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When Israel Rejected Their King

(A recap of the book of Judges and God’s Kingdom people)

A Kingdom with No Throne in Sight

The story of Judges doesn’t open in darkness. It begins with light. Israel had been rescued from slavery in Egypt, led through the wilderness, and brought into the land God promised their ancestors. Under Joshua, they had heard the call: Be faithful to the Torah so that all the nations will see what God is like. Yahweh Himself was their King, their Protector, their Lawgiver.

But the seeds of trouble were already in the soil. The tribes took possession of their territories, but they didn’t fully drive out the Canaanites as God had commanded. This wasn’t about ethnic rivalry — it was about worship. The Canaanites’ practices included idolatry, ritual prostitution, and even child sacrifice. Yahweh’s warning was clear: Do not learn their ways.

Instead, Israel settled alongside them… and eventually became just like them.

The Spiral: Pretty Good → OK → Bad → Worse¹

From there, Judges traces a tragic downward spiral:

Pretty good — Leaders like Othniel, Ehud, and Deborah mostly trusted Yahweh, delivered Israel from enemies, and brought periods of peace.
OK — The fearful Gideon learned to trust God in battle. But he also had a bit of a temper that led to murder. He ended up fashioning a gold ephod that became an idolatrous snare for the nation.
Bad — Jephthah, a capable warrior, was so unfamiliar with Yahweh’s character that he made a vow, promising, if victorious in battle, to sacrifice “whatever comes out of the door of my house to meet me when I return.” He was victorious. And he kept his vow, sacrificing his own daughter!
Worse — Samson, though set apart from birth, had no regard for Yahweh. He chased women, picked fights, and acted out of arrogance. Though God used his strength to deliver Israel, Samson’s life reads more like a warning than a model.

This repeating pattern — disobedience, oppression, crying out, rescue — reveals something deeper: the judges were never the true solution. Even the best were flawed. And yet, God chose, as he always does, to work through flawed humanity. Although his Spirit empowered them, it’s good to remember that empowerment does not equal endorsement.

The Refrain that Says It All

By the end, the nation hit rock bottom. The last chapters are filled with moral collapse: a man named Micah sets up a private temple to an idol. A roving militia from Dan stole it. Violence erupted. Women were abused and treated as property. Civil war broke out.

Over it all, the writer of Judges hammers this refrain:

“In those days Israel had no king; everyone did what was right in their own eyes.” (cf., Judges 17:6; 21:25)

This isn’t just a lament over the lack of a political monarch — it’s a theological diagnosis. Israel did have a King: Yahweh. But they rejected His reign, replacing covenant obedience with self-rule. “What is right in our own eyes” is rarely right in God’s eyes.

Freedom or Chaos?

We like to think we’re free when no one tells us what to do. Judges shows the opposite: self-rule without God’s rule leads to chaos. The human heart untethered from its Creator drifts, not toward flourishing, but toward destruction.

“There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way to death.” (Proverbs 14:12, NKJV)

The chaos of Judges is not just ancient history — it is a mirror. Our culture prizes autonomy, but unchecked autonomy is just another name for rebellion.

A Ray of Hope in the Darkness

Judges closes with darkness — but not without hope. The next chapters of Israel’s story will bring a king after God’s own heart. The line of David will rise, and from that line will come the true King, Jesus Christ, who perfectly embodies justice, mercy, and covenant love.

The refrain that defined Israel’s chaos — “everyone did what was right in their own eyes” — still echoes today. But for those who acknowledge Jesus as King, there is another way: to do what is right in God’s eyes, even when it’s hard, even when the culture disagrees. That way leads not to ruin, but to life.

¹Credit to Tim Mackie of The Bible Project

When the Trees Wanted a King

In the last post, I briefly mentioned the period in Israel’s history when they were led by judges appointed by God. This past week, I decided to re-read the book of Judges in the Hebrew Scriptures. To be honest, reading Judges is a bit messy – political chaos, cycles of rebellion, flawed leaders. Sound familiar?

One story tucked away in this chaos is a short fable – told not by a prophet or a priest, but by a guy named Jotham, the lone survivor of a political massacre.

Here’s the setup: the Israelite leader Gideon had died. Against the Israelites’ desire, he had refused to be made king during his lifetime. “I will not rule over you, nor will my son rule over you. The Lord will rule over you,” he told the people (Judges 8:23). But his son Abimelek had other ideas. Hungry for power, Abimelek orchestrated the murder of his seventy brothers to seize control. And the citizens of the city of Shechem went right along with it.

Jotham was the only brother who escaped. And what did he do? He climbed Mount Gerizim, lifted his voice, and told a story (Judges 9:7-15):

“One day, the trees went out to anoint a king over them…”

They asked the olive tree to rule. The olive tree said no, “Why would I stop producing what’s valuable to rule over trees?”

They asked the fig tree next. Same story. The fig tree declined – why give up sweet fruit for political power?

Then the vine, the source of wine and cheer, also said, “No thanks.”

Finally, the trees turn to the thornbush, the bramble, the kind of thing that tears clothes and starts brushfires. Like buckthorn in the Midwest regions of America.

And the bramble said, “Sure. Come sit in my shade (even though I don’t really have any). But if you don’t obey me, fire’s coming that will consume the great cedars of Lebanon.”

This fable is more than ancient storytelling. It’s a story for the ages.

The good, fruitful trees knew their role. They were content bearing what God made them to bear. But the thornbush – useless, prickly, fire-prone – was eager to rule. And the people went along with it.

Sound familiar?

We live in a world where ambition often overshadows virtue. Where fruitless voices shout the loudest. Where charisma trumps character, and we forget that who we follow shapes who we become.

Jotham’s fable isn’t just about Abimelek. It’s about us. About what kind of leaders we honor. About the way we confuse authority with fruitfulness. About how easily we trade substance for spectacle.

And here’s the kicker: Jotham ended his speech with a warning. If their choice of Abimelek was made in good faith, fine. But if it wasn’t – fire will come from the bramble. (Judges 9:16-20)

Spoiler alert: It does.

This fable was a cautionary tale to the Israelites and their desire for an earthly king to replace God as King (see Choosing Kings: The Anarchy of Rejecting God). It’s also a bit of a cautionary tale to us today about the temptation to look to thornbushes for shade.

Something ponder worthy…

If we turn to thornbushes for shade, we shouldn’t be surprised when things around us catch fire.

Choosing Kings: The Anarchy of Rejecting God

Anarchy¹ often conjures images of chaos, but at its root, it simply means “without a ruler.” That’s a more familiar story than we might think – one that traces all the way back to Eden and runs straight through our own hearts.

Individualism comes to mind. American individualism for sure. We really don’t want anyone telling us what to do. We don’t like big government, except when we want it to provide for our individual needs.

But Americans don’t have a corner on the market. It seems anarchism has been the Achilles’ heel of humanity through the ages, starting with Adam and Eve, the original individualists who preferred to reign in their own corner of the kingdom instead of submitting to God. And humanity has maintained a pattern of anarchy.

Yahweh, sovereign over all creation, is not unaware of humanity’s innate inclination toward disorder and self-rule. Nevertheless, as we have been discovering in previous blog posts, he chose flawed people through whom to initiate the redemption of a broken world. Upon the Israelites’ settlement in Canaan, God instituted a distinctive system of governance.

He appointed judges – not through human election or self-appointment, but by divine calling. Unlike other nations, Israel had no centralized army, no system of taxation, and no bureaucratic administration – only tribes trying, however imperfectly, to live in covenant with the One who had delivered them from bondage.

But as we read in 1 Samuel 8, everything changed. The people said to Samuel, ² “Now appoint for us a king to judge us like all the nations” (v. 5). They were willing to trade faith for familiarity – to be like everyone else, even if it meant rejecting the One who had rescued them.

Samuel was crushed. So was God.

“They have not rejected you,” God told Samuel, “but they have rejected me from being king over them.” (1 Samuel 8:7)

Let that sink in: the desire for a human king is framed as a rejection of divine kingship. God even warned them exactly what would be coming – a king would take their sons for war, their daughters for labor, their fields, their income, their freedom. “And you shall be his slaves” (v. 17).

It’s as if God were saying: You’re asking for your own oppression.

And they still said yes.

There’s an echo here of something deeply anarchist – not in the chaotic, lawless sense – but in the conviction that concentrated human power inevitably corrupts. True community doesn’t require coercion, but covenant. God’s intent was not empire, but a people shaped by justice, humility, and mutual care.

In their demand for a king, Israel was opting out of covenant trust and into tyranny. They chose domination over dependence. Control over communion. And God didn’t force them. He gave them what they asked for – and allowed them to live with the consequences.

The question lingers for us:
– Are we still choosing kings over covenant?
– Power over presence?
– Control over trust?

Maybe God’s “no” in 1 Samuel 8 isn’t just about ancient Israel. The kingdom Jesus proclaimed was never meant to mirror our systems – it was meant to subvert them. No golden thrones. No iron swords. Just a cross, a basin, and a table.

A little upside-down.
A little unsettling.
A little… anarchist.

¹ Anarchy comes from the Greek anarkhia, meaning “without a ruler” (an- = without, arkhos = ruler). It has several uses depending on context – political, philosophical, social critique, etc. – but at its core, anarchy refers to the absence of formal government or authority.

² Samuel was a prophet, judge, and faithful leader of the Israelites. He prayed when others panicked, listened when others rebelled, and helped a restless nation find its footing. His story can be found in 1 Samuel.

“Get off the beach!”

We just returned from a visit to France, where we spent a few days in the Normandy region – the site of the D-Day invasion on June 6, 1944. A couple of weeks ago, I reflected on that pivotal moment in a post called Fortitude.

We stayed at L’Ormel Manor – now a charming Airbnb – in Vierville-sur-Mer, just a mile from the English Channel and right in the heart of Omaha Beach. Sections of these now-serene beaches were once codenamed Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno, and Sword as part of Operation Overlord. American troops landed at Omaha Beach, where the fighting was the fiercest and the casualty rate the highest.

After being dropped off by landing craft, soldiers had to cross a wide expanse of open beach under heavy German fire. A low seawall offered a degree of protection, along with a natural ridge of sand and pebbles known as a shingle bank. If a soldier made it to the seawall, he might have had a chance to survive – for a while.

But the protection was temporary

Thousands of soldiers clustered behind the seawall. It was better than open exposure, but it wasn’t a place to stay. German artillery could be repositioned at any time. The only way forward, the only chance at survival, and the only way for the invasion to succeed, was to get off the beach and push inland.

I remember reading The Longest Day as a 17-year-old, trying to imagine boys about my age crouched behind that seawall, knowing they couldn’t stay there. I wonder how many would’ve preferred to take their chances right where they were. It took bold leadership like that of Brigadier General Norm Cota to get them moving. But that was what had to take place. There was no Plan B.

The success of D-Day rested entirely on this reality: they had to get off the beach.

Once off the beach, they needed to drive inland and establish outposts from which to continue penetrating the enemy strongholds.

In Fortitude, I reflected on another beachhead moment – when the Israelites crossed the Jordan and entered the land of Canaan. I suggested that this land wasn’t just a reward – it was a launching point. It was a beachhead for God’s people to re-engage in their calling: to be catalysts in the redemption and restoration of the world.

They were, in God’s words, a “kingdom of priests.” A people set apart to be agents of God’s presence and blessing. Their role wasn’t simply to enjoy the land, but to extend God’s goodness to the image-bearers around them. To bring God’s will to earth as it is in heaven. They were blessed to be a blessing.

At the time of their entry into Canaan (around 1400 BC), historians estimate the world population at 100–150 million. The Israelites? Maybe around three million, just 2–3% of the world’s population. For reference, Christians today make up about the same percentage of the population in Palestine.

The Israelites had a mission. But they didn’t follow through.

God’s original calling to Abraham couldn’t have been clearer:

²“I will make you into a great nation,
    and I will bless you;
I will make your name great,
    and you will be a blessing.
³I will bless those who bless you,
    and whoever curses you I will curse;
and all peoples on earth
    will be blessed through you.” (Genesis 12)

They were blessed to be a blessing

But somewhere along the way, the people of Israel got stuck behind the seawall. They began to focus more on receiving God’s blessing than extending it. More on what God could do for them than on what God had called them to do through them. And if you know the story, you know it didn’t end well.

A Word for Us…

I wonder if we – particularly those of us in the Western Church – aren’t guilty of a similar hesitation. We talk a lot about God’s blessings, God’s provision, and God’s presence for us. And those things are real, but they aren’t the whole picture.

Jesus’ parting command wasn’t to bunker down and wait for heaven. It was this: “Go and make disciples of all nations…” (Matthew 28:19). In other words, get off the beach.

God didn’t save us so we could crouch behind a seawall of safety and spiritual satisfaction. He blessed us so we could move forward, take ground, and share that blessing with the world.

Something to think about.

The Parable of the Servant King

As I read through the Gospels this past month, I was repeatedly struck by the image of Jesus as a servant. After reading John 13, I began to realize that Jesus is not only a Benevolent King, but a Servant King. So I had ChatGPT review The Parable of the Benevolent King and offer a “Servant King” version of the parable. For what it’s worth, this is what ChatGPT created…

The Parable of the Servant King and the Kingdom of Merea

Long ago, nestled between green hills and silver streams, there was a kingdom unlike any other. It bore no grand name, yet its people called it Merea, meaning “beloved dwelling.” It had no towering walls, no boastful banners, and no gleaming thrones—but it had a king.

His name was Elandir, though few addressed him by it. To most, he was simply the Servant King.

He wore no crown, save the sun-weathered hood of his traveling cloak. He carried no scepter, only a staff worn smooth from walking with the people. He lived not in a distant palace, but in a modest home at the heart of the village square, where he could be seen each day mending fences, helping mothers lift heavy buckets, or kneeling beside the sick.

Though he could command legions, he chose instead to lead by invitation, not by force. His strength was in his nearness.

The People of the Kingdom

In Merea, everyone had a place, and everyone had a part to play—not out of obligation, but out of gratitude. The king’s way inspired imitation.

The Stone-Menders fixed broken pathways, not for praise, but to ensure the elderly didn’t stumble. The Bread-Makers baked before dawn, leaving warm loaves on the doorsteps of those in need. The Fire-Keepers walked the streets on cold nights, carrying embers to reignite the hearths of the poor.

There were Listeners whose task was to visit the lonely, to sit, nod, and remind the forgotten they were seen. There were Messengers, not to carry royal edicts, but to deliver encouragement, celebrate births, and mourn losses with the grieving. Even the Children had their ministry—they brought laughter, drew chalk flowers on the town square, and reminded the old how to dance.

The Servant King gave no titles. He said that the most honored were those least noticed.

Each day he would rise before the sun and walk the length of the town, checking on the sick, delivering water, patching roofs, and praying quietly for his people. And when asked why he did such menial tasks, he would smile and say, “Because love kneels.”

Why So Many Came

The stories of Merea spread like spring wind. In lands where kings rode stallions and ruled with iron fists, the idea of a ruler who served seemed like a tale for children. Yet as the tales persisted, people began to wonder: Could such a place exist?

Travelers came—some limping, others tired of being used, many carrying wounds too deep to name. They expected gates, guards, and bureaucracy. Instead, they found the king himself waiting at the edge of the road with a cup of water and a question: “Would you like to come home?”

They stayed, not because of riches or promises, but because they were seen, known, and loved. Here, they weren’t asked what they could produce—but who they were becoming. In a world driven by status and achievement, Merea whispered a different word: belonging.

Those Who Chose to Leave

Yet not all who arrived stayed. Some grew frustrated at the Servant King’s ways. They wanted to climb ladders, not wash feet. They asked, “Why does no one rise above the rest here?” And the king, with gentleness, would reply, “Because we rise together.”

But for those who equated worth with control, it was not enough.

A few grew discontented with the slow pace of mercy. They wanted results, not relationship—efficiency, not empathy. They said, “This kingdom is too soft, too slow, too kind.” And the king, though grieved, did not chain them. He only walked with them to the edge of the kingdom and said, “Should you wish to return, the door will always remain open.”

Others left quietly—not out of anger, but from fear. The love they found in Merea felt too complete, too undeserved. They whispered, “I’m not worthy.” And though the king assured them, “None are, that’s why love bends low,” some still turned away, unable to receive what could not be earned.

A Kingdom That Keeps Giving

Yet the Servant King did not despair. He kept sowing seeds, bandaging wounds, listening to stories, and setting tables. The kingdom did not grow by conquest, but by kindness. It expanded not in borders, but in beauty.

Children raised in Merea grew up with strong hands and soft hearts. The old passed their wisdom to the young, and no one was left behind. Festivals were thrown, not for profit, but to celebrate life together. And in every corner of the land, the fragrance of compassion lingered.

And still, the Servant King walks the roads. Some say he’s grown older. Others say he’s only grown deeper—his eyes full of both sorrow and joy. He still waits by the gates each morning, lantern in hand, ready to welcome the next weary traveler who dares to believe that greatness might be found in kneeling love.

I Almost Bought the Farm

Quite literally! Growing up, I loved farming – despite the inherent challenges of dairy farming in the ’50s and ’60s. We didn’t have much. I remember some bleak Christmases. We only made the 3-mile trip into town if it was absolutely necessary. Dairy farming is a 365-day-a-year commitment, so youth sports and weekend getaways were out of the question. Still, I wouldn’t have traded that upbringing for anything.

But I did – I went to college to be an engineer.

After a couple of years of college, I found myself unsure of what I really wanted to do with my life. I struggled in college. My grades were probably an indicator of my uncertainty. So I dropped out for a time, choosing to work for the local company that had hired me to work in their drafting department as a junior in high school. I had employment as long as I was in school, so I continued taking one or two evening engineering courses per semester at the University of Minnesota. Evening classes in the ’70s required an in-person commute, unlike online school today.

While working and commuting to the U, a dairy farm near my home became available for purchase. Because of my uncertainty about life, I decided to consider the possibility of buying the farm and becoming a dairy farmer. A high school classmate of mine was the realtor. We had many discussions as to how I might be able to purchase the farm. I was excited about the possibilities of becoming a landowner.

I almost bought that farm. I suppose I forgot how relentless dairy farming is. But when our future feels uncertain, we often retreat to what we know best. I wonder if that’s what happened with the Israelites in the wilderness when they formed the golden calf. Moses, their leader and the voice of Yahweh, had vanished up the mountain. Their future looked uncertain. So they defaulted to what was familiar: a tangible god, something they could control.

In time – forty years’ time – they learned to trust God. They followed Him through the desert, being shaped into a people ready to live in the land He had promised. That land wasn’t just a gift, but a launch point – a base from which they would fulfill their calling to be God’s covenant people, a blessing to the world. As kingdom people, they would participate in His redemption project – new creation and an “on earth as in heaven” type restoration.

But their desert journey came with hard lessons. The biggest one? God is sovereign. They were not. Yielding to His rule brought life. Resisting brought the opposite.

Eventually, they were ready. Joshua led them across the Jordan into Canaan. The land was apportioned according to their tribal lines – though the tribes of Reuben, Gad, and half of Manasseh chose to settle east of the river.

Before they entered, Yahweh made it abundantly clear how they were to live together in the land under his Kingship. This was the point of the Torah: for God to be their God, and they His people (cf. Exodus 6:6-7, Leviticus 25:38, Deuteronomy 29:13, Jeremiah 7:23, etc).

Theologically, we know this as the Covenant Formula*

As Creator, the land belonged to Him. “The land must not be sold permanently, because the land is mine and you reside in my land as foreigners and strangers (…)” (Leviticus 25:23-25). They were guests – stewards, not owners.

They were there at His pleasure, so to speak.

As landlord, God gave them instructions on how to treat the land and each other. Every seven years, the land was to rest. This not only rejuvenated the soil but also gave farmers, servants, and animals a Sabbath. This same principle was instituted by the United States Soil Conservation Service to combat the propensity for things like the Dust Bowl. We did something similar when I farmed, fallowing about one-seventh of our land each year. Good husbandry.

God also instituted the Year of the Jubilee. Every 50 years, property returned to its original family, debts were forgiven, and slaves were released. A full reset. A radical vision of liberty and justice.

But as far as we know, the Jubilee was never observed.

For a long time, I struggled with the fairness of Jubilee. But once I grasped that the land never truly belonged to them – it was God’s – the whole concept made sense. He was King. He owned everything. The people were simply stewards.

Somewhere along the way, they lost sight of that. Sometimes I wonder if we have too. God is still King. He still owns everything. We are still stewards – of our resources, our relationships, our work, even our time.

What would it look like if we lived more like that were true?

* A key element of the Covenant Formula is the people’s relationship with God and with each other. Jesus recapped the Formula with his infamous “Love God, love others” command (see Deuteronomy 6:4-5 and Leviticus 19:18).

Fortitude

I am writing this on June 5, 2025, a day before the 81st anniversary of the D-Day Invasion of Normandy. Soon, I will actually be standing on the beaches and bluffs of France’s Normandy coast. I will follow the actions of 101st Airborne’s Easy Company on a Band of Brothers tour. I will get to stand in the tree line of a Brecourt Manor pasture that housed the massive 105mm (~4″) artillery guns that fired on the landing beaches over a mile (1.6 km) away – guns disabled by Easy Company.

Ever since reading The Longest Day as a high school junior, I’ve been captivated by the Normandy Invasion, known as Operation Overlord. It gripped my imagination. I was struck by the sheer scale and grim intensity of the Normandy landings, as 156,000 Allied soldiers stormed the beaches. With over two years of preparation, Operation Overlord was a massive undertaking involving close to three million armed forces personnel, not to mention the support of millions of civilians. The sheer scale of preparation to liberate France – and eventually all of Europe – from the grip of a God-disregarding Nazi regime completely astounded me, and still does.

The reality that many of the landing troops were near my age was not lost on me as I read The Longest Day. I could not fathom the courage it must have taken for the troops to step off their Higgins Boats. I was pretty sure I didn’t have the courage required. Nor I suspect, did they. But they did it anyway.

Courage!

After God rescued his people from Egyptian slavery, they spent 40 years in preparation to enter the land that He had set aside for them to occupy and live. Preparation? Yes – the people were learning how to be people of the King, the one true God. They were discovering his sovereignty and character. They were discovering how to live together as a kingdom of people under His Kingship. They were living out the commandments. Preparation indeed.

The land was to be the beachhead from which they would restart their mission as God’s people chosen with the task of being a blessing to the nations around them, a kingdom of priests. But the land was inhabited by a morally corrupt people who disregarded Yahweh’s sovereignty. How corrupt? One example: Sacrificing children to the god Molech was a common feature of their cultic religion.

After the 40 years of preparation, Moses had died, and the leadership baton was passed on to Joshua. He was tasked with leading the millions of Israelites into Canaan to replace the evildoers. God had judged the Canaanites and found them wanting, so they were about to be displaced. And it was Joshua’s responsibility to lead the people into the land.

I often ponder the conversation between God and Joshua as He prepared Joshua to lead the people of Israel across the Jordon River to inherit the “promised land…”

God to Joshua: “Be strong and courageous because you will lead these people to inherit the land I swore to their ancestors to give them. Be strong and very courageous. Be careful to obey all the law my servant Moses gave you; do not turn from it to the right or to the left, that you may be successful wherever you go. Keep this Book of the Law always on your lips; meditate on it day and night, so that you may be careful to do everything written in it. Then you will be prosperous and successful. Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.” (Joshua 1:6-9, also Deuteronomy 31)

Three times, God connected strength and courage in his instructions to Joshua. In Hebrew poetic tradition, anything stated three times demands attention. So, being a dabbler in Hebrew, I poked around a bit to see what I could discover. Strong and courageous are linked because they are related words.¹ The Hebrew word for courage is amats, which means: To be determined, to make oneself alert, to strengthen oneself. Courage is about an internal resolve and fortitude.²

Interesting! Courage in Hebrew thought seems to have nothing to do with acts of bravery, which is what usually comes to mind when we think of courage. It seems to have more to do with internal resolve. I immediately think of the Apostle Paul’s statement of resolve in his letter to the Philippian Christians:

[For my determined purpose is] that I may know Him [that I may progressively become more deeply and intimately acquainted with Him, perceiving and recognizing and understanding the wonders of His Person more strongly and more clearly], and that I may in that same way come to know the power outflowing from His resurrection [which it exerts over believers], and that I may so share His sufferings as to be continually transformed [in spirit into His likeness]. (Philippians 3:10, Amplified)

The determined purpose, the internal resolve, of the young men who stormed the Normandy beaches was to reach the shore and establish a beachhead from which they could liberate the land. Joshua’s determined purpose was to lead Yahweh’s kingdom people into a land from which they could become a blessing to the world around them. As Christ-followers, as Kingdom people, I suspect a fair question to ask ourselves, both individually and corporately, might be…

What might you say is your determined purpose?

¹Addendum July 2025. The correct term for the linking of two terms like strong and courageous is hendiadys: the expression of a single idea by two words connected with “and,” e.g., nice and warm, when one could be used to modify the other, as in nicely warm.

²Interestingly, Operation Overlord included a massive deception operation designed to mislead the Nazi High Command into believing an invasion would take place in either Norway or Pas de Calais, France. The deception plan was called Operation Fortitude.

What Else Will Distinguish Us?

I have had the privilege of helping Church and other youth-focused ministries develop long-term visions and plans. I always ask for the involvement of a cross-section of people connected to the ministry – staff, volunteer leaders, advisory board, key stakeholders, etc. To get the ball rolling, I lead the gathered group through a typical S.W.O.T. analysis (Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities, Threats). Something else I do that might not be as typical: I ask the group, “What distinguishes your ministry from other youth-serving organizations in the community?”

It’s not a question of what they do better, but what their ministry does differently. What are those distinguishing factors that differentiate their ministry from other organizations? That causes others to check them out/send kids their way, etc.? In other words, what is their unique place in the community? It has turned out to be one of the better questions that we address in the process.

Several years ago, when I was still in full-time Youth Ministry work, I, as the oldest among us, facilitated a monthly gathering of the Youth Ministers in our community. Each month I would ask a couple of questions to create some camaraderie and community – questions like, “What book are you presently reading? What’s your favorite TV series, etc?”

One month, keying off “distinguishers” thinking, I asked, “What do you think distinguishes Christians from others in our culture?” The answers mostly related to external, moralistic, and behavioral distinctions. I had been spending time in the Exodus story, so it was a bit of a loaded question, as you will see…

After God revealed sets of commands as to how the rescued Israelites were to relate to their King and to each other, we find an interesting account, probably unbeknownst to many of us. Moses would set up a tent outside the camp, some distance from the crowd. He called it the “tent of meeting,” where he would go and meet with God. It’s where “The Lord would speak to Moses face to face, as one speaks to a friend.” (See Exodus 33:7-11)

One of the times Moses met with God in the tent, he inquired of the Lord…

“¹² You have been telling me, ‘Lead these people,’ but you have not let me know whom you will send with me. You have said, ‘I know you by name and you have found favor with me.’ ¹³If you are pleased with me, teach me your ways so I may know you and continue to find favor with you. Remember that this nation is your people.”

Yahweh replied, “My Presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.”

¹⁵Then Moses said to him, “If your Presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here [to Canaan]. ¹⁶How will anyone know that you are pleased with me and with your people unless you go with us? What else will distinguish me and your people from all the other people on the face of the earth?” (Exodus 33:12-16)

What else will distinguish me and your people from all the other people on the face of the earth?

We must remember that the people rescued from a polytheistic culture were unfamiliar with the concept of a single, ever-present deity. Their cultural concept of a god was a deity tied to time and space, often represented by an idol in a temple. Worshipping these deities required the people to be in their presence. The people were not used to a deity who was present with them. (Could their cultural understanding of deities have been a reason why the people defaulted by making a golden calf?)

The people were discovering that Yahweh, the one true God and King of the universe, was very present. They witnessed his presence in the pillars of fire and cloud during the exodus from Egypt. And again during the 40-day theophany, while Moses communed with the Lord on Mount Sinai. They even experienced his presence as Moses talked with Him in the “tent of meeting.” ¹

What a distinguisher!

Here’s another distinguisher – the Egyptian deities of the ~13th Century BC no longer exist. They are extinct. When was the last time you recall anyone referring to the sun god, Ra? Or the god of the Nile, Hapi? Or of Isis? Or any of the other ~10 Egyptian gods? ²

Yahweh, the one true God and King, remains.

Yahweh, who is enthroned in the heavens, was ever-present with His people, watching over and caring for them! The concept of God’s presence with His people is a key theme seen throughout the scriptures. This is a deity worthy of worship. In contrast with contemporary deities, this is a God worth following.

The concept of God’s presence was not lost to the psalmists. They reference a God who was present, watching over them, protecting them. Consider Psalm 121…

I lift up my eyes to the mountains—
where does my help come from?
²My help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of heaven and earth.

³He will not let your foot slip—
he who watches over you will not slumber;
⁴indeed, he who watches over Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.

⁵The Lord watches over you—
the Lord is your shade at your right hand;
⁶the sun will not harm you by day,
nor the moon by night.

⁷The Lord will keep you from all harm—
he will watch over your life;
⁸the Lord will watch over your coming and going
both now and forevermore.

In Psalm 121, the psalmist casts the ever-present God as a keeper or guardian. It is in the context of a journey. Yahweh guards his people, who face uncertain times while on the journey. Fifteen centuries later, I find great comfort in a God who continues to say…

My Presence will go with you.

¹ From Exodus 33, we read, “Whenever Moses went out to the tent, all the people rose and stood at the entrances to their tents, watching Moses until he entered the tent. ⁹As Moses went into the tent, the pillar of cloud would come down and stay at the entrance, while the Lord spoke with Moses. ¹⁰Whenever the people saw the pillar of cloud standing at the entrance to the tent, they all stood and worshiped, each at the entrance to their tent.”

² As I was researching the gods of ancient Egypt, I was reminded that scholars have correlated the ten plagues listed in Exodus to the various deities. For those among us who are interested in such detail, I have prepared a table in a separate blog post, The Ten Plagues.

The Ten Plagues

In a footnote of the post Distinguishers, I mentioned that while researching the gods of ancient Egypt, I was reminded that scholars have correlated the ten plagues listed in Exodus to the various deities. For those interested in this stuff, I discovered a table that attempts to connect the plagues of Exodus with various Egyptian gods.

Deity	Domain	Biblical Context
Ra (Re)	Sun god, king of gods	Plague of Darkness – Yahweh darkened the sun god’s domain (Exodus 10:21-23)
Hapi	Nile & fertility	Water to Blood – Judgment on Nile (Ex. 7:17-21)
Heqet (Heket)	Fertility, birth	Plague of Frogs (Ex. 8:1-15)
Geb	Earth	Plague of Dust to Gnats. Dust = earth (Ex. 8:16-19)
Khepri	Renewal, sunrise, dung beetle	Plague of Flies, beetles (Ex. 8:20-32)
Hathor	Love, beauty, cows	Death of Livestock – cattle killed (Ex. 9:1–7)
Sekhmet	Plague, war, healing	??Boils – plague that her power could not stop (Ex. 9:8-12)
Nut, Seth	Sky goddess, Storm god	Hail from the sky (Ex. 9:13-35)
Neper / Renenutet	Grain & harvest	Locusts destroy crops (Ex. 10:1-20)
Pharaoh	A divine king, considered “son of Ra.”	Death of Firstborn – God usurps Pharaoh’s claim to divinity (Ex. 12:29-30)

Below are some depictions of the various Egyptian deities I found on-line. I am not vouching for their accuracy!

Losing Faith in My Faith

I was recently watching a YouTube video of my niece, Haddi Trebisovsky, as she spoke at a fundraising gala for the K.O.L.T Foundation – a non-profit that comes alongside families who have suffered the heartbreak of stillbirth. Haddi and her husband know that pain all too well, having lost their son Ansel at 33 weeks. So when she took the stage, it wasn’t just a speech – it was personal. In her talk, one statement in particular grabbed my attention. She said her faith in her faith had been shattered. I asked her if she’d be willing to write a blog post to expand on that thought. What follows are her words.

I remember the first time I put my faith in Christ—sitting at my mother’s feet while she folded laundry. I was no more than five when she told me about Jesus and Heaven, and I accepted with a child’s excitement. I grew up in a Christian home where faith was central, and as a teen, I served in ministry and spent my first year out of high school in an intense, faith-focused internship.

Before college, I spent two months in Maui with a Christian life coach, preparing for a life built on wisdom and trust in God. All I wanted was to be used by Him. I believed He still spoke to those who listened and would guide my steps.

In college, I met Jimmy. He transferred schools to grow in his faith, and we had open conversations from the start: “Just because we like each other doesn’t mean we should date—let’s pray about it.” We soon knew we were meant to be. After years of spiritual mentorship, I felt confident I could hear God’s voice. When I sensed He was leading us toward engagement by year’s end, we prayed, went ring shopping, and I waited with joy and anticipation.

Then Jimmy hit the brakes. He felt the timing was off—still a year of school left for him, two for me. He wanted to wait until he had a steady income. In hindsight, it was wise. But in the moment, I felt like he was choosing the practical path over trusting God. I was crushed.

More than disappointment, I was shaken by what felt like a failure to hear God. I didn’t doubt God’s existence, but I doubted everything I thought I understood about prayer, timing, and discernment.

I lost faith in my faith.

That disillusionment led to years of spiritual numbness. I still believed, still lived a “good Christian life,” but I didn’t feel connected to God.

Eventually, I knew I had to do something uncomfortable to shake the spiritual fog. So, while pregnant with our third child, we became foster parents. We took in a two-day-old infant who stayed with us for five months. Just before giving birth, we spontaneously decided to buy a bigger house and made an offer that night.

Everything looked perfect—until the night before closing, when a missed tax lien delayed everything. I remembered how lost I’d felt in that earlier season, so instead of spiraling, I asked God for peace, not answers.

During the wait, I sensed a quiet whisper: “If you get a call for a girl tomorrow, say yes.” The next day at 11:00 A.M., the county called—could we take in a three-day-old baby girl? Though our son was only two months old, we said yes. That same afternoon, the title company called—our closing was back on.

The baby stayed with us for just five days. It didn’t make sense. But I began to wonder if it had been a test of faith, a preparation for something yet to come. And I was right.

During the pandemic, I faced another crisis of faith—this time, shaken by the divide between my faith community and the issues unfolding in the world. If those who claimed the same beliefs as mine held opposite opinions from mine about the then-current events, what did that say about our faith? For the first time, I truly questioned whether God was even real.

Then, one Sunday, a message stirred something in me, and I felt the Holy Spirit whisper, “See, Haddi? I’m real. Just hang in there.” I didn’t know it yet, but I was newly pregnant with a surprise baby—my long-hoped-for fourth child.

That pregnancy was the hardest yet. I dealt with severe migraines and ER visits, but I clung to that whisper. I named him Ansel, which means “with divine protection.” Through the pain, I trusted that this was God’s perfect plan.

Then, at a routine 33-week checkup, I heard the words no parent ever wants to hear: “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.” I remember the scream that came out of me as I drove home—full of rage and betrayal. “You knew how much I was struggling with my faith before this. How could You let this happen? How could You answer my prayer and allow it to end like this?”

I told God, if He wanted me back, He’d have to drag me through the grief. I didn’t have the will to try anymore.

The thing about God is, He’ll take that kind of invitation. He dragged me through it, and in doing so, He unraveled every shaky foundation I had built my faith upon. In the process of writing through my grief, I found Him answering prayers I had prayed as a teenager, prayers I’d forgotten I ever spoke.

This isn’t the story I wanted. But God’s presence in the wreckage was undeniable.

Losing faith in my faith was painful and disorienting—but it was also necessary. Because God isn’t confined to one method of reaching us. He’s not bound by our assumptions or expectations. He is sovereign, eternal, and always speaking.

And in letting go of faith in my ability to believe “the right way,” I finally learned to place my faith where it belonged all along—in Christ alone.

You can follow Haddi on her personal blog: https://hadditrebisovsky.wordpress.c om/. You may also want to check out Haddi’s book, The Ansel Diary, describing her journey. In addition, Haddi wrote a guided journal for grief of all kinds, The _____ Diary: A guided journal for grief (The Ansel Diary Collection).