Road trips are never easy. In the summer of 2006,

just a few months into our dating relationship,

Sara and I drove together—just the two of us—

from Decatur, Georgia, to Tucson, Arizona. That’s a

journey of 1,700 miles and a wonderful test for a new

attachment. Those miles were a chance to DTR—

define the relationship.

We loaded the car with tents and supplies and left

before sunrise on a Monday morning, driving thirteen

hours to Fort Worth, Texas, on the first day. The

second day took us all the way to Carlsbad, New

Mexico, but on day three, we took the back roads.

We moved a bit slower, and by dinnertime we were

somewhere in western New Mexico, or maybe it was

eastern Arizona. To be honest, we didn’t know exactly

where we were. We hadn’t seen a town for several

hours, and we were on the lookout for a place to

camp, or to eat, or both. Finally, we drove by a store—

part hardware, some groceries, live bait, and bullets.

When we walked into that tiny shop, the screen door

slammed behind us, and four sets of eyes turned our

way. We were still squinting from the bright desert

sun when the man behind the counter spoke up.

Three words: “Are you lost?”

“Well, yes and no,” I lied. “You see, we are looking for

the campground near here.” The man looked over at

his three friends on the other side of the counter, and

all four of them laughed out loud, then explained that

there was nothing like a campground, not one that

we might have in mind. “But,” he continued, “I guess

you could camp in the wilderness area. It’s about forty

miles from here. But (he looked out the window at our

aging Toyota Camry) the road is a little rough.”

Well, two hours later, just as it was getting dark, a

wooden sign announced that we had arrived in the

wilderness. Ours was the only car we had seen since

that general store. The night had become dark and

cold. It was quiet and eerie. As we set up our tents,

we couldn’t even see where we were. We left the

headlights of the car on as long as we felt we could,

and when we turned them off, pitch black. Very early

the next morning, I stepped out of my tent. I looked

around and then up. As my eyes adjusted, they took

in a vision so beautiful it stole my breath. The sun was

just rising over the burnt orange cliffs in every direction

around us. The sky above was impossibly blue. The air

was cool and dry. And for a moment, the wonder of it

all simply overtook me. I felt suddenly somehow small

and yet more fully alive than I had in a long, long time.

I remember writing in my journal that the wilderness

area is a frightening place to lose your way but the

perfect place to find yourself.

So it was for the people of God who wandered for a

generation in the wilderness between Egypt and the

Promised Land. You see, the wilderness was not a

hospitable home. Food and water were scarce and often

came only by miracles. The people of God became weak

and weary. They were fearful and frustrated.

And then they came to Rephidim, deep in the

wilderness. So deep, in fact, that the place shows up

on no ancient maps. In other words, they were literally

nowhere, and in the middle of nowhere, they set up

their camp. And there was no water, and the people

were not pleased. They were filled not with food and

water but with fear and doubt. Full of fear for their very

lives. Full of doubt for their leader. “Did you bring us

out of Egypt just to kill us?”

The people blame Moses, and Moses the great leader

is all out of ideas. He too is afraid, because while there

may be no visible water, there are plenty of stones.

Moses cries out to God. “This your people, they are

going to kill me.”

And then, for the first time in the text, God shows

up. Simple instructions. “Moses, go on ahead. There

you will find me waiting. You will doubt it. The people

will doubt it, but I’ll be there. And here’s how you will

know: strike the rock with your staff, and water will

come out and the people can drink.” You probably

know what comes next. Water flows from the rock

of Horeb. The people’s thirst is quenched. It’s one of

those powerful provision stories. It’s actually repeated

several times in the book of Exodus—God’s mercy

and compassion in the form of manna, quail, water

from the rock.

But before the journey continues, Moses pauses in

that place to do one more thing. It is this final act

in the wilderness of Rephidim that caught my eye.

He names the place where it happened. He calls it

Massah, which means testing, and Meribah, which

means quarreling. Now, sure it’s an accurate name,

but my question is: why name it all? Why memorialize

this moment full of doubt and fear? Why remember it?

Moses insists that the people of God must mark the

spot where they asked, “Is the Lord among us or not?”

It’s the wilderness question. It’s a reasonable response

to our experiences of emptiness, to our experiences

of God’s absence. How many of us have raised our

voices in the wilderness, crying out to God even as

we doubt God’s ability or willingness to respond?

When we are in the wilderness, the power of fear is

real. It is tangible. We can touch it, while the power of

God is distant and vague, a memory. Which of us has

not been in the place of God’s people this morning,

questioning God even when the situation seems most

hopeless? God, do you care? Are you even there?

Have you been there? In the wilderness, posting

letters to a nonexistent address, as C.S. Lewis wrote.

There’s a chance you find yourself in that wilderness

this very morning. Maybe you’re struggling to cling

to faith as your stress soars or depression deepens.

Maybe you’ve come to expect the worst, to doubt the

possibility of a fresh start, a relationship renewed,

hope springing up in that desert place. Perhaps you

find yourself in a dark night of the soul, struggling to

even find the words to pray to a God whose existence

you doubt. Or maybe you survey the landscape of our

world and find there little sign of divine goodness and

power. God, are you with us or not?

The experience at Rephidim, marked in the moment

and preserved for generations, was critical in the

life of God’s people. In the wilderness of doubt, the

people find themselves. They define their relationship

with God. Their honest and vulnerable question opens

a path through this barren and rough place. It is their

doubt, it is their fear, that opens that route.

Friends, to ignore our fear, or withhold our doubts,

is to deny a part of ourselves. In the Gospels, Jesus

experiences moments of doubt. According to the

Gospel of Mark, his final words from the cross were:

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

These words of doubt reveal the depth of relationship.

My God. My God.

Friends, a faith that does not doubt does not deepen.

And a church that shames honesty or stamps out

all uncertainty with forced belief is one that seeks

sycophants and not disciples. It is feigned certainty,

and not honest doubt, that is the opposite of faith.

Is the Lord among us or not? The question is as

current as the latest family devastated by senseless

violence, as the cries of people in war-torn lands, as

our most intimate prayers of desperation. For each

of us will face the question in our own wilderness

moments. Is God’s love strong enough? Is God’s grace

persistent enough? Is the Lord among us or not? Is

God really with me or not? And whatever it is that

causes you to ask these questions, please hear this:

you are not alone. Your doubts are no offense to God’s

sovereignty. Your fear is no rejection of God’s love.

Faith is a relationship and, like every relationship,

contains uncertainty, periods of struggle, moments

of doubt. When we have the courage to name our

fear, we acknowledge that true faith is not about our

effort but God’s embrace of our humanity. There’s a

reason God’s people remembered their struggle with

faith, because in that wilderness time, they found

their identity. They discovered their total reliance on

God’s providence. They awoke to God’s reassuring

presence even when they doubted it the most. Like

all virtues, our trust in God can grow stronger when it

is put to the test.

Your doubt is no offense to God’s power.

So trust this. Doubters—like you and me—are

welcome at the table of grace, are welcome on the

journey to the cross. Amen.