“When Moses' hands grew heavy, Aaron and Hur held up his hands, one on one side and one on the other, so that his hands remained steady until the sun went down.”
Friends,
There is a battle in the book of Exodus that was not won the way you would think.
Israel is fighting in the desert at a place called Rephidim. Moses climbs a hill above the valley and lifts his hands toward heaven. As long as his hands are up, Israel prevails. When his hands come down, the enemy prevails.
But here is the part I cannot stop thinking about. Moses could not keep his own hands up. He was a man. His arms grew heavy. The greatest prophet who ever lived could not hold the posture of prayer by himself.
So two men climbed the hill with him. Aaron on one side, Hur on the other. They put a stone under him to sit on, and they held up his arms, one on each side, until the sun went down.
The victory in the valley was decided by the hands on the hill. And the hands on the hill were held up by friends.
I need to tell you something, and I need you to hear it as the plain truth.
These have been the hardest days this land has seen since 1948. I have stood on this hill with my arms up. For my family. For the soldiers. For the ones in the shelters. For a whole valley full of a battle I cannot fix. And my arms get heavy. I am a man. There are mornings I cannot hold them up alone.
And then your letters come. Count me in. I am praying for you. I woke at half past six hearing the name of the enemy, and I covered you. I played the blessing over my dying father, and I am playing it now over your land. Each one of those is a hand under my arm. You did not send me words. You climbed the hill, and you held me up.
I want you to know that you are seen. Not a list. Not a number on a screen. I know where you pray from. Nelson in New Zealand. Cape Town. Calgary. Germany. Kansas City. Alabama. Mount Juliet. A wall of watchmen scattered across the world, and every single one of you is a named stone, an Aaron, a Hur, with your hand on the arm of a man on a hill in the Golan, and through him, on the arm of this whole land.
This is what we are. Not an audience. A community that prays. And a praying community is the only thing that has ever held this land up. Not the armies. Not the alliances. The hands lifted to heaven, and the friends who held those hands steady when they shook.
The sun has not gone down yet. The battle in the valley is not over. So keep your hand where it is. Right there, under the arm. Do not let go.
Because I cannot hold them up alone. And the beautiful secret of Rephidim is this. I was never meant to.