Just as we would never give a friend something and take it right back, out of their hands – let’s not do that with God either. When we trust God, we leave it in His hands. We believe. We feel steady, not sick.

At first glance, Abraham’s conversation with God in Genesis 18 may seem like one of the oddest stories in Scripture. Abraham haggling with God over the destruction of Sodom—and God negotiating the terms of judgment with a mere man? It’s a story I’d never have been bold enough to make up. On reflection, however, I suggest this scene (like all Scripture) is profitable for training in righteousness, particularly in the area of prayer. I call it “prayer” because prayer is talking to God, and that’s what Abraham is doing (though unlike with most prayers, God is physically present for the conversation). Abraham’s prayer has at least four characteristics that ours could stand to include more of.       1. Specificity Abraham could’ve prayed, “LORD, suppose there are several righteous people there. Perhaps a handful.” But no. He gives God exact numbers—“Suppose there are fifty . . . forty-five . . . forty . . . thirty . . . twenty . . . ten.” He reminds me of George Müller, the 19th-century saint famous for running orphanages. Instead of vague requests like “Father, please provide for our needs,” Müller’s prayers tended to sound more like “Father, we need 110 loaves of bread and 75 pairs of shoes—by tomorrow morning.” One time he was sailing to America for a preaching crusade, and the ship was stuck in a dense fog, threatening to derail his entire preaching tour. According to the captain, Müller knelt and prayed, “O Lord, if it is consistent with Thy will, please remove this fog in five minutes.” He could’ve said, “Lord, please remove this fog as soon as possible.” But since he thought five minutes was perfectly possible for the Almighty, he figured he’d be specific. And why not? I’m reluctant to pray that specifically because then it’d be clear if God didn’t answer—and I’d look like a loser in front of the ship’s captain, or else I’d be privately disappointed. It’s true that if we only pray hazy, fortune-cookie prayers, we’re much less likely to be disappointed. Then again, we’re also more likely to wonder whether what happened later was an answer to our prayer. The flip side of avoiding disappointment is that we also miss out on the encouragement Müller experienced when the fog did lift in five minutes (and it did). Similarly, Sodom isn’t spared. But when it goes up in smoke, Abraham can at least conclude, “Unbelievable! There weren’t even 10 righteous people!” because his prayer had been that specific. 2. Compassion We’re often ready to write off an otherwise good church or organization because of a few bad apples within it. But Abraham is the exact opposite—he asks God to spare an entire city of bad apples for the sake of a few good apples within it. In this, Abraham’s heart is a reflection of God’s heart. Ours is a God who delays the day of judgment because he’s “not wishing that any should perish, but that all should reach repentance” (2 Pet. 3:9). He’s a God who says, “Have I any pleasure in the death of the wicked . . . and not rather that he should turn from his way and live? . . . I have no pleasure in the death of anyone, declares the Lord GOD; so turn, and live” (Ezek. 18:23, 32). In praying like this, Abraham is loving his enemies and being kind to the unthankful and evil (Luke 6:35). It’s the kind of prayer we’re called to imitate as the salt of the earth. Perhaps the reason God hasn’t yet destroyed the United States is because, for all her faults, there are a lot more than 10 righteous people within her borders—people who pray like Abraham. If so, may our tribe increase. 3. Importunity No, I didn’t misspell that. This is an old King James word that means “persistence, especially to the point of annoyance or intrusion.” I’m not suggesting the Lord actually was annoyed with Abraham. Still, it’s hard to read this interchange without thinking, Wow, this guy has some nerve. God says yes, and instead of being thankful or content, he takes it as an encouragement to keep on asking. It almost feels irreverent—kind of like when Daniel prays, “O Lord, hear; O Lord, forgive. O Lord, pay attention and act” (Dan. 9:19). Or when the psalmist says, “O LORD, I am calling to you. Please hurry . . .” (Ps. 141:1, NLT). Perhaps the reason God hasn’t yet destroyed the United States is because, for all her faults, there are a lot more than 10 righteous people within her borders—people who pray like Abraham. If you heard someone praying those words (and you didn’t realize they were from the Bible), you’d be tempted to rebuke them. And yet these prayers are meant to serve as models for us. It’s like that parable about the guy persistently knocking on his friend’s door late at night, asking him for three loaves. Jesus says that “because of [the knocker’s] importunity” (KJV; “impudence,” ESV) the friend will “rise and give him whatever he needs” (Luke 11:8; cf. 18:5). The difference is that while that guy refused to take no for an answer, Abraham refuses to take yes for answer. And yet God isn’t offended. He wants us to “always pray and not lose heart” (18:1). Sometimes we have not because we ask not (James 4:2). Other times we have little because we give up too soon. If Abraham had stopped at 50 people, he would’ve walked away with a promise of 50. Instead, as Matthew Henry says, “He brought the terms as low as he could for shame . . .” Perhaps the only thing more striking than Abraham’s shameless persistence is God’s willingness to keep granting his requests. As Henry puts it, The importunity which believers use in their addresses to God is such that, if they were dealing with a man like themselves, they could not but fear that he would be angry with them. But he with whom we have to do is God and not man; and, [however] he may seem, [he] is not really angry with the prayers of the upright (Ps. 80:4), for they are his delight (Prov. 15:8), and he is pleased when he is wrestled with. So let’s learn to wrestle. 4. Reverence As bold-faced as this whole story sounds, you can’t miss Abraham’s humility. This isn’t him telling God, “If you destroy Sodom, I won’t be your friend anymore.” Instead, his whole speech is peppered with statements like “Behold, I have undertaken to speak to the Lord, I am who am but dust and ashes” (Gen. 18:27). Or again, “Oh let not the Lord be angry, and I will speak” (vv. 30, 32). It’s not that he thinks God is touchy—it’s that God is a great King, and Abraham knows he’s pushing the limits of familiarity. We, too, must be cautious. If we’re going to ask God to “please hurry” like the psalmist did or to “pay attention” like Daniel did, we also need to remember who we are and who we’re talking to. We need to be bold enough to be specific and to keep pressing even when he says yes. But we also need to have the attitude that says something like this: Lord, what do I know? I’m only dust and ashes. I’m not your counselor, and I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I’m telling you what I want because you invite me to bring my requests to you. Lord, you’re all-wise—what you ultimately decide to do with Sodom is your business—but if you’re asking me what I want, this is what I want. So let’s not assume we always know what prayer has to sound like. Let’s allow passages like this to press into our hearts and push the boundaries of our current practice.

“He drove out the man, and at the east of the garden of Eden he placed the cherubim and a flaming sword that turned every way to guard the way to the tree of life.” (Gen. 3:24) The waves were strong but safe. The sargassum near the shore of our Airbnb meant we had to look for somewhere else to swim, so we found a beautiful beach a mile or two from our rental. The white sand and turquoise water more than made up for the lack of accommodation. I was soaking it all in, watching my family enjoy an unforgettable day in the sun. However, I had to stay behind to look after the bags. This was a mostly unspoiled beach, away from the touristy part of Punta Cana. There was no security around the premises, and I know enough stories of friends wrapping up a great swim only to find their things stolen. I live in the Dominican Republic, a small country in the middle of the Caribbean Sea. No matter where I go on our island, there’s a beautiful beach a quick drive away—some of them counted among the best in the world, boasting homes the biggest celebrities frequent. And yet, while the beach is nearby and inexpensive, I hardly ever go. The reason is exactly what you’d expect: life gets in the way. We have three young kids with school and activities to attend. We have jobs. We have dogs. What’s more, I’m a pastor. We planted a church in 2022 that the Lord has blessed enormously, and the blessings of ministry usually result in more ministry. Preaching, yes, but also counseling and administration and meetings and visitations. I need to be honest with you: I’m not a fan of the beach. I don’t like sand. It’s coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere. But my family loves the beach, my wife especially. And if I find good shade and get to sit down with a good book and a cool breeze, I can enjoy it too. Over the years, we’ve made good memories at the beach. I do regret not going more often. And I long for days gone by. In this longing, I join our forebears, Adam and Eve. They, too, looked back at a time of beauty, safety, and companionship. Yet they also experienced, however briefly, what I haven’t—a life with no death, a world without regret and without deceit. We don’t live in that world, but we do live under the same Ruler, so our forebears give us the first example of life under exile. Our First Home The beginning of Genesis reads as if nothing could go wrong. In Genesis 1, God speaks, matter takes shape, and the universe falls into place. Yet suddenly, near the end of the chapter, the pace changes. God speaks reality into existence, then God speaks with humanity (v. 28), showcasing a relationship with humankind. After Genesis 1 details the forming, organizing, and establishing of the earth and the land and the sky and the sea, with all their beauty and splendor, the second chapter is dedicated fully to the creation of Adam and Eve. In the garden, at the outset of civilization, man and woman are together—truly together: “The man and his wife were both naked and were not ashamed” (2:25). In them, the seed of all mankind was found. They were to “be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth” (1:28). All creation would be shepherded as they exercised “dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over every living thing that moves on the earth” (v. 28). What’s more, they could have their fill and sustenance from creation (vv. 29–30). God’s plan was in motion. Through his Word, he’s Creator of all. And through his words, he engages his image-bearers (v. 26). Consequently, Adam and Eve can speak words of faithfulness and companionship and commitment (2:23). Truly, everything God made was very good (1:31). A garden with no sin, no death, no defiance. This is the world we were made to inhabit. Though our minds have no recollection of our creation and our brains have no memories of our first home, we were made from Eden’s dust (2:7). We were created for beauty and splendor, for companionship and commitment, and for a close relationship with the Creator. We were created for beauty and splendor, for companionship and commitment, and for a close relationship with the Creator. The beginning of Genesis reads like nothing could go wrong in God’s world. But we live in a world where the most perfect beaches are filled with sargassum. You go out for a swim and your things can get stolen. The sun is hot, sand is coarse, and even if you find the best possible job and live in the most developed nation in the world, you’re one phone call away from your whole life falling apart. Beginning of the Yearn As Genesis 3 brings a new character into the conversation, we’re immediately brought down to a reality more like ours. The crafty Serpent lures the woman into conversation. Familiarity with the scene keeps us from grasping the gravity of what’s happening. God’s goodness and provision are being questioned. The very means of creation—his Word—is indicted. The Creator is judged by his creation. Eve listens and is deceived. Adam joins her, and all humanity falls into temptation and sin: So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate, and she also gave some to her husband who was with her, and he ate. Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked. And they sewed fig leaves together and made themselves loincloths. (vv. 6–7) This moment’s effects would be felt by every human being. It’s the dawn of our exile, put into motion in these verbs—seeing, delighting, desiring, taking, eating, and giving of a fruit of disobedience. As the Lord approached, Adam and Eve recoiled from his presence. They could no longer rejoice in him, and they were afraid (v. 10). They blamed everyone but themselves (pinning it on each other, the snake, and the Lord). But God is not mocked. The consequences of their actions brought a curse to all of creation, accompanied by a fresh and ever-present sensory experience: pain. God said to Eve, “I will surely multiply your pain.” And to Adam, he said, “Cursed is the ground because of you; in pain you shall eat of it all the days of your life. . . . For you are dust, and to dust you shall return” (vv. 16–19). Can you feel how our exile began? It’s possible—desirable, truly—to feel at home in the most undesirable circumstances. “Home is where the heart is” sells as home decor because home is about people—our loved ones—more than a place. But before sin brought the curse, before pain, and before death, Adam and Eve felt shame. Sin led them to retreat from God instead of rejoicing in his presence. They were afraid of their Creator, and they blamed each other. There was no longer a sense of trust. In the absence of a loving relationship with each other and with God, how could they ever feel at home? The result is irrevocable: Therefore the LORD God sent him out from the garden of Eden to work the ground from which he was taken. He drove out the man, and at the east of the garden of Eden he placed the cherubim and a flaming sword that turned every way to guard the way to the tree of life. (vv. 23–24) It was a mercy that God reached out to them as quickly as he did. And it was mercy that exiled them out of the garden. Left to themselves, we can only imagine what they would’ve made of Eden. So mankind was cast out, and every boy and girl born after Adam and Eve has been born outside the garden. Let that thought sit for a second. We were created out of Eden’s dust, in an idyllic garden where the Lord himself would stroll by our side, where animals would do our will, and where death wouldn’t exist. But now we spend our days and weeks and months struggling in prayer. We’re afraid of animals. Funerals are far too familiar. The curse has been so destructive—our exile so prolonged—that we don’t even know how to find Eden, our first home. This is life in exile, east of Eden, outside the garden. But not outside hope. People on the Move A well-known Persian proverb says, “We come into this world crying while all around us are smiling. May we so live that we go out of this world smiling while everybody around us is weeping.” I appreciate the sentiment: the desire to live a good life that influences those around us. But notice the uplifting message is underscored by pain: A new life brings happiness, but the baby is in tears of confusion and dismay. Meanwhile, a good death will always be surrounded by the tears of those who loved. Since we don’t live in paradise, even on our best days there’s an undercurrent of unease. Suffering is never theoretical and never far. No matter how much we try to ignore it (and some of us are really good at it), there’s been no human being ever born who hasn’t experienced pain. And yet the pervasiveness of suffering is a reason for hope for those in exile. When Elijah is persecuted because of his faithfulness and wishes for death, crying in his loneliness in the wilderness, the Lord responds that the prophet isn’t alone: he’s joined by 7,000 others (1 Kings 19:4, 18). To the church, we hear a clear command to resist the Devil, “knowing that the same kinds of suffering are being experienced by [our] brotherhood throughout the world” (1 Pet. 5:9). In Christ, our transient suffering is the fulfillment of his promise, a demonstration of his victory over the world ( John 16:33). In Christ, our transient suffering is the fulfillment of his promise, a demonstration of his victory over the world. If you’re regularly singled out as the one who needs to do a “special assignment” for school or work while everybody else is enjoying his or her day, it’s hard not to feel treated unfairly. But this exile experience—of being outside our home, uneasy, on the move, with suffering as a constant—isn’t a special assignment. It’s part of the job. And Christians find comfort in knowing our forebears felt it, the best prophets felt it, and our brothers and sisters all over the world are feeling it today too. As was promised to another of our fathers, those who are joining us in our pilgrimage are as many as the grains of sand on that beach where my family swam (Gen. 22:17). So as we struggle with the sense of longing for another home, as we notice our souls yearning for better days, we must find rest in looking to our left and to our right and seeing with our spiritual eyes that we’re joined by a multitude larger than the stars. What started with Adam and Eve and Elijah and Peter is true of Christians all over the world today: we’ve been exiled but not left to ourselves. We’re not home, but we’re not homeless. Returning Home Every time I teach on Genesis, I’m asked some variation of the questions “Why did they sin? Why did they eat of that fruit?” Many better theologians have provided excellent responses, and one thing is clear: the human heart wants more. Our desire for more—to create, to innovate, to build relationships and robots and rollercoasters—is in part because of God’s image in us. But Adam and Eve’s appetite for more demonstrated their distrust of God and discontentment with his good gifts. Just as the flaming sword turned every way, if our hearts aren’t put in check—if our lives aren’t submitted to his rule—God will continue to exile us with the flame of hell until sin is put in its right place. Adam and Eve didn’t leave Eden on their own; they were cast out. After their sin, they tried to hide, but there was no way out until they faced God. At the end of the day, all our struggles begin and end with the Creator. Because our first father and mother were created in his image, they made themselves a pseudo solution for their perceived problem immediately after they sinned. Likewise, when we’re in an inescapable situation, our hearts try to fashion a way out, to spin an upside. But instead, we need to face the One who casts us out. In their sin, Adam and Eve ran from God. They exiled themselves from his presence before he exiled them. Feeling his nearness, they must have noticed not just the gravity of their actions but the feebleness of their fashioned solutions. “But the LORD God called to the man and said to him, ‘Where are you?’” (Gen. 3:9). God doesn’t play their games. He doesn’t let them run away. He goes after his beloved, and he chases after us. Sin starts in us, but salvation belongs to the Lord (Jonah 2:9). Because there’s no way home until we meet him, and because he’s sovereign over Eden and earth, he’s the One calling us to his presence. Because there’s no way home until we meet the Lord, and because he’s sovereign over Eden and earth, he’s the One calling us to his presence. Suffering is never far from us. Flung from Eden, we experience discomfort from life’s first cry. No human being experiences life without death. That’s the word of the Lord to the woman and man. But it’s not his only word. To the deceiving Serpent, he said, “I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and her offspring; he shall bruise your head, and you shall bruise his heel” (Gen. 3:15). The woman’s offspring, born east of Eden, would experience pain and death. Jesus is that offspring, and suffering wasn’t theoretical for him. He was “a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief” (Isa. 53:3). He too suffered exile, not only being hated by the world but also suffering “outside the gate in order to sanctify the people through his own blood” (Heb. 13:12). With his bruised heel, with his pierced side, he has opened a way back into God’s presence. So we can draw near with confidence, not shame, dressed in his righteousness, not in clothes of our own making. This is our present and constant hope. We’re not alone in our exile; we join in the yearning of our forefathers since the beginning of creation. We have lost our home but not our family. We’re not in the garden, so we lament. But while we suffer, we do so in the presence of him who was pierced to bring us back to God.

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