Day 109

Judges 5–6 | Acts 8:26–40 | Psalm 46

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He was hiding in a winepress.

Gideon, the “mighty man of valor,” wasn’t leading a charge or rallying the troops. He was threshing wheat in secret—doing the right thing in the wrong place because fear had taken over.

But God still called him.

“The Lord is with you, mighty warrior.” (Judges 6:12)

Gideon didn’t feel mighty.

He didn’t even feel adequate.

But God wasn’t describing Gideon’s résumé.

He was declaring Gideon’s identity.

Calling Doesn’t Wait for Confidence

Gideon tried to talk his way out of it.

“My clan is the weakest…”

“I am the least…”

“Please, give me a sign…”

And God replied with quiet insistence:

“Go in the strength you have.” (Judges 6:14)

Not the strength you wish you had.

Not the strength you’re still praying for.

Just the strength you have—right now, right here.

And I don’t know about you, but that convicts me.

Because most of the time, I don’t feel strong.

I don’t feel equipped.

I don’t ever feel like a “mighty warrior.”

I feel small. Hesitant. Tired.

But God’s calling isn’t about how I feel.

It’s about who He is.

Just two days ago, my phone rang. It was Noah, the facilities director at our church, planning an all-church spring cleaning day next month.

He asked if I’d lead the handyman group.

I was honored, of course. I said yes.

But even as the word ‘yes’ was coming out of my mouth, the doubt and insecurity crept in.

Me?

The guy who’s barely picked up a hammer in five months?

The one who was so clumsy he sliced off two fingers with a table saw and hasn’t looked at tools the same way since?

Sure, I love projects around the house. There’s nothing I won’t at least try to figure out how to fix.

But lead others? Already?

It felt too soon.

Too risky.

Too…unqualified.

And yet—that’s often how God works.

He doesn’t wait until the scars are gone.

He calls us when we’re still limping.

When we feel unsure.

When we’d rather sit this one out.

Because His calling isn’t a vote of confidence in our strength.

It’s a declaration of His.

When Obedience Looks Like an Interruption

Then there’s Philip.

He’s in the middle of a revival in Samaria. The gospel is exploding. People are coming to faith. Miracles are happening.

And God sends him to the desert.

“Go south to the road—the desert road…” (Acts 8:26)

That’s it. No explanation. No guarantee of fruit. Just go.

And Philip goes.

No resistance. No excuses. Just obedience.

And on that dry road, he meets one man—an Ethiopian official reading the book of Isaiah, searching for truth, ready to hear the gospel.

Philip walks alongside him. Explains Jesus. Baptizes him in a ditch.

And then God whisks him away.

Not a stadium crowd. Not a viral moment. Just one soul.

One appointment worth interrupting everything for.

Obedience in the Ordinary

Some days—like the day this week when Noah called—I feel like Gideon. Asking for signs, hiding behind insecurity, unsure how God could use someone like me.

Other days I want to be like Philip—immediate, open, ready to follow without hesitation.

But most days?

Most days are quieter.

Less heroic.

More fragile.

I’m not slaying idols or baptizing strangers on desert roads.

I’m just trying to keep showing up—at home, at work, in the quiet in-between—when the call feels vague and the cost feels high.

But that’s where faith takes root.

Not in the grand moment, but the daily yes.

The “I’ll go” when nothing feels certain.

The “I’m here” when everything feels small.

The God Who Goes First

Psalm 46 doesn’t just call God our refuge—it calls Him our strength.

Not a strength we summon. A strength we borrow.

Not a power we perform. A presence we carry.

“Be still and know that I am God.”

Still in the winepress.

Still on the road.

Still in the question marks.

Because God is not waiting at the end of the path.

He’s already on the road.

Already in the silence.

Already strengthening the one who says yes—even when that yes feels shaky.

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Lord, You are my strength. Not the strength I wish I had. Not the strength I try to muster. But the strength that meets me right here—uncertain, insecure, sometimes unwilling. You still call me. Still lead me. Still use me. So I’ll go—not because I feel ready, but because I know You already are.

Amen.