1 Kings 19:1-5 Ahab told Jezebel all that Elijah had done, and how he had killed all the prophets with the sword. 2 Then Jezebel sent a messenger to Elijah, saying, “So may the gods do to me and more also, if I do not make your life as the life of one of them by this time tomorrow.” 3 Then he was afraid, and he arose and ran for his life and came to Beersheba, which belongs to Judah, and left his servant there. 4 But he himself went a day’s journey into the wilderness and came and sat down under a broom tree. And he asked that he might die, saying, “It is enough; now, O LORD, take away my life, for I am no better than my fathers.” 5 And he lay down and slept under a broom tree. And behold, an angel touched him and said to him, “Arise and eat.”
After one of the greatest spiritual victories in all of Scripture–calling down fire from heaven on Mount Carmel and turning the hearts of Israel back to God–Elijah finds himself blindsided by fear.
Jezebel’s threat, a single message promising his death within twenty-four hours, sends him running for his life. The same man who boldly faced hundreds of false prophets now flees into the wilderness, collapsing under a broom tree, physically exhausted and emotionally shattered.
In that lonely place, Elijah utters one of the most raw and human prayers recorded in Scripture: “It is enough; now, O LORD, take away my life.” How does a prophet fall so far, so fast? Because even the strongest among us are not immune to burnout, to despair, or the crushing weight of unmet expectations. Elijah had hoped that revival would take root, that Jezebel’s reign of terror would come to an end. But evil still held the throne, and Elijah felt utterly alone. His cry wasn’t rebellion–it was fatigue, disappointment, and the pain of believing he had failed.
We’ve all had broom tree moments–times when we’ve poured ourselves out in obedience, only to be met with resistance or silence. We’ve felt the sting of rejection, the fear that nothing we’ve done has mattered, and the quiet whisper of defeat. And yet, the beauty of Elijah’s story is not only in his honesty but in God’s response. The Lord doesn’t scold Elijah for running. He doesn’t reject his weakness. Instead, He sends an angel with food, gives him rest, and later speaks in a gentle whisper–not a rebuke, but a reassurance.
God’s heart toward the weary is full of compassion. He knows the limits of our humanity and meets us right in the middle of our brokenness. If you find yourself under your own broom tree today–overwhelmed, tired, or afraid–know this: God sees you. He’s not finished with you. The wilderness is not your final destination. It’s often the place where God begins to write the next chapter of your story, with fresh strength and renewed purpose. Let Him meet you there.
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[worthy_plugins_devotion_single_body]For many, God remains a theory—an idea borrowed from tradition, deduced from the cosmos, or tucked quietly into the corners of a creed. He is believed in from afar, but is rarely encountered. Even among believers, it’s not uncommon to live with a distant reverence for God while lacking a vibrant, personal communion with Him.
God has always longed for intimacy with us. He formed us for Himself–to walk with Him, to know Him, to delight in His Presence. This is the very heartbeat of creation: relationship, not religion. Yet sin drove a wedge between us. A veil was drawn, shutting out the light of His face and placing distance where there was once communion.
A beachhead is the first critical objective in a military invasion–the spot where a force lands on enemy territory and secures a position for greater advancement. It’s the place of breakthrough. And it’s also the place of fiercest resistance.
David wrote Psalm 3 while running for his life — betrayed, heartbroken, and hunted by his own son, Absalom. The weight of rebellion wasn’t just political; it was personal. His household had turned against him. Friends became foes. Loyal hearts grew cold. The throne he once held was now surrounded by enemies, and the whispers grew louder: “There is no salvation for him in God.”
Psalm 2 is a divine announcement — a heavenly decree that demands the world’s attention. It begins with a question: “Why do the nations rage, and the peoples plot in vain?” (Ps. 2:1). The nations rise up, not against injustice or tyranny, but against the rule of God’s Meshiach (Messiah). That Anointed is Yeshua — the Son whom the Father has set on His holy hill in Zion (Ps. 2:6). The psalm strips away all pretense and exposes the heart of human rebellion: it is a refusal to be ruled by His Messiah.
Psalm 1 opens with a sobering warning about the quiet, deadly slide into sin. The man without God doesn’t become a scorner overnight — he drifts there gradually. First, he walks in ungodly counsel, entertaining worldly thoughts. Then, he stands in the path of sinners, embracing their way of life. Finally, he sits in the seat of the scornful, hardened in heart and mocking what is sacred. This progression — from a man without God to scorner — reveals how small compromises grow into full rebellion, dulling the conscience and deadening the soul.
Last night marked the beginning of Shavuot–a feast that many Christians recognize as Pentecost, the day the Holy Spirit was poured out in Acts 2. But the roots of Shavuot stretch back much further. Long before that upper room encounter–about 1,500 years earlier–Shavuot was the day God gave the law to Moses on Mount Sinai, writing His commandments on tablets of stone.