The Face of Fear

Midnight.

Beginning of the middle watch. A murmur of voices ushered in the changing of the guard, signaling the start of another three-hour shift. Sprinkled with occasional laughter, the tranquil lull to the long day gave no hint that an uprising lay in wait, cloaked by the shadows they should never have trusted.

Across the expansive valley, the flicker of firelight dulled the senses of sleepy enemy soldiers. With the distant shimmer of stars the sky's only light, a tarry darkness became Gideon’s ally, offering covert protection to him and his army of three hundred as they slowly, deliberately made their way down the hillside and spread out in quiet obscurity.

One hundred stealth Israelites gathered at the north end of the enemy encampment. Alert and resolute, in one hand they each held a lit torch concealed inside a clay pitcher. In the other, they gripped a trumpet. Two hundred more volunteers, equipped with the same peculiar weapons, lined opposite sides of the rich valley to wait for the signal from Gideon. All told, they were three teams of one hundred men each, led by one farmer. And not a sword to be seen.

If ever an army needed a miracle, it was now.

A smile spread over the face of the Visitor where he stood beneath a wizened oak, nodding in approval while he watched. They didn’t need swords for this one. They needed to do the one thing harder than going toe-to-toe in battle—they needed to trust in the plan, even when they didn’t understand it. Gideon’s leadership had been a surprise only to himself. He was a diamond in the rough, that one. Perfect for the job.

Leaning into the sheltering limbs behind him, the Visitor made himself comfortable while he waited for the show to begin. This was going to be epic.

If ever a deck had been stacked against them, this was it—in spades. But not only was this no ordinary militia, it was no ordinary battle. These were the best of the best. An elite, handpicked corps, chosen by an Angel who didn’t need any of them to crush an assault. The God of Angel Armies, Who called the world into being with one word, didn’t need to hedge His bets.

He didn’t need their power—they needed His.

Watching the midget army surround its comatose foes, the Stranger couldn’t help but tap a foot to an unheard melody playing out in his head. He loved it when a plan came together and this one was no exception. Before the night was over, they would each know and never forget.

Persuading Gideon to be the commander of this ill-equipped pack had taken some time, but that wasn’t the fault of the men. They were all willing. Convincing them to follow their leader had been child’s play in comparison to drafting their leader. But, eventually, just as it always does, hope won out. When a man finally realized there were worse things than dying, that’s when the rules of engagement changed.

Only then was he ready to live. And fight.

The Stranger surveyed the scene of the awaiting ambush. Three hundred strong, the men stood silent, eyes all trained on Gideon. On the surface, they were outnumbered 450-1. But the statistic was as deceptive as the operation itself. The Stranger knew better than any that the omnipotent Hand of God was more than enough to empower an underestimated opponent, once thought to be a silent majority. Soon, Gideon would know it, too.

Holding their collective breaths, Gideon’s Army waited tensely for his signal. They had his back—evidence that he wasn’t alone and never had been. That where he went, they all went. And where they all went, God had already given the victory into their hands. Exactly as a nervous soldier had been warned in a dream the night before.

It was time.

“Look at me,” Gideon had instructed. “When I come to the edge of their camp, do as I do. Wait for the sound of my trumpet. Then let 'em rip.” The men all nodded and watched his silhouette disappear in the moonless night.

It only took a moment for Gideon to reach his position. His eyes piercing the darkness, he let go his dependence on crippling fear and inhaled the promise of God. With his right hand, he lifted the trumpet to his lips and let it blast. With everything he had, he exhaled all the anger and fear and frustration of the last seven years until the instrument he held nearly burst with pent-up fury.

“For the Lord! And for Gideon!” he shouted, before letting loose again on the trumpet.

An answering echo of men’s voices and horns exploded from one end of the gorge to the other, as the jarring commotion chased away the arrogant presumption of an enemy lulled to sleep by overconfidence. Right on cue, brilliant flames erupted in concert with the trumpets’ blare while darkness was consumed by the burst of light once hidden inside three hundred shattered pitchers.

“Shock and awe,” the Stranger said in Gideon’s ear. “Works every time.”

The racket, amplified by the natural acoustics throughout the gorge below, was deafening.

“What did they say?” a sleepy voice cried in terror. Leaping from his prone position on the ground, he scrambled in the murky night to find his shoes and weapon. “Did he say ‘Gideon’?” But there was no one to hear or answer him as soldiers rushed out into the valley to fight against the phantom invaders. Though commanders tried to shout orders in the chaos created by the musical militia above them, the horn blasts and answering yells of 135,000 soldiers melded the Midianites into pandemonium. Retreat was the only option.

“I never expected this,” Gideon told the Stranger, astonished. “It’s working! We’re just standing here, watching . . .”

“It’s some pretty noisy watching, if you ask me.”

“How did you know they’d freak out like this?” Gideon asked, adding three more blasts from his trumpet to the discordant ensemble that surrounded him.

The Stranger raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding, right?”

But Gideon didn’t hear him. Cheering and blowing, he waved his torch in the air in solidarity with his tiny army who were busy doing the impossible—convincing an overwhelming enemy force that they were so outnumbered their only option was to run. It was psychological warfare at its best. For the first time in memory, Gideon began to believe all was not lost. If a massive army could be routed by something as ridiculous and impotent as broken pitchers, torches, and trumpets, what else was possible when they went in the strength that they had?

A light went off in his head.

No matter how bad things looked, one man and God made a majority. They could stand up against tyrants and win.

Nor was the visual lost on Gideon’s battalion of heroic pseudo-musicians. The strength and determination to fight for what belonged to them had been hidden inside them, too, in vessels of clay. Now, in this extraordinary moment of dependence on God, even they saw their true identity. It was just as brilliant as their torchlight. Ambushed by boldness, their adversaries awoke, mesmerized by terror and bewildered by the courage of men who had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

As the hills overflowed with the sounds of screaming voices, Midianite masses jolted from their slumber flooded out of their tents in confusion, stumbling over one another in the rush to find weapons and defend themselves.

“Where’s my sword?!” a once confident captain yelled to his dreamer underling.

“Who said that?” a terrified voice answered, swinging wildly in the dark with his saber. But no answer came except an agonizing groan and the sound of a body falling to the ground at his feet. With no time to identify his victim, the dreamer ran blindly into the foray of bloodied swords and screaming men. Where was his captain? And what about the guards? Why had there been no warning? Running away from the camp, he tripped over two more bodies in a desperate attempt to escape.

“Who’s there?!” a panicked voice cried in weak warning, but the dreamer had no time to identify himself before he stumbled headlong onto the sword of his own compatriot. The sound of a hollow thud went unnoticed in the tumult as he fell dead at the hands of his own army.   

“For the Lord and for Gideon!” The disorienting shouts continued, echoing back and forth across the sandy valley as thousands of men, their vision clouded by a stampede of feet and escaping animals, slaughtered one another under cover of darkness. Convinced they’d been overrun by multitudes, terrified soldiers killed anyone who got in their way as they retreated to the south, away from the Jezreel Valley and the nightmare of friendly fire.

Hours later, as chaos calmed, all that remained of the conflict were silent corpses, trampled tents, and useless weapons. Thousands of soldiers, who in their terror and disorientation had destroyed themselves, lay fallen in eternal silence, trapped in a pit they themselves had dug. The rest, showing themselves to be as courageous as fainting goats, escaped by any means they could find, leaving behind the forgotten remains of their own men.

And the astonished army of Gideon.

Three hundred men, still holding torches and trumpets, surrounded the stronghold of a vanquished enemy and watched the dust settle over the remains of the invaders. Meanwhile, in Gideon’s brigade, they never even opened a box of Band-Aids.

Gideon glanced at the Stranger beside him who still leaned against that oak tree, munching on a fresh fig. Side by side, the two surveyed the scene while victorious men extinguished their torches. As the first light of dawn illuminated the hills, Gideon's Army descended into the valley to assess the carnage.

"What do we do now?" Gideon asked.

“Go get ‘em.”

Gideon nodded. “I figured you’d say that. They’re probably five miles away by now, you know.”

“Is that a problem?”

Gideon grinned. Nope. Not a problem. Not with the God of Angel Armies on his side.

“You coming?” he asked the hungry Stranger.

“In a minute,” he said, his mouth full of goat cheese. “I'll be there, I promise. I’ve got your back.”

Gideon nodded. It was all making sense now. From the first, even when he hid himself in a pit of despair, God saw him. Heard him. And was already working behind the scenes, planning the liberation of His people. Even though Gideon’s faith was anemic, God never gave up on him.

• “I’ll be with you and you’ll take out your enemies as easily as if you were fighting against one man,” the Lord had said.
• “Take heart,” He’d promised him. “Don’t be afraid. You’re not going to die.”
• “Get up!” He’d even said. “Go right down into the camp of your enemy and listen. Listen to them, and listen to Me. I have already given them over to you.”

Three promises. Three hundred men. Three companies on three hills against three attacking tribes. All those threes. It was the numerical signature of God. The royal handwriting of the Trinity. I Am with you. I will go before you. I have your back.

He could see it so clearly now. God had confused Gideon’s enemies with their own blind confidence, roping them with the twisted tentacles of their own evil souls. Their boasting betrayed them, failing them at the moment it translated into fear. All that time, God was working in the enemy’s camp to remove the obstacles standing in the way of the freedom and dignity that belonged to Gideon and his people.

“Never has anyone heard or seen a God like You, Who actively works behind the scenes on behalf of someone like me,” Gideon said under his breath in prayer.

A peach pit landed at his feet and he looked up, staring into the eyes of the Stranger who stood watching him.

“It was epic, wasn’t it?” He asked, eyes twinkling in delight.

“Absolutely epic,” Gideon agreed.

The Stranger wiped his mouth. “Told you.”

The Storm

They spoke of the God of Jerusalem as they spoke of the gods of the peoples of the earth,
which are the work of the hands of men.

And the Lord sent an angel who cut off all the mighty warriors
and commanders
and officers in the camp
of the evil king of Assyria . . .

Because history repeats itself, God always wins, and people too easily forget.

“Quiet night,” the soldier at the firepit said offhandedly to the man sitting beside him. He yawned and stretched his legs, watching as a dying coal exploded into fragments of flame. The sparks quickly faded in the dark and floated off, forgotten.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” the other replied, eyeing the buildup of storm clouds in the distance.

The soldier turned to look at him in surprise. “What are you talking about? Every year we come up here, and every year they play dead. There’s never much resistance. Why would there be? We outnumber them by, like, a million.” He gave a hearty laugh. “They’re just a bunch of farmers with winnowing forks. It’s like taking candy from a baby.”

His buddy cleared his throat. “I’ve got a bad feeling about things this time.”

“Based on what,” the other soldier snorted. "Those little thunderclouds out there?"

“I had this dream. It was so real. I’m tellin’ ya, I woke up in a cold sweat. I know it sounds stupid, but I saw this loaf of bread, made out of barley, and it rolled into our camp, slammed into one of the Midianite tents, and knocked it flat.”

The other soldier cut his eyes over to the dreamer. “So what? Once I dreamed I won a million shekels, but it turned out to be a bowl of cold oatmeal.”

“Listen to me! Barley—I feed that stuff to my dog. The only people I know who turn it into bread and serve it to their families are dirt poor.”

Dirt poor. The words sent an unexpected shiver down the spine of the other warrior. It rang a bell. He remembered hearing something about a guy, a nobody, who destroyed some idols up in Orphah where the mountain people were hiding out.

The other man was still talking. “I get these dreams sometimes. They’re kind of prophetic, in a way.”

“You mean they turn out the way you dream?”

“Yeah. A lot of times. Not literally, of course. They’re symbolic. Nobody’s gonna be crushed by a loaf of barley bread. But a sword in the hand of a nobody with nothing to lose? Kind of terrifying.”

For a minute, the only sound was the crackling of the fire.

“I dunno,” the dreamer continued, breaking the silence with a nervous laugh. “Maybe it was a bad batch of hummus I ate. You never know what they put in that stuff.”

The soldier was thoughtful. “So, I heard one of the officers talking about this nutcase named Gideon. He’s some kind of a folk hero among the Israelites now. Runs around tearing down religious idols.”

“Think he’s gonna start something?”

“I don’t know. But if what I heard is true, the Israelites think their God has already given Midian and the rest of the armies over to him.”

“What do you think?” his companion asked, his eyes wide in the flickering light.

“I think he’s either a zealot or a lunatic.”

“Either way, you gotta watch out for guys like that. Never know what they’re capable of.”

“Yeah. You never know.”

No one heard the sound of disappearing feet on the sandy ground, or the rapid retreat of leather sandals as two eavesdroppers ran back to their hideout in the hills above the invading army’s camp.

“Did you hear that?” the man asked Gideon once the two were out of earshot. “They’re terrified of you! Doesn’t even make any sense, does it?”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Well, just look at ‘em all. They fill the whole valley! It’s like a swarm of locust landed down there. Thousands of swarms. And you can’t even count how many camels they have.”

Gideon frowned. For a minute. Images of the river of firelight in the valley below filled his mind. “You’re right,” he finally said. “It’s impossible. Worse than counting all the sand on the seashore.”

“You’ve been to a seashore?” the other man asked, incredulous. “I’ve never been further than these sand dunes.”

“Just a figure of speech. It makes me wonder, though. How’d they hear about me? And why are they so nervous?”

The other man shrugged. “Guess you got in their heads. Or maybe that guy was right about the hummus.”

Quietly, the men crested the hill and went to their separate tents. But Gideon wasn't sleepy. He was more awake than he'd ever been in his life.

The time had come to act. But before he did, he sat beside a homemade altar and worshiped God. Finally, he knew. He was not alone. His countrymen were not alone. Not forsaken. No longer judged. The God of Angel Armies was on their side and would fight for them. And who could ever win against Almighty God? Was there anyone more powerful to come alongside them? Was anyone His equal?

“No one,” a Voice whispered beside him.

“It was a rhetorical question,” Gideon groaned.

“You’ve got this, you know. God teaches your hands to war and you are already the victor. Go in the strength that you have. This one’s a slam dunk.”

“A slam what?”

It was the Stranger’s turn to smile. “Never mind. Are you ready?”

Suddenly, his soul was flooded with such courage and confidence there was no room for even a sliver of fear. God didn’t have to show up, but He did, and He kept on doing it. He didn’t have to prove Himself with silly wet and dry fleeces, but He came up with the goods anyway. And He didn’t have to rescue Gideon from the angry, riotous crowds mourning the exposure of their fake idols but rescue him He did. But why?

“Because He is the only One Who is good. And because He has always loved a desperate heart,” the Visitor told him.

The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, eyes on the ignorant enemy asleep in the valley below, unaware of the storm about to roll over them. As if to underline His directive, lightning sizzled across the midnight clouds in a distant thunderhead.

“Some trust and boast about how many chariots and horses they have, but we will trust in and boast of the name of the Lord our God,” Gideon said. “Give us victory, Lord. Let the King answer us when we call.”

The Stranger patted his shoulder. “Time to make that call,” he said.






With thanks to Texaus1 for permission to use the photo seen above. The original can be viewed at the following link: https://www.flickr.com/photos/texaus1/

Midnight Showing

32,000 men sure looked like a lot. He could hardly believe everyone showed up like this. Staring out across the sea of bearded faces, Gideon aka Baal-fighter felt renewed hope. Sure, they were up against more than four times that many. But even if they were at a disadvantage, things could be worse. It could be five-to-one odds.

“It’s too many,” a familiar Voice said in his ear.

“What? Now you think we’re outnumbered?”

“I’m talking about your army, not theirs. You’ve got to cut it down to size.”

Gideon felt his shoulders sag. “You’ve got to be kidding. If I cut it down any further, it’s gonna look more like a family reunion than a militia.” He looked over at the stoic face of the Stranger. Tell me again why you trusted this Guy? he silently accused himself.

“Because I’m the answer to your prayers,” the Man interjected.

“Geez, would you quit doing that?” Gideon snapped. “Eavesdropping is probably a sin, you know.” He picked up a stone and threw it into the cool waters of the spring where the two men stood.

“Like spying?”

Gideon stared beyond his troops to the campfires of their waiting aggressors. He hated it when people shoved logic in his face. “So, how many do you want me to get rid of?” he asked.

“As many as are afraid.”

That made sense. Gideon didn’t need anyone throwing him under a camel when it was go-time. What was gonna be embarrassing was that he’d probably lose his whole family with the offer. They were the poorest and needed every man just to keep from starving to death. Fine. He could let a couple of hundred off the hook. Especially if it meant he’d still have a home to go back to.

An hour later, he sat slumped in the dirt with his head in his hands. He couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed. Twenty-two thousand men had run back up into the hills. Now only ten thousand remained. The odds against Gideon’s beleaguered band of men had risen to more than 13-1. Naturally. Thirteen had never been his lucky number.

“Great idea,” he muttered over his shoulder as he heard footsteps behind him.

“Thanks,” the Stranger said, sounding pleased. “There are still too many, though. Tomorrow morning you’ll have to winnow them out some more.”

Gideon’s head popped up and he jumped to his feet. “Like chaff? Just throw caution to the wind and settle for whatever I’m left with?” Pointing a bony finger in the face of the Stranger, he scowled as he stalked toward him. “Do you have any idea how much wheat it takes to get one lousy cup of flour?” he asked in a low growl.

“Pretty sure I do,” came the reply. “You’d better get some sleep. Big day ahead tomorrow.”

The sun rose early, but not as early as Gideon. As he stood watching the remaining ten thousand in his volunteer army wash their faces and take a drink from Harod’s Spring the next morning, he heard that Voice in his ear again.

“Every man who laps up the water with his tongue the way a dog does, move to one side of the stream.”

“And the rest?” Gideon asked.

“If they bow down on their knees to take a drink, they go on the other side.”

Walking back and forth alongside the spring, Gideon sorted the men into two bands the way he’d been told and stood back to survey his work. All in all, it didn’t look too bad. A few hundred stood across the stream, facing another fifteen hundred or so. It wasn’t the 32,000 he’d started out with, but if he was looking at another cut, he wasn’t losing as many as he had yesterday.

“Now what?” he asked as the Stranger surveyed the lopsided groups.

“You can tell the men on this side to go home,” he answered, gesturing.

“You mean the men on that side,” Gideon said with a nervous laugh.

“No, the group on this side stuck their faces in the water to take a drink.”

“Which was multi-tasking,” Gideon said, his voice rising in panic. “Time management is important when you’re . . . camping. They washed their faces and took a drink, all in one motion.”

The Stranger eyed him, head cocked to the side. “They knelt in submission,” he said firmly. “With their environment hidden from view, they had no idea where their enemies might be located. The other group drank from their cupped hands, fully alert to their surroundings.” He waited for a moment before adding, “Which warriors do you want to take into battle with you?”

Gideon felt like he'd been sucker punched. “You can’t be serious! There can’t be more than five hundred of them over there!”

“Three hundred, to be exact,” the Stranger said.

Three hundred against one hundred thirty-five thousand blood-thirsty Midianites. They might as well go drown themselves in the spring—there was no way under the sun Gideon and a measly three hundred men were going to even make a dent in an army that size.

“You’ll attack them at night.”

Gideon’s face flushed in anger. “You hate us, don’t you? All this time, I thought you were here because God is on our side but it’s a lie!”

For the first time since he’d met the Stranger, he saw a flash of something in the other Man’s eyes that looked like lightning. It was confidence—and something more. “Gideon Jerubbaal,” the Stranger began, “listen to me. The Lord will fight for you. Be strong—right now, you’re your own worst enemy. You’ve got to let your heart take courage.”

“But what you’re asking us to do is suicide!” Gideon argued. “Once I tell all those head-soakers to go home, we’ll be outnumbered 450-1!”

The Stranger looked impressed. “Your math skills are really amazing,” he said.

Gideon brushed aside the compliment. “Don’t you get it? Those men down there won’t even have to work hard at taking us out. We’re about to ambush ourselves!”

“Don’t you get it?” the Stranger asked. “What you see is not what’s real. It’s what you can’t see that is the reality. God doesn’t even need you in this battle. He’s the God of Angel Armies. If I were you, I’d roast some popcorn and enjoy the show. It’s going to be epic.”

Gideon breathed hard as he listened to the other Man’s words and struggled to understand. What the heck was popcorn?

“Forget the popcorn,” the Stranger said. “Here’s a little math for you. All it would take to wipe out the Midianites down there is one Angel with an arm tied behind his back. You and those valiant men who are watching and wondering right now are going to go in first and wake them all up. After that, it’s all over but the shouting. And, believe Me, you’ll be shouting after you see what God’s about to do.” The Stranger grabbed Gideon by the shoulders and locked eyes with him. “It has to be this way. When the odds are against you and still you win, the only explanation will be that God did it. It’s the only way you’ll learn to trust Him.”

Gideon tried to absorb everything the Visitor was telling him but it was hard to believe Someone he barely knew in the face of the oppression he woke up to every day.

“What other choice do you have?” the kind Voice asked him.

Gideon nodded. It was the best offer he and his countrymen had been given in seven years. Frankly, it was the only offer they’d received in seven years.

Time to trust God. And figure out what popcorn was.

With thanks to Tonya Staab for the mouthwatering photo seen above. The original can be viewed by following this link: https://www.flickr.com/photos/tjstaab/

Against All Odds

Hours. Alone in the dark, he’d been wrestling there for hours. Alone.

“You’re not alone,” the Stranger had told him. But it’s how he felt. That’s what seclusion does to you, he thought. Protecting himself so he wouldn’t be a target kept him insulated from the glaring truth that he was never alone.

Maybe isolation was a perfect foil—the same way it worked in the wild when weaker animals lagged behind the group, making themselves vulnerable to the very thing they were running away from. United we survive. Divided we’re dead.

“Go in the strength that you have,” the Stranger said when Gideon accused God of abandonment. “Go. Stop hiding here. Get out there and save Israel from the hand of Midian.”

“But . . .,” Gideon had protested.

“Have I not sent you?” the Stranger interrupted.

Have I not sent you. It was as if the Stranger was much more than what he appeared. Maybe even an angel. Or the Lord Himself. Impossible. Nobody had ever seen God. He didn’t just, show up. In person. In a hole in the ground to a nobody like Gideon.

But this Guy kept appearing and disappearing like a summer mirage, insisting that Gideon get out in public, assume the role of a leader, declaring that the two of them would defeat a professional, well-supplied army of 135,000.

He felt like vomiting.

All that overwhelming courage he’d had a few hours before had faded like the embers of his campfire. There was nothing left now but a tiny spark threatening to give up the fight. Then what? Would the Stranger find somebody else? He doubted it. In seven years of oppression, he hadn’t heard one brave voice suggest they had a snowball's chance in Hades of ever being free again. Resignation—or was it defeat?—hung on the shoulders of his people like a blanket of heavy chains. It was exactly what their oppressors wanted. They didn’t even have to threaten them anymore. They all just laid down and played dead.

“Go in the strength that you have.” The only strength he had came from beating the life out of wheat stalks in an underground wine cellar. But what if that was enough?

For the first time in years, understanding grew where shame had taken root. There was no condemnation in the Stranger’s voice. Gideon realized he was accepted and approved, just as he was. The directions were straight forward and exactly what his weary heart had been asking for all this time. Please show us what to do, he had pleaded before the Almighty.

Maybe what he’d meant was, please fix this so I don’t have to risk anything.

“Go . . . you can count on Me. I’ll absolutely be with you. It doesn’t matter how many are against you. You’ll take them on and defeat them as if you were up against only one man.”

Maybe. Gideon bit his lip, searching the open skies above for another sign. There was a lot at stake, beginning with his own life, if he was wrong about this. If the Stranger was pulling his leg. What if . . . He stopped there. There was so much he didn’t know. Like how he was supposed to do it. Or whether anyone else would show up to help?

And what next of kin should be notified when he failed.

Sighing, he stood up and stretched. In the darkness, the lights of the encamped troops in the valley lit up like the stars above his head. There’d be no sleep for him tonight.

“Gideon?” a drowsy voice asked. His bearded friend rubbed his eyes, squinting in the dark where he lay at Gideon’s feet.

Gideon looked at the nearly comatose man for minute, weighing his options. “Do me a favor, would you?”

“Anything.”

“Go tell the couriers to put out the word. I want all the men from all our tribes to come here asap. And if they don’t know who I am, tell them to show up anyway. They’ll know who I am soon enough.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Set off the alarm so my family will know to gather here.”

“And then what?”

“Put out a fleece.”

“A what?”

Gideon shook his head. “Never mind. Just hurry, would you? We don’t have much time.”

His friend threw back a drink of water and wiped his mouth. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“You got any better ideas?”

“Make out my will?” his friend said with a weak grin.

Gideon watched him leave, expecting terror to fill the void in the space around him. Instead, he reached for his trumpet and gave a long blast. Then another. And a third. They’ll be here soon, he thought, letting the ram’s horn drop to his side. Suddenly he knew he wasn’t alone.

“You called?” an amused Voice asked.

Gideon’s eyes focused in the moonlight on the Stranger standing beside him. “I’m trusting You on this,” he told Him.

“Are you?” the man questioned, his head tilted to the side, knowingly.

“As best I can.”

“But?”

Gideon’s shoulders lifted slowly and then relaxed in surrender. There was no need to play games with this Guy. Honesty was a better option.

“I need some reassurance. Something visible to believe in. Something that doesn’t disappear every time I turn around.”

The man listened. Quietly.

“If what you say is true, that I am the one who will deliver Israel from our enemies, then give me a sign.”

“A sign,” the man repeated. “Like the words, Vote For Gideon emblazoned across the hillside?”

“Not that big,” Gideon replied, ignoring the sarcasm. He pulled a wad of wool from a bag beside him and stretched it out on the threshing floor in the winepress. “It’s going to be a long night,” he began. “We’re gathering everyone up here, but it’s going to take a few hours. When the sun comes up, if the ground in here is dry but there’s fresh dew only on this fleece, then I’ll know with certainty what You’ve been telling me is true—that You will use me to set Israel free.”

“Is that all?” the Stranger said with a smile. “Easy peasy.”

“Just . . . dew on the fleece, dry all around,” Gideon said. What a Wise Guy, he thought.

“As you wish,” the Stranger said.

Left alone again, Gideon sank down against a rounded rock wall and closed his eyes in fatigue. With any luck, he’d wake up refreshed and discover that the last few weeks had been one long dream and he could go back to his miserable, but predictable, status quo.

Instead, when the morning sun’s rays tapped him on the shoulder, he awoke to a sopping wet glob of sheep wool lying in the middle of a dusty floor. It couldn’t be. Crawling over to the soggy fleece, he touched its spongy texture in disbelief. Then he grabbed his knapsack and the saturated fleece, wringing it dry until it filled his bag with the equivalent of a bowl full of water.

“Satisfied?” the Stranger’s voice asked from beside him.

“Well, yeah, I think so,” Gideon’s hesitant voice answered.

“You think it was just a coincidence, don’t you?”

Gideon bit his lip. “Listen,” he began. “It’s just you and me down here. It’s gonna take another day for everyone to arrive. That’s a big crowd.”

“Probably thirty-two thousand men,” the Stranger agreed.

“It’s just that I need to be sure before I tell them our plan. We do have a plan, don’t we?”

“Is that what you want from Me?”

Gideon closed his eyes to gather his thoughts. This Guy could be so frustrating.

“No. I mean, yes, but I’m sensing that’s too much to ask. So, do this one thing for me and I won’t ask you for any more signs. Tonight this same fleece will be dry. Let’s leave it that way, okay? I’ll spread it out here just like last night and tomorrow morning let the fresh dew be all around it but leave the wool bone dry. I don’t want to find one drop of water on it when the sun comes up.”

It was the Stranger’s turn to sigh. “Sure,” he said, crossing his arms as he looked at Gideon. “I’m telling you, though. That hillside lit up with your name would have been a real crowd pleaser.”

With thanks to Dicemanic for the use of the photo above. The original can be seen by following this link: https://www.flickr.com/photos/dicemanic/

Enough

“Am I glad that’s over,” Gideon/Jerub-baal said, as he swept up the chaff on the winepress floor. “Guess we can all get used to the new normal now.”

The Stranger watched from where he stood inside the winery, leaning against its rock wall. “What new normal?”

It was a simple question, but to Gideon it seemed . . . prophetic. His eyes darted across the dirty floor in search of the relief he’d felt ten seconds earlier.

“You know. Now that those symbols of oppression are gone, the pressure is off, and we can all go back to our lives.” He stole a look at the quiet man across the empty space. Managing a weak smile, Gideon added, “We sure showed them, didn’t we?”

“You think they’ve given up then,” the Stranger said, more of a statement than a question.

Gideon propped his straw broom against the ladder and rested one elbow over a rung. “Sure. Don’t you?” Please say yes, please say yes, he begged silently.

“No.”

That old, sinking feeling hijacked Gideon’s chest and just for a second he felt the room spin. “You don’t.”

“No.”

“I need to sit down,” Gideon mumbled as his feet slid out from under him. Would this nightmare ever end? He wasn’t cut out for confrontation. He was a peace-loving man who wanted nothing more than for everyone to just get along. Was that too much to ask?

“Yes.”

Yesterday if the quiet guy had intruded on Gideon’s thoughts, he’d have been shocked. But he was getting used to this bizarre invasion of his privacy. “Why?” he asked.

The Stranger motioned for Gideon to follow. “Come with me."

There was no point in arguing. Standing to his feet, Gideon followed him up the ladder out of the rock pit to the obstinate oak growing through the gap it created in the boulder above the winepress. Barely had he cleared the last rung when a frantic voice called out his name.

“Gideon!”

He shaded his eyes from the sun and watched as a red-faced, bearded man raced over to him. “We’re as good as dead!” he gushed, out of breath. “I don’t know what we’re gonna do!”

Gideon looked from the messenger to where the Stranger had been, frowning as he realized he was gone. This disappearing act was getting pretty old. Here he was, alone with no one else for company but this harbinger of bad news. If he ever saw that Guy again, he was gonna give him a piece of whatever mind he had left.

Shaking the wimpering fellow by his shoulders, Gideon demanded, “What’re you talking about? Get a grip, man, and tell me what’s happened!”

It wasn’t good. And it wasn't bad.

It was terrible. Terrible and predictable. It was déjà vu all over again. For seven years, Gideon and his countrymen were dominated by an evil culture who regularly robbed them and destroyed everything else in their path while they did it. These thieving punks from Midian joined up with a group of Amalekites and eastern masses who knew exactly when the crops across Jordan’s river were ready to be harvested. Like devouring grasshoppers, 135,000 of their combined forces were on the march headed straight for the mountain people and their produce—everything they’d worked for. Gideon’s people were in their sights. And Gideon’s wheat.

“They’re in the valley below at this very moment!” the messenger exclaimed. “We’re outnumbered. Out armed. There’s panic in the fields and village, Gideon!” The frustrated man slammed a fist against the tree. “Why won’t they just leave us alone?”

It was the question of the ages. And the day of its reckoning had come.

All these years, Gideon had tried to be invisible. He’d worked hard and worked quietly. “Don’t rock the boat,” was the motto etched into his soul by . . . who? He couldn’t remember. In the back of his mind while he’d spent months and years hiding in the supposed safety of the pit at his feet, he wondered when he’d quit believing. What was the pivotal moment when he gave up his convictions, his self-respect, and his courage?

All the suppressed emotion of the last seven years welled up inside him and he swallowed hard. There were worse things than dying. Living like this, for one. It wasn’t even living. He should have been out in the open, in the fresh air with its beneficial breezes while he threshed the wheat and tossed its lightweight chaff into the air to be blown away. Instead, he’d been self-suffocating in a pit, covering his ears while the cries of his people and the laughter of his enemies resonated around him every single harvest.

Enough.

A courage unlike anything he’d ever felt before flooded him from the ground up, overflowing in such power and strength that the weeping man standing next to him stopped crying, staring at Gideon in disbelief.

“What are you thinking?” he asked Gideon in a trembling voice, a tinge of hope shading its whisper.

“It’s time to fight,” Gideon answered in a voice filled with such resolve it didn’t even sound like his own. “And it’s time to win.”

With total gratitude to Judges chapter 6, and the focus on verses 33-34. "The Spirit of the Lord clothed Gideon with Himself and took possession of him . . . "

My personal thanks to David L. for the incredible photo included with this piece. His amazing shot can be viewed by going to his photostream at the following link: https://www.flickr.com/photos/david82/