On the other hand …

God knows what He’s doing.

a person's hand with a thumb up

One of the Elders in my brilliant local church is left-handed. When it comes to taking notes he’s not as entertaining to watch as some of my other left-handed friends who write at a slope, one foot slightly off the floor, squinting slightly, hand tilted over as if trying to write in secret. The myth is that they all have super powers when it comes to music, the arts or science.

You don’t have to venture far into the Scriptures to see that God has a habit of using what can easily be overlooked. That’s the story of Ehud. Tucked away in the book of Judges like a whisper in a gale-force wind. No grand lineage. No burning bush. Just a left-handed man from the tribe of Benjamin – ironically, a tribe whose name means “son of the right hand.” (Judges 3:15–23)

But his mother would’ve noticed. Long before swords or spies, she watched him reach with that left hand, fumble with tools made for others, learn to navigate a world not designed for him. It’s in these details that God writes his intention. The Bible doesn’t waste ink. When it says Ehud was left-handed, it’s not to make conversation. It’s divine commentary. Marked out from birth, yes – but not for shame. For service.

Now Israel, once again, had done what was evil in the sight of the Lord. The cycle was familiar – sin, oppression, repentance, deliverance. It feels politically incorrect to say this but they were under Eglon, king of Moab, a man described as very fat, which is less about his size and more about indulgence, excess, and the ‘stuff’ that comes with it. Israel cried out, and God answered – not with voice of thunder or fire, but with Ehud.

This is no children’s story. Ehud’s courage isn’t the stuff of campfire songs. He straps a short sword – double-edged – under his clothes, on his right thigh, where no one would expect a weapon. Guards would check the left. Everyone was right-handed, after all. Everyone but Ehud. Now that’s worth dwelling on. God knows what He is doing! There’s no advisory as you read the scripture. Can you remember the first time you read it? It’s in the same league as Mark’s writing in the New Testament; suddenly, immediately…

Ehud enters Eglon’s presence alone. Says he has a secret message. The king, puffed up and confident in his own security, sends everyone else out. No-one is in the room except HRH Eglon, Ehud and of course, unseen, God. And in the silence, Ehud steps forward – not with fanfare, but with faith – and strikes. You might want to skip the next sentence. The sword goes in, the fat closes over the hilt, and Ehud leaves through the porch, locking the doors behind him.

Now, you may read that cough, splutter and wonder, what kind of deliverance is this? It feels gritty, even violent. But this is the world into which God steps. He doesn’t deliver Israel by avoiding the dark. He delivers them by sending light straight into it. God chooses the overlooked, the unlikely, and in this case, the left-handed to bring justice. This is not a lesson in tactics – it’s a portrait of trust. Ehud didn’t volunteer for glory. He moved at the prompting of heaven.

This kind of courage doesn’t begin in a moment – it’s forged long before. Obscurity is often the training ground for obedience. Ehud’s story tells us that the hand you think is weak may be the very one God intends to use. What you hide, He highlights. What others see as deficiency, He declares as design.

Ehud points forward. Not just to courage in the face of fear, but to a God who does not abandon His people. Who hears when they cry. Who raises up deliverers like Ehud not from the ranks of the mighty, but from the margins. If you think God cannot use you because you don’t fit the mould – look at Ehud again. The hand that reaches differently may just be the one that sets a nation free.

The Roman dream

Pilate’s wife dreams, interprets and applies …

The Roman dream - Pilate's wife

Everyone has dreams. Today’s dreams rarely represent Biblical dreams where God brings revelation, purpose and insight. Even in Church today some may say they have a dream, what they mean by that is an idea, an inspiration, something that demands their energy and attention. As far as notable dreams go it’s easy to overlook this one we are about to look at, especially in Charismatic circles where we talk about the dreams of Joseph, Joseph, Daniel and Abraham. I’m alluding to one dream, a troubling one like Nebuchadnezzar’s – with similar physical disposition!

In the darkest moment of history, in the thick of betrayal, politics, and the face of a bloodthirsty, unjustifiably angry crowd, the clearest voice of warning doesn’t come from a disciple, a priest, or even a prophet. It comes from a woman we never meet again except in myths and legends. Just one short, brief line, whispered through the noise of Matthew’s Passion narrative to Pilate: “Have nothing to do with that righteous man, for I have suffered much because of him today in a dream” (Matthew 27:19). Today. Not just on waking. Inner turmoil gripped them.

Pilate’s wife. No name. No follow-up. Exit stage left.

In the ancient world, as in Africa and the Middle East today, dreams weren’t dismissed with a shrug or a few doodles on a psychologist’s notepad. They were loaded; heaving with meaning. Greeks saw them as visits from the divine. Jews held them in tension. Genuine dreams could carry God’s voice, but they were always considered, unpacked, never assumed. Either way, when it came to dreams, people knew something holy or terrible might be trying to get through while the world slept.

And in this woman’s case, it wasn’t vague symbolism. It was suffering. She didn’t wake up pondering riddles or wondering what it meant. She woke up in distress. That’s the language Matthew uses. Suffering. The kind that shakes you down to the bone. The kind that doesn’t leave when the sun rises. And stays with you all day.

She doesn’t just report a dream. She gives a verdict, it’s about “that righteous man”. Righteous. She knows. It’s not a word used lightly, especially when the crowd is sharpening its knives, picking up stones, and needlessly angry. Somehow, as sleep lifts and the weight of night-vision stirs her, she sees Jesus for who He really is. Not guilty. Not dangerous. Righteous. It’s unambiguous and comes with the kind of clarity that Pilate can’t quite grasp, for all his political savvy. And it comes directly through revelation.

This woman, this Gentile, is given insight. Revelation. Not through Torah. Not through temple sacrifice. But in a dream that brings overwhelming anguish. God has spoken to her about the truth of the man standing trial outside. And she doesn’t just have the dream. She interprets it. And then, courageously, she applies it. She does what many fail to do with divine revelation. She acts. She intervenes. She pleads. “Just back off. Let it go. Don’t get involved with this man’s blood.”

But does Pilate listen? He’s in trouble when he goes home.

Matthew tells us what happens next. Pilate turns to the crowd and asks a question that has rung out ever since: “Then what shall I do with Jesus who is called Christ?” (Matthew 27:22). The dilemma now belongs to them. Slopey shoulders. The question has shifted. The spotlight swings to the crowd. They’ve seen the man. They’ve heard the name. They know the charge. What now?

And like all crowds intoxicated by fear and self-interest, they choose the wrong thing. They choose release for Barabbas. And for Jesus? “Let him be crucified.”

Let’s not forget Pilate’s wifey. The woman had heard. She had seen. She had suffered. The divine had spoken, not in the temple, but in the silence of sleep. And still, despite everything, the world pressed forward toward the cross.

It would be an interesting evening in Pilate’s household.