Exodus 24; 31-34 Come Follow Me Lesson

Because I think I have taken steps into the unknown with God, looked at the wilderness ahead, and thought about turning back.

I have faced the unconquerable with no way around, no way across, no way through, and I have felt small, wondering if God has forgotten me.
I know the wanting that presses down hard, the aching for relief, the certainty that
there is no way out.
The questioning if God is great enough for this.
The questioning if God even cares about this. I know what that is.

And I wonder how many times I have taken what God could have made holy and instead made it into my own mischief.
The gold, tried in the fire–do I corrupt it with my doubt?
Because there, in the burning, what is meant for the tabernacle somehow becomes a calf (see Exodus 32:19-24).

I am guilty of pointing fingers.
I scoff at Israel.
I wonder, when they had seen so many miracles, when they had lived
through so many personal experiences with God, how could
they choose to walk away?
How could they substitute a cold, unmoving, unfeeling object for a God who was willing to walk through the wilderness beside them?
To walk through fire and water with them? To provide, and rescue, and deliver?

When they could so easily trace His goodness through the everyday moments of their lives, how could they walk away?
Why is it that those experiences with God’s goodness didn’t tie them to Him forever?
The silence condemns me. It reminds me that I have considered walking away.
When the hope of God becomes uncertain, when the waiting game takes its toll, when the answers don’t come in my timing, in my way, when they don’t meet my
expectations. It’s true; my heart has considered walking away.

Yes, I have heard this story a thousand times; sometimes it feels as if I am becoming expert in the learning of it. Because the story is mine. I am Israel.

And I have considered giving up the risk of God for the convenience of the golden calf.
It is not hard for me to imagine Moses taking the calf, burning it in the fire, grinding it to powder, and making the children of Israel drink it (see Exodus 32:20).

I take the cup, and I drink it down.
I drink the mischief, every single bit of it, and I realize I am not filled. It cannot fill me.
There is only One who can fill me.

Could I tether my heart to Him? Could I open my life to the prospect of making room for daily personal experiences with God?
Could I learn to trace His goodness?
I hear the call of Moses to the children of Israel:
“Who is on the Lord’s side? let him come to me”(Exodus 32:26).
And I wonder if I will come.