You’re Crossing Over!

Hebrews 11:8  By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called to go out into a place which he was afterward going to receive for an inheritance. And he went out, not knowing where he went.

We often celebrate beginnings—new chapters, breakthroughs, divine appointments. But in God’s economy, every true beginning requires a holy crossing. Before the Hebrews could enter the Promised Land, they had to leave Egypt. Before they entered the Promised Land, they had to cross over the Red Sea. And before Abraham could receive God’s promises, he had to obey a single command: “Leave.”

Abraham stood at that threshold. When he obeyed God’s call to walk away from his homeland, his security, and all that was familiar, he became the first Hebrew—the first Ivri, literally one who crosses over. He stepped across the invisible boundary between the known and the unknown, the natural and the supernatural, the seen and that which was promised.

The identity of God’s people is rooted in crossing: from unbelief to faith, from bondage to freedom, from death to life.  God didn’t just call Abraham to a destination—He called him to a transformation. And transformation begins when we say goodbye to what’s behind.

Leaving is not just an act of trust—it is a declaration of faith in the unseen. It’s Abraham turning his back on everything familiar—his land, his family, his future plans—to follow a voice, a promise, a God he could not see. It’s the Hebrews standing at the edge of the Red Sea, with Pharaoh’s army closing in behind them and nothing but water before them—yet stepping forward, believing that the God who delivered them once would make a way again.

Leaving is the willingness to let go before you see what’s coming next. It’s choosing to release your grip on the known in exchange for the eternal. It’s not a loss—it’s a surrender that leads to something greater.

Think about the disciples. Their journey with Yeshua (Jesus) didn’t begin with great sermons or miracles. It began when they dropped their nets. They left their boats, their routines, their comfort zones—and followed Him. Without leaving, there would have been no following. Without the exit, no entrance. It’s not just a principle of geography. It’s a paradox of the Kingdom.

How often do we pray for a breakthrough while clinging to what God is asking us to release? We want resurrection, but resist the cross. We want the Promised Land, but won’t leave our Egypt. Yet, the exodus is not punishment—it’s preparation.

God doesn’t just take things away—He delivers us from what no longer fits our future, so He can place in our hands what was always meant to be ours. He strips away what cannot stay, to make room for what cannot be shaken. What He asks you to release is never greater than what He’s preparing to give.

Perhaps for you, it’s a mindset that needs to be left behind, a fear that has kept you stuck, or a comfort zone that has become a cage. “Crossing over” means trusting that what God is leading you toward is greater than what He’s asking you to leave behind. What lies ahead with Him always outweighs what’s left behind. It’s believing the Promised Land ahead is worth every Egypt that’s left behind. It’s choosing, like Abraham, to become one who crosses over.

Copyright 1999-2025 Worthy Devotions. This devotional was originally published on Worthy Devotions and was reproduced with permission.

How to display the above article within the Worthy Suite WordPress Plugin.

[worthy_plugins_devotion_single_body]

A National Geographic article published a few years describing a real celestial event which took place at the time of the birth of Jesus reminded me of Risto Santala’s explanation in his book, “The Messiah in the New Testament in the Light of Rabbinical Writings”. He wrote about a conjunction of major planets that took place which could have led the wise men from the east, to Israel.

The Shema is recited every Shabbat in Israel and throughout the world: “Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.” The emphasis is on hearing—not just with our ears but our hearts. That same emphasis runs through the Gospels, where Yeshua (Jesus) repeatedly says, “He who has ears to hear, let him hear.” This isn’t just a phrase; it’s a life-changing command.

Many families across the U.S. are gathering today to celebrate “Thanksgiving.” But let’s take a moment to turn our hearts to the ultimate source of thanksgiving: God Himself. Psalm 100 is often called the “Psalm of Thanksgiving,” and it’s a perfect guide for how we should approach God—not just during Thanksgiving but every day.

For nearly twenty years, Romans 13:12 has been my signature verse on every email I send. For me, it’s a constant reminder that the long, dark night of this world is almost over, and the Day of the Lord is just about to dawn.

The testing of Abraham’s faith was repeated by YHVH throughout the patriarch’s entire life. The tests grew greater as his life advanced, and through every one, whether Abraham passed or not, YHVH proved Himself to be his friend over and over again. Every test or “trial” involved a serious challenge or threat in which Abraham had to trust that the LORD knew what He was doing, asking, or requiring, and that His goodness and faithfulness were unquestionably reliable.

While I was in the States, I read several stories about Ronald Reagan that made me appreciate him as a person and as a leader. But one amusing story really caught my attention and made me smile. When he was a young man, Reagan worked at a radio station and sometimes played records of sermons. His shift at the station was a one-man operation and so, on occasion, Ron would set the record playing and then sneak out for a cup of coffee. One day he got a call while he was at the coffee shop from the station’s owner, ordering him back to the station, and then … he received his termination notice. He’d returned to the station finding the record skipping at a particular point in the sermon…

Having spent over 20 years living in Israel’s Negev Desert, I’ve come to appreciate the importance of salt in maintaining proper hydration. “What in the world does salt have to do with grace and truth?”, you ask. Well, I’ll tell you.