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Jael’s Dairy If we have to die, most of us would prefer to die in our sleep. Maybe not X-Games guys and Evil Knievel, but those of us who haven’t already broken all the bones in our bodies generally avoid acute pain. Sisera was killed in his sleep, but I would guess he had an abrupt waking moment before Jael ran out to meet Barak. Sisera had been running from a gruesome death. Captured military leaders in Old Testament times were made a gory public example, often treated like trophy game with their heads and skin displayed on walls. So Sisera ran first, hoping his men would impede Barak’s chase. Then he hid, which only works half of the time in the movies. Any smart general would know that another general was far enough removed from boot camp to be able to run far and would thus seek immediate refuge. Adrenaline clouds common sense, though—just like people in movies avoiding danger by climbing toward the roof. Then Sisera picked the wrong tent. I don’t think Jael was in a good mood. From the sounds of it, nobody was in the house with her. On a day when war was within earshot, it would take something substantial for me to work in the garden. “Hi! May I take a breather at your place for a little bit? You wouldn’t happen to have a fire escape or a ventilated hole, would you?” “Um, yes, on the first question, no on the second. Can I get you something to drink, Mr.—?“ “Sissy—I mean, Sisera. Water’d be great—thanks.” “Would milk work? Hey, why don’t you lie down a bit—no, not on my brand new carpet. How ‘bout over here behind the couch. They’ll never look there.” Apparently Jael hadn’t read Rahab’s book on hospitality to foreign guests, nor was she squeamish about laying traps around the house. “Care for some cheese with your milk?” If I were Jael, I would’ve waited for some soldiers to ride up and let them do the dirty work. What if her nervous hands had missed the spike and she hammered him in the head? Sisera would wake up quite leery of some lame excuse about trying to hang pictures on the wall—with tent pegs. Especially in a tent. Sometimes, God asks us to swallow hard and do the tough stuff—telling a friend that they’re going to hell without Jesus, defending the profane use of his name, or leaving a good job for vocational ministry. We all have spiritual tasks that are as close as Sisera in the living room and as imposing as nailing a guy’s head to the floor. Especially, if you swing a hammer like I do. I’m an air hammer kind of guy. I’ll take the prayer warrior job and pass on that hand-to-hand combat stuff. Thankfully, I have role models like Jael that remind me that Satan doesn’t wait around long enough for someone else to do my job.
Word has it . . . Are you a nail gun shooter or a hammer swinger? What Siseras are intimidating for you? Do you see Satan fleeing more than winning? Are you squeamish about a bloody gospel? What would you need to help kill your Sisera?
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© 2003: nonymous, ink. Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture texts are from the New American Standard Bible, © The Lockman Foundation 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977. |