Road trips are never easy. In the summer of 2006,
just a few months into our dating relationship,
Sara and I drove together—just the two of us—
from Decatur, Georgia, to Tucson, Arizona. That’s a
journey of 1,700 miles and a wonderful test for a new
attachment. Those miles were a chance to DTR—
define the relationship.
We loaded the car with tents and supplies and left
before sunrise on a Monday morning, driving thirteen
hours to Fort Worth, Texas, on the first day. The
second day took us all the way to Carlsbad, New
Mexico, but on day three, we took the back roads.
We moved a bit slower, and by dinnertime we were
somewhere in western New Mexico, or maybe it was
eastern Arizona. To be honest, we didn’t know exactly
where we were. We hadn’t seen a town for several
hours, and we were on the lookout for a place to
camp, or to eat, or both. Finally, we drove by a store—
part hardware, some groceries, live bait, and bullets.
When we walked into that tiny shop, the screen door
slammed behind us, and four sets of eyes turned our
way. We were still squinting from the bright desert
sun when the man behind the counter spoke up.
Three words: “Are you lost?”
“Well, yes and no,” I lied. “You see, we are looking for
the campground near here.” The man looked over at
his three friends on the other side of the counter, and
all four of them laughed out loud, then explained that
there was nothing like a campground, not one that
we might have in mind. “But,” he continued, “I guess
you could camp in the wilderness area. It’s about forty
miles from here. But (he looked out the window at our
aging Toyota Camry) the road is a little rough.”
Well, two hours later, just as it was getting dark, a
wooden sign announced that we had arrived in the
wilderness. Ours was the only car we had seen since
that general store. The night had become dark and
cold. It was quiet and eerie. As we set up our tents,
we couldn’t even see where we were. We left the
headlights of the car on as long as we felt we could,
and when we turned them off, pitch black. Very early
the next morning, I stepped out of my tent. I looked
around and then up. As my eyes adjusted, they took
in a vision so beautiful it stole my breath. The sun was
just rising over the burnt orange cliffs in every direction
around us. The sky above was impossibly blue. The air
was cool and dry. And for a moment, the wonder of it
all simply overtook me. I felt suddenly somehow small
and yet more fully alive than I had in a long, long time.
I remember writing in my journal that the wilderness
area is a frightening place to lose your way but the
perfect place to find yourself.
So it was for the people of God who wandered for a
generation in the wilderness between Egypt and the
Promised Land. You see, the wilderness was not a
hospitable home. Food and water were scarce and often
came only by miracles. The people of God became weak
and weary. They were fearful and frustrated.
And then they came to Rephidim, deep in the
wilderness. So deep, in fact, that the place shows up
on no ancient maps. In other words, they were literally
nowhere, and in the middle of nowhere, they set up
their camp. And there was no water, and the people
were not pleased. They were filled not with food and
water but with fear and doubt. Full of fear for their very
lives. Full of doubt for their leader. “Did you bring us
out of Egypt just to kill us?”
The people blame Moses, and Moses the great leader
is all out of ideas. He too is afraid, because while there
may be no visible water, there are plenty of stones.
Moses cries out to God. “This your people, they are
going to kill me.”
And then, for the first time in the text, God shows
up. Simple instructions. “Moses, go on ahead. There
you will find me waiting. You will doubt it. The people
will doubt it, but I’ll be there. And here’s how you will
know: strike the rock with your staff, and water will
come out and the people can drink.” You probably
know what comes next. Water flows from the rock
of Horeb. The people’s thirst is quenched. It’s one of
those powerful provision stories. It’s actually repeated
several times in the book of Exodus—God’s mercy
and compassion in the form of manna, quail, water
from the rock.
But before the journey continues, Moses pauses in
that place to do one more thing. It is this final act
in the wilderness of Rephidim that caught my eye.
He names the place where it happened. He calls it
Massah, which means testing, and Meribah, which
means quarreling. Now, sure it’s an accurate name,
but my question is: why name it all? Why memorialize
this moment full of doubt and fear? Why remember it?
Moses insists that the people of God must mark the
spot where they asked, “Is the Lord among us or not?”
It’s the wilderness question. It’s a reasonable response
to our experiences of emptiness, to our experiences
of God’s absence. How many of us have raised our
voices in the wilderness, crying out to God even as
we doubt God’s ability or willingness to respond?
When we are in the wilderness, the power of fear is
real. It is tangible. We can touch it, while the power of
God is distant and vague, a memory. Which of us has
not been in the place of God’s people this morning,
questioning God even when the situation seems most
hopeless? God, do you care? Are you even there?
Have you been there? In the wilderness, posting
letters to a nonexistent address, as C.S. Lewis wrote.
There’s a chance you find yourself in that wilderness
this very morning. Maybe you’re struggling to cling
to faith as your stress soars or depression deepens.
Maybe you’ve come to expect the worst, to doubt the
possibility of a fresh start, a relationship renewed,
hope springing up in that desert place. Perhaps you
find yourself in a dark night of the soul, struggling to
even find the words to pray to a God whose existence
you doubt. Or maybe you survey the landscape of our
world and find there little sign of divine goodness and
power. God, are you with us or not?
The experience at Rephidim, marked in the moment
and preserved for generations, was critical in the
life of God’s people. In the wilderness of doubt, the
people find themselves. They define their relationship
with God. Their honest and vulnerable question opens
a path through this barren and rough place. It is their
doubt, it is their fear, that opens that route.
Friends, to ignore our fear, or withhold our doubts,
is to deny a part of ourselves. In the Gospels, Jesus
experiences moments of doubt. According to the
Gospel of Mark, his final words from the cross were:
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
These words of doubt reveal the depth of relationship.
My God. My God.
Friends, a faith that does not doubt does not deepen.
And a church that shames honesty or stamps out
all uncertainty with forced belief is one that seeks
sycophants and not disciples. It is feigned certainty,
and not honest doubt, that is the opposite of faith.
Is the Lord among us or not? The question is as
current as the latest family devastated by senseless
violence, as the cries of people in war-torn lands, as
our most intimate prayers of desperation. For each
of us will face the question in our own wilderness
moments. Is God’s love strong enough? Is God’s grace
persistent enough? Is the Lord among us or not? Is
God really with me or not? And whatever it is that
causes you to ask these questions, please hear this:
you are not alone. Your doubts are no offense to God’s
sovereignty. Your fear is no rejection of God’s love.
Faith is a relationship and, like every relationship,
contains uncertainty, periods of struggle, moments
of doubt. When we have the courage to name our
fear, we acknowledge that true faith is not about our
effort but God’s embrace of our humanity. There’s a
reason God’s people remembered their struggle with
faith, because in that wilderness time, they found
their identity. They discovered their total reliance on
God’s providence. They awoke to God’s reassuring
presence even when they doubted it the most. Like
all virtues, our trust in God can grow stronger when it
is put to the test.
Your doubt is no offense to God’s power.
So trust this. Doubters—like you and me—are
welcome at the table of grace, are welcome on the
journey to the cross. Amen.