Day 41

Exodus 31–32 | Romans 5 | Psalm 18

“And Aaron said, ‘Let not the anger of my lord burn hot. You know the people, that they are set on evil.’” (Exodus 32:22)

Blame is the most natural response when things go wrong.

It’s instinct. Something in us flinches at the weight of responsibility, so we pass it off—onto circumstances, onto others, onto anything that will keep it from landing on us.

I know this firsthand.

When I got out of the hospital after a week of surgery, pain meds, and sleepless nights, my father-in-law, Rob, drove Talacey and me the 200 miles back home. We pulled into the driveway and were greeted by my mom and sister, who had driven all the way from Arizona the night of my accident to take care of Sophia while we were in the hospital. M and her two daughters came shortly after.

But then J showed up.

I spent a week in that San Francisco hospital bed thinking about J. Thinking about how he might be sitting at home, wondering if I blamed him for what happened. More importantly, wondering if he blamed himself. Because we were building something for his house. Because he was the one who texted that morning, asking if we could start the project that afternoon. Because he was standing right next to me when the board kicked and sucked my hand into the saw blade.

I remember sitting in my living room that night, looking across at J with tears in my eyes, struggling to get these words out: “J, I want you to look at me when I say this. None of this is your fault.”

And I meant it.

But I also knew that no matter how much I believed that, he might not be able to. That we would have to talk through it. That blame—whether from me or from his own heart—could rot what had been a solid, brother-like friendship if we weren’t careful.

And when I read Exodus 32 today, I think about how differently things could have gone.

Moses came down from the mountain and found the people of Israel bowing before a golden calf they created for themselves to worship—just days after pledging their loyalty to the one true God.

And Aaron? He refused to own up to it.

“Let not the anger of my lord burn hot. You know the people, that they are set on evil,” he said. (Exodus 32:22)

He blames them. He shifts responsibility. He washes his hands of it, as if he hadn’t been the one who took their gold, shaped the idol, and declared, “These are your gods, O Israel!” (Exodus 32:4).

It’s what we do when we don’t want to face the truth.

But Romans 5 points to a better way.

“We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope.” (Romans 5:3-4)

When blame is removed, there is room for something greater—for suffering to refine, for hardship to shape, for friendship to deepen.

J and I have had hard conversations in the months since the accident. But by the grace of God alone, blame never had a chance to take root.

Instead, reconciliation did.

A friendship that could have been marked by guilt is instead now marked by deeper trust, stronger brotherly love, and a testimony to God’s faithfulness.

I don’t say this lightly: God had a purpose in my injury. I don’t understand it fully, but I trust it completely.

I could have blamed J. J could have blamed himself. But instead, we both chose to see God’s sovereign hand at work through my scarred one.

And I wonder—how often do I need to do the same in the smaller moments?

When things go wrong at home or at work, when plans fall apart, when someone lets me down—do I shift the blame, like Aaron, just to avoid the weight? Or do I let God use even the hardest circumstances to strengthen my faith, build my character, and point me to hope?

Blame keeps us stuck in the past.

But grace? Grace moves us forward.

Lord, keep me from a heart that looks for someone to blame. Give me faith to trust Your hand at work, even when things go wrong. Let suffering produce endurance, and endurance character, and character hope. Amen.