On the Edge of the Wilderness
“Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness . . . ” (Matt 4:1).
What was it like for Jesus to walk into the wilderness? I can’t quite picture it—it's probably for the best—but I imagine he might have felt a sense of dread. He would soon reach the limits of human endurance, fasting for over a month and experiencing temptation beyond what any human ever survived.
Jesus knew what he was doing and went to the wilderness the same way he went to the cross—willingly. Yet I wonder if his stomach knotted up, if he felt disconnected from the present. I wonder if there was a moment where Psalm 29:8 popped into his head: “The voice of the Lord shakes the wilderness . . . ” A single syllable from his Father’s voice could have instantly wrecked that wilderness.
What was it like to stay there, to be present and allow himself to be tempted? And after those 40 days, what was it like for him to leave the wilderness and rejoin the outside world? Did those 40 days change him? Were they part of how “he learned obedience from what he suffered” (Heb 5:8)?
“The angel of the Lord found her by a spring in the wilderness . . . So she named the Lord who spoke to her: ‘You are El-roi,’ for she said, ‘In this place, have I actually seen the one who sees me?’” (Gen 16:7, 13)
Nobody goes to the wilderness on purpose. Why would you? It’s a place of deprivation, a lonely place without water or food.
Hagar knew the wilderness too well. She ended up there twice.
The first time was after her boss Sarai made Hagar have sex with her husband Abram in hopes that Hagar would have a child that Sarai could raise as her own. Desperate for a child, Sarai used her power to get what she wanted, without regard for her servant’s dignity or the child. As Kenneth A. Matthews writes, “Sarai never speaks directly to Hagar or speaks her name; Hagar is a tool to relieve Sarai’s embarrassment. Yet Sarai never claims Ishmael as her son . . . ” [1]
When Hagar became pregnant, she felt contempt for Sarai. Yet her boss still had power over her. Pregnant, alone, and afraid, Hagar ended up in the wilderness.
Skip ahead to the second time Hagar wound up in the wilderness, after her boss had a kid of her own. Now Sarah (formerly Sarai) was angry. She refused to allow her son to breathe the same air as Hagar’s son. Who cared that Isaac and Ishmael were brothers, or that Ishmael was only born because Sarah thought she could demand what she wanted. Yes, Isaac was the child of the promise, but God made a promise about Ishmael too. Again Hagar was kicked out, but this time she had a child with her. She went as far as her strength could take her and waited for death to take first her son, then her.
Bam. Right in the middle of both stories, God shows up. God sees Hagar (Gen 16:13). He hears her son cry (Gen 21:17). Sarah could not be bothered to speak Hagar’s name, but God came near.
God is no stranger to those in the wilderness.
The poor and the needy seek water, but there is none;
their tongues are parched with thirst.
I will answer them.
I am the Lord, the God of Israel. I will not abandon them.
I will open rivers on the barren heights,
and springs in the middle of the plains.
I will turn the desert into a pool
and dry land into springs (Isa 41:17–18).
We prayed Psalm 29 during corporate worship a few Sundays ago. As we prayed the word “wilderness” resonated in my heart and head. I felt I had a word to explain where I’ve been and where I’m going. I don’t want to over-spiritualize hard things, but “wilderness” comes closest to describing it.
Since I moved to Washington 4 ½ years ago, nothing has come easily. Everything from work and friendships to church and my relationship with God required more sweat than ever.
Being in the wilderness changed me in ways I never expected. I don’t know if John the Baptist’s whole locusts-and-honey thing was the result of his time in the wilderness (maybe he ate whatever he could find) or if he was just a weird dude in general. Either way, suffering changes a person. It clarifies what you care about and can separate you from people who haven’t suffered similarly.
On this side of the wilderness, I have more questions than answers, more compassion for people and things I don’t understand, and more anger at the state of the world and the church. I’m tired in ways I never knew were possible. Many of the things I used to care about seem so small.
I move back to Texas in a few days. In the years since I moved to Washington, people often asked, “Would you ever move back to Texas?” and my answer was usually, “Not on purpose.” Yet here we are. There are a few very good reasons for me to move back (almost all are my nieces and a little nephew on the way), and many reasons for me to go somewhere else . . . anywhere else.
Deciding to move was a hard decision because, for the first time, I wasn’t going *to* something or *away* from something. I didn’t have a reason of my own to leave, and the complete freedom to stay or go sent me into an existential mess for a while.
While I’d describe the past years as living in a wilderness, I also don’t see moving back as going to an oasis. In my mind, moving back was the hard road, not the easy one.
That’s part of why I’m choosing a different life after my move. Life in Texas wasn’t perfect, but it was easy. Since I left, I’ve been uncomfortable in a way that, as it turns out, shook my life up for the better. God has shown me how much more work and love he has for us—and I can’t follow through on what I believe he’s leading me toward if I live in a bubble.
In that sense, God is leading me to wilderness work. I have some degree of clarity on what God is calling me to study and share. I’m starting classes at Northern Seminary this fall to deepen my thinking and broaden my imagination for the work in front of me. I’m eager to get settled in my new home so I’ll be ready when classes start. But first things first.
The last thing worth saying is this: God has a special relationship with his people when they’re in the wilderness. I wish I could tell you some magical story of how I’ve felt God’s presence so closely for the past few years. Maybe if I were a Super Christian™ I could tell you I felt God was so near and kind. If only. My experience of God in the wilderness has been an exercise in faith—in choosing over and over and over to believe that God is with me, to hope that he is doing good things in my life, to trust that he hasn’t forgotten me. When I consider my before and after, I can see how God changed me in ways I wouldn’t have allowed him to when things were easier. That is a gift I didn’t know to ask for.
I have been and will be saying goodbyes of a sort. I’ll keep doing my current job remotely, so I'll stay close with my brilliant team and work friends. Most are already scattered across the country anyway. I’ll see a few dear people less regularly, but I hope to stay in touch with them. People are a gift, and I’m so grateful for the lovely people in the tribeless tribe God provided when I needed them.
For now, I’m on the edge of one wilderness and looking at another. Maybe we’ll see each other there.
Footnote:
1. K. A. Mathews, Genesis 11:27–50:26, vol. 1B, The New American Commentary (Nashville: Broadman & Holman Publishers, 2005), 184.
