stuff we loathe to think about.

• It’s not all “David slaying his giants” without also “David covering up his affair with a murder.”

• It’s not all “Elijah on Mt Carmel”; it’s also “Elijah depressed and on the run for his life.”

• It’s not all “Peter saying he’d die for Jesus”; it’s also “Peter denying he ever knew Jesus,” and cursing as he did so.

Or take the scene at the oasis of Marah, for example, where God’s people go from praising God to despairing their lives in a mere seventy-two hours (Exod. 15:22–24). After trekking across the Red Sea on dry ground, the Israelites promptly revert to grumbling and treating Moses as their national punching bag. All it took was three days for the masses to forget what their Lord was capable of. After being brought through one dead-end, they find themselves in another cul-de-sac of doubt and uncertainty, where God’s will and Moses’s leadership are once again called into question.

2. Learning to Walk According to What’s Promised

If this feels familiar, that’s because they’ve already tried this formula (Exod. 14:11–12). And buckle up, because this pattern becomes a predominant part of their story for the next four decades, as demonstrated by the preponderance of the word “grumbled,” which occurs fifteen times throughout the rest of the Old Testament, fourteen of which describe the attitude of the Israelites (Exod. 15:24; cf. 16:2; 17:3).1 In other words, if you’re hoping that this crisis at Marah will be one where they finally put it all together and figure out what it means to walk by faith, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.

Walking by faith and not by sight is a lifelong seminar, a class from which we never graduate. Indeed, among the many things we can learn from Israel’s sojourn through the wilderness is the fact that we’ll always be in need of grace to walk by faith. This is what Israel was about to learn; it’s what all of God’s disciples are in the process of learning as well. “Saved by grace through faith,” to use Paul’s summation of it, likewise means being led, sustained, and carried by grace through faith, too (Eph. 2:8). It’s grace all the way down and all the way through.

We need God’s grace to give us the faith to keep moving forward by faith. And from now till we’re on death’s doorstep, we’ll always be struggling with that — with structuring our lives around what’s promised instead of what’s seen (cf. Heb. 11:1). This is because when life punches us in the gut, when reality deals us a devastating blow, or even a series of them, we instinctually look to take matters into our own hands. When a crisis strikes, we look for solutions; we rush for explanations, reasons, and parties on whom to dump the blame. Sort of like Israel pinning the lack of water on Moses. And if we aren’t careful, what happened to them can easily happen to us.

3. What Shall We Drink?

The Marah catastrophe, if you will, involved a very real crisis. A crowd of two million with a scant water supply is a logistical nightmare, to say the least. Nursing moms and frazzled parents of toddlers experience a new level of stress as they try to soothe their young, not knowing when they’ll be able to quench their thirst. I can’t imagine that lasting for three hours, let alone three days, especially when, on any given Sunday, one or all three of my kids murmur and moan as if they’re on the verge of starvation or dehydration during the eight-minute drive home from church. This isn’t that; Israel’s impending disaster is very real, resulting in very real (and very understandable) misery.

Marah, therefore, isn’t a moment for “Ah, just suck it up” words of wisdom or tough love. Rather, it’s a moment for Israel to do what Moses eventually did: “The people grumbled against Moses, saying, ‘What shall we drink?’ And [Moses] cried to the Lord” (Exod. 15:24–25). The former prince of Egypt here models what every follower of God is invited to do when faced with a crisis of faith: bring that crisis to God. His first resort is to plead with Yahweh and desperately appeal for his divine aid. Out of his distress and the collective distress of the entire congregation, Israel’s leader turns to Israel’s Lord for help.

And of course, the Lord was listening — he’s always listening. While God delights to hear from us at all times, his ears are especially attuned to our sorrowful, painful, guttural cries. When Moses petitions the Lord to intervene, that’s exactly what he does, motioning toward a tree that was protruding on the banks of the waters of Marah and giving the command to toss it into the bitter pool. And as soon as he did, that bitter spring suddenly became sweet. Israel’s terribly bitter circumstance turned favorable, cheerful even. The oasis of Marah, whose water wasn’t potable, was turned into a true oasis.

Everyone’s drinking, slaking their thirst; kids are splashing and playing, while others are taking their first bath in what feels like forever. It’s another instance of pure joy, relief, and euphoria. It’s grace. What was bitter had been made sweet by nothing but God’s intervening favor. For what it’s worth, I don’t pay much attention to those who attempt to explain away this event through natural causes. Notwithstanding the supposed tradition of Mesopotamian nomads turning brackish water into something tolerable by submerging certain shrubs that pull the salt to the bottom of the caraffe, the miracle at Marah was a bona fide miracle — one in which God delighted to perform, and in which he delighted to reveal even more of himself. “I am the Lord, your healer,” he declares (Exod. 15:26).

4. The Name of God in Those Bitter Places

In the bitterness of Marah, Israel was being introduced to Jehovah Rapha, the Lord who heals (cf. Ps. 103:3; Jer. 30:17). This is who was with them and for them throughout the barren wasteland that lay ahead of them. As they trudged through uncertain terrain, filled with unknown challenges, they were assured that accompanying them all along their way was none other than the Healer and Restorer of all things, for whom nothing is beyond repair. There is no situation so dire, so crippling, so grievous that Jehovah Rapha can’t mend it.

To press the matter even further, amid the bitterness of Israel’s frustration and unbelief, God had already created and appointed the means of their healing. “The Lord showed Moses a tree,” we’re told. Not a random, nondescript clump of trees, but a specific tree that had been there all along. The one who breathed the world into being, speaking forests into existence with a word, seemed to have this moment in mind, planting a tree by the riverbed of Marah so that when his people got there, the way to be restored would already be provided.

Charles Spurgeon once said that “God has a remedy for all our troubles before they happen to us.”2 “Our needs,” J. Alec Motyer agrees, “have already been anticipated in his foreseeing, far-seeing grace, which is ever on our side.”3 Israel’s impossible crisis wasn’t impossible after all, because God had made a way. He who carved a path through the Red Sea is the same one who fortified the waters of Marah. And after healing that oasis and offering his people plenty of refreshment, the Lord not only divulges what he was doing there, but he also covenants with them:

There the Lord made for them a statute and a rule, and there he tested them, saying, “If you will diligently listen to the voice of the Lord your God, and do that which is right in his eyes, and give ear to his commandments and keep all his statutes, I will put none of the diseases on you that I put on the Egyptians, for I am the Lord, your healer.” (Exod. 15:25–27)

5. The Artist and the Test at Marah

Although we aren’t at Mount Sinai just yet, God is in the process of making a people for himself, “chosen and precious,” fashioning a “spiritual house” out of them (1 Pet. 2:5). In other words, he’s showing them what it means that they were his people, his church — namely, it means hearing and heeding the Lord’s words despite whatever test or trial comes their way. As God speaks words of covenant blessing and promise over them, he lets it be known that this was a “test.” (He gave them quite a few of these, in fact, cf. Exod. 16:4; Deut. 8:2, 16; Judg. 2:22, 3:1, 4; Ps. 66:10.) The very faith they expressed in the Song of the Sea is the faith that’s being proved and examined, much like a hunk of metal is proved in a furnace. And if you have Peter’s words (1 Pet. 1:6–7) in your head right now, that’s a good thing, because that’s what’s happening here.

That image of a metallurgist placing a slab of gold into the smelter is helpful for understanding what transpired at Marah. Just as the metallurgist tests the genuineness of the metal by blasting it with fire, so, too, does God test the genuineness of our faith by putting us through trials. And of course, this isn’t because he harbors any smidgen of ill will towards us. The metallurgist isn’t mad at the gold, and that’s why he’s throwing it into the inferno. Instead, because he loves and cherishes the gold, he puts it through a proving process so that he can shape it into what he already knows and sees it can become. As the flames burn off all the impurities, the hunk of gold is ready for the artist to mold it, form it to his design.

God the Father is no exasperated artist. He doesn’t toss those whom he cherishes — those whom he “purchased” (Exod. 15:16) — into the furnace out of anger or because he’s annoyed at them. Instead, he brings his people to Marah so that they can see and know what kind of people they are and what kind of God he is, and how desperate they are for him; so he can shape them into his image. He leads them to the place of bitterness to reveal the bitterness that still lurks in their hearts, all to show forth how he is the only one who can turn all that is bitter into sweetness with a mere word. Charles Spurgeon’s words are especially insightful here:

I do not know of any reflection more consoling than this, that my sorrow is not laid on me by a judge, nor inflicted on me as the result of divine anger. There is not a drop of wrath in a riverful of a believer’s grief . . . if I suffer, all my suffering comes from my Father’s hand — nay, more, from my Father’s heart. He loves me, and therefore makes me suffer; not because he does not love, but because he does love does he thus afflict me.4

6. The Healer Holds Us Fast

What he’s showing them, and us, is that life isn’t without its bitternesses. Those are ineludible. But not only is he sovereign over the bitter moments, but he is also with us through the bitter times. Trudging along through those terribly bitter days means trusting and obeying the Lord’s words above everything else, much like the Preacher of Ecclesiastes says, “Fear God and keep his commands, for this is the whole duty of man” (Eccl. 12:13). And at the end of Israel’s long passage lay a true oasis, an abundant spring that could rightly be deemed a paradise, complete with a spring for every tribe and a palm grove for every elder (Exod. 15:27).

God’s message to his people, us included, is that what makes life’s bitter places sweet is who is with us. With you and for you is Jehovah Rapha, the Lord who heals and restores. And whether that healing comes in this life or the next, I can’t say — whether you’re led to a version of Elim on earth or in eternity, the point is that the Healer is the one who is holding onto you. Through Marah and beyond, and everywhere in between, he will hold you fast. Even when the bitter places sink down deep into our bones, to the point where, like Naomi, Marah is all we know (Ruth 1:20–21), the Restorer never relinquishes his grip on you. His word of promise is that all that’s torn will be mended, and all that’s shattered will be repaired (Hos. 6:1).

7. Where Bitterness Was Drunk to the Dregs

And this promise is no “pie in the sky” hope, nor is it merely wishful thinking for downcast sufferers. Rather, we can say, and we can know that the bitterness of our days will be made sweet because God in Christ has already drunk the bitterness of sin and death for us (John 19:28–30). The bitter water that God’s people can’t bear to drink is the very bitter draught that God’s Son drinks to the dregs for us. Golgotha works backward to repair not just the bitterness of Marah but of sin, death, and hell, turning every grave into a place of life. Far from being some sort of divine contingency, the cross was God’s foreordained method for replacing the bitterness of sin with the sweetness of his salvation and union with him (1 Pet. 2:24). “It is only at the cross,” Spurgeon concludes, “it is only by Jesus crucified that the world can be healed.”5

Marah’s tree preaches to us the good news of the Lord who heals by being afflicted, restores by being crushed, and mends by being wounded (Isa. 53:4–6). “The tree at Marah was just a shadow of the cross,” Michael P. V. Barrett notes, “not because it was a tree or wood but because it pointed to God’s provision to reverse the curse. As the tree in the wilderness removed the bitterness of the water, so Christ removes sin, the bitterest of all curses.”6 While at Marah, God miraculously changes the water; on the cross, he mercifully absorbs the curse. At Marah, God showed Moses a tree that had been prepared beforehand to restore what was bitter. At Calvary, God’s Son was nailed to a tree that had been prepared beforehand to restore every broken and bitter thing in the world, including you.

In this episode, I’m joined once again by Raphael Mnkandhla for part two of a two-part mini-series reflecting on and reviewing the book The Clay Pot Conspiracy by Dave Harvey. Contrary to what many suppose, God often chooses to build his church through weak leaders, not polished ones. Those who shepherd the church best are those who know what it’s like to be wounded, knowing that theirs is a wounded Savior.

Raphael pastors City Church in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, where he lives and serves with his wife Heidi and their six children. You can follow him on Facebook, Instagram, and Substack.

Resources:
The Clay Pot Conspiracy: God’s Plan to Use Weakness in Leaders, Dave Harvey
Weakness Is the Way: Life with Christ Our Strength, J. I. Packer
The Pastor’s Justification: Applying the Work of Christ in Your Life and Ministry, Jared C. Wilson
Finding God in the Darkness: Hopeful Reflections from the Pits of Depression, Despair, and Disappointment, Bradley Gray

Sponsor:
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Credits:
Intro music: It Just Makes Me Happy
Composer: DJ Quads, soundcloud.com/aka-dj-quads
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Title: He Reigns Over the Raging Sea
Text: Psalm 93:1–5
Originally delivered on 19 July 2026 at Stonington Baptist Church, Paxinos, PA
For more content like this, visit www.graceupongrace.net

Within Jeremiah’s call to ministry, we are given a glimpse at God’s sovereignty over all things, including Jeremiah’s own life and destiny. Despite all the ups and downs of Jeremiah’s nerve in light of what he was tasked with preaching, and when he was summoned to preach it, and to whom, his ability to keep on keeping on, as it were, was downstream of both the fact that his message was comprised of the words God was putting into his mouth (Jer. 1:9) and that his Lord had chosen him for this assignment long before he was born.

“Before I formed you in the womb,” the Lord declares to him, “I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations” (Jer. 1:5). Even as his limbs and ligaments were being formed in his mother’s uterus, God already had a purpose for Jeremiah’s life that he was eager to shape him into. The forming, consecrating, and appointing nomenclature gesture toward an artisan turning clay on a potter’s wheel (cf. Jer. 10:16), appearing throughout Jeremiah’s sermon, where he deploys the same analogy (Jer. 18:6, 11).

Therefore, even though Jeremiah might not have chosen this prophetic office for himself, he could rest assured that God had chosen him for it.1 As opposition and antagonism mounted, even from among his own peers, as distress calcified into despair, and as hope turned to ash, filling Jeremiah’s heart and soul was the gracious reminder that God himself had equipped him for precisely this moment. “In the midst of this episode of human frailty,” William H. Duke, Jr. says, “came the calm but firm assurance from God that Jeremiah would be able to do what he was being called to do . . . The hope and courage of Jeremiah’s call found their impetus in the sovereign call of God alone.”2

Instead of riding the coattails of his own credentials or boasting in his rhetorical might or religious pedigree, Jeremiah was invited to find ironic consolation in the fact that nothing suited him for this task other than the fact that the Lord had made him suitable for it. All the inadequacies that might otherwise cause him to recoil — age, experience, timidity (Jer. 1:6–7) — are sufficiently swallowed up in a wave of mercy. Early twentieth-century Canadian-American preacher H. A. Ironside once put it like this: “It is not, therefore, brilliant men whom He depends on, nor men of self-sufficiency and self-confidence, but it is ever His delight to fill the empty vessel and then use it to suit Himself.”3

Or, if you’ll excuse the rather trite truism, God doesn’t call the qualified; he qualifies the called.

A pastor’s ability to carry out that to which God has called him isn’t contingent on his capabilities. Rather, the pastoral office hangs on God filling us and fitting us, by his Word and Spirit, and employing us as he so desires. We are the clay in the potter’s hands, which is shaped and molded as the Artisan sees fit. This, to be sure, doesn’t immediately evaporate all of your deep-seated fears and worries. It surely didn’t for Jeremiah, who earned himself the nickname “The Weeping Prophet.” But the point is that God knew all of this — he knew the stuff with which Jeremiah was made. After all, he made him.

This is why God takes to reassuring his despairing prophet with a profound object lesson:

And the word of the Lord came to me, saying, “Jeremiah, what do you see?” And I said, “I see an almond branch.” Then the Lord said to me, “You have seen well, for I am watching over my word to perform it.” (Jer. 1:11–12)

The point behind this vision is likely lost on us, mostly because few of us are Hebrew scholars (this author included), which means we aren’t as attuned to the wordplay that’s happening here. In Hebrew, “almond” and “watch” are only distinguishable by one letter, a linguistic coil that is tightened even further once you realize that almond trees were symbolic of the arrival of spring. Blooming in late winter, almond buds preached to those who watched them, conveying the end of one season and the beginning of another. And the point is, as those who watch and wait for the first almond sprout to signal the end of the bitter cold, so does God watch over his word with the same level of attentiveness, ensuring every syllable of it comes to pass. Steve Kruschel’s comments prove helpful here:

We give ourselves too much credit when we think that the gospel ministry stands and falls because of our own strength and weaknesses. The word stands powerful by itself! And yet in his infinite love, the Lord has chosen to use us, sinful human beings, to carry that powerful message. The word of the Lord remains ever powerful, even when you are not.4

The Word of God is being watched over by the God of the Word, who ensures and attends to its fulfillment. What a relief to know that the effectiveness of Jeremiah’s ministry was never tethered to his sufficiency or proficiency, but to the God of all-sufficient grace, whose words never return void (Isa. 55:11). And the same is true for yours as well. Your sphere of ministry might look different from the megachurch pastor down the road. But your calling is no less important, and the God who called you is no less sufficient for you, right where you are, especially for you who are laboring in those overlooked places.

It’s no accident that God called you to be where you are, even if that might be in a place full of rolling fields, small towns, and the annual aroma of manure wafting through the air. Even there, the gospel is urgent, the souls valued, and the Word is enough. As daunting and difficult as rural ministry can be, God is keen on calling preachers, especially inadequate ones, to go precisely there, to the communities most folks drive past on the interstate, because even there, he is with them. Even there, his Word can blossom into flourishing faith.

I can still remember where I was when I sensed God was calling me into pastoral ministry. You see, like another prophet who was fond of running, I had been resisting that call for a while. Similar to Jeremiah, though, I grew up around the Word. Sunday school is just part of my DNA. That’s what happens when your dad is a pastor and both your grandfathers were pastors. But for whatever reason, I didn’t want that for my future, at least at first.

I suppose I was tired of hearing all the comments from churchgoers assuming my future for me. That, of course, I’d be a preacher just because my dad was. So I ran. I entered undergraduate school, majoring in humanities, before switching to a health and fitness focus (which is laughable if you look at my body now), I guess, with the intent of being a coach somewhere. But all the while, I was grappling with what I knew to be true: that God had other plans for me. And more to the point, all the while, God was hot on my heels, like the hound of heaven that he is.

All of this, by the way, coincides with meeting my wife, Natalie, since, as it happens, she was a health and fitness major, too. After we met on the sidewalk and started dating, I eventually told her about how I was wrestling with what my future was. And it was at that year’s Bible Conference (which that particular university has in lieu of Spring Break) when I finally gave up. I stopped running. I switched my major to youth ministries the following semester, and Natalie proceeded to tell me that she also sensed a call to marry a preacher, and the rest is history.

Lord willing, I will surpass the seven-year mark at the church where I serve, which is happily rural. What has sustained me is not that much different from what sustained Jeremiah so long ago — namely, the grace of knowing that God didn’t make a mistake when he called Jeremiah to preach. Although what most might refer to as “success” was hard to come by, God’s Word prevailed because of the God who watches over it.

Perhaps you’ve sensed a similar call on your life but have resisted it due to how unqualified you feel or how forgotten your corner of the world may seem. The good news is that God hasn’t made a mistake with you either. The Potter hasn’t pulled his hands away from the clay. The almond tree blossoms, and the Word prevails, because of who is watching over it.

Although it’s somewhat of a pastoral trope to suggest that each Sunday’s sermon text is among the most important to know and understand, I do reckon Paul’s Christological rhapsody in Philippians 2 to be one of the most crucial portions of Scripture, both theologically and ecclesiologically. Paul’s letter to the church at Philippi is unique for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that it largely lacks the doctrinal invectives that appear in letters such as those to the Corinthians or the Galatians. The bulk of Philippians is positive rather than polemical, additive instead of argumentative. Apart from the calling out of two ladies in Chapter 4, Paul’s writing is favorable to the Philippian believers.

The apparent disunity of Syntyche and Euodia did pose a threat to the ministry of the church, though, which is why the apostle was apt to mention disagreeable parties by name in a public letter that was likely read and shared among other church bodies as well. This wasn’t to bring undue shame on the individuals in question. Rather, it was to emphasize the gravity of disunity if left to fester. Like gangrene, it gets worse as it’s left alone and not dealt with. But instead of merely calling it out and urging better behavior, Paul offers a more profound understanding of unity and the humility that fuels it by pointing the church to the one who epitomized both, the Christ of God.

So if there is any encouragement in Christ, any comfort from love, any participation in the Spirit, any affection and sympathy, complete my joy by being of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. (Phil. 2:1–11)

The Christo-centric hymn of Philippians 2 is, we might say, the aspirational end of faith. After conveying what it looks like for sinner-saints to participate in the Spirit together, Paul proceeds to show what sustains that participation, even when such obstacles as “selfish ambition or conceit” threaten to undo the comfort and love enjoyed by the koinōnia itself. The church’s sustenance is the word of the gospel, which expresses the mind of Christ, dissolving self-interest and fostering deference. And although it might be tempting, pastors and theologians undersell Paul’s objective when they approach this text merely as a model of humility.

Yes, unity and humility are exemplified by what Paul articulates. But more pointedly, this entire anthem announces what’s given when the Word is preached. “Have this mind among yourselves,” he writes, “which is yours in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 2:5). It isn’t merely an objective to pursue; it’s a gift that’s yours already, by faith. The natural inclination to consider oneself more significant than others isn’t remedied through mere training or self-discipline. More often than not, regimented sanctification breeds a righteousness of one’s own, which Paul considers to be on the same level as refuse (Phil. 3:8–9).

What’s ultimately needed, therefore, is a righteousness that comes from God and depends on faith. In other words, the church needs the gospel, which is precisely what Paul gives them, even as he enlarges the church’s understanding of what was involved to make the gospel possible. This leads the apostle to consider Christ’s self-emptying, or what theologians now refer to as the kenosis.1 Who knows how much ink has been spilled communicating how to properly understand what is meant when Paul says that Christ “emptied himself”? From the earliest ecclesiastical period, though, the nature of God’s Son has been the subject of debate, criticism, and censure, which, ironically enough, is the exact opposite of Paul’s letter.

I dare not presume to think that this discussion can be resolved through a pastoral reflection published on Substack. However, it’s crucial for the church to treasure its Christology and treat the Word’s revelation of the Word become flesh among the most vital and vivifying. This means eagerly asking and answering Jesus’s question, “Whom do you say that I am?” (Matt. 16:15). “Is he really God’s Son,” R. C. H. Lenski inquires, “or only partly God’s Son or only a man and not even partly God’s Son?”2 While this might seem esoteric or devoid of Paul’s point, this isn’t merely debate fodder for seminarians and scholars; it’s indispensable for the life of faith. Lenski says it like this:

This is not a squabble among theologians; this is an issue involving the life or the death of every Christian’s faith in his Savior. Centered on the humiliation of Christ, it automatically involves the whole saving work of Jesus wrought out here on earth and equally his exaltation. To state it in brief, the whole Christian faith is the real issue.3

In other words, the issue at hand — unity in the local church — isn’t merely solved by petitioning church members to lay down their arms and quit being so self-interested; it’s resolved by the one who voluntarily went to the cross both as the world’s reconciliatory substitute and the embodiment of deferential love and humility. Far from an unfortunate end to a life taken too quickly, the cross was the God-man’s willing self-abasement. “He did this himself to himself,” Lenski notes. “Thus all was voluntary, prompted by his own infinite love.”4 And, of note, this isn’t creaturely or angelic love that’s on display, but the love of God. Lenski continues:

He who was the Son of God, equal with God, he who communicated his divine attributes to his human nature so that all the Godhead dwelt in him bodily (Col. 2:9), he died, died hanging on a post of wood, died as one accursed, hanging on wood, the mark of being accursed. Of his own volition. Hence this is the most noble act the world has ever seen; hence it is full of infinite merit, all this is to be bestowed upon us. This is the mystery of the gospel, into which even the angels of God delight to look. This is the historic gospel fact which the gospel attests and publishes in all the world. This is the fact that saves to the uttermost all those who embrace it in confidence and rest their very soul upon it.5

Intimately intertwined within Paul’s admonition for those strong-willed women and the Philippian church writ large to embrace humility and unity is a Christological confession that latches onto the deity of the Son. “A Jesus who is devoid of one attribute of deity,” Lenski says, “is no more the Son of God than a Jesus who had only one nature while he lived on earth, was not at all the logos, was only Joseph’s natural son.”6 If Jesus were only the latter, then the church would gather in vain, and its members could go on living lives of crass self-interest. But as it is, and as we confess, the Son “emptied himself,” not by losing one whit of his deity, but by taking on the garb of humility itself in the “form of a servant” who willingly dies for those he loves.

Long before Nicaea’s or Chalcedon’s first draft, the apostle Paul perceived what was at stake if the church tinkers with Christ’s identity. Namely, everything. But pointedly, and in Euodia and Syntyche’s case, the unity that enlivens, enriches, and allows ministry to not just endure, but to thrive. Thus, the kenosis isn’t just a doctrine the church is called to defend; it’s the word that empties us of ourselves and binds us to each other by giving us the Christ of God who gave us everything.

Grace and peace.

Title: Till All We Have Is You
Text: Exodus 33:12—34:10
Originally delivered on 12 July 2026 at Stonington Baptist Church, Paxinos, PA
For more content like this, visit www.graceupongrace.net

Having been brought through the sea on “dry ground,” and having not only witnessed but also experienced God’s miraculous deliverance firsthand, Moses and the congregation of Israel break out into song. “I will sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously,” their anthems ring, “the horse and his rider he has thrown into the sea” (Exod. 15:1). There are a slew of factors that make this so-called Song of the Sea so compelling, chief among them being that this is the first recorded song in Scripture. If you flip through Genesis, you can find some poetry sprinkled throughout, as in Chapters 4 and 49. But this is the first mention of actual singing, especially in a corporate sense.

This is no throw-away detail either, nor is this a literary accident. There’s something profoundly significant occurring as the people of God — his “church in the wilderness” (Acts 7:38) — sing praises to him in the aftermath of the great victory he won for them. They raise their voices to exalt the one who makes them his own. Whether they realized it in the moment or not, this was and is the defining event for all those who belong to the Lord (Ps. 106:7–12; Isa. 63:12), resonating even down to the age of the church, whom the apostle Paul suggests “were baptized into Moses in the cloud and in the sea” (1 Cor. 10:2). This song, therefore, isn’t merely an excursus on God’s saving ability; it’s a euphoric rhapsody of God’s saving initiative and action on behalf of those whom he saves and shields (Deut. 33:29).

1. A Singing People

It’s worth pausing to consider that God’s people have always been a singing people. This isn’t merely a Baptist tradition or a Methodist tradition or a Wesleyan tradition or a Lutheran tradition, even though all those denominations have produced so many beloved hymns and hymn-writers throughout the centuries. From the Red Sea crossing to the cave-dwelling King David to Jonah in a fish’s belly to Paul and Silas belting out psalms while chained up in a Philippian jailhouse, a trademark of those who belong to God has been the way they sing, when they are found singing, and what they are singing about.

This goes beyond mere spirituality, of course. There are social, emotional, and even physiological benefits that come with singing, too. Studies from the likes of the British Medical Journal, Oxford, and the University of Helsinki, among others, all return fairly convincing evidence that singing, especially in large groups, can significantly improve one’s mood, increase social connection, and even reduce stress and anxiety. Maybe there’s a reason why you’re happiest when you’re belting out Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone” in the car or shower. (I know you do that because I do it, too.)

By and large, singing is an expression of intense emotion — either joy or sadness, grief or gratitude. There are some good in-between songs, of course, but the majority of the most well-known and well-beloved songs of all time have either been about breaking up or being gleefully in love. This, of course, tracks with what’s found throughout Scripture as well, with musical interludes either emerging out of the deep darkness of negative times or springing from the positive delights of knowing God and being known by him. Whatever the case, singing, it must be said, is a conscious choice.

2. Joining the Chorus

Not for nothing, Moses’s song begins with a triad of “I will” declarations (Exod. 15:1–2), which insinuate the deliberate decision he and the rest of the congregation are making to God. The point is that you can’t force anyone to sing. Not only would that not end well, but it’d sort of ruin the moment. Singing that comes on the heels of coercion or pressure kills the whole vibe. It misses the point. After all, singing is what happens “when the emotion becomes too strong for speech.” So goes the logic of Broadway and Hollywood. As in your favorite musicals, from Singin’ in the Rain to The Sound of Music to West Side Story, the musical interludes aren’t so much interruptions as they are the release of musical tension, like the inverse of a horror-movie jump-scare.

Something similar happens when the church assembles for worship. The hymns and songs that comprise the liturgy aren’t there for the mere sake of tradition. They’re an invitation to join the chorus of sinners and saints who’ve been extolling the Lord who is their strength and song and salvation since the inception of the church. No matter how much charm the so-called worship leader employs, no one can force you to join that song without ruining it. When Moses beckons Israel to “sing to the Lord,” he does so by reminding them of the myriad reasons they can and should sing. His song, therefore, is an open invitation for everyone to join the choir of sinners who are rescued and held fast by the steadfast love of God alone.

3. The Battle That Wasn’t

There’s no mistaking what this Song of the Sea is all about, especially since Moses keeps rehashing the same imagery over and over again (Exod. 15:4–5, 7, 10, 12). In the most obvious terms, this song is all about the defeat of Pharaoh and his minions. It’s a victory song, belted out on the heels of Israel’s pursuers getting trounced in one of the most unmistakable demonstrations of divine intervention and power ever recorded. However mighty the reputation of Pharaoh’s chariot army, they were no match for God Almighty, whose breath makes water stand at attention (Exod. 15:8). At the sound of his voice, the deep waters “congealed,” consuming the enemy “like stubble” in a swirling tide of justice and holiness (Exod. 15:7).

There’s a reason why this isn’t called the “Battle of the Red Sea” — namely, because it was over before it even started. This conflict is barely a blip on God’s radar. Even as the enemy strategizes and plots and makes arrangements for their victory parade and what they’re going to do with all the spoils of war (Exod. 15:9), God brushes aside all their best laid plans with nothing but his breath. “You blew with your wind,” the people chant, “the sea covered them” (Exod. 15:10). It’s akin to what the psalmist sings about in Psalm 2, where kings and nations plot to unseat the Lord’s Anointed, which earns little more than a snicker from him who sits on heaven’s throne (Ps. 2:1–4).

As much as they might’ve resisted, their resistance was futile, like a twig in a tornado. The Lord of all things threw the enemy into the heart of the sea like you flick an ant off the picnic table. God’s triumph was that conclusive, that decisive. “The overthrow of horse and driver, that is, both the instrument of war and the agent of war,” J. Alec Motyer comments, “expresses a total conquest, whereby nothing remains to threaten.”1 And God’s people got to witness it all, as their enemies sank like lead stones to their doom (Exod. 15:4–5, 10). All of which is what’s referred to as God’s “right hand” of majesty and might (Exod. 15:6, 12; cf. Ps. 98:1), which is a literary device suggestive of power or strength that isn’t hidden or able to be withstood. When Moses sings praises to the Lord who “is a man of war” (Exod. 15:3), he is praising the one who unmistakably and unhesitatingly intervened on his behalf, and everyone else’s.

4. The Sea That Points to the Cross

This Warrior God is the very God who is sung about Sunday after Sunday. And lest you conjure some grossly misappropriated or mistaken image about this Lord who is a man of war, let me put a finer point on who he is and whom he fights for. This is the God who fights for his people, and all they have to do is “be silent” (Exod. 14:14). He is “the Lord, strong and mighty, the Lord, mighty in battle” (Ps. 24:8). He is the one who is called “Faithful and True,” who “judges and makes war” (Rev. 19:11). He is the Christ of God, who fights by letting himself be defeated.

Moses’s song of God’s victory at the Red Sea points us forward to a place called Calvary, where the ultimate victory was won through God’s Son.

• Just as the enemy was shattered, sinking “into the depths like a stone,” so, too, has Christ Jesus crushed the enemies of Sin and Death, leaving them utterly defeated.

• Just as “not one of the Egyptian chariots remained,” so are all your sins taken care of by him.

• Just as they were “consumed like stubble,” so has your sin been consumed in a flood of grace.

• Just as the victory was won with his mere breath, so does Christ win the day by “uttering a loud cry, ‘It is finished,’ and breathing his last” (Mark 15:37; John 19:30).

In love unfathomable, God in Christ “casts all our sins into the depths of the sea” (Micah 7:19). His triumph over sin, Satan, and the grave is as conclusive and decisive as his triumph at the Red Sea. And this is why we sing. Here’s how Motyer puts it:

The Lord acted and his people sang, celebrating his deeds and recording their own enjoyment of the ensuing blessings. He was the agent, they the beneficiaries. They had had no part to play in, or contribution to make to, the acts they were celebrating and so their song expressed their joy at entering freely into the good of what the Lord had done for them.2

5. There Is No Other

At the end of Moses’s song, he employs a phrase that might almost seem boilerplate or formulaic (Exod. 15:18). If you scour the rest of Scripture, you’ll find allusions to the everlasting reign of the Lord all over the place (Ps. 93:2; 146:10; Jer. 10:10; Lam. 5:19; Dan. 4:34; 1 Tim. 1:17; Rev. 11:15). Moses, however, isn’t copping out by slapping a generic denouement to this anthem. Rather, he is making a bold claim about the Lord whom Israel serves and to whom they belong.

Unlike any other god in the pantheon of gods in Egypt or Babylon or wherever, where kings and potentates who assume the honor of a god or a son of the gods, only to be put in a grave eventually, Israel’s God truly “reigns forever.” His rule never comes to an end (Ps. 45:6). He who sits on the throne of heaven doesn’t have term limits (Ps. 10:16; 29:10). And from the plagues to the Red Sea, this eternal God gives Israel a front-row seat to the unrivaled “greatness of his majesty” (Exod. 15:7), as all those so-called deities of Egyptian lore are shown to be nothing.

No matter to whom Pharaoh paid homage, the Lord of heaven and earth is unequaled. The Red Sea, you might say, is an object lesson of this very point: “I am the Lord, and there is no other, besides me there is no God” (Isa. 45:5). There’s no one else even in the same ballpark as him. This is the reason why Moses rhetorically asks, “Who is like you? Who is like you?” (Exod. 15:11; cf. Deut. 3:24; 2 Sam. 7:22). The answer, of course, is no one. “There is no God like you, in heaven or on earth,” King Solomon would eventually concur (2 Chron. 6:14). “There is none holy like the Lord,” prayed Hannah, “for there is none besides you” (1 Sam. 2:2). “There is none like you, O Lord,” the great prophet Jeremiah once declared, “you are great, and your name is great in might” (Jer. 10:6).

“Yahweh is both the subject and the object of this psalm,” John I. Durham says, “the hymn is about him and to him.”3 From Moses to Micah, God’s people are summoned to sing and stand in awe-struck wonder at the unparalleled God of the universe, who takes up his people’s plight as his own.

Who is a God like you, pardoning iniquity
and passing over transgression
for the remnant of his inheritance?
He does not retain his anger forever,
because he delights in steadfast love.
(Micah 7:18)

Here’s the marvel of it all. This God, who has no peer, who is supreme in all senses of the term, who is beyond comparison, is the same God who is mindful of us (Ps. 8:4). What leaves Moses and us absolutely gobsmacked is God’s prerogative to condescend from his greatness to our littleness. “What is man that you regard him?” the psalmist later inquires (Ps. 144:3). What kind of God would do that? What other God would make that decision? What God is choosing to perform wonders among the wretched and unremarkable? Indeed, none.

Ours is a God of unrivaled grace, mercy, and patience. And he reigns forever on a “throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need” (Heb. 4:16).

6. Clearing the Way

One detail that may go unheeded at first glance is when Moses refers to other nations hearing about what happened that afternoon (Exod. 15:14–16). Israel’s deliverance at the Red Sea was headline news in the ancient world, with word spreading far and wide about how the sea parted and how a host of former slaves made it across on dry ground. It makes sense that rumors of this event would be bandied about, especially if one were looking to make sure their pantheon of deities was sufficiently stocked. In fact, the news surrounding this promise-keeping, miracle-making God spread so far that even the former prostitute Rahab, hundreds of miles north in Jericho, heard and believed (Josh. 2:9–13).

It’s worth mentioning because of what this news did to those who didn’t believe. They trembled and melted with fear. Terror and dread enveloped them like a cloud (Exod. 15:14–16). Even though Israel was a far cry from a nation of warriors, no one was eager to go to war with them since the one who marched into battle with them was none other than the God who could split seas in half, turn rivers into blood, and even control the weather with a whisper.

The reason this is important is that God wasn’t finished with Israel just yet. The wilderness wasn’t their home. The Lord wasn’t looking to emancipate his people from Egyptian tyranny, only to abandon them in the wasteland of Sinai. Rather, as Moses sings, he was the one who had led and will lead them, all along their way (Exod. 15:13, 17). God was shepherding his people to a specific destination, a.k.a. Canaan, a.k.a. the Promised Land.

As Moses and Israel sing, they do so by gazing backwards and forwards, looking upon what God has done to confirm what he will do. “As the people worship God by singing the song recorded in Exodus 15,” James M. Hamilton, Jr. notes, “they extol what he did for them in the past in anticipation of his doing the same kind of thing in the future.”4 The victory at the Red Sea, in other words, wasn’t a one-time deal. It was a message, a promise, that the Lord who brought them to this point wouldn’t cease being their God till he has brought them to himself. No matter what they might endure, no matter the obstacles, failures, rebellions, and all the stuff in between, he has led them, and he will lead them till they are with him. The Lord who “redeemed” and “purchased” them would never stop shepherding them until they were settled in the place that he had made for them (Exod. 15:17).

7. A Glorious Remix

What happened at the Red Sea, therefore, was the Lord clearing a way ahead for his people, just as he does for us through the person of the Son. Christ the Redeemer clears the way through sin and death by taking it all on himself. He subsumes the swelling tide of justice in his passion and resurrection. And he stays with us, leading us along till the good work he began in us by his Spirit is complete, till we are with him where he is (John 14:1–3).

The endgame of God saving us and shepherding us is an endless union and future spent with him, forever. The “holy abode” that waits for us is a place of ceaseless light, love, and praise — a place where pain, suffering, and death don’t exist, since those things are no more (Rev. 21:1–4). And the song that’ll be reverberating throughout the halls of heaven will be none other than a remix of the Song of the Sea (Rev. 15:3). From now till when time is no more, the church can be found singing “to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously” for them. “This song of Moses,” John Cumming wonderfully says, “shall mingle at the last day with the song of the Lamb, and constitute one grand anthem of praise to God for having delivered Jew and Gentile not only from Pharaoh and from Egypt, but from sin, Satan, and the world.”5

And though this will be our theme in glory, the gospel of grace invites us to join the choir right now. We can sing even amid the turmoil and turbulence of our days, because we are those who belong to the Shepherd, and we know where our Shepherd is leading us. The good news of Christ’s triumph for us and ongoing presence with us frees us to sing.

In this episode, I’m delighted to share a conversation with my friend and brother in ministry, Dave Zahl, as we reflect on the strange yet holy overlap between writing and preaching. With the pressure to build platforms, establish brands, chase readership, and fine-tune every syllable for maximum virality, it’s easy to forget what moves us or drives us in the first place. But the gospel is a reliving word that reminds us that we’re in the showing-up business, and God’s in the results business.

David Zahl is the founder and director of Mockingbird Ministries and a cohost of The Mockingcast. He and his family live in Charlottesville, Virginia, where he also serves at Christ Episcopal Church. You can connect with him on Facebook, Substack, and Instagram.

Resources:
“The Most Failed Writer of All Time,” David Zahl
“The Death of the Author and the Preacher,” article by yours truly
Law & Gospel: A Theology for Sinners (And Saints), 10th Anniversary Edition, William McDavid, Ethan Richardson, and David Zahl
The Big Relief: The Urgency of Grace for a Worn-Out World, David Zahl
Low Anthropology: The Unlikely Key to a Gracious View of Others (and Yourself), David Zahl
Seculosity: How Career, Parenting, Technology, Food, Politics, and Romance Became Our New Religion and What to Do about It, David Zahl
A Mess of Help: From the Crucified Soul of Rock N’ Roll, David Zahl
Finding God in the Darkness: Hopeful Reflections from the Pits of Depression, Despair, and Disappointment, Bradley Gray

Sponsor:
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Credits:
Intro music: It Just Makes Me Happy
Composer: DJ Quads, soundcloud.com/aka-dj-quads
License: Creative Commons (BY-NC 3.0), creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/3.0/
Music powered by BreakingCopyright: breakingcopyright.com

Title: Restoration Outside the Camp
Text: Exodus 33:1—34:9
Originally delivered on 5 July 2026 at Stonington Baptist Church, Paxinos, PA
For more content like this, visit www.graceupongrace.net

One of the things that makes understanding Israel’s sojourn in the wilderness so difficult is the simple fact that many of the landmarks that are mentioned through the biblical narrative have been lost to time. Scholars and archaeologists have spent a ton of time attempting to locate sites such as Pi-hahiroth, Migdol, or Baal-zephon with little success. But in many ways, the opening verses of Chapter 14 of Exodus are less about geographical precision and more about apparent theological indecision. Consider what’s transpired thus far. The Israelites have been brought out of centuries of bondage only to be led along the treacherous “way of the wilderness” (Exod. 13:18), only to now be told to turn back and go back the way they came to set up camp “by the sea” (Exod. 14:1–2). Questions concerning Moses’s decision-making already abounded. Imagine what the crowds were saying about him now.

• Are we lost?

• Why did we go this way?

• Why are you in charge again?

But as strange as it might’ve seemed for their leader and deliverer to declare one heading, only to announce a new one the very next day, they weren’t traversing that terrain by accident. God, of course, had a purpose behind it all, behind all the apparent meandering (Exod. 14:3–4), a fact that will remain true throughout all of Israel’s four decades of wandering. From the outset, though, we are shown what it means to follow the Lord. Following him and being led by him means getting a front-row seat to his penchant for self-disclosure. Egypt, along with God’s own people, would soon know that Yahweh alone is the Lord (Exod. 14:4).

1. Getting Lost on Purpose

Of course, God knew what he was doing, and they didn’t. They couldn’t see what he was doing in the moment. But the Lord knew how hard Pharaoh’s heart was. He knew the depths of his conceit and callousness, and that the hubris of the king of Egypt would be his own undoing. Thus, once again, he is turned over to his own devices, just as he was throughout the plagues (Exod. 14:4, 8). Sitting in his palace, still mourning the loss of his firstborn son, Pharaoh’s grief turns to self-justified outrage, suddenly realizing that he has played the fool by losing his entire labor force in one fell swoop. He almost becomes furious with himself for letting himself get duped into letting Israel go scot-free.

After hastily readying his chariots to pursue the Hebrews like hounds after a fox, they quickly overtook that congregation of former slaves, whose spirits were still on the mend (Exod. 14:6–9). This put Israel in a real pickle. They were hemmed in on every side, with a sea in front, treacherous terrain on their flanks, and a bloodthirsty army behind. It’s not difficult to imagine how low their hearts sank. Indeed, from a human perspective, their fear makes sense. But alongside their sheer terror and utter hopelessness, we’re privy to a few other sinister symptoms:

When Pharaoh drew near, the people of Israel lifted up their eyes, and behold, the Egyptians were marching after them, and they feared greatly. And the people of Israel cried out to the Lord. They said to Moses, “Is it because there are no graves in Egypt that you have taken us away to die in the wilderness? What have you done to us in bringing us out of Egypt? Is not this what we said to you in Egypt: ‘Leave us alone that we may serve the Egyptians’? For it would have been better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the wilderness.” (Exod. 14:10–12)

2. Hemmed In and Looking Back

Israel’s horror had turned into a vicious pairing of cynicism and despair. Whatever sense of joy that surged through them during the Exodus was all but evaporated. “What, have you brought us out here to die, Moses?!” “What, was there no more room to bury us back in Egypt? Is that why you brought us here?” “Why didn’t you just leave us alone?” Israel was crestfallen. Disconsolate. Things were so grim, in fact, that they started fantasizing about going back to Egypt and reversing the Exodus. Apparently, every able-bodied Israel was struck with a sudden case of amnesia, forgetting how cruel and ruthless their taskmasters were. They’d rather reminisce on the supposed comforts of slavery than suffer the hardships of faith.

In other words, Israel was still a nation that trusted in what it saw more than in what it believed. They hadn’t yet learned what it means to “walk by faith and not by sight” (2 Cor. 5:7). And before you get ahead of yourself, none of us has learned that lesson. Walking by faith and not sight is something that takes a lifetime to grasp, often involving our faith being put through the wringer.

3. When Sight Overrules Faith

As visual creatures, we rely on our senses to get by. We observe the world around us, noting its dangers, in order to make decisions that will allow us to survive and/or thrive. This is why faith doesn’t come naturally to us. It’s not something you’re born with. Rather, it’s something that’s given to you when God’s words are preached (Rom. 10:17). Faith sounds foreign precisely because it invites us to base our decision-making not on what we see but on what God has revealed and promised to us, even when those look like dim realities at best. This was the lesson Israel was about to learn, and fast.

What transpires on the banks of the Red Sea is a good example of a so-called “baptism by fire.” According to everything they could see, Moses had accomplished little more than marching Israel to its doom. But just as all hope seemed lost, with the blood of two million ex-slaves about to be on his hands, Moses speaks a word from the Lord. “Fear not, stand firm, and see the salvation of the Lord, which he will work for you today,” he declares. “For the Egyptians whom you see today, you shall never see again. The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to be silent” (Exod 14:13–14).

Not only are these some of the most consoling words in Scripture, but Moses is also testifying to the unilateral saving action of God, which means that this must be seen as an Old Testament version of the gospel.1 In other words, this is the Word that engenders faith in the hearts of those who receive it. As Moses the preacher ambles up in front of a crowd of disillusioned and disheartened followers, he insists that they had every reason for faith, not fear.

Visually speaking, there were ample grounds to cower or give up. But the word of faith and promise that was heralded to them told them that they had infinitely more grounds to trust in the Lord, who had already brought them through the plagues and brought them out in the Exodus. Moses, therefore, summons them to take their stand and watch how their God would work out their salvation, right in front of their very eyes. There would be no mistaking that Israel’s deliverance was divine, since God himself would fight their battles for them (Exod. 14:14; cf. Deut. 1:30; 20:4; Josh. 10:14, 42; 23:3; 2 Chron. 20:15, 29; Neh. 4:20).

4. The Word That Creates Faith

As the Lord shepherds his people in the way that they should go, he often leads them to a place where all they have is faith. Where what they see matters less than what they believe and know to be true. God’s words to Israel through Moses tell the good news that the war they could never win on their own is the one he fights for them. They needn’t be alarmed, dismayed, or perplexed. They needed “only to be silent” (Exod. 14:14). Instead of crying aloud about how all was lost or clamoring about Moses’s inept leadership abilities, the Word of God calls the people of God to put their faith in God. And what does that look like? It looks like fearing not, standing firm, being silent, and going forward.

The Lord said to Moses, “Why do you cry to me? Tell the people of Israel to go forward. Lift up your staff, and stretch out your hand over the sea and divide it, that the people of Israel may go through the sea on dry ground. And I will harden the hearts of the Egyptians so that they shall go in after them, and I will get glory over Pharaoh and all his host, his chariots, and his horsemen. And the Egyptians shall know that I am the Lord, when I have gotten glory over Pharaoh, his chariots, and his horsemen.” (Exod. 14:15–18)

God invites a people, paralyzed by fear, doubt, and unbelief, to step out and move forward in faith anyway. This moment, therefore, allows us to get a glimpse at the nature of biblical faith. For one to put one’s faith in the God who shepherds his people isn’t commensurate with fearlessness. It doesn’t mean we never get scared, nor does it mean that we’ll never experience times that are difficult or distressing. And anyone who tells you otherwise is lying to you. Rather, faith just means that our trust in who God is outweighs and outvolumes how fearful we are. It’s his words and promises that speak louder than what’s causing us to be fearful.

5. The God Who Fights for His People

Israel learned this in real time, as God Almighty gets the glory over his people’s pursuers, all while letting everyone know what type of God he is. As with the plagues, he is revealing himself not only to the Egyptians but to his own people, in ways that no human could ever fathom. This, to be sure, is why he chose the way of the wilderness in the first place. Not only because he knew his people, but also because he wanted them to know him. This fretful moment became an occasion for the shepherding pillar of cloud and fire to be their shield (Exod. 14:19–20). Not only was he a God who was present for them, but he was also a God who intervenes to protect and preserve them by exercising his authority over all things.

Then Moses stretched out his hand over the sea, and the Lord drove the sea back by a strong east wind all night and made the sea dry land, and the waters were divided. And the people of Israel went into the midst of the sea on dry ground, the waters being a wall to them on their right hand and on their left. The Egyptians pursued and went in after them into the midst of the sea, all Pharaoh’s horses, his chariots, and his horsemen. And in the morning watch the Lord in the pillar of fire and of cloud looked down on the Egyptian forces and threw the Egyptian forces into a panic, clogging their chariot wheels so that they drove heavily. And the Egyptians said, “Let us flee from before Israel, for the Lord fights for them against the Egyptians.” Then the Lord said to Moses, “Stretch out your hand over the sea, that the water may come back upon the Egyptians, upon their chariots, and upon their horsemen.” So Moses stretched out his hand over the sea, and the sea returned to its normal course when the morning appeared. And as the Egyptians fled into it, the Lord threw the Egyptians into the midst of the sea. The waters returned and covered the chariots and the horsemen; of all the host of Pharaoh that had followed them into the sea, not one of them remained. But the people of Israel walked on dry ground through the sea, the waters being a wall to them on their right hand and on their left. (Exod. 14:21–29)

When Moses told the Israelites to “be silent” as they watched the Lord work salvation for them, I think even he was utterly dumbfounded by what happened next. Even still, he lifted up his hands and watched as the God who spoke to him and through him accomplished everything necessary to save him and his people. God controlled the winds, divided the waters, distracted the enemy, turned the muddy riverbed into a sidewalk, clogged all the Egyptian chariots, threw them into a panic, and reversed the course of the water to consume them all in the murky depths.

• And what did Israel do?

• What did they contribute to this whole affair?

• A portion of fear with a dollop of faithlessness.

Despite what Israel did or didn’t bring to the table, God was for them. He was the one who’d be seen as their Savior, and they the ones who needed saving (Exod. 14:30–31). Accordingly, God’s people are learning who they are. They are a people of the Passover and the Exodus and the Red Sea. They are a people who are rescued by Yahweh. “Happy are you, O Israel,” Moses later declares, “a people saved by the Lord” (Deut. 33:29). “Israel had to learn,” Allan M. Harman comments, “that salvation was a work of God, not one the people themselves could perform.”2 And all they had to do was watch and wait as the one who was for them intervened to deliver them.

6. Saved While Standing Still

This is what God continually does for his people, for his church. He meets us in our calamity and confusion, in our times of crisis and doubt, to remind us of his promises, which invite us to keep moving, to keep trusting, even when we don’t see the way ahead. “In the place where the need is sorest,” Alexander Maclaren once said, “and in the form most required, there and that will God ever be to those who trust Him.”3 Walking by faith instead of sight is something you learn when the road dead-ends, when hope fades, and there seems to be no way forward or no way out. In those moments, faith says, I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but I know you will.

Living by faith has never been about what we bring to the table. It has always been, and always will be, about what God does for us when we can’t do anything for ourselves. The gospel of the Red Sea tells us that God’s way of saving his people is the same as it has always been, as he brings us to the end of ourselves so that we might learn who he is and how to walk by faith, not sight. Faith means fearing not, standing firm, being silent, and going forward, knowing that ours is the God who always brings deliverance out of disaster, and life out of death. That’s just who he is. He’s the one who continuously shows himself strong where we are weak, who proves himself trustworthy whenever we are troubled. From the Red Sea to the cross and everywhere in between, the Lord is faithful, even if we are faithless (2 Tim. 2:13).

Michael P. V. Barrett sums it up this way:

Faith is not wishful or positive thinking; it is not an exercise of psyching oneself up in order to navigate some crisis. Biblical faith is objective; its strength is not in its exercise but in its object . . . Faith may not always understand why things happen as they do, but faith settles the heart in the reality of God’s purposes rather than in appearance . . . Faith doesn’t make things happen; it lays hold of and rests on the word of God that must be true regardless of what is happening.4

7. From the Red Sea to the Cross

Just as at the Red Sea, where hope vanished, defeat looked inevitable, as God’s Son was nailed to a tree. There appeared to be no way out and no way forward as he breathed his last and gave up the ghost. And yet, even there, God in Christ was making a way where there was no way. “The crossing of the Red Sea,” Arthur W. Pink once wrote, “speaks of Christ making a way through death for His people.”5 He was passing through the waters of judgment, for you and for me, so that we might pass through to salvation and new life. He went where we could never go, endured what we never could, and fought the war we could never win, surrendering himself to death and bringing life, victory, and eternal redemption out of his resurrection.

Israel’s Red Sea salvation, like the rest of Scripture, forces us to “see the salvation of the Lord, which he works for us” on the cross, where we bring nothing but our need and he does the rest. This is the Word of God that speaks and engenders faith in us. It’s the good news that salvation is received, not achieved. That faith doesn’t make things happen, but rests on what’s been done. And when we feel hemmed in, when all we see tells us there’s no way forward, the Word of the Lord abides forever. He who made a way through the sea is the same God who made a way for sinners to be redeemed and is the same God who makes a way, even now.

Having recently preached through the middle chunk of Exodus, where the Lord enumerates the program by which his people are brought into communion with him, the recurrent sacrifices that played such a significant role in Israelite life are on my mind. When reading the Old Testament, it’s hard not to come across the ritual slaughter of bulls or lambs, a feature that often makes some modern evangelicals squeamish. The thought of slitting the throat of Mary’s little lamb is unsettling enough, but doing so daily, and twice a day at that, makes me more than glad to be living in the twenty-first century. And yet, by the same token, no matter what era of history in which they exist, Christians cannot escape the blood.

Time precludes me from cataloging them all, but suffice it to say, the church has an affinity for hymns and songs that laud the blood of Christ. Just off the top of my head, I’m thinking of “Nothing But the Blood,” “There Is Pow’r in the Blood,” and “The Blood Will Never Lose Its Power.” As strange as it may seem for folks to be assembled and sing in unison about blood being shed and flowing like a crimson river, it’s not without reason. The writer of Hebrews says it plainly: “Without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sins” (Heb. 9:22). But this isn’t a hallmark of the New Testament; this has always been true of those who belong to the Father.

In Exodus 24, prior to Moses receiving the blueprints for the Tabernacle and the SOPs for the priests, God’s covenant is ratified in one of the most striking displays of the gospel in the Old Testament. After constructing an altar and burning oxen on it as offerings to the Lord, Moses takes a bowl of blood and douses the altar with it before taking another bowl and sprinkling the people with it (Exod. 24:6–8). Of course, at first, yuck. But also, whoa! Both the altar where God’s people commune with God and the people themselves are covered in the same sacrificial blood, thereby rectifying whatever breach might have existed beforehand. The people’s failure to measure up to the Father’s holy demand, as announced in the Decalogue, is resolved in blood being shed for them.

However barbaric this ceremony might seem to our modern predilections, its ingredients are pure gospel. Without it, the gospel wouldn’t make much sense. Nineteenth-century pastor and theologian Alexander Maclaren once said that the “drenching of the altar with gore is either a piece of barbarism or a solemn symbol of the central fact of Christianity no less than of Judaism, and a token that the only footing on which man can be received into fellowship with God is through the offering of a pure life, instead of the sinner, which, accepted by God, covers or expiates sin.”1 Put differently, to understand the Old Testament ritualism of Exodus and Leviticus, read the New Testament letter to the Hebrews.

The gory scenes that accompanied altars and offerings weren’t to satisfy a sadistic Hebrew bloodlust; they preached something. Every sacrifice was a sermon, a signpost that motioned the worshipers’ gaze forward, to the one who would eventually make good on every promise of every altar and every sacrificial lamb. In that sense, we can and must draw a straight line from Exodus 24 to the cross, from Moses to Jesus and the new and better covenant he inaugurates in his death and resurrection. Maclaren continues:

The ritual of the first covenant transcends the strictly retributive compact which it ratified, and shadows a gospel beyond law, even the new covenant which brings better gifts, and does not turn on ‘do,’ but simply on the sprinkling with the blood of Jesus . . . The blood which Moses sprinkled gave ritual cleansing, but it remained outside the man. The blood of Jesus gives true purification, and passes into our veins to become our life. The covenant by Moses was ‘do and live’; that in Christ is ‘believe and live.’ Moses brought commandments, and on them his covenant was built; Christ brings gifts, and His covenant is all promises, which are ours on the simple condition of taking them.2

The blood that drenched altars in the wilderness of Sinai ultimately finds its meaning on a hill outside the city, where the true and better Lamb gave himself up to die for the sake of you and me (Heb. 13:12). That isn’t gore for the sake of gore. This is the pathway to peace, pardon, and communion with God the Father. Where the old road was paved with “Do and live,” Christ comes with a different word on his lips, “Believe and live.” His is the blood that does what it says, washing over us, remitting sin, and becoming our very life. And we sing about it, not because we’re morbid, but because we’ve been reconciled by blood that’ll never lose its power, precisely because the one who shed it never loses his.

Grace and peace.

Title: Makers versus Stewards and the Insanity of the Golden Calf
Text: Exodus 32:1–35
Originally delivered on 28 June 2026 at Stonington Baptist Church, Paxinos, PA
For more content like this, visit www.graceupongrace.net

When Luke 12 opens, the dust was still settling on the mini stampede that had ensued when word spread that Jesus was in town, only for the Galilean Rabbi to begin his teaching tour there with a decimating diatribe against the Pharisees (Luke 12:1–2). It’s hard to capture just how subversive this moment was, especially since we are so accustomed to hearing about how villainous the Pharisees were. But flocking to Jesus to hear words of inspiration or receiving touches of healing, only to then be unnerved by his takedown of the religious aristocracy, would be like going to a Forrest Frank concert to hear “Lemonade,” only for him to open his set with Eminem’s “Kamikaze.” And even then, that might not be subversive enough.

Nevertheless, Jesus’s sermon was eventually interrupted by a very distressed man, a son, we assume, who had recently lost his father (Luke 12:13). Weaving his way through the sea of faces, his solicitation of Jesus’s counsel is expressed more as a demand that Jesus take his side. He’d been unduly wronged, as, for one reason or another, his brother was taking his sweet old time divvying up their late father’s estate. That’s as far as I’m willing to speculate on what motivated this guy to heckle with financial questions in the middle of a sermon, both because Jesus himself barely acknowledges this guy’s predicament before using his situation as an illustration for more teaching, and because I’ve previously written a treatment of this part of Luke 12.

Revisiting this text, though, allows me to concentrate on Jesus’s parable, often referred to as “The Parable of the Rich Fool” (Luke 12:16–21), which follows the Lord’s not-so-subtle insinuation that the assumption that life, meaning, and purpose can be found in the “abundance of possessions” is a fool’s errand (Luke 12:15). As Jesus relays, an anonymous “one-percenter” faces a dilemma in the vein of baking too much cake and not knowing what to do with it all. With harvest coming to an end, this well-to-do landowner takes stock of his yield, which has far exceeded his expectations, and wonders where he’s going to store it all.

But after a very self-involved conversation with his best friends — he, himself, and him — he opts to just eat all the cake himself and build some bigger barns. Once that was done, he’d be able to relax, with his feet propped up on silos busting at the seams. The problem, of course, wasn’t necessarily that he had a lot of assets, a.k.a. money, at his disposal. Jesus’s point isn’t “rich: bad, poor: good.” Nor is this an invective against the Musks and Bezoses of his day, at least not immediately.1 Instead, Jesus’s initial imposition seems to showcase the folly of living on assumptions.

Wingate University and Baptist Theological Seminary tenured professor F. Scott Spencer incisively articulates the “damnable” folly exhibited by the nameless rich man in a recent essay:

The rich man’s foolishness aligns with his willful ignorance of the source of his abundant harvest, his arrogant presumption that he — not God and God’s earth — is the creative subject of his life . . .

What he has not accounted for, however, is that he has received his entire life and possessions on theological and terrestrial credit: everything comes from God and God’s land will revert back to these life sources in God’s time. Like all creation, the rich man lives on borrowed time and resources. He just does not know it or, better put, he denies knowledge of his finitude and dependence. And that makes him a damn fool.2

The rich fool was foolish because the future he assumed he had was shown to be a whole lot of nothing (Luke 12:20). Notwithstanding how many rows upon rows of fully stocked storehouses he had amassed, what could all those reserves do for him when he stood before the Judge at the End of All Things? Or, as Jesus says elsewhere, “What will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul?” (Matt. 16:26). Both the jaded brother and the pleased as punch real estate magnate were putting too much stock in obsessing over the earthly goods they either had or hoped to have. And both were deemed fools as a result.

“Life,” Jesus tells us, “is more than food, and the body more than clothing” (Luke 12:23). You and I were created for more than mere accumulation, especially since the law of diminishing returns makes it so that acquiring begets more acquisitions. If one’s heart is set on stockpiling abundant possessions, one is setting oneself up for an exhausting quest to amass “enough,” an objective that’s forever out of reach. This is why Jesus deftly pivots from talking about covetousness to anxiety (Luke 12:21–22). Why? Because both the one who covets and the one who hoards are taking refuge in anxiety’s lie that preparing for the future necessitates acquiring a treasure trove of earthly goods and resources.

Jesus uses the same word for “anxious” three times in his follow-up discourse (Luke 12:22, 25, 26), each of which is suggestive of an undue preoccupation with the stuff of this life. But as he also notes, what was all that anxiety getting them? Well, a whole lot of nothing (Luke 12:25–26). For all the concerned energy that the brother and the farmer were expending thinking about what those resources might do for them, they still couldn’t add even one hour to their lifespans. “If then you are not able to do as small a thing as that,” Jesus presses, “why are you anxious about the rest?” (Luke 12:26).

Anxiety is sustained by the assumption that we know how the future is going to unfold to the point where we begin operating and living according to that assumption. But no one knows how things are going to pan out, and anyone who tells you otherwise is lying to you. I’m not a mental health specialist, but from my experience, this encapsulates my familiarity with anxiety: it’s you lying to yourself in a self-fulfilling prophecy of dread, angst, and barely bearable inner turmoil.

At the risk of oversharing, I don’t want to remember my birthday last year, but I’m worried I’m never going to forget it.

For my thirty-fifth birthday, I witnessed a thirty-one-year-old husband and dad get brutally murdered in front of an audience of thousands, with cameras capturing every second of it for millions more to see. Charlie Kirk’s assassination shook me in ways that are hard to express, not because I agreed with everything he ever said (I didn’t), but because we were barely given time to process what happened before folks were breaking down video clips, analyzing frames, and spinning stories into fully fledged conspiracies. It felt like I was watching the JFK trial unfold in real time, seconds after the shots were fired.

As many have articulated before, watching that was more than a little unhealthy. In my case, it sent me on an anxious bender of mindless refreshing, scrolling, and researching, as I swiftly operated under the assumption that one more video clip or one more headline might finally put all the pieces together and make everything make sense, settling my soul with the knowledge of why it happened, which was just the epitome of foolishness. And while I wasn’t beholden to an undue preoccupation with personal finances, I was subjugated to an undue preoccupation with information, which is not only a dressed-up version of covetousness but is also the premier epidemic plaguing our time.

There’s a certain tedium to reading think-pieces about how the algorithm is ruining our brains that has become a mind-numbing exercise in and of itself. I’m not saying it’s not worth it, though. Kudos to Jonathan Haidt and the consistent reminder of the soul-sucking venture behind all the pixels and likes. But even after watching The Social Dilemma, Twitter/X’s servers are still running, as are TikTok’s, as far as I know. The point is, we’re not short on knowledge or awareness of social media’s ills and the ways it turns FOMO into a debilitating pandemic of judgment and comparison. In that sense, we’re all a bunch of rich fools. We know better, and we doomscroll anyway.

As it turns out, the cure for our souls was never about amassing snazzy stock portfolios or absorbing every last bit and byte of information. The cure has always been a Person.

The good news that actually settles souls, yours and mine, is the same glad tidings to which Jesus alludes in his sermon — namely, that life is ultimately and unfailingly held by a God who not only notices but also cares for flowers and fowl (Luke 12:24, 27). “You are a step up on crows and lilies,” Dale Ralph Davis once quipped, “and you have a Father who knows all about it.”3 And this is what life “consists of”: knowing the one we call “Abba, Father” is also the one who holds the Milky Way in suspension, and it’s in his arms that we are safe, and our souls are made to rest.

God is no ogre, nor is he some ornery dad who hates it when his kids ask for something. The God of the Bible is a doting Father who doesn’t want his kids living in the fog of unchecked worry. He knows what you need, and he’s attentive to all of your burdens and bruises. As the psalmist puts it, he is “mindful” of you (Ps. 8:4). He’s a gentle, resourceful Shepherd who isn’t interested in his sheep becoming preoccupied with anything other than just being his sheep. “Fear and anxiety dissipate,” F. Scott Spencer concludes, “in the strong and loving arms of the good Father-Shepherd.”4 And those arms aren’t pixelated, nor are they just a nice theory, a placebo for our anxious generation. They’re outstretched and nail-scarred as an enduring reminder that yours is a God who’d rather give up his very self than lose you.

Grace and peace to you.

In this episode, I’m thrilled to share part one of a two-part mini-series with my friend and brother in ministry, Raphael Mnkandhla, as we reflect on the book The Clay Pot Conspiracy by Dave Harvey. With so many voices telling you so many different things about what makes for good, capable leaders, God’s Word tells us something that’s surprising and endlessly compelling. Far from disqualifying you from leadership, your weaknesses are the very things God uses.

Raphael pastors City Church in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, where he lives and serves with his wife Heidi and their six children. You can follow him on Facebook, Instagram, and Substack.

Resources:
The Clay Pot Conspiracy: God’s Plan to Use Weakness in Leaders, Dave Harvey
Dying to Preach: Embracing the Cross in the Pulpit, Steven W. Smith
Gentle and Lowly: The Heart of Christ for Sinners and Sufferers, Dane Ortlund
Finding God in the Darkness: Hopeful Reflections from the Pits of Depression, Despair, and Disappointment, Bradley Gray

Sponsor:
You can support Ministry Minded by buying some coffee from Fresh Roasted Coffee, a locally owned and operated coffee house in the heart of Central Pennsylvania that produces the freshest coffee and delivers it at peak drinkability. Use the offer code “GRACE10” at checkout to get a discount on your next order. Buy some coffee today!

Credits:
Intro music: It Just Makes Me Happy
Composer: DJ Quads, soundcloud.com/aka-dj-quads
License: Creative Commons (BY-NC 3.0), creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/3.0/
Music powered by BreakingCopyright: breakingcopyright.com

Title: The Priest Who Finally Sat Down
Text: Exodus 27:20—30:21
Originally delivered on 21 June 2026 at Stonington Baptist Church, Paxinos, PA
For more content like this, visit www.graceupongrace.net

A prevailing theme of the Book of Exodus is the way in which God makes “a people for his own possession” (1 Pet. 2:9). As God forms a nation out of former slaves, we’re made to see how he fashions us into his church, so that we, too, are a congregation that is preserved, even in the wilderness (Acts 7:38). We are the ongoing assembly of God, a people of the Passover Lamb, who was slain for us. We who were once “slaves to sin” have been set free to become “slaves of righteousness” (Rom. 6:17–18). This helps us understand the scope of the Exodus story, just as it helps us understand our own.

By the time Chapter 13 rolls around, the Israelites have been “exodused.” They’ve been brought “out of Egypt” (Exod. 13:16), and out of bondage, and into new life. This, of course, was a momentous day, one that was centuries in the making. But for as much as Israel might’ve wanted to spend a week’s time reveling in their newfound freedom, God had other plans, at least for the time being, and it involved going in a direction none of them expected.

On display as Chapter 13 comes to a close is Yahweh’s active leadership of his people. Up to this point, Exodus has showcased God as the Deliverer and Rescuer of his own. With “a strong hand,” he cleared the way to bring his people into freedom. But he didn’t just leave them there; they weren’t left to their own devices out in the wilderness. Rather, God “shepherds” them with that same “strong hand.” This, of course, didn’t always look like what they expected it to look like, but this is pretty typical of the Lord whose ways aren’t our ways (Isa. 55:8). The fact is, he rarely does what any of us anticipates. But, through it all, he always leads his dear children along. That’s just who he is.

1. Not the Near Way

With Moses at the head of the column, it appears as if Israel takes a wrong turn before they’ve even left the neighborhood (Exod. 13:17–18). Instead of hopping on the route that was “near,” which would’ve made it a lot easier and quicker to get to the Promised Land, God takes them by another road, the “way of the wilderness.” This is our first sign that while the Land of Promise, a.k.a. Canaan, was God’s ultimate destination for his people, his plan wasn’t merely to change their zip code. Rather, God was desirous that they know who he is, what he’s capable of, and how deeply they need him, which meant trudging headlong into the wilderness instead of avoiding it or bypassing it.

I have to wonder what the consensus opinion was when word got out that the nearest road to Canaan wasn’t on the itinerary. No doubt, Israel’s infamous grumbling began right here, when it appeared as if an executive decision was made to take an alternate route with no prior discussion. Now, at this precise moment, was God meaning for them to spend forty years there? No, I don’t think so. That’s a reality Israel chooses, due to their own faithlessness. But God’s will for his people involved an odyssey through the barren, uninhabited wastelands. It was a way of pain, grief, and perplexity.

What God does through that arid terrain is strip away every last vestige of trust and security that isn’t him, or that isn’t from him. There were no safety nets. No backup plans. No contingencies. All they had to rely on or lean on was him, which is exactly how God likes it. As the wanderings grew more wayward, Israel’s groaning grew louder. But this isn’t all that surprising. We’re human, after all, and we aren’t fond of having our safety nets ripped out of our hands, even when those safety nets are killing us. But despite how painful and perplexing it can be, it’s always for our good. Even in the wilderness, we are in the limelight of God’s care.

In Israel’s case, that care meant being directed to go another way (Exod. 13:17). The Lord knew his people better than they knew themselves. He knew how fickle and fearful they were. He knew that at the first sign of trouble, they’d want to hightail it back to Egypt. Thus, the road less traveled was God’s way of watching out for his people’s hearts and lives, revealing to them that his way, perplexing though it is, is the way to a life of fulfillment and abundance. That’s what he was leading them towards, but all along, he divested them of other sources of confidence, peace, and strength, as he was making them his people and showing them that he was their God. This is what God does in, with, and through us as well.

2. Led There on Purpose

God leads us along through all kinds of perplexing and painful seasons of life, not because he is mad at us or cross with us, but because he loves us, because he wants to conform us to his image, and because he wants us to see how his grace always exceeds our needs.

I’m reminded of a similar scene in Chapter 4 of Mark’s Gospel, when, after a long day of ministry, Jesus instructs The Twelve to sail to the far side of the Sea of Galilee, only for a mammoth hurricane to threaten their lives. The point is that the storm only materialized after they followed and obeyed their Master’s words. The tempest wasn’t a result of disobedience, faithlessness, unbelief, or sin. It was the stage upon which God in Christ would show them more of himself than they ever imagined. Their beloved Teacher was none other than the one who walks on the sea as if on pavement, controlling and stilling every wave with a mere word.

In other words, the disciples were right where God wanted them. Likewise, as J. Alec Motyer notes, “the Israelites were in the wilderness because the Lord had led them there.”1 They were right where God wanted them, which is true for us, too. Our circumstances may vary, but God’s leadership of us does not. All our painful and perplexing places can leave us questioning where God’s leading us. Doors close; prayers go unanswered; roads dead-end. But despite the heaviness of following the Lord, even as we question where he’s leading us, it’s in the wilderness places where God meets us.

3. The God Who Goes With His People

Israel’s confusion was comforted by two things: God’s promise and presence. While the Lord’s divine presence in Exodus 13 is conspicuous, his word of promise is more discreet. In fact, it’s only found among the bones. In a callback to Joseph’s deathbed proclamation, Moses refers to Joseph’s remains, which Israel had with them (Exod. 13:19). Centuries prior, knowing he was about to die and knowing what God’s promises were, Joseph hearkened back to what Yahweh told Father Abraham centuries before that — namely, that God would lead them to a place where they would dwell and God would dwell with them (Gen. 50:24–26; cf. Gen. 15:13–14). Egypt wasn’t his true home, nor his final resting place. His remains belonged in the place God had prepared for all his descendants.

This is a subtle, albeit sure, reminder that our God is a God of his word. As Israel trudged through the wilderness, these bones accompanied them, serving as a visual reminder of his promises (cf. Josh. 24:32), none of which had been forgotten. When God Almighty led his people out of a life of slavery, he shepherded them to the home he had prepared for them. He wasn’t just leading them away from oppression; he was leading them into new life. This is just what God does. As we follow the Lord along life’s winding ways, he leads us “further up and further in” to his word of promise. The longer we follow him, and the longer we’re led by him, the deeper and wider we find all his promises to be. And no matter what, he was with them, leading them along.

There was no mistaking God’s presence with them and for them. In an astounding demonstration of grace and power, God showed up in smoke and fire. “The Lord went before them,” we’re told, “by day in a pillar of cloud to lead them along the way, and by night in a pillar of fire to give them light, that they might travel by day and by night. The pillar of cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night did not depart from before the people” (Exod. 13:21–22).

This was no will-o’-the-wisp floating on the wind. As the church has long confessed, this was the Angel of the Lord, the eternal Son of God, manifest in a pillar of cloud and a pillar of fire. “The Holy One was in the midst of his people,” Motyer says, “as their constant companion and leader from the very start of the journey.”2 Just as he showed up for Moses in a bush that burned but never burned up, the Lord shows up in an obvious way to meet his people’s needs right where they were. When the heat of the mid-afternoon sun was bearing down, one glance skyward would reveal the shade of the Lord covering the way forward. In the darkest gloom of midnight, when the next step was more than a little unsure, the Lord was there in a blazing column of fire and light.3

And all along their way, God preached to them through the cloud and the flames that he was with them and would never depart from them (Exod. 3:12; Deut. 31:8; Heb. 13:5). The promise of God is that the presence of God isn’t a conditional thing. He doesn’t caveat his presence for them or with them based on their circumstances. He’s no fair-weather shepherd, who only goes part of the way. He’s the Great Shepherd, who leads his people all the way, whose unconditional promise is that he is with us, no matter what. “The Pillar preaches Christ,” Henry Law once wrote, “the preceding Shepherd of His flock. Faith gazes on it, and drinks in the comfort of an ever-leading, never-leaving God.”4

4. Something Better Than Smoke and Fire

Where shall I go from your Spirit?
Or where shall I flee from your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, you are there!
If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!
If I take the wings of the morning
and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me.
If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light about me be night,”
even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is bright as the day,
for darkness is as light with you.
(Ps. 139:7–12)

This is God’s word of promise for his people, which includes you and me as well — a promise that has not, nor ever will be, rescinded. The writer of Hebrews talks about how the church stands on “better promises” of a “better covenant” (Heb. 8:6), but I’m not quite sure we believe him, not fully, at least. There’s a part of us, though, maybe even a big part, that thinks that the people of Israel might’ve had it better. After all, they had literal pillars of cloud and fire leading them, guiding them, and telling them when to start walking or when to set up camp. Wouldn’t it be so much better if we had that same experience? We’d finally know what God’s will was. We’d know where to go, when to stay, when to leave, and when to move on. It’d be a whole lot easier, wouldn’t it?

I think we’re tempted to say yes to all those things. But as much as we might pine for God to manifest himself in similar ways, we’re woefully misguided to think Israel had it better. Part of the “better promises” that have been deposited to us, the church, is the fact that right now, right where we are, we are on better ground than the wandering Israelites. Not because our circumstances are better, easier, or more rosy, or less distressing, but because God has visited us. He has come to be with us, not as a cloud but as a man. God’s Son has taken on flesh “and dwelt among us” (John 1:14).

The Lord himself comes to us to lead us out of the land of sin and death with his strong, nail-pierced hands. He comes to be our Good Shepherd, the one who “lays down his life for his sheep” and the one who leads them to green pastures (John 10:11). With wounds still noticeable in his hands and side, reminding us of his unconditional promise and presence for us, our Good Shepherd leads us along. The church has something infinitely better than God manifest in smoke and fire. We have God with us, in Word and Spirit, both of which preach the same message to us: I am with you and for you, always. He who is the Yes and Amen of every divine promise is the one who is with us still, no matter what.

There is a never-receding tendency to perceive Christian doctrine as little more than robust incentives for moral living. This is owed to a number of inclinations in the human heart, not the least of which is that we are eager for goodness, or at least versions of it, since we were created by the Creator who alone is good. The issue, of course, is that the sins that lurk so closely and that beset us all mar our perceptions of goodness, such that we end up calling good evil and evil good (Isa. 5:20). We like moral, virtuous living, especially for the very measurable ways we can assess its benefits and progress. We like it so much that we can often lose what the Christian message is all about.

Although it might seem so at times, notions of Christian performancism and the impulse to derive our religion from a checklist are not straw men propped up merely for the sake of theological bombast. I’ve read a number of books over the years, as I’m sure you have as well, that aim to dispel the performative perception of Christianity, mostly due to the resurgence of Reformational retrieval. And while I’m thankful for each one, I wonder if the marketplace isn’t flooded with too many invectives against performance-based faith that well-meaning theologians are to blame for shoving the pendulum in the opposite direction.

True, the more recent and significant American shift has been towards disaffiliation — the so-called “nones” — even still, there’s a hefty dose of anecdotal evidence to suggest that Catholicism or other Orthodox denominations are catechizing migrants from within broader evangelicalism itself. This is likely due to an array of factors that are beyond the purview of this post, let alone the author himself. But among the low-hanging fruit is the mere fact that either Catholicism or Eastern Orthodoxy offers more attainable or tangible scaffolding of morality. Evangelical Protestants, such as myself, haven’t always done a good job at conveying the transformational effects of the Christian message. But maybe there’s a good reason for that.

As my friend Todd Brewer once said in an essay for Mockingbird, “Christianity’s underdeveloped morality is a feature, not a bug.” This isn’t because moral living isn’t important. Rather, it’s because Christian morality is always derivative, never foundational.

As self-absorbed sinners, we tend to twist moral structures into ladders of self-improvement and conceit, undermining whatever virtue might be derived from them. Paul’s letter to Titus always stands out to me, in this regard, especially since it could be tabbed as Paul’s most “moral” letter, as he encourages another young pastor whose parish is composed of less-than-moral folks. But even within that framework, the apostle never forfeits his grip on the gospel, which says that there’s no ounce of condemnation left since Christ drank it all for us.

In other words, we can’t divorce moral living from its source; doing flows from being. And we are what the Word says that we are: justified and beloved because of Christ. Todd Brewer says it better than I can:

Action always follows from being and never the reverse. When one makes Christianity’s lofty ideals into pragmatic, bite-sized chunks, one fools themselves into believing that moral progress in the Christian life can be achieved without divine aid. Checklists are inherently attainable, largely dependent upon willpower for their completion. It requires far more than mere decision or the magically transformative accrual of quotidian habits to actually be loving, kind, and joyful.

When faced with the high bar of Christian moral ideals, their attainment isn’t found in greater effort. Instead, the inverse is true. The less something feels like work, the more it arises from a fundamental change of character that only comes from the outside. Grace, in other words, feels like freedom. Those who have been moved by grace have no need to be told how to love, but do so without reserve or calculation. Christianity’s underdeveloped morality is a feature, not a bug. There is freedom to do what is necessary and what is not. In place of rigidity, there is flexibility. In place of willpower, there is a boundless grace that always exceeds our checklists.

Forever exceeding and outdoing “checklist religion” is that which Jesus offers — namely, an ongoing relationship with him through the Word and the Spirit. The life God is eager for us to live is not one we can produce or attain. It’s the life Christ lived for us, and it’s the life Christ lives in us, even now, the hope of glory (Col. 1:27; Gal. 2:20). As Martin Luther famously put it in Thesis 26 of the Heidelberg Disputation, “The law says, ‘do this,’ and it is never done. Grace says, ‘believe in this,’ and everything is already done.” We who’ve been redeemed aren’t stunted by checking off the boxes of pious living. Rather, by grace, we find that the boxes were already checked for us, finally freeing us to love as we ought.

Grace and peace.

Title: The Carpenter and the Kingdom
Text: Luke 12:13—34
Originally delivered on 14 June 2026 at Stonington Baptist Church, Paxinos, PA
For more content like this, visit www.graceupongrace.net

As strange as it may sound, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about a particular Instagram reel ever since it first appeared in my feed a month or so ago. This has to do not just with what was said but how it was said. The emotion of it all. The, dare I say, authenticity. Unlike almost every other piece of content on the site, the clip was raw and unpolished, almost as if the subjects forgot they were being recorded, which, for someone like Shia LaBeouf, isn’t a typical occurrence. I’m referring to the actor’s recent interview with Andrew Callaghan, host of Channel 5 on YouTube (the relevant segment begins around the 1:01:05 mark; warning: language):

Interviewer: What would you say to Jesus if you could meet him?

Shia LaBeouf: I wouldn’t say sh*t.

Interviewer: Really?

Shia: No, but I’d kiss him . . . I’d kiss him, I’d kiss his feet.

Now, it may not be extraordinary to hear a celebrity invoke Jesus’s name. But usually when they do, Jesus feels tacked on, like a piece of branding, or like a therapeutic savior who serves as the missing element in one’s quest for self-discovery and/or self-optimization. But watching Shia LaBeouf nearly self-combust with emotion at the mere thought of seeing and meeting Jesus brings me to tears, as it does him. “I wouldn’t say nothing,” he confesses. The sight of his Savior evaporates whatever words he has. His lips don’t even quiver. He just goes mute.

All he can think about doing is falling prostrate. “I’d kiss his feet,” he weeps. That’s a haunting line, not because feet are gross and it’s unhygienic to think about puckering up in front of them, nor even because the guy from Even Stevens is suddenly making unimpeachable theological statements. It is haunting because Shia, never one to polish his messy existence, seems to acknowledge both his own mess and the grace that radiates from Jesus, specifically for sinners like him.

This is strikingly different than shouting out the Lord at an awards show, gold trophy in hand. Kissing Jesus’s feet is about the most embarrassingly Christian thing a person can do. In fact, the Gospels are riddled with folks collapsing at Jesus’s feet, from bedraggled lepers to distraught parents to ragged demoniacs to repentant disciples. There’s no better example, though, than Martha’s sister, Mary, who is famously said to have “sat at the Lord’s feet,” listening to his teaching, while her sister finished preparing dinner (Luke 10:39).

This portrait of devotion has served as sermon fodder for countless preachers, but Mary hanging on every word that falls from her Lord’s lips isn’t merely illustrative of piety or faith. It’s not only all she can do, but it’s also all she knows to do. Later on in the Gospel of John, Mary’s brother dies after succumbing to what seemed like a preventable illness. While her sister busies herself haranguing Jesus for his apparent tardiness, Mary crumples in front of him in a pool of questions and desperation (John 11:32).

For whatever else those scenes show us, they leave most of modernity’s religious impulses exposed for what they are: spiritualities of ascent. Martin Luther would diagnose these as theologies of glory, a.k.a. the reflexive belief that pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps and optimizing our faith are the roadmap to fulfillment, meaning, and purpose. Vulnerability and weakness are excised in favor of the latest rhetoric that results in “victorious Christian living.” The inconvenient irony of these spiritualities of ascent is that the crux of the Christian message is a crucified Messiah.

The cross endures as the living paradox of grace and justice before whom men and women collapse in mercy. In other words, the prism by which we understand what it means to belong to the Father isn’t found in scaling newfound heights of ever-ascending piety. Rather, it’s discerned in the brutal image of Jesus’s feet riven with nails and caked with blood, the epitome of love reaching the unlovable and the unworthy.

The feet to which Mary clung and the feet that Shia is at pains to kiss belong to the one whose arms remain ready to embrace the beaten down and worn out. He turns away none and enfolds disasters and dirtbags in a grace that keeps on giving, and never wears out. Weary and exhausted, we fall in front of a Savior who died that we might live. And the good news is there’s nothing left to do but receive that which Jesus is so eager to give, which is, as Dave Zahl points out, his very self:

God’s grace, as revealed in Jesus Christ, is not tied to any human criterion of worth. If anything, God inverts our precious hierarchy of deserving and behaves in the most noncomplementary fashion imaginable, giving superabundant attention, approval, and love — his very self — to the wrong sort of people.1

The arduous and exhausting work of ascending is done, not by you, but by him. Jesus holds out his very self as a gift, and the only stance that makes sense when you’ve been given something you know you could never have earned is what Mary and Shia did: collapse in a pile of mercy. Jesus’s invitation to come and rest in him has never been about cleaning ourselves up or performing a certain way before we get there. It’s always been about falling. And in the uncanny relief of grace, Jesus remains unembarrassed by those who break down in front of him.

Grace is the relieving word that God’s unmerited favor extends to the unlikeliest of recipients. This includes actors with rap sheets and complicated pasts who can barely speak about Jesus without falling apart. It also includes you and me. God’s kingdom is crowded with the wrong sort of people, which is good news for us since there doesn’t seem to be any other kind.

I’d kiss his feet. I wouldn’t say anything.

Neither would I.

Grace and peace to you, my friends.