The God of the Impossible

Every Time God Was About to Do Something Impossible, He Started Here First

There is something I have been seeing in Scripture that I cannot unsee.

Again and again, when God is about to reveal Himself in a way that leaves no room for human boasting, He allows His people to arrive at a place where their own strength, resources, reasoning, timing, and alternatives are exhausted.

The Red Sea does not open while Israel still has several escape routes.

Elijah does not call down fire on an altar prepared under ideal conditions.

Gideon does not defeat Midian with the largest army he can assemble.

Lazarus is not raised while he is merely sick.

The multitude is not fed from overflowing storehouses.

Again and again, Scripture brings us to the edge of human ability—and then introduces us afresh to the God of the impossible.

I want to be careful here. I am not saying that God must always wait until everything has collapsed before He works. Scripture contains many kinds of miracles, many kinds of providence, and many ways in which God moves.

But there is an unmistakable biblical pattern: God is completely unthreatened by the place where human possibility ends.

In fact, some of His greatest demonstrations of glory have occurred precisely there.

That matters to me because I have discovered that I naturally want God to intervene before I reach the impossible place.

I want Him to stop Pharaoh before I see the chariots.

I want Him to heal Lazarus before the funeral.

I want Him to increase Gideon’s army, not reduce it.

I want Him to dry Elijah’s altar, not soak it.

I want Him to provide thousands of loaves instead of asking me what I have in my hands.

But the God I encounter in Scripture repeatedly says, in effect:

“Do not confuse the end of your resources with the end of Mine.”

There are moments when what I call a dead end may actually become the stage upon which God reveals something about Himself that I could never have learned while I still had alternatives.

And that is where this teaching begins.

The Red Sea: When God Allows the Escape Route to Disappear

Exodus 14 is one of the clearest pictures of this.

Israel has just left Egypt.

They have seen the plagues.

They have watched Pharaoh finally release them.

They have walked out of generations of bondage.

They have seen the faithfulness of God with their own eyes.

And then God leads them into what appears to be a strategic disaster.

The sea is in front of them.

Pharaoh’s army is behind them.

There is no bridge.

There is no navy.

There is no military plan.

There is no second road.

They are trapped.

And Scripture makes something remarkable clear: God knew exactly where He was leading them.

He instructed Moses where Israel was to camp, and He declared beforehand that Pharaoh would believe they were wandering in confusion.

From Pharaoh’s perspective, Israel had made a mistake.

From God’s perspective, Pharaoh had entered the place God had chosen for the revelation of His glory.

That distinction is enormous.

Something can look like a mistake to man while being completely known to God.

Israel saw:

Army. Sea. Death.

God saw:

Glory. Deliverance. Revelation.

Israel cried out in fear.

They turned against Moses.

They began romanticizing the slavery they had just escaped.

That is what fear can do. When the future looks impossible, bondage can begin to look safer than obedience.

They said, essentially, “We would have been better off in Egypt.”

And Moses answered:

“Do not be afraid. Stand firm, and you will see the deliverance the LORD will bring you today.”

Then God told them to move forward.

Forward?

Forward was the sea.

There are seasons when God’s command makes no sense until His power makes a way beneath it.

Israel could not see the road because the road did not yet exist.

That may be one of the greatest lessons of faith I have ever learned:

I do not always need to see the road before I obey the command to move forward.

God can create a road where there has never been one.

He can put dry ground under feet that were standing moments earlier before an uncrossable sea.

And when Israel crossed, no one could say, “What excellent planning.”

No one could say, “Moses found an overlooked route.”

No one could praise Israeli military ingenuity.

The sea opened.

The people walked through.

Pharaoh’s power was broken.

And God received the glory.

There are times when God removes every explanation except Himself.

Perhaps some of us are standing at a Red Sea right now.

Something is behind us that we cannot return to.

Something is before us that we cannot cross.

And we are asking, “God, why did You lead me here?”

But perhaps the better question is:

“Lord, what do You intend to reveal about Yourself here?”

The sea is not proof that God abandoned Israel.

The sea became the place where they discovered dimensions of His power they had never seen before.

Elijah: When God Pours Water on the Altar

Then I come to Elijah on Mount Carmel.

Israel has endured years of drought.

Water is precious.

The prophets of Baal have spent hours crying out to a god who cannot answer.

They shout.

They dance.

They cut themselves.

Nothing happens.

Then Elijah repairs the altar of the Lord.

He prepares the sacrifice.

And then he does something that makes absolutely no sense if his objective is simply to produce fire.

He pours water over it.

Then more water.

Then more water.

Until the sacrifice is drenched, the wood is soaked, and the trench around the altar is filled.

If I were advising Elijah from a human perspective, I might say:

“Elijah, this miracle is already difficult enough. Why are you making it harder?”

But that is exactly the point.

Elijah is removing human explanation.

He is making sure that when the fire falls, nobody can say there must have been a hidden ember.

Nobody can say the wood was unusually dry.

Nobody can say Elijah manipulated the conditions.

God would answer in such a way that the people would know:

The LORD, He is God.

Then Elijah prays.

And the fire falls.

It consumes the sacrifice.

The wood.

The stones.

The dust.

The water.

Everything.

There have been moments in my own walk when I have wanted God to remove the water from my altar.

Instead, more seemed to be poured on.

The situation became harder.

The timing became more difficult.

Resources decreased.

Human assurances disappeared.

And I wondered, “Lord, why are You allowing this to become more impossible?”

I have come to realize that there are times when God does not immediately reduce the impossibility because He intends to magnify the revelation.

What if the water on your altar is not proof that the fire will never fall?

What if the soaked wood is about to become part of the testimony?

I am not telling people to manufacture impossible circumstances. That would be presumption, not faith.

But when obedience to God leads me into circumstances that become increasingly beyond my control, I refuse to conclude that God has lost control.

He does not need favorable conditions.

He does not need perfect circumstances.

He does not need everything aligned according to my timetable.

The God who answered Elijah with fire is not intimidated by wet wood.

Gideon: When God Says, “You Have Too Much”

Then there is Gideon.

I love Gideon’s story because God finds him hiding.

He is threshing wheat in a winepress because he is afraid of Midian.

And the angel of the Lord addresses him as:

“Mighty warrior.”

God speaks to Gideon according to what divine purpose is going to produce, not according to what fear presently looks like.

Eventually Gideon gathers an army.

Thirty-two thousand men.

Against Midian, that is already terribly inadequate.

And God says:

“You have too many.”

I cannot imagine Gideon’s face.

Too many?

God tells him to release the fearful.

Twenty-two thousand leave.

Ten thousand remain.

God says again:

“Too many.”

Eventually Gideon is left with three hundred.

Three hundred men against an enemy described as innumerable, spread across the valley like locusts.

Why would God do that?

Judges gives us the answer.

God says Israel might boast and say:

“My own strength has saved me.”

There it is.

God was not simply preparing victory.

He was preparing a victory that could not be stolen by human pride.

Sometimes reduction is not rejection.

Sometimes God removes the very thing I thought I needed so that I will discover what I actually needed all along.

Him.

I have learned that I can become very dependent on numbers.

People.

Money.

Influence.

Connections.

Plans.

Experience.

Credentials.

Structures.

I can begin by trusting God and then quietly begin trusting what God has given me.

And sometimes He touches the numbers.

Thirty-two thousand becomes ten thousand.

Ten thousand becomes three hundred.

And I begin asking:

“Lord, why are You reducing what I need?”

And perhaps heaven is answering:

“Because you are about to discover that what you thought you needed was never the source of your victory.”

Three hundred men.

Trumpets.

Torches.

Clay jars.

An army that looks like locusts.

And God wins the battle.

There are victories God will not allow our ego to explain.

Lazarus: When God Walks Past Our Deadline

Then I come to John 11.

This story reaches me differently because it touches the painful question of divine delay.

Lazarus is sick.

Jesus loves Lazarus.

Jesus loves Martha.

Jesus loves Mary.

And yet when Jesus hears that Lazarus is sick, He does not immediately go.

He waits.

That is difficult theology.

Because I often interpret love as immediate intervention.

“If God loves me, surely He will stop this quickly.”

But John deliberately connects Christ’s love with His delay.

Jesus knows what He intends to reveal.

By the time He reaches Bethany, Lazarus has been dead four days.

Martha comes to Him and says:

“Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.”

Mary later says essentially the same thing.

I hear faith in those words.

But I also hear disappointment.

“I know what You could have done.”

“I know You had the power.”

“I just don’t understand why You did not come when there was still time.”

How many believers have prayed some version of that prayer?

“Lord, where were You?”

“Why didn’t You intervene?”

“Why did You allow the situation to pass the point of recovery?”

And Jesus does something profoundly beautiful.

He weeps.

He knows Lazarus is about to walk out of the tomb.

Yet He enters their grief.

The God of the impossible is not emotionally detached from human suffering.

He is not standing beside the tomb telling grieving people they should be more spiritual.

Jesus weeps.

Faith does not require us to pretend death is painless.

Faith does not require us to call loss good.

Faith does not demand that we deny grief.

Jesus grieves with them—and then walks toward the tomb.

Martha warns Him.

By now there will be an odor.

In other words:

“Jesus, this situation has gone beyond prayer.”

“This is no longer sickness.”

“This is no longer critical illness.”

“This is decomposition.”

“This is irreversible.”

But Jesus does not share Martha’s deadline.

And that speaks powerfully to me.

I can believe in God while still secretly maintaining a category called too late.

Too late for restoration.

Too late for reconciliation.

Too late for healing.

Too late for purpose.

Too late for ministry.

Too late for a promise.

Too late because of age.

Too late because of failure.

Too late because too many years have passed.

Too late because something has already been buried.

And Jesus stands before the tomb and says:

“Lazarus, come out!”

The dead man walks.

I do not believe this gives me permission to proclaim that every buried dream will be resurrected exactly as I want it.

That would go beyond Scripture.

But it gives me something even stronger:

I will never call something impossible merely because it is impossible for me.

God’s ability does not decrease as my circumstances deteriorate.

Four days in a tomb do not weaken resurrection power.

Five Loaves: When What I Have Is Ridiculously Insufficient

Then there is the multitude.

Thousands of people.

Late in the day.

A remote place.

Hungry families.

The disciples are practical.

“Send them away.”

That makes sense.

Jesus responds:

“You give them something to eat.”

And immediately the disciples face the impossibility.

They do not have enough.

Eventually five loaves and two fish are brought to Jesus.

That is not a small shortage.

That is absurd insufficiency.

Five loaves.

Two fish.

Thousands of people.

And I think this is where many of us become paralyzed.

We look at the size of what God has placed before us and then look at what is in our hands.

And the mathematics humiliates us.

The calling is bigger than the money.

The assignment is bigger than the team.

The need is bigger than our capacity.

The vision is bigger than our strength.

And we say:

“Lord, I have only…”

Only five loaves.

Only two fish.

Only three hundred men.

Only a staff.

Only a soaked altar.

Only what remains after everything else has disappeared.

But what I place in the hands of Jesus cannot be measured merely by what it was when it was in mine.

Jesus takes the bread.

He gives thanks.

He breaks it.

He distributes it.

And there is enough.

More than enough.

Twelve baskets remain.

I have discovered that God is not asking me to possess enough.

He is asking me to surrender what I possess.

That changes everything.

When Human Ability Ends

When I step back and look at these stories together, I see the pattern.

A sea with no bridge.

An altar that cannot burn.

Three hundred men against an overwhelming enemy.

A corpse four days in a tomb.

Five loaves confronting thousands of hungry people.

Each circumstance asks the same question:

What happens when human ability ends?

Scripture answers:

God is still God.

That may sound simple until life forces us to live it.

It is easy to sing about the God of the impossible while I still have fourteen possible solutions.

It is another thing entirely when I have tried every door and nothing opens.

When the report says no.

When the bank account says no.

When people say no.

When my own strength says no.

When time says no.

When circumstances say no.

When the tomb has been sealed.

That is when theology becomes trust.

And there are moments when heaven seems to whisper:

“Now you are going to discover what you have been preaching.”

But I Must Give This Warning

I want to guard this truth carefully because prophetic encouragement can become dangerous if we turn it into a formula.

Not every Red Sea in our lives parts the way we expect.

Not every Lazarus comes out of the tomb.

Stephen was stoned.

James was killed.

John the Baptist was beheaded.

Paul carried a thorn that God did not remove despite repeated prayer.

Many faithful believers have suffered terribly while remaining deeply loved by God.

So the message of the God of the impossible is not:

“If you believe hard enough, God must give you the outcome you want.”

No.

The greater truth is this:

No circumstance can prevent God from accomplishing what He has determined to accomplish.

Sometimes His glory is revealed through deliverance.

Sometimes through endurance.

Sometimes through healing.

Sometimes through grace that sustains us without healing.

Sometimes He changes the circumstances.

Sometimes He changes us so profoundly in the circumstances that the world cannot explain the peace, courage, holiness, and steadfastness it sees.

The miracle is not always escaping the fire.

Sometimes the miracle is discovering the Fourth Man walking with us inside it.

That is still the God of the impossible.

I Refuse to Give Impossibility the Final Word

So when I stand before something impossible, I want to discipline my heart.

I do not want to deny reality.

Israel really was trapped.

The altar really was soaked.

Gideon really was outnumbered.

Lazarus really was dead.

The multitude really was hungry.

Faith does not lie about circumstances.

Faith simply refuses to let circumstances have the final word concerning God.

I can say:

“This is impossible for me.”

without ever saying:

“This is impossible for Him.”

Those are entirely different statements.

I do not know what your Red Sea looks like.

I do not know what army is behind you.

I do not know what altar seems too wet to burn.

I do not know what has been reduced from thirty-two thousand to three hundred.

I do not know what you buried four days ago—or four years ago.

I do not know what five loaves and two fish you keep staring at while thousands of needs surround you.

But I know this:

God has never looked at impossibility the way we do.

He has never encountered a circumstance larger than His authority.

He has never faced a shortage that diminished His resources.

He has never arrived too late because He was powerless.

He has never needed favorable conditions in order to be God.

And when I arrive at the place where my ability ends, I have not reached the end of God.

Perhaps I have reached the beginning of a revelation of God I could not have received any other way.

Perhaps the Red Sea in front of me is about to become a testimony behind me.

Perhaps the water on the altar will make the fire more unmistakable.

Perhaps the reduction is preparing a victory that pride cannot steal.

Perhaps the tomb I have declared too late is teaching me that Jesus has authority even beyond my deadlines.

Perhaps the little in my hands is simply waiting to be surrendered into His.

So I will not worship the impossibility.

I will not make an idol out of the diagnosis.

I will not bow before the numbers.

I will not surrender to the deadline.

I will not call the tomb sovereign.

I will not call the sea lord.

There is only one Lord.

Jesus Christ.

And when every human option has disappeared, He remains.

When my strength has ended, He remains.

When explanations disappear, He remains.

When hope feels buried, He remains.

When I cannot see the road, He remains.

When I cannot calculate enough, He remains.

When I do not understand the delay, He remains.

And perhaps this is the deepest lesson of all:

The miracle is not merely that God can make the impossible possible.

The miracle is that when I stand in the impossible place, I discover that He Himself is enough.

The sea may open.

The fire may fall.

The army may scatter.

The dead may rise.

The bread may multiply.

Or He may give me grace to stand in circumstances I never would have chosen.

But whichever way He reveals His glory, I know this:

The impossible has never frightened God.

It has never restricted Him.

It has never surprised Him.

And it has never been greater than Him.

So when I arrive at the place where everything in me says,

“There is no way,”

I want my spirit to remember:

That sentence has never been authoritative in the presence of Almighty God.

He is still the God who makes roads through seas.

He is still the God who answers by fire.

He is still the God who wins battles with three hundred.

He is still the Resurrection and the Life.

He is still the One who takes what is insufficient and makes it enough.

He is still Lord over what I understand.

And He is still Lord over what I cannot possibly understand.

He is the God of the impossible.

And when I have come to the end of myself, I may discover that I have arrived at the very place where I can finally see just how unlimited He has always been.

Peter Nash :::