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Text: Judges 6-7
I. The Winepress and the Whisper
Let’s set the stage.
Midian rules Israel. And not in a benevolent overlord, pay your taxes and all will be well sort of way. No, no. The Midianites are parasites. They take everything. Crops? Gone. Livestock? Stolen. Homes? Burned. It’s a seven-year-long mugging, and Israel is left cowering in the caves, praying for deliverance.
Enter Gideon.
Not in armor. Not on a horse. But in a hole. A winepress, to be exact. Threshing wheat—something that should be done in the open air—because he’s afraid. Hiding. Hoping to squeeze out a meal before the Midianite enforcers come knocking.
And then, the angel of the Lord appears. And in what can only be described as divine sarcasm, he greets Gideon with:
"The Lord is with you, mighty warrior."
Now, Gideon, being a practical man, looks around—because surely, surely, this warrior the angel is speaking to must be standing somewhere behind him. But no, the angel is addressing him.
It’s almost cruel. A mighty warrior? Gideon? The guy who’s basically hiding in his own pantry?
And yet, God has a habit of doing this. Calling people what they are going to be, long before they ever live up to the name.
II. Baal, the Has-Been, the Has-Run, the Has-Lost
But before Gideon can lead a revolution, he has an errand to run. A bit of housecleaning, if you will.
You see, Israel has a problem—one that goes deeper than Midian. Midian is just a symptom. The disease? Idolatry.
Gideon’s own family—his own father—has an altar to Baal in the backyard.
Now, let’s talk about Baal for a moment.
Once upon a time, Baal thought he was something special. He strutted around as the so-called "storm god" of the Canaanites, posturing as a deity of fertility, rain, and war. He had power, once. He sat in the divine council, trying to carve out his own kingdom in rebellion against the Most High.
And how did that work out for him?
Well, he got evicted. Kicked to the curb. Tossed down like a dethroned warlord whose troops abandoned him mid-battle. Whatever power he had was permitted, and once Yahweh withdrew that permission, Baal became what all rebel gods become—an imposter. A fraud. A pretender.
And yet, Israel—God’s own people—was still bowing to this has-been.
So God tells Gideon, "Tear it down."
Not Midian. Not yet. First, this.
And Gideon—brave warrior that he is—waits until nightfall to do it. Why? Because even though Baal is powerless, his followers still have knives. And Gideon is not looking to get stabbed before this whole “mighty warrior” thing even gets off the ground.
By morning, the town wakes up, and Baal’s altar is dust. And the people? They lose their minds. They demand Gideon’s execution.
But then, something hilarious happens.
Gideon’s own father, Joash—the man who built the altar—steps forward and says:
"If Baal is a god, let him defend himself."
Mic. Drop.
And Baal?
Silence.
No fire. No wrath. Not so much as a gust of wind. Because Baal is nothing. He has no power. No voice. No authority. He is a washed-up relic of a defeated rebellion, a powerless ghost still trying to scare people into kneeling.
And now, everyone knows it.
The town, which was ready to kill Gideon, suddenly starts calling him “Jerubbaal”—which means, “Let Baal contend with him.”
Except Baal never does. Because he can’t.
First victory? Not against Midian. But against the lie that kept Israel enslaved.
III. How to Lose an Army in 10 Days
Now, with Baal exposed, it’s time for Midian to fall.
Gideon blows the trumpet. And for the first time in years, Israel rallies to fight. 32,000 men show up, ready for battle. It’s not enough to match Midian, but it’s something.
And then God, in all His wonderful, terrifying wisdom, says:
"Too many."
Too many? They’re already outnumbered! But God insists:
"Tell anyone who is afraid to go home."
And 22,000 men walk away.
That’s two-thirds of the army. Just gone.
Gideon, now with a mere 10,000, takes a deep breath, recalculates his odds, and steels himself for battle.
And then God speaks again.
"Still too many."
At this point, I imagine Gideon is reconsidering all his life choices.
But God has one last test. A simple one. He takes the men to the water and tells Gideon to watch how they drink. Based on this, God narrows the army down to…
300 men.
A whole valley of Midianites, and Gideon’s got three hundred hydration enthusiasts to take them on.
It’s absurd. But this is how God operates. When victory comes, there will be no question about who won the battle.
IV. Breaking the Jars, Breaking the Enemy
And now, for the plan.
No swords. No cavalry. Instead?
Torches.
Clay jars.
Trumpets.
Yes. That’s the whole strategy.
Under cover of night, Gideon and his 300 sneak up to the enemy camp. At his signal, they shatter their jars—light explodes into the darkness. They blast their trumpets—the sound echoes through the hills.
And Midian?
They panic.
They don’t just flee—they start slaughtering each other. Confused. Terrified. Running for their lives.
And by morning, it’s over.
No swords needed. No charge into battle. Just obedience—and a God who fights His own wars.
V. The Revolt Continues
Gideon’s story is not just history—it’s a blueprint.
We, too, have been hiding—from our calling, from our battles, from the enemy who has convinced us we are too weak, too small, too insignificant to make a difference.
And yet, the whisper comes:
"The Lord is with you, mighty warrior."
Not because we are mighty. But because He is.
But before we rise, we must tear down our altars.
We cannot serve two masters. We cannot ask God for victory while clinging to the very things that keep us enslaved.
And when the time comes to fight?
We fight God’s way.
We take the torches—His light.
We break the jars—our comfort.
We raise the trumpets—our voice.
And when we do? The enemy flees. Because no power, no principality, no has-been god who was kicked out of the divine council can stand against the Lord of Hosts.
The battle is already won.
Now, rise.
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