The Fruits of The Blessing Were Never Meant to Be Eaten Alone

Recently, I’ve been thinking that I am far enough along in my walk with Christ to know that I should trust God: know that He is good, all the time, and that, among many things, He is a covenant-keeping God. But my study of the promise made to Abram and the subsequent journey of Israel has made me realise that I may have been thinking about what it means for God to be a promise-keeper far too individually.

When I read, or even think about God’s promises in Scripture, my natural instinct is to consider what they mean for me, as T: that God will never leave nor forsake me; that He gives me rest; that He loves me and blesses me. Now, before I go any further, let me point out that there is nothing inherently wrong with receiving promises personally; our relationship with God is deeply personal. But, what I have also learnt over these last few weeks is that God’s promises can be deeply personal without being exclusively about me. As I came across in an article online from Pastor Brian Wilbur (‘The God who Keeps Covenant’), we can become so accustomed to thinking about God’s promises from an individualistic standpoint, that we forget to consider the broader picture of what God has done and continues to do through His people.

The journey of the promise

After weeks following the journey from Abram, to Israel, to Egypt, to Sinai, to the land God had promised and how it points towards His kingdom, I have found myself asking the question: where exactly do I fit into all of this? It was only this week that the obvious revelation was confirmed to me, that I, T, have entered into a history of God’s blessing and favour that did not begin with, or even because of me, or my works. Long before I knew God, there was Abram. And even before anything was gifted to him, God called him. And through the promises that followed, three things would become clear: God would give him land, offspring and blessing. But even still, something was attached to that blessing: “You will be a blessing… and all peoples on earth will be blessed through you” (Genesis 12:2–3). That last part has started to feel increasingly significant to me. God’s promise to Abram was deeply personal, but it was never intended for him alone; he would receive the blessing, but he was never meant to be its final destination.

As God’s covenant unfolded across generations, Abraham’s (formerly Abram) descendants become the people of Israel, whom God later delivers from slavery in Egypt and brings to Sinai. There, before giving them the commandments, He reminds them: “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of Egypt, out of the land of slavery” (Exodus 20:2), and declares them “a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exodus 19:6). That order matters: He rescues them first, brings them to Himself, and then gives them a responsibility. God wasn’t creating individually blessed people – He was forming a collectively blessed people through whom His character and purposes would be made known. The blessing was going somewhere.

Recently, I bought my first home. I prayed for it, watched God provide and have now received it as a blessing. But studying the journey of the promise God first made to Abram has changed the question I ask of even something this personal. Not because my home is a fulfilment of Abraham’s land promise, but because I am learning to ask: God, what have You entrusted to me, and what is it for?

Passing on the blessing

The promise of Genesis 12 wasn’t originally spoken to me. I wasn’t standing beside Abram or gathered at Sinai. So how did I end up here, thousands of years later, worshipping the God of Abraham and experiencing the goodness, blessing, and protection of a promise made long before I entered the picture? The answer is not that every promise made to Israel can simply be applied to my life, nor is it because I deserve it. It is because I belong to Christ (Galatians 3:29). Through Him, the blessing promised through Abraham has extended beyond the nations, and therefore even as much as God’s favour has reached me. And if the blessing reached me because it did not stop with those who received it before me, why would I assume it is supposed to stop with me?

Thinking then, back to my new house, perhaps its blessing isn’t complete when I receive the keys. Perhaps its table is meant to feed more people than me, its rooms to hold conversation, prayer, laughter and rest, and its front door to stay open. I find that last one particularly funny: at university, I had an “open-door policy” that everyone on my corridor knew about. For three years, my door was almost always open when I was around. It was my way of saying that people were welcome in my space, anytime. Maybe I was practicing then what I am only learning to articulate now: not to simply look inwards and ask God how He will bless me, but to instead look beyond myself and ask who He might intend to bless through me.

The blessing, the favour, the protection, and the grace did not begin with me. Through Christ – though I did nothing to deserve it – somehow, it reached me. And if it reached me, perhaps part of receiving it faithfully is refusing to let it end with me. After all, as I have been reminded, the fruits of the blessing were never meant to be eaten alone.