Waiting at the Mountain

They were in bondage for centuries before God acted. And when he did, there was no question that this god was a different god; the real God. He performed miracles to overpower their man-made gods and then he led them out of bondage to freedom, away from the bondage-makers. He led them through miles of the unknown, going so far as to separate a massive amount of water for them to walk through. The miracles were immense and unexplainable. But left no question that this was a God unlike any other. He loved them, saved them. And yet…with each new fear and need that came along, they questioned him. Again and again and again. To the point where they feared that God had finally left them so they demanded a new god made out of gold. To the point where God considered starting over like he did with Noah. But Moses wouldn’t let him and talked him out of it. 

Gosh, I spend an extraordinary amount of time in Exodus. To be honest, It’s where I live in scripture most of the time. In contrast to the New Testament where I spend careful time. You see, I can relate to the Israelites in Exodus. People who long to be loved and rescued and truly are. Yet find themselves right back to questioning and begging at the first glimpse of uncertainty, at the first moment of need. These are people like me. 

Whereas, in the New Testament there are stories - too many, in my opinion - of miracles. Individual miracles. Which makes it all too personal, too disappointing. Because scripture uses phrases like: “They were all healed.” “He said, ‘Get up, take your mat and go home.’” “She touched the fringe of his garment and her faith made her whole.”

I can’t read those verses. But let me assure you that I do read the verses about the words and love of Jesus and his attention to those who long and need his love. His honesty about pharisaical thinking and behavior - which, unfortunately, I can relate to far too often. And the story of God’s love for us, sending his son to earth to die for my sins and then to rise up from the grave. That I can read. But the rest…

It hurts. Because I live and breathe in a place of great need for God. To heal Eva. And I wrestle with that far more often than anyone can imagine. I try not to be an Israelite, whining to God, questioning his love. And I work to keep believing that He’s here even though it feels as though he’s been up on that mountain far too long, allowing my doubts to seep in.

So I linger in the Old Testament with people who are like me. We know that we have been set aside by God to be his holy people. We know that He has gone and will continue to go to great lengths to rescue us. We know that He truly is the one true God. And yet, we doubt. Because our needs and fears feel so big. So ignored. 

I don’t remain in Exodus in order to commiserate with fellow whiners. No, I spend time there because, in spite of their disbelief, God proves his love over and over. And as for the New Testament, I choose to avoid some of it in order to protect my heart. And my faith. I do tip toe into the story of the woman who bled for 12 years. She never gave up faith. She never built a false god of gold. And so, with her in mind, I keep praying. Timidly, hesitantly, yet consistently. With my hand outstretched, just in case. Just in case God would walk by and decide, against all odds, that Eva would be healed. Not likely. But it’s what I choose to do. Even if it means living a life of faith and hope with painful disappointment mixed in. Down at the bottom of that mountain. With my fellow Israelites. Waiting for God.