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.”