The God Who Sees
The God Who Sees¶
Blessing¶
For those who have stood at the edges of the church family, serving faithfully yet never truly seen, may your wound be acknowledged.
For those who have felt the sting of being tolerated but not embraced, useful but not cherished, may your ache be honored.
And may you hear this deeper truth: in God’s family there are no outsiders. There are no second-class sons or daughters, no servants kept at arm’s length.
You are wanted. You are welcome. You are seen.
The household of God is wide enough for your name, your voice, your whole self. And nothing—not exclusion, not silence, not rejection— can take that belonging away.
Chapter 2: Used, Not Loved¶
So Sarai said to Abram, “See now, the Lord has restrained me from bearing children. Please, go in to my maid; perhaps I shall obtain children by her.” And Abram heeded the voice of Sarai. Then Sarai, Abram’s wife, took Hagar her maid, the Egyptian, and gave her to her husband Abram to be his wife, after Abram had dwelt ten years in the land of Canaan. — Genesis 16:2–3
Hagar’s story bends sharply here. She is no longer just a maidservant in Abraham’s household—she becomes a solution to someone else’s problem. Sarah, desperate for a child, looks at Hagar and sees not a woman with her own dignity, but a vessel, a means to secure her future.
The verbs are striking: Sarah took… Sarah gave… Hagar is not asked. She is not invited to speak. She is spoken of, acted upon, and passed between others as though her life were theirs to control. She has no voice in the matter, no agency over her body, no choice in her future.
Her humanity is swallowed by utility.
And this is where her story resonates painfully with ours. Churches can wound in the same way—not always through malice, but through the subtle, steady reduction of people into instruments. You arrive longing to belong, but soon discover you are valued most for what you can do. You can sing, so you’re on the worship team. You can organize, so you’re running children’s ministry. You can give, so you’re praised as a faithful supporter. Your name disappears behind your function.
Sometimes it sounds spiritual: “God is calling you to step up here.” But behind the words, it can feel like filling a vacancy rather than discerning a calling. The question of whether this brings life to your soul is rarely asked. The need of the church overshadows the life of the person.
Hagar knew what that felt like. To be taken and given, folded into someone else’s plan without being asked who she was, what she wanted, or how she longed to live.
And if we are honest, many churches in America have baptized this same way of thinking. They speak of vision and mission, of growth and expansion, of “reaching more people for Christ.” But the vision is often shaped not by the Spirit’s leading but by business principles: market research, social trends, engagement metrics. People become “giving units,” “volunteer pipelines,” “attendance numbers.” Souls become statistics.
The story begins to sound familiar: taken, given, used.
You may have felt it yourself—that hollow recognition that your worth is tied to your output. Praised when you perform. Overlooked when you rest. Forgotten when you no longer fit the program. You may have given your gifts freely, only to discover they were consumed by the machinery of vision and growth. You may have offered your time and heart, only to realize you were loved more for your service than for yourself.
This is not love. Love does not reduce people to instruments. Love does not swallow names in the language of strategy. Love never treats a soul as a means to an end.
The ache of being used is not small. It cuts to the core of our humanity, where what we most long for is to be known—not for what we can produce, but for who we are. To be cherished not for our role, but for our personhood.
Hagar’s story, in all its rawness, invites us to name that ache. To admit that it is painful to be seen only as useful. To grieve the ways churches have measured our value by output, attendance, giving, or compliance. And to know that this wound, as deep as it runs, is not the end of our story.
Blessing¶
For those who have been taken and given, spoken of but never truly heard, may your grief be honored.
For those who have felt their voice silenced, their dignity overlooked, their humanity reduced to usefulness, may your wound be acknowledged.
And may you know today that you are more than a number, more than a resource, more than a seat to be filled. You are not a cog in a vision or a solution to a problem. You are a soul with agency, a beloved child whose name is spoken by God.
May you walk in the freedom of knowing: you are not a means to an end. You are cherished for yourself alone. You are seen.
Chapter 3: When Jealousy Wounds¶
So he went in to Hagar, and she conceived. And when she saw that she had conceived, her mistress became despised in her eyes. Then Sarai said to Abram, “My wrong be upon you! I gave my maid into your embrace; and when she saw that she had conceived, I became despised in her eyes. The Lord judge between you and me.” So Abram said to Sarai, “Indeed your maid is in your hand; do to her as you please.” And when Sarai dealt harshly with her, she fled from her presence. — Genesis 16:4–6
Hagar had no agency in what was done to her, and yet she conceived. In the midst of powerlessness, life stirred within her. What should have been a cause for joy became instead the beginning of conflict.
Sarah looked at Hagar’s pregnancy and saw not a gift but a threat. Hagar carried what Sarah longed for, what Sarah could not have. Rather than celebrating the new life growing in her household, Sarah’s heart turned inward. Jealousy took root, and soon hostility followed.
This is a bitter truth: sometimes the very blessings we carry, the very gifts entrusted to us, provoke envy in others. Instead of being welcomed, they are resented. Instead of being affirmed, they are met with suspicion or control.
Hagar’s conception shifted the balance in Abraham’s household. She bore what Sarah could not, and Sarah could not bear the sight of it. Abraham, rather than protecting Hagar, withdrew: “Your maid is in your hand; do to her as you please.” And so Sarah mistreated her servant until Hagar fled into the wilderness.
What should have been a moment of joy was twisted into rejection.
The same pattern often plays out in the church. Leaders, like Sarah, can tie their worth to visibility, to who commands the spotlight, to who is perceived as most anointed or successful. When someone else’s gifts begin to flourish, insecurity rises. Instead of joy, competition creeps in. Instead of celebration, suspicion takes root.
Maybe you’ve lived this. Perhaps your gift drew unexpected attention—you led a song that stirred hearts, taught in a way that opened eyes, created something that carried life. Instead of being received with encouragement, you felt the air change. The warmth cooled. The affirmation quieted. The leader who once embraced you seemed distant. What should have been blessed became diminished.
This is the wound of jealousy: when your gift becomes a threat to someone else’s fragile sense of worth.
But jealousy shows up not only around gifts. It also rises when someone carries a new way of seeing God—an insight that stretches the community beyond its comfort. Hagar’s child represented a promise Sarah could not accept. Perhaps it felt too spacious, too uncontrollable, too outside the lines she wanted to draw.
Churches do this too. Sometimes God entrusts a person with a fresh vision of His grace, a new encounter with His presence, a wider understanding of His love. And instead of joy, it stirs fear. Leaders step in as gatekeepers, worried that generosity will loosen their grip on control. The thought that God could move beyond their categories, beyond their theology, feels threatening.
So they push out the voices that open the doors too wide. They label the insights unsafe, liberal, or unbiblical. They protect their box, even if it means silencing the one who has encountered God outside its walls.
Like Hagar, those entrusted with something spacious are often driven into the wilderness.
Perhaps you know this wound. Perhaps you have carried something from God—a gift, an insight, a fire in your spirit—and instead of being welcomed, it was resisted. What should have been celebrated became a threat. What should have been affirmed was dismissed or diminished.
It is a lonely thing, to stand with a promise the church cannot hold. To speak of God’s generosity and feel the room grow cold. To carry a gift from the Spirit and be told it does not belong.
But hear this: the limits of others do not limit the promise of God. Even if your community could not receive it, the gift within you is still real. Even if your church could not bless it, God already has. You are not outside His story. You are not mistaken for carrying what He entrusted to you.
The jealousy of others may wound you, but it cannot cancel the life of God within you.
Blessing¶
For those who have carried a gift too large for others to accept, may you know that the life within you is holy.
For those who have spoken of grace too generous for the gatekeepers to allow, may you remember that God’s love has always broken through the walls we build.
When others see threat, may you hear God whisper promise. When others turn away, may you feel His gaze remain steady. When others cannot bless you, may you rest in the blessing already given.
You are not outside of His story. You are not wrong for carrying what He entrusted to you. Even if it unsettles those who cling to control— still, it is life, and still, it is good.
Chapter 4: Driven Out¶
So Abram said to Sarai, “Indeed your maid is in your hand; do to her as you please.” And when Sarai dealt harshly with her, she fled from her presence. Now the Angel of the Lord found her by a spring of water in the wilderness, by the spring on the way to Shur. And He said, “Hagar, Sarai’s maid, where have you come from, and where are you going?” She said, “I am fleeing from the presence of my mistress Sarai.” — Genesis 16:6–8
Hagar fled. She left the tents she had lived in, the family she had served, the life she had known. Abraham had turned his face away, handing her over to Sarah’s harshness. With no protection, no voice, no place to stand, she ran.
It is heart-wrenching to walk away from a place that once held meaning, to turn your back on the only community you’ve known because staying has become unbearable. Hagar didn’t run because she wanted adventure. She ran because home had become a place of pain. She ran because survival mattered more than belonging.
And this is the quiet truth many of us know: rarely do people leave church lightly. Most do so only after the weight of mistreatment, misunderstanding, or exclusion has pressed them out. To stay would have been to wither. And so you leave with trembling, with grief, with questions that ache. Because deep down, you know: if I had been welcomed for who I was, I would have stayed.
The wilderness is harsh. It strips away the illusion of safety. Familiar rhythms fall silent. Relationships fade. What once grounded you is gone, and all that remains is the ache of displacement.
Hagar, weary and alone, came to rest by a spring of water on the way to Shur. A spring—small, hidden, but life enough to keep her going. And perhaps you know that feeling too. When you leave behind what you’ve known, you grasp for anything, anything at all, that brings comfort.
Maybe for you it has been a book that told the truth you needed to hear. Maybe a conversation with a friend who didn’t judge your questions. Maybe a moment of quiet where God felt closer than you imagined He could outside church walls. These small glimmers are like water in the desert—unexpected grace, nourishment that helps you survive.
And yet, maybe you haven’t found your spring yet. Maybe you are still wandering, your throat dry, your spirit raw from rejection. The desert feels endless, and all you can do is keep walking with your pain. If that is you, let this be said plainly: your thirst is not unseen. Your ache is not ignored. The wilderness you carry in your heart is not meaningless.
To leave a place that once felt like home is no small grief. It is to lose a part of yourself, to wonder who you are apart from the community that shaped you. But hear this: exile is not abandonment. The wilderness is not the end of the story. Even here, even now, God has not turned away.
Blessing¶
For those just setting out into the desert, may you know that your leaving does not make you faithless. May courage steady your steps as you walk away from what has wounded you.
For those still wandering in the barren places, may your thirst be honored, your tears be counted, and may the God who sees you keep watch even when silence feels heavy.
May you find your spring—whether in a word of truth, a friendship that remains, or a whisper of God’s presence that meets you where you least expect it.
And when rejection weighs on you like sand in the sun, may you have strength enough to press on, until your heart can rest again by waters of life.
You are not abandoned in the wilderness. You are still seen. And even here, you are beloved.
Chapter 5: The God Who Sees¶
Then she called the name of the Lord who spoke to her, “You-Are-the-God-Who-Sees”; for she said, “Have I also here seen Him who sees me?” Therefore the well was called Beer Lahai Roi. — Genesis 16:13–14
Hagar sat by the spring, weary from running, her future uncertain. She had been driven into the wilderness with nothing but her sorrow, but it was there, in that barren place, that God found her.
The angel of the Lord did not meet her in Abraham’s tent or Sarah’s household, but by a lonely spring on the way to Shur. She had been rejected by her community, dismissed by her master, mistreated by her mistress—yet here, she was seen.
And she names Him. No patriarch, no priest, no prophet had done this before. A servant, a foreigner, a woman on the run—she becomes the first in Scripture to give God a name: El Roi, the God who sees me.
What others despised, God dignified. What others overlooked, He noticed. The wilderness became holy ground, not because it was safe or familiar, but because it was the place where she finally discovered that she was not invisible to Him.
The message she received was startling. The angel told her she was carrying a son, and that she should name him Ishmael—“God hears.” God had listened to her cry in the wilderness. But the promise did not stop with his name.
“He shall be a wild man; His hand shall be against every man, And every man’s hand against him. And he shall dwell in the presence of all his brethren.”
It was not the kind of blessing Abraham had been promised. Ishmael would not be the son of covenant or the center of a chosen nation. His story would be wilder, more contested. He would not live in the security of settled fields or under the control of households. He would be untamed, dwelling in the wide places, always in tension with those around him.
To some, this might sound like a curse. But it was also a kind of gift. Ishmael would not be erased. He would not be domesticated. His life would be marked by freedom and resilience, a strength born in the wilderness.
And isn’t that so often the way? The gifts born outside the familiar walls carry their own kind of wildness. They don’t fit neatly into categories. They are unconventional, untamed, sometimes uncomfortable. But they are real. They are alive. They are strong.
This is the shape of so many modern stories, too. Once you step outside the walls of church life, your faith takes on a wildness. It is no longer polished, domesticated, or neatly explained. When you begin questioning the dogmas handed to you—when you start pursuing God without gatekeepers—your spirit grows untamed.
It can be frightening at first. Without the guardrails of certainty, you may feel exposed, even reckless. Others might look at you with suspicion, labeling you rebellious or “unsafe.” But beneath that accusation lies something holy: your spirit is learning to breathe freely.
Outside the walls, you discover a God who is not confined by statements of faith or denominational boundaries. You hear His voice in places you were once warned against—in poets, in mystics, in traditions you were told were “heretical.” And instead of leading you away from God, these voices awaken you to His vastness.
Wildness is not chaos. It is expansiveness. It is a refusal to let God be boxed in, a willingness to follow Him into the wide places where His presence cannot be contained. Like Ishmael, such faith may always live in tension with the settled and the safe. But it carries strength. It carries resilience. And most of all, it carries the deep knowing that God sees you even when others do not.
Of course, being “wild” comes with a cost. To those who prefer order and predictability, your freedom looks like rebellion. Your willingness to step outside the lines is judged as faithlessness. You may be called unsafe, unteachable, even lost.
It hurts to carry this label, especially when all you are doing is following the God who met you in the wilderness. The rejection stings because it comes from people you once trusted, voices you once depended on for guidance. To be misunderstood in this way leaves a mark.
And yet—even here—the wilderness begins to heal. In the silence where old voices no longer define you, you start to hear God’s voice more clearly. In the emptiness left by rejection, you begin to notice the fullness of His presence that was always there.
The wilderness ache is real. But in that ache, something else awakens: a deeper courage, a wilder strength, a clearer sight. You begin to glimpse what Hagar saw by the spring: that even when the world does not see you, God does. And being seen by Him is enough to sustain you.
Blessing¶
For you who wander in the wide places, may you know that your wildness is not shame, but gift.
For you who question and seek, may your untamed spirit become a wellspring of life— a reminder that God is bigger than the boxes once built around Him.
May you hear, even now, the whisper of the One who listens: I have heard your cry. I see your heart. And may this knowing steady your steps when others cannot understand your path.
May the treasures you discover in exile— the unexpected voices, the new insights, the presence of God in unlooked-for places— draw you deeper into His love, a love wider and more generous than you imagined.
And may you, like Hagar, leave your wilderness not empty-handed, but carrying the testimony of a God who sees, who hears, and who calls you beloved.
Chapter 6: A Second Casting Out¶
So the child grew and was weaned. And Abraham made a great feast on the same day that Isaac was weaned. And Sarah saw the son of Hagar the Egyptian, whom she had borne to Abraham, scoffing. Therefore she said to Abraham, “Cast out this bondwoman and her son; for the son of this bondwoman shall not be heir with my son, namely with Isaac.” And the matter was very displeasing in Abraham’s sight because of his son.. — Genesis 21:8–11
It should have been a day of joy. Isaac, the long-awaited child of promise, had been weaned, and Abraham prepared a feast to celebrate. The household gathered, laughter filled the air, and all eyes turned to Sarah’s son. But amidst the celebration, Sarah noticed Ishmael. We do not know exactly what he did—the text simply says he was scoffing, or perhaps laughing, playing, teasing. Whatever it was, Sarah’s fury was kindled.
Her demand was swift and harsh: “Cast out this bondwoman and her son.” It wasn’t enough for Ishmael to be overlooked; he had to be expelled. Not just Hagar this time, but Ishmael too. The son Abraham had fathered, the child he loved, was to be cut off from his household, erased from the celebration.
Abraham was deeply grieved. The text makes this clear: “the matter was very displeasing in Abraham’s sight because of his son.” He loved Ishmael. This was his child too, flesh of his flesh. And yet, instead of defending him, Abraham remained silent. At God’s word, he complied. He rose early the next morning, gathered a skin of water and some bread, and placed them on Hagar’s shoulder. Then he sent her and the boy into the wilderness once more.
It is hard not to feel the sting here. To be rejected once is painful enough. To be rejected again, after tasting a measure of belonging, feels unbearable.
This is a wound many know too well. Sometimes, after time has passed, you gather the courage to return to community. You hope that things have changed, that maybe you will be welcomed with open arms. You long to belong again, to find healing in familiar places.
And sometimes, for a while, it seems possible. There may be moments of joy, flashes of connection, glimpses of acceptance. But then, almost without warning, the old patterns resurface. A word is spoken, a look is given, a decision is made—and suddenly you realize you are not wanted in the way you hoped. The door you thought had opened is slammed shut again.
The devastation of being rejected a second time cuts deeper than the first. It confirms the suspicion that you will never quite belong, no matter how much you give or how hard you try. Like Hagar and Ishmael, you are sent back into the wilderness, carrying only what you can on your shoulders.
Perhaps the hardest part of Hagar’s story is not Sarah’s demand, but God’s response. Abraham hesitated. He loved Ishmael, and the thought of sending him away was unbearable. But then God spoke: “Whatever Sarah has said to you, listen to her voice; for in Isaac your seed shall be called.”
It feels shocking, even cruel. The God who had once met Hagar in the wilderness, who had promised her descendants, now seemed to affirm Sarah’s jealousy. The text frames God as siding with Sarah, elevating Isaac as heir and leaving Hagar and Ishmael outside the promise.
This is the voice of insiders telling their story—Israel securing its identity through Isaac’s line. But for those of us who read with Hagar, it raises an ache: does God really only care for the chosen? Does His blessing only flow toward those at the center?
The tension is real. Insiders cling to chosenness while outsiders wonder if they are seen at all. The story as written can make it feel as though God only blesses those inside the walls, only listens to the ones who fit the mold. And yet—even here—there is a quiet thread: “Yet I will also make a nation of the son of the bondwoman, because he is your seed.” Ishmael’s story would not be erased. Though diminished, though pushed out, his future remained in God’s hands.
This tension mirrors what so many have felt in the church. Institutions often write the narrative in ways that secure the center and exclude the margins. Sermons and doctrines are shaped to affirm the insiders, not to embrace those who don’t fit. And when someone outside asks for belonging, the answer too often echoes Sarah’s words: Cast them out.
Maybe you’ve heard Scripture quoted to justify your exclusion. Maybe you’ve been told that your questions, your identity, or your calling do not align with “God’s will.” Maybe you’ve heard God’s name invoked as though He Himself agreed with your rejection. It is a wound that cuts to the bone.
And yet, like Hagar, you carry a promise that cannot be taken from you. The institution may not bless you. The insiders may not make room for you. But God has already seen you. His blessing follows you into the wilderness, even when you are carrying little more than bread and water.
There is a grief that sits deep when rejection happens not once, but again. The first wound surprises you. The second wound confirms your fears. It says, You will never really belong here. You will always be the outsider.
And perhaps the sharpest cut is when God’s own name is woven into the rejection. When leaders insist their decision is “God’s will.” When the blessing of the insiders comes at the cost of your dismissal. The pain is doubled: not only have you been pushed out, but heaven itself feels like it has joined in.
This lament must be named. To cry out against it is not faithlessness—it is honesty. It dares to say: This hurts. This feels unfair. This makes me question whether God’s love is only for those at the center. Lament refuses to silence the wound. It holds it open, trusting that God can handle the rawness of our questions.
Blessing¶
For you who have been cast out a second time, may your tears be honored and your grief held close. It is no small pain to hope for welcome and to find the door closed again.
For you who have heard God’s name spoken as though He were against you, may the weight of that betrayal be lifted, and may you discover again the God who is for you, not against you.
May the wilderness not feel like abandonment but like a path where blessing follows. May you find strength for the road, bread for the journey, and the quiet assurance that your story still matters.
You are not erased. You are not forgotten. Even when others cannot make room for you, the God who sees still walks beside you, calling you beloved, calling you His own.
Chapter 7: Bread and Water¶
So Abraham rose early in the morning, and took bread and a skin of water; and putting it on her shoulder, he gave it and the boy to Hagar, and sent her away. Then she departed and wandered in the Wilderness of Beersheba. — Genesis 21:14
Abraham rose early, gathered a skin of water and a bit of bread, and placed them on Hagar’s shoulder. That was all. With this meager provision, he sent her and his son away into the desert.
The image is haunting. Abraham, a man of wealth and flocks, could have offered abundance. He could have sent servants, camels, tents, or stores of grain. Instead, he gave the bare minimum. Bread and water—just enough to keep them moving for a while, but not enough to sustain them in the wilderness.
Hagar must have felt the hollowness of it as she walked away. The bread wrapped in cloth, the skin sloshing faintly on her shoulder—she knew it would not last. Every step into the desert was shadowed by the knowledge that what she carried was not enough. The father of her child had resources beyond measure, and yet this was all he chose to give. Was this protection? Was this love? Or was it simply a way to ease his conscience while sending her off to an uncertain fate?
The wilderness soon proved her fears right. The bread was eaten, the water was gone, and the sun beat mercilessly overhead. Her strength failed. Her heart broke. With trembling hands she placed Ishmael under the shade of a bush, unable to watch him die of thirst. She walked away, sat down at a distance, and lifted her voice in weeping. Few scenes in Scripture ache like this one—a mother powerless to protect her child, left with too little to go on.
This is the wound of insufficient care: when those who could have provided more did not. When people with resources, authority, or love offered only a token instead of true sustenance. It is abandonment disguised as provision, and the betrayal cuts as deep as rejection itself.
Many have known this same ache in the church. Sometimes when you bring your weariness, your grief, your hunger for God, what you receive is not presence but platitudes. A quick prayer when you needed companionship. A pamphlet when you needed shelter. Words about faith when what you longed for was love.
It is not always malice. Sometimes it is distraction, or fear, or the busyness of leaders trying to keep the machinery of church running. But the result is the same. You are met with crumbs when what you needed was bread for the journey. You are handed a skin of water when your soul thirsts for living streams. The gesture may be meant as care, but in truth it is a way of sending you on your way—unburdening the institution of responsibility while leaving you to carry the weight.
Perhaps you know this grief. You asked for presence and were met with distance. You asked for shelter and were offered advice. You poured out your heart and received silence. And so you walked away carrying too little, your spirit parched, your heart aching with the realization that you mattered less than you hoped.
This is what Hagar knew: not only rejection, but rejection wrapped in the pretense of care. Bread and water, but not enough to live.
Blessing¶
For you who were sent away with too little, may you know that your worth was never measured by the crumbs you were given.
For you who lifted your voice in the wilderness, may the God who hears and the God who sees meet you with more than enough.
May your hunger be filled not with platitudes but with presence, not with scraps but with true sustenance. May living water rise to meet your thirst, and may you discover that God does not deal in scarcity.
Where others withheld, may you receive abundance. Where others offered only words, may you be embraced with care. Where you were given bread and water for a desert, may God set before you a feast of love.
You are not forgotten. Your needs are not too much. And the One who sees you will not send you away empty.
Chapter 8: God Hears the Cry¶
And the water in the skin was used up, and she placed the boy under one of the shrubs. Then she went and sat down across from him at a distance of about a bowshot; for she said to herself, “Let me not see the death of the boy.” So she sat opposite him, and lifted her voice and wept. And God heard the voice of the lad. — Genesis 21:15–17a
The water was gone. The desert sun bore down without mercy, and Hagar’s strength failed. She had carried her son as far as she could, but now her arms could no longer hold him. With trembling hands she placed Ishmael beneath the shade of a desert shrub, the only shelter she could find.
She could not bear to watch what she feared would come next. “Let me not see the death of the boy,” she whispered to herself as she staggered away. Sitting at a distance, far enough so that she would not have to hear his final cries, she broke down. Her voice lifted into the wilderness, raw and unrestrained. She wept with the anguish of a mother who had no way left to save her child.
It is one of the most heart-wrenching moments in Scripture — the collapse of hope, the surrender to despair. Bread and water had run out, and with them, every last thread of possibility. There was nothing left to do but weep.
But the wilderness did not swallow her weeping. The silence was not empty after all. For even as Hagar sobbed at a distance, another voice was lifted — the cry of her son. And heaven heard.
“And God heard the voice of the lad.” That simple line changes everything. Ishmael’s voice, faint with thirst and grief, reached the ear of the Almighty. The angel of God called to Hagar from heaven:
“What troubles you, Hagar? Fear not, for God has heard the voice of the boy where he is. Arise, lift up the lad and hold him with your hand, for I will make him a great nation.”
It was not the end after all. The promise still stood. The God who had once met Hagar in the wilderness now met her again, not with rebuke but with reassurance. Her tears did not disqualify her. Ishmael’s weakness did not disqualify him. Their cries were enough to move the heart of God.
Then her eyes were opened. She looked up and saw a well of water — a spring of life that had been there all along, unnoticed until despair had stripped her bare. She rushed to fill the skin, and with trembling hands she lifted it to Ishmael’s lips. The boy lived, because God had heard.
Many of us know what it is to collapse in despair, convinced there is no way forward. We may not wander in a desert of sand, but the wilderness of rejection, loneliness, or loss can feel just as barren. And in that emptiness, it is easy to believe we have been forgotten — that our cries rise to the heavens and fall unheard.
What we miss in those moments is that provision may already be near, hidden in plain sight. Like Hagar, our grief can blind us. Pain narrows our vision until we see only scarcity, only emptiness. We cannot imagine a well of water in the desert, so we do not look for it.
But God is faithful. He bends low to hear the cries others ignore. He whispers into our despair: Fear not. Arise. And when our strength is gone, He opens our eyes to what has been there all along — a stream of living water, a word of comfort, a friend who arrives unexpectedly, a hope we had stopped daring to hold.
The church may have failed us, community may have abandoned us, but God has not. He is near to the brokenhearted. He hears every cry, even the ones we are too tired to speak aloud. And in time, He makes us see that there is more life around us than we dared to believe.
There is a sorrow in crying out and feeling unheard. It wounds the heart when those around us turn away or offer silence. It deepens the ache when our eyes cannot find a way forward, when all we see is emptiness and all we feel is despair.
Like Hagar, we sometimes sit at a distance, convinced the story is over. We say to ourselves, I cannot watch this die. I cannot bear to hope any longer. And we weep because we believe it is finished.
But this lament is not without hope. For even in our blindness, God is already near. Even when we cannot see the spring, He has placed it within reach. Even when our cries feel lost to the air, His ear bends to hear them.
To lament is to name the grief, but also to trust that despair is not the end. It is to say: I cannot see it yet, but I believe water is coming. I cannot feel it yet, but I believe life will rise again.
Blessing¶
For you whose eyes see only emptiness, may God open them to the springs hidden nearby.
For you who sit in despair, may your cries rise to heaven and be answered with tenderness. You are not unheard, not abandoned, not forgotten.
May the God who met Hagar meet you, not with crumbs but with flowing water, not with scarcity but with abundance.
And when your strength has failed and your hope runs dry, may you find a well prepared for you, a stream that sustains your soul.
Life will come. Water will rise. And you will drink deeply of the love that has always been near.
Chapter 9: God Was With the Boy¶
So God was with the lad; and he grew and dwelt in the wilderness, and became an archer. He dwelt in the Wilderness of Paran; and his mother took a wife for him from the land of Egypt. — Genesis 21:20–21
The story of Hagar and Ishmael does not end at the well. What began with despair and the fear of death gives way to a quieter, longer story — one of survival, growth, and presence. Ishmael lived. He grew strong in the wilderness, learned to hunt with a bow, and eventually began a family of his own.
The text says simply, “God was with the boy.” No grand visions, no fiery miracles, no triumphant return to Abraham’s household. Just a steady, abiding presence that accompanied Ishmael as he made a life in the very place where he had once been cast out.
It is easy to overlook the power of this sentence. God did not abandon Ishmael to the margins. His presence was not confined to Isaac’s story or Sarah’s tent. God went with Ishmael into exile, and there — in the very wilderness that once threatened his life — Ishmael found the ground on which to grow.
Many who have walked away from church — or been pushed out — know something of this story. At first, it feels like exile. You carry the sting of rejection, the weight of loss, and the fear that you will not survive outside the household that once defined you.
But slowly, something shifts. Life continues, even flourishes, beyond the walls you thought were indispensable. In unexpected places you find nourishment: a friendship that welcomes you as you are, a book that speaks with surprising clarity, the silence of a forest trail that feels more like sanctuary than any stained-glass room. These become wells in the wilderness, sustaining your soul when you least expect it.
And as time passes, you begin to grow in ways that might never have been possible had you stayed. Like Ishmael becoming an archer, you discover skills and strengths shaped by your wilderness journey. The ache of rejection remains, but it is no longer the whole story. What once felt like exile begins to look like formation.
Still, there is grief here. It should not have taken rejection for Ishmael to find his place. It should not take exile for us to discover our worth. To be denied belonging in the household — this is a wound that leaves its mark.
And yet, it is not the end of the story. What was meant for loss became the soil of new life. Ishmael grew strong in the very wilderness that once threatened him. His identity was not erased but remade. He became an archer, skilled and resilient, shaped by the landscape of his exile.
So it is for many of us. The pain of being cast out or overlooked is real, but it does not have the final word. Outside the walls, faith becomes more personal, more spacious, less bound by fear. In the wilderness, we find not only survival but transformation.
This is the strange gift of loss: it clears the ground for growth we could not have imagined. What looked like the end reveals itself as a beginning. And we discover that God has been with us all along, turning exile into a place of becoming.
Blessing¶
For you who have been sent away, may the wilderness not be only a place of loss, but also a place of becoming.
For you who thought your story had ended, may you discover that exile can be fertile ground, that God is shaping new life within you even here.
May you find the wells that sustain you, the friendships that nourish you, the practices that root you in love.
And may you discover gifts you did not know you carried— skills honed by trial, wisdom born of silence, strength forged in the barren places.
Like Ishmael, may you grow and thrive in the open spaces, and may you know with unshakable certainty: God is with you still, and your story is far from over.
Conclusion: The God Who Sees¶
Hagar’s story began in obscurity. She was introduced not by name but by role: an Egyptian maidservant. She had no voice in the household, no agency in her own life. She was used to solve someone else’s problem, and when jealousy arose, she was driven out. Twice she was cast away, twice she wandered with too little, twice she wept in the wilderness.
And yet — hers is the story that gives us one of the most tender names for God: El Roi, the God who sees me. In her place of invisibility, she became the one who named the One who cannot forget. And in the end, though she never returned to Sarah’s tent, she and her son found life in the wilderness. Ishmael grew strong. God was with him. The rejected were not erased.
For so long, I read this story through the eyes of Abraham and Sarah. They were the chosen ones, the bearers of promise. Hagar was a footnote. But then I entered my own wilderness. I felt what it was to be overlooked, misunderstood, pushed to the margins. And suddenly, Hagar was no longer a shadow — she was a mirror. Her tears became my tears. Her exile, my exile. Her ache, my ache.
The wilderness has a way of teaching you to see differently. When you’ve lived on the outside, you begin to notice the outsiders in the text. You hear their cries more clearly. You discover that God’s presence is not confined to the center, but often lingers on the edges. The God who met Hagar by a spring of water, the God who opened her eyes to a well, is the same God who shows up in places the household of faith would never expect.
Before my wilderness, I might have believed the story told inside the walls — that God’s blessing belonged only to the chosen, to the ones at the center of power. But now I know: God is bigger than the stories churches tell. Bigger than the doctrines we were handed. Bigger than the lines we draw to keep ourselves safe. The Infinite will never be contained.
The real question is not whether God’s arms are wide enough, but whether ours will be. Will we extend our embrace as far as He does? Will we dare to see the ones we once overlooked? Will we welcome those who do not fit the script, trusting that God’s love is always wider than ours?
For you who walk this path of wilderness, know this: you are not alone. Your exile does not erase you. Your lament does not disqualify you. Like Hagar, you are seen. Like Ishmael, you are heard. And like both of them, you are accompanied by a God who goes with you wherever you wander.
The wilderness is not the end of your story. It may yet be the beginning of a new one.
Final Blessing¶
For you who feel unseen, may you know the God who sees.
For you who have been cast out, may you find that exile is not the end, but the place where God draws near.
For you who thirst, may your eyes be opened to wells you did not know were there.
For you who wonder if the love of God is wide enough, may you discover it is always wider than you imagined.
And may your own arms stretch wide — to embrace yourself with gentleness, to welcome others with compassion, and to live as one who has been held by the infinite, uncontainable love of God.
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