In which war is not seen.
The book of Exodus starts with the children of Israel nearing the end of their 430-year sojourn in Egypt. The generation that God led out of slavery saw the terrors of the ten plagues, from rivers of blood to what must have been a pox epidemic to the overnight slaughter of firstborn that left no Egyptian household untouched. They were no strangers to suffering and death. The night that the angel of death passed through Egypt, Israel was told to paint their houses with blood and eat while dressed for battle—loins girded, feet shod, hands staffed. They left Egypt looking like a nation ready for war.
Exo. 13:18. Thus God led the people around by the way of the wilderness to the Red Sea. And the children of Israel went up arrayed for battle out of the land of Egypt.
But the verse before it, easily missed in all the uproar, speaks something different.
Exo. 13:17. Now when Pharaoh let the people go, God did not lead them by the way of the land of the Philistines, although that was near; for God said, Perhaps the people will change their minds when they see war and will return to Egypt.
If I were there with the children of Israel, having seen the great and terrible hand of Jehovah, dressed for combat, and walking out of Egypt victorious, I would have felt ready for war. I would have expected to be led into war. And I would have the overwhelming conviction that victory was mine.
But Jehovah saw something else in the children of Israel. Though they had seen horrors and wonders, though they had been hardened by slavery and were probably at peak physical ability, they had no inward concept of war and its demands. They probably thought they knew what war looked like, but when faced with the brutal reality, slavery would be preferable.
Thus they were led by Jehovah on a circuitous route through the wilderness, during which this warlike nation found many reasons to return to the status they knew before in Egypt: there was always meat and a variety of vegetables to eat, water to drink, and security from external foes. They never had to fight for their possessions (probably helped that as slaves they didn’t have possessions). Each time a new challenge arose, the first generation brought up their old refrain: “Would it not be better for us to return to Egypt? O, if only we had died in Egypt!” (Exo. 14:12; 16:3; 17:3; Num. 11:4–6; 14:2–3). Eventually their pining for Egypt at the very cusp of the promised land led Jehovah to sentence that generation to die in the wilderness, as they so dearly wished (Num. 14:2, 29).
The new generation of Israelites who ended up conquering the promised land had never seen the wonders of God’s hand. Their bodies had never known the cruel demands of slavery. They had never enjoyed the comforts of Egypt. They had eaten nothing but the mysterious bread-like manna, and drank nothing but the water from a rock that followed them around the desert. None of them had girded themselves on the bloody night of the first Passover. They were never called upon to give a warlike display as the first generation did. But where the first generation had wavering loyalties, the second had unshakeable conviction.
Four years ago, I was girded for war. Bolstered by a steady community of faith and led by examples of people who went before me to live absolutely for God, I imagined my future life to include missions work in low-income countries, under austere conditions, and full of the mystical joy that suffuses a life by the cross. I imagined medicine would play a role; perhaps I would do humanitarian or disaster medicine work, and my faith would motivate me to continue serving humanity. I was ready to give up medicine if God so called, and thrust myself in all my youthful vigor into His church service, whether that meant shepherding young believers on college campuses or ministering to believers in a small local church somewhere. I was ready to be uncomfortable, poor, and less-than-well fed.
But God, in His wisdom, did not call me to full-time church service. He also did not call me to a career in humanitarian medicine (not yet, anyway). He did not call me to international missions work. I’m sure the version of me four years ago would have been bemused by what the Lord did call me to: years of medical school in a comfortable suburban home, working hard but never wanting for anything, and looking forward at another three or four years of training in some bustling American city, searching for apartments that have in-unit washer/dryers, elevators, and nice bathtubs. Cooking with my husband, playing Scrabble on weekends, reading on my Kindle at night. Far from the life of deprivation I thought myself ready for, I find myself ensconced.
I realized the zeal I had for God’s service was laced with impurities: a thirst for adventure, novelty, and glory. A desire to “prove myself,” to fit into an internal archetype. Perhaps I would have changed my mind when I saw war.
There are unseen undergirdings to this quiet, easy life, though (Acts 27:17). There are the little, everyday decisions of faith: choosing to set aside time for God, choosing to stand with conviction over emotion, choosing to live Him within the constraints of earthly duties. Every day, choosing to love Him anew. Pressing on to new heights with God, even if the current elevation seems to be high enough. It seems simple enough, but the inertia of day after ordinary day is impossible to overcome without God. A life of peace seems like peacetime, but there is a constant unseen battle raging between the forces of progress and stagnancy (Dan. 7:25). That’s why there is constant encouragement to press forward (Heb. 4:16), to forget the attainments of yesterday (Phil. 3:13), and to endure (Heb. 12:1; Rev. 2:3).
I thought I knew what war looked like. It looked like physical suffering and unending demands. I thought I knew what warriors looked like—their armor and bearing should be visible to everyone. Therein lay the glory of war. But Christian warfare is by faith, which is by nature unseen. Hebrews 11:1 tells us that faith substantiates the things hoped for; faith is the conviction of things not seen.
Though I cannot see the war in my life today, my faith tells me it is still ongoing. If I can steadfastly take each day’s unseen battle and pursue an unseen hope—Christ’s return—I can outgrow the outwardly armed yet faltering generation of Exodus to join the ranks entering the good land. Maybe war looks like eating manna day after day. Maybe it looks like living a rootless life, following God wherever He leads, whether it makes sense or not. Maybe it’s gradually shedding the trappings of Egypt and looking forward more than looking behind.
Rom. 8:25. But if we hope for what we do not see, we eagerly await it through endurance.
