And the LORD said to Gideon, “With the 300 men who lapped I will save you and give the Midianites into your hand.”— Judges 7:7
We prepare for the big moments. The interview, the presentation, the crisis, the day we assume our lives will be weighed. And all the while, Scripture keeps insisting that God does His choosing somewhere else entirely. In this story, no one is selected on the battlefield. No one is selected giving a speech or performing a miracle. Three hundred men are set apart at a stream, doing the most ordinary thing a human being can do. Drinking water.
Follow how the army shrinks. Thirty-two thousand gather against Midian. God says they are too many, lest Israel boast over me, saying, “My own hand has saved me” (Judg. 7:2), and sends the fearful home. Twenty-two thousand leave. The ten thousand who remain have already passed a real test. They stayed when they were free to go. These are the courageous ones.
And God says, still too many (Judg. 7:4). Then He does something strange. He does not ask Gideon to test their swordsmanship or interview them about their faith. He takes them down to the spring of Harod and watches them drink.
Notice what kind of test this is. It is unannounced. It is unglamorous. And it is impossible to fake. A man can perform courage when he knows the general is watching. He cannot perform anything while doing something he has done ten thousand times without thinking. Tradition holds that the three hundred who lapped from their hands stayed on their feet, eyes up, alert even in rest, while the others knelt with their faces to the stream. The text itself never explains the sorting. But this much is certain: the water created nothing that day. Whatever it found in those men was already there. The doorway into God’s great work was not a great deed. It was a small, unguarded hour.
This is a pattern, not an exception. Before Goliath, David was keeping sheep no one counted (1 Sam. 16:11). Before the throne of Egypt, Joseph was managing a prison’s daily lists (Gen. 39:22-23). Before the twelve were called, Peter was washing nets after an empty night of fishing (Luke 5:2, 5). In every case the resume God read was written in ordinary time, in tasks nobody applauded.
Jesus states the principle outright: one who is faithful in a very little is also faithful in much (Luke 16:10). We usually hear that as a promise about promotion. It is really a claim about who we are when nothing seems to be at stake. The person we are at the sink, in traffic, answering the email no one will ever forward, in the conversation where no one influential is listening — that person is the self God sees. There is no off-duty self.
A seventeenth-century Carmelite monk named Brother Lawrence spent more than thirty years in his monastery's lowest work, much of it scrubbing pots amid the clatter and steam of the kitchen. He had hoped for a nobler post. What he found instead has outlived every sermon preached in that monastery: God was as fully present at the sink as at the altar, and a dish washed for the love of God was itself a kind of prayer. The kitchen was his spring of Harod.
A story like that frightens me and comforts me at the same time. Frightening, because I know how differently I behave when I believe something counts. Comforting, because it means no season of my life is wasted ground. The hidden years, the unnoticed work, the quiet obediences that felt like they evaporated. None of it evaporated. At Harod, the most forgettable act of a soldier's day turned out to be the hinge of his story.
God gave His three hundred trumpets, empty jars, and torches (Judg. 7:16). Small men chosen through a small act, handed small things. When the jars shattered in the dark and the light blazed out, an army like locusts fled before them (Judg. 7:19-22). The pattern holds from beginning to end. God takes what is unimpressive and makes it the vessel of His power, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us (2 Cor. 4:7).
The three hundred did not become great that night. They had been faithful in the small, and God supplied the great.
We keep waiting for the moment that will define us, and we let the ordinary hours slide by as if they were rehearsal. This story says there is no rehearsal. The choosing happens in the hours we think don’t count. Somewhere in the coming week there is a stream, some ordinary hour when no one is watching, and it will reveal exactly who we have been becoming.
We will not recognize it as a test. That is the test.
If you have been faithful in small things for a long time and it feels like no one has noticed — someone has.
He was at the water.
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