“God did not lead them by way of the Philistines, though that was shorter, for He said, ‘If they face war, they might change their minds and return to Egypt.’ Instead, He led them through the wilderness…” (Exodus 13:17-18)

When the Church Feels Like a Wilderness

There was a time when I thought the wilderness was exile – a place of loss, silence, and aching for a God who felt just out of reach.

I remember walking into church one Sunday, looking for sanctuary. I wanted stillness, a place where my soul could breathe. But instead, I found walls heavy with expectation. Spaces that spoke of belonging, yet left me feeling unseen.

The church was meant to be a refuge, a home for the weary. So why did it feel like a wilderness?

But maybe the wilderness was never exile. Maybe it was the invitation. A space where the edges of what I thought I knew—about God, about faith, about myself – began to blur, making room for something deeper.

The Journey Was the Point

When God led Israel out of Egypt, He didn’t take them down the shortest road. Not because He wanted to delay them, but because He wanted to preserve them.

But what if the wilderness wasn’t just about preparation? What if it wasn’t just a means to an end but the very place where transformation happened?

Israel longed for certainty, even if it came with chains. Conditioned by Egypt’s systems – its predictability, its survival mentality – they mistook the absence of familiar comforts for the absence of God. They saw lack where there was provision, delay where there was mercy.

And isn’t that the faith many of us inherited? A faith that measures blessing by ease, that sees struggle as failure? A faith built more on doing than being? Maybe the wilderness was never about testing their faith – it was about unravelling who they thought they were.

When Leadership Looks More Like Pharaoh Than Christ

But wilderness isn’t always an external place. Sometimes, it exists within the very walls built to protect us.

What happens when those called to lead start mirroring Pharaoh instead of Christ? When authority becomes control, and the church – meant to nourish – becomes a place where survival feels like the only option?

It’s not always malice. Sometimes, leaders carry Egypt in their bones, too. They hold onto control not out of cruelty, but out of fear – the same fear that once shaped them. They were never taught any other way.

Jesus warned of blind guides, not to condemn but to awaken. Because true leadership was never about standing above – it was about walking alongside. It was always meant to be shared ground, dust-covered and honest.

But when the shepherds build walls instead of opening doors, what happens to the sheep?

Maybe, like Moses’ fading glory, some leaders still cling to structures shaped by fear and control. Not because they want to, but because it’s all they’ve ever known. But in Christ, we are invited into something better – something that doesn’t fade but transforms from the inside out.

Jesus Didn’t Avoid the Wilderness; He Stepped Into It

Jesus didn’t escape the wilderness. He entered it. Willingly.

It was in hunger that He revealed fullness. In solitude, He found connection. In temptation, He revealed power – not through striving, but through surrender.

The wilderness didn’t diminish Him – it displayed Him.

Maybe that’s the real invitation. Not to survive the wilderness, but to be undone by it. To realise that the hunger it reveals is already met. That the thirst it exposes has already been quenched.

The battle in the wilderness isn’t with scarcity. It’s with the lie that we must earn what is already ours.

If Jesus met the tempter and left empowered, what does that say about a faith that only seeks the exit?

The Wilderness Was Always Sacred Ground

What if the wilderness isn’t where faith dies but where it finally comes alive?

Where silence becomes presence.
Where absence becomes invitation.
Where striving gives way to surrender, and every barren place becomes holy ground.

And maybe the church, at its best, isn’t meant to be an escape from the wilderness—but a place where we learn to walk through it together.

So the next time you find yourself in your own wilderness, don’t rush to escape. Pause. Breathe. Listen.

What if God isn’t waiting for you at the end?
What if He’s been here the whole time—hidden in the silence, steady in the ache, speaking through the emptiness you’re trying to avoid?

What if the wilderness was never exile?
What if it was an invitation all along?

Reflection

What if the wilderness isn’t a place of survival but of revelation?

And when those meant to guide us fall short—when their leadership feels like control rather than care—how do we return to the Shepherd who walks with us through every barren place?

You are not alone in the wilderness.
And maybe – just maybe – you were never lost at all.