He should have turned back.
Everything in Abraham’s heart screamed it as they climbed the mountain—just he and his son, Isaac. No fire yet, no lamb. Just wood strapped to the boy’s back and questions straining between them.
“Where is the lamb for the burnt offering?” Isaac had asked.
And in that moment—the kind when silence might fracture a father’s soul—Abraham responded, “God will provide himself a lamb for a burnt offering, my son.”
Maybe you’ve felt that too—the ache of an uncertain road, heart pounding louder than the whisper of faith. When answers are absent, and all you’ve got is a promise barely whispered on a distant hill.
Genesis 22 leads us here—to Mount Moriah. Abraham’s feet blistered from obedience, his hands trembling as he built the altar. And Isaac, the son of promise, lashed quietly atop it.
But that’s when the story tightens.
A voice cuts through the air like thunder on a clear day. “Do not lay a hand on the boy,” the angel proclaims. And off to the side, tangled in a thicket, a ram bleats.
Abraham’s eyes fill with more than tears. This—this was more than rescue. It was revelation.
“So Abraham called that place The Lord Will Provide. And to this day it is said, ‘On the mountain of the Lord it will be provided.’” (Genesis 22:14, NIV)
In Hebrew, he called God “Jehovah Jireh.” Not just a title, but a testimony. A name born from the gut-wrenching place between letting go and watching God come through.
You see, Jehovah Jireh doesn’t mean “God did provide,” or “might provide.” It means “the Lord will provide.” Future tense. Forward-facing. A declaration that provision is already parked somewhere just out of sight.
That ram wasn’t late. It wasn’t accidental. God had it climbing the other side of the mountain long before Abraham heard it rustling in the thicket.
And maybe you need to hear that today.
Because it’s easy to believe in provision when our prayers are answered quickly, neatly tied with bows. But what about when the mortgage looms and the numbers don’t add up? When the medicine doesn’t work? When the silence from heaven stretches long and heavy?
Jehovah Jireh doesn’t just show up in the surplus. He meets us in the surrender. At the altar of our deepest fears, when God seems to ask for more than we can bear, He also prepares the rescue we can’t yet see.
Provision isn’t always a paycheck or a healed body. Often, it’s peace that steadies the shaking. It's courage to keep going. It's a grace that pulls us one step further when we fall apart in the waiting.
I’ll be honest—there have been times I didn't see the ram. Days when climbing felt endless and my hands were empty. But even in the hollow ache, I’ve come to believe this: the mountain is never the end of the story.
Jehovah Jireh is not limited to a long-ago hill in the Middle East. He is present right here, as your eyes scan these words, as your heart wonders if He sees. He does. He always has.
Maybe your altar looks like a hospital bed. Maybe it’s the call that hasn’t come, or the child who’s drifted far. Perhaps you’ve tidied up your life so well that you forgot God meets you on mountains, not just in living rooms.
Don’t miss this: Abraham didn’t name the mountain, “The Lord Saw My Obedience.” He didn’t call it, “The Mountain of My Sacrifice.” He called it “The Lord Will Provide.”
Because in the end, faith isn’t about proving ourselves to God. It’s about trusting the God who provides, even when sight fails.
You don’t have to conjure confidence from thin air. Just walk, one step at a time, trusting that as you rise, something you need is rising too. You can’t see it yet, but it’s there.
Jehovah Jireh. The God who sees. The God who provides. The God who walks ahead.
And somewhere up the other side of this mountain, a ram is rustling in the thicket.
He should have turned back.
Everything in Abraham’s heart screamed it as they climbed the mountain—just he and his son, Isaac. No fire yet, no lamb. Just wood strapped to the boy’s back and questions straining between them.
“Where is the lamb for the burnt offering?” Isaac had asked.
And in that moment—the kind when silence might fracture a father’s soul—Abraham responded, “God will provide himself a lamb for a burnt offering, my son.”
Maybe you’ve felt that too—the ache of an uncertain road, heart pounding louder than the whisper of faith. When answers are absent, and all you’ve got is a promise barely whispered on a distant hill.
Genesis 22 leads us here—to Mount Moriah. Abraham’s feet blistered from obedience, his hands trembling as he built the altar. And Isaac, the son of promise, lashed quietly atop it.
But that’s when the story tightens.
A voice cuts through the air like thunder on a clear day. “Do not lay a hand on the boy,” the angel proclaims. And off to the side, tangled in a thicket, a ram bleats.
Abraham’s eyes fill with more than tears. This—this was more than rescue. It was revelation.
“So Abraham called that place The Lord Will Provide. And to this day it is said, ‘On the mountain of the Lord it will be provided.’” (Genesis 22:14, NIV)
In Hebrew, he called God “Jehovah Jireh.” Not just a title, but a testimony. A name born from the gut-wrenching place between letting go and watching God come through.
You see, Jehovah Jireh doesn’t mean “God did provide,” or “might provide.” It means “the Lord will provide.” Future tense. Forward-facing. A declaration that provision is already parked somewhere just out of sight.
That ram wasn’t late. It wasn’t accidental. God had it climbing the other side of the mountain long before Abraham heard it rustling in the thicket.
And maybe you need to hear that today.
Because it’s easy to believe in provision when our prayers are answered quickly, neatly tied with bows. But what about when the mortgage looms and the numbers don’t add up? When the medicine doesn’t work? When the silence from heaven stretches long and heavy?
Jehovah Jireh doesn’t just show up in the surplus. He meets us in the surrender. At the altar of our deepest fears, when God seems to ask for more than we can bear, He also prepares the rescue we can’t yet see.
Provision isn’t always a paycheck or a healed body. Often, it’s peace that steadies the shaking. It's courage to keep going. It's a grace that pulls us one step further when we fall apart in the waiting.
I’ll be honest—there have been times I didn't see the ram. Days when climbing felt endless and my hands were empty. But even in the hollow ache, I’ve come to believe this: the mountain is never the end of the story.
Jehovah Jireh is not limited to a long-ago hill in the Middle East. He is present right here, as your eyes scan these words, as your heart wonders if He sees. He does. He always has.
Maybe your altar looks like a hospital bed. Maybe it’s the call that hasn’t come, or the child who’s drifted far. Perhaps you’ve tidied up your life so well that you forgot God meets you on mountains, not just in living rooms.
Don’t miss this: Abraham didn’t name the mountain, “The Lord Saw My Obedience.” He didn’t call it, “The Mountain of My Sacrifice.” He called it “The Lord Will Provide.”
Because in the end, faith isn’t about proving ourselves to God. It’s about trusting the God who provides, even when sight fails.
You don’t have to conjure confidence from thin air. Just walk, one step at a time, trusting that as you rise, something you need is rising too. You can’t see it yet, but it’s there.
Jehovah Jireh. The God who sees. The God who provides. The God who walks ahead.
And somewhere up the other side of this mountain, a ram is rustling in the thicket.
