Preparing the King
When God Works in the Waiting: Finding Identity Before Ministry
The Christmas story doesn't end with a peaceful night and a baby in a manger. Matthew's Gospel reminds us that after the wise men departed, danger erupted. An angel appeared to Joseph in a dream with urgent instructions: "Get up, take the child and his mother and escape to Egypt."
Egypt. Of all places.
Egypt wasn't random—it was the land of slavery, the place God's people had fled generations before. Yet God sends His Son back there, demonstrating a profound truth: God often works through the very places we avoid, the locations we associate with pain or failure. He isn't limited by a place's past, and He can redeem even our most unlikely detours.
Joseph received no battle plan, no timeline, just a dream and a directive. This carpenter from Nazareth, already far from home for a census, now faced an uncertain journey to a foreign land with a young family and no guarantees. Yet God entrusted him with the safety of the Savior Himself.
The lesson? God doesn't wait for certainty before He works through us. He moves His redemptive plan forward through quiet obedience in the middle of the night, through ordinary people taking extraordinary steps of faith. God's promises survive detours, dangers, and delays.
The Long Silence
After the dramatic escape and return from Egypt, something unexpected happens in Jesus' story: nothing. At least nothing visible. Jesus grows up. He works. He waits. There are no public miracles, no sermons, no sense of momentum for roughly thirty years.
From our perspective, it looks like delay. We live in a culture that constantly ties our identity to movement—what we're building, what's next, how fast we're progressing. The language we use reinforces this: "seasons of growth," "moving forward," "what's next for you?"
None of these concepts are inherently wrong, but they can quietly train us to believe that stillness equals stagnation. When there's no finished product, no visible progress, no clear sense of arrival, it's easy to feel behind or like something must be wrong.
But Scripture never treats those hidden years of Jesus' life as wasted. Waiting seasons are often where God does His deepest work—below the surface, even when we'd rather He move things along.
Identity Before Ministry
When Jesus finally steps into public view, He comes to John the Baptist at the Jordan River for baptism. John protests—"I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?" But Jesus insists it's necessary "to fulfill all righteousness."
What happens next is stunning. As Jesus comes up out of the water, heaven opens. The Spirit of God descends like a dove and rests on Him. And a voice from heaven declares: "This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased."
Notice when this affirmation comes. Jesus hasn't preached a sermon yet. He hasn't performed a miracle. He hasn't called disciples. This moment isn't a reward for ministry—it's the foundation of it.
Before Jesus does anything public, the Father names who He is. Not based on performance, but on relationship. "This is my Son." Not because of what Jesus is about to accomplish, but because of who He already is.
Tested in the Wilderness
Immediately—and Matthew emphasizes the immediacy—the same Spirit who descended on Jesus leads Him into the wilderness. For forty days and nights, Jesus fasts. He's alone, silent, fully dependent on the Father.
Then the tempter arrives. And his first words are telling: "If you are the Son of God..."
What God affirmed at the baptism, the enemy immediately questions in the wilderness. This isn't an attack on Jesus' power—the devil knows full well who Jesus is. It's an attack on His identity.
Each temptation presses the same direction: Prove yourself. Use your power. Take control. Short-circuit the process.
But Jesus never argues for His identity. He never says, "I'll show you who I am." Instead, He stands firm in what has already been declared. Each response flows from Scripture and from a secure identity as the Son with whom the Father is well pleased.
Here's what we often miss: Jesus isn't spiritually weak in the wilderness. He's spiritually focused. The fasting hasn't depleted Him—it has clarified Him. The solitude hasn't confused Him—it has anchored Him.
When identity is settled, temptation loses its leverage. The enemy cannot manipulate someone who already knows who they are.
Formation Before Visibility
After the temptations end, the devil leaves and angels come to minister to Jesus. Only then does Jesus step into public ministry and begin proclaiming the kingdom of God.
The kingdom is announced by someone who has already been formed in the quiet, anchored in the Father's voice, and unshaken in the wilderness.
This pattern challenges everything our culture teaches us. We're conditioned to measure life by momentum, to prove our worth through productivity, to become something visible. But Jesus models a different way: formation before visibility, identity before assignment.
Spiritual strength isn't built in the moment of temptation—it's built before it. Jesus resisted the enemy not through willpower but through formation. Solitude, fasting, prayer, Scripture—these weren't last-minute tools. They were part of His life, His everyday rhythm.
Living from What God Has Spoken
So what does this mean for us?
First, we must receive our identity from God, not from our circumstances or the world around us. That means anchoring ourselves in Scripture, letting God's voice be the loudest voice shaping how we see ourselves.
Second, we embrace rhythms that form us when no one is watching. These practices don't earn God's approval—they train us to trust Him. Small acts of obedience in unseen moments prepare us to follow Jesus when the cost is higher.
Third, we recognize temptation for what it is. The enemy's goal is rarely to make us wicked—it's to make us independent of God. Sometimes obedience means choosing not to act, not to speak, not to rush.
The waiting isn't wasted. The formation isn't failure. God often does His deepest work in seasons that feel quiet, slow, even unseen.
The question we must ask ourselves is simple but profound: Whose kingdom do we belong to? Are we living from what God has already spoken over us, or are we still trying to prove something?
Life in God's kingdom begins long before it's visible to anyone else—even to ourselves. It begins with formation, with trust, with obedience. And that's the kind of life that can stand firm when the wilderness comes.
The Christmas story doesn't end with a peaceful night and a baby in a manger. Matthew's Gospel reminds us that after the wise men departed, danger erupted. An angel appeared to Joseph in a dream with urgent instructions: "Get up, take the child and his mother and escape to Egypt."
Egypt. Of all places.
Egypt wasn't random—it was the land of slavery, the place God's people had fled generations before. Yet God sends His Son back there, demonstrating a profound truth: God often works through the very places we avoid, the locations we associate with pain or failure. He isn't limited by a place's past, and He can redeem even our most unlikely detours.
Joseph received no battle plan, no timeline, just a dream and a directive. This carpenter from Nazareth, already far from home for a census, now faced an uncertain journey to a foreign land with a young family and no guarantees. Yet God entrusted him with the safety of the Savior Himself.
The lesson? God doesn't wait for certainty before He works through us. He moves His redemptive plan forward through quiet obedience in the middle of the night, through ordinary people taking extraordinary steps of faith. God's promises survive detours, dangers, and delays.
The Long Silence
After the dramatic escape and return from Egypt, something unexpected happens in Jesus' story: nothing. At least nothing visible. Jesus grows up. He works. He waits. There are no public miracles, no sermons, no sense of momentum for roughly thirty years.
From our perspective, it looks like delay. We live in a culture that constantly ties our identity to movement—what we're building, what's next, how fast we're progressing. The language we use reinforces this: "seasons of growth," "moving forward," "what's next for you?"
None of these concepts are inherently wrong, but they can quietly train us to believe that stillness equals stagnation. When there's no finished product, no visible progress, no clear sense of arrival, it's easy to feel behind or like something must be wrong.
But Scripture never treats those hidden years of Jesus' life as wasted. Waiting seasons are often where God does His deepest work—below the surface, even when we'd rather He move things along.
Identity Before Ministry
When Jesus finally steps into public view, He comes to John the Baptist at the Jordan River for baptism. John protests—"I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?" But Jesus insists it's necessary "to fulfill all righteousness."
What happens next is stunning. As Jesus comes up out of the water, heaven opens. The Spirit of God descends like a dove and rests on Him. And a voice from heaven declares: "This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased."
Notice when this affirmation comes. Jesus hasn't preached a sermon yet. He hasn't performed a miracle. He hasn't called disciples. This moment isn't a reward for ministry—it's the foundation of it.
Before Jesus does anything public, the Father names who He is. Not based on performance, but on relationship. "This is my Son." Not because of what Jesus is about to accomplish, but because of who He already is.
Tested in the Wilderness
Immediately—and Matthew emphasizes the immediacy—the same Spirit who descended on Jesus leads Him into the wilderness. For forty days and nights, Jesus fasts. He's alone, silent, fully dependent on the Father.
Then the tempter arrives. And his first words are telling: "If you are the Son of God..."
What God affirmed at the baptism, the enemy immediately questions in the wilderness. This isn't an attack on Jesus' power—the devil knows full well who Jesus is. It's an attack on His identity.
Each temptation presses the same direction: Prove yourself. Use your power. Take control. Short-circuit the process.
But Jesus never argues for His identity. He never says, "I'll show you who I am." Instead, He stands firm in what has already been declared. Each response flows from Scripture and from a secure identity as the Son with whom the Father is well pleased.
Here's what we often miss: Jesus isn't spiritually weak in the wilderness. He's spiritually focused. The fasting hasn't depleted Him—it has clarified Him. The solitude hasn't confused Him—it has anchored Him.
When identity is settled, temptation loses its leverage. The enemy cannot manipulate someone who already knows who they are.
Formation Before Visibility
After the temptations end, the devil leaves and angels come to minister to Jesus. Only then does Jesus step into public ministry and begin proclaiming the kingdom of God.
The kingdom is announced by someone who has already been formed in the quiet, anchored in the Father's voice, and unshaken in the wilderness.
This pattern challenges everything our culture teaches us. We're conditioned to measure life by momentum, to prove our worth through productivity, to become something visible. But Jesus models a different way: formation before visibility, identity before assignment.
Spiritual strength isn't built in the moment of temptation—it's built before it. Jesus resisted the enemy not through willpower but through formation. Solitude, fasting, prayer, Scripture—these weren't last-minute tools. They were part of His life, His everyday rhythm.
Living from What God Has Spoken
So what does this mean for us?
First, we must receive our identity from God, not from our circumstances or the world around us. That means anchoring ourselves in Scripture, letting God's voice be the loudest voice shaping how we see ourselves.
Second, we embrace rhythms that form us when no one is watching. These practices don't earn God's approval—they train us to trust Him. Small acts of obedience in unseen moments prepare us to follow Jesus when the cost is higher.
Third, we recognize temptation for what it is. The enemy's goal is rarely to make us wicked—it's to make us independent of God. Sometimes obedience means choosing not to act, not to speak, not to rush.
The waiting isn't wasted. The formation isn't failure. God often does His deepest work in seasons that feel quiet, slow, even unseen.
The question we must ask ourselves is simple but profound: Whose kingdom do we belong to? Are we living from what God has already spoken over us, or are we still trying to prove something?
Life in God's kingdom begins long before it's visible to anyone else—even to ourselves. It begins with formation, with trust, with obedience. And that's the kind of life that can stand firm when the wilderness comes.
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