Gratitude, Trust, and Faithfulness

The apostle Paul writes, “Do all things without murmurings and disputings: That ye may be blameless and harmless, the sons of God, without rebuke, in the midst of a crooked and perverse nation, among whom ye shine as lights in the world…” (Phil. 2:14–15).

Some years ago, when teaching the weekly Torah portion, presumably touching on the subject of the Amorites, Hittites, Perizzites, Canaanites, Hivites, and Jebusites, I added a people-group not included in this list, the “Murmurite.” To this day I am not sure where the thought originated, perhaps from my own experience and time spent in the camp of the “Murmurites.” 

When the children of Israel began to murmur in the wilderness, Moses responded, “Your murmurings are not against us, but against the Lord” (Ex. 16:8). What did he mean? 

A murmur‑ite is my name for that subtle, creeping spiritual parasite that feeds on dissatisfaction, whispers complaint, and drains joy. It thrives in the shadows of the heart, where disappointment, impatience, and fear mingle; and it disguises itself as harmless honesty. I know the signs and implications of murmuring, as at different seasons in life it was like a second fluent language. 

That being said, Scripture is clear: murmuring is not a minor flaw, it erodes faith and denies the efficacy of covenant, at least from our perspective. 

Israel did not lose battles because of giants; they lost ground because of murmuring. The wilderness did not defeat them, their tongues did; and unfortunately the power of the tongue yet remains (Jas. 3:1-10). 

A murmur is small, but it grows and multiplies quickly. It spreads through households, congregations, and communities. It turns worshipers into worriers, pilgrims into prisoners, and gratitude into grumbling.

Murmuring is not just complaining, it is misplaced and misdirected theology. How so? 

1. Murmuring questions God’s character: When Israel murmured about water, manna, or leadership, God heard something deeper than words: “Is the Lord among us or not?” (Ex.17:7). Murmuring is the heart’s way of saying, “I’m not sure God is good, present, or wise.”

2. Murmuring rewrites the past: Israel said, “We remember the fish we ate in Egypt…” (Num. 11:5). Murmuring romanticizes bondage and distorts memory, causing us to look back to bondage in fondness, not forward in faith.

3. Murmuring blinds us to His provision: The people stood in front of daily miracles, manna, water from the rock, a cloud by day, fire by night, and still murmured. A “murmur‑ite” makes miracles look mundane.

4. Murmuring spreads spiritual infection: Ten spies murmured, and an entire nation lost faith and suffered judgment. Murmuring is contagious; while gratitude is curative.

The Lord never commands us to stop something without giving us something better to set our hearts and minds to: 

1. Practice covenantal gratitude: Not generic positivity or contrived optimism, but covenant remembrance. Recall what the Lord has done, not what He has yet to do. 

2. Speak faith aloud: The apostle Paul says, “holding fast to the word of life, so that in the day of Christ I may be proud that I did not run in vain or labor in vain” (Phil. 2:16). Faith grows when spoken, when lived and depended on; murmuring grows when whispered, or spoken in the shadowy places of the heart. 

3. Rehearse God’s character: When the heart is tempted to murmur, declare: the Lord is faithful, He is present, He is wise, He is working.

4. Replace murmuring with intercession: If something burdens you, fast and pray it instead of murmuring it. Intercession turns complaint into communion with the fullness of the Godhead and the faithful.

Dear faithful, a murmur, and therefore a Murmurite, cannot survive in an atmosphere of gratitude and thanksgiving. It suffocates when the heart remembers who the Lord is. The murmur dies when the tongue chooses praise over complaint. Murmurs wither when faith speaks louder than fear.

Let the wilderness, we all spend time there, hear your praise, worship and adoration, not your murmuring. Ask yourself questions about your own times of dissatisfaction or trial, and the response in it: Where have I allowed murmuring to replace faith? What miracle(s) have I stopped noticing? Who might be affected by the tone of my heart? What can I thank the Lord for right now?

There is no more sobering and convicting reminder than our Lord Yeshua/Jesus on the cross. Bearing our sin and shame, He did not murmur or complain, gossip or threaten, but submitted Himself to the will of the Father, and asked His forgiveness because, as so often the case, “they know not what they do.” 

A prayer: Father of mercies, reveal the murmurite hiding in the corners of my heart. Cleanse me from the parasite of complaint. Teach me to trust Your timing, Your wisdom, and Your goodness. Fill my mouth with gratitude, my mind with remembrance, and my spirit with the joy of Your salvation. Make me a child who shines Your light without murmuring, a city on a hill shining that others may see Your faithfulness working in me. In Yeshua’s name, Amen.

Maranatha. Shalom. 

Parshat Vayechi (וַיְחִי)

“And Jacob lived in the land of Egypt seventeen years. So the days of Jacob, the years of his life, were 147 years” (Gen. 47:28).

וַיְחִי יַעֲקֹב בְּאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם, שְׁבַע עֶשְׂרֵה שָׁנָה

The Torah portion Vayechi, and he lived, opens with a quiet but powerful statement: Jacob lived. He did not just survive, but that he truly lived, even in Egypt. If we read quickly, we miss it, as this thought is striking. Egypt typically represents exile, compromise, restriction in Scripture, as well as the long descent into bondage that will shape Israel’s future. Yet, Jacob’s final years, paradoxically, are among the most peaceful and fulfilling of his life.

After decades marked by conflict, deception, estrangement, and grief, Jacob is reunited with Joseph, the son he believed dead. His family is preserved from famine, dwelling together in safety. Still, this Torah portion is not sentimental. Jacob knows his days are numbered, and his concern is not his own comfort, but continuity of the covenant family. He understands that faith must be consciously transmitted, especially in seasons of security.

As death approaches, Jacob calls for Joseph and makes him swear an oath: “Do not bury me in Egypt … Carry me out and bury me with my fathers” (Gen. 47:29-30). This is not an incidental request, but a theological one. 

On one level, Joseph is the obvious choice. As viceroy of Egypt, he alone has the authority to ensure Jacob’s burial in Canaan; but the deeper reason is more unsettling. Joseph is the most assimilated of Jacob’s sons. He wears Egyptian clothing, bears an Egyptian name, is married into Egyptian society, and has sons born in exile. From a human perspective, Joseph has little incentive to return to the Promised Land or involve his children in the burdens of covenant history.

Jacob understands this danger intimately. He has lived seventeen years with Joseph and surely recognizes the subtle changes that prosperity, acceptance, and assimilation can bring. So Jacob does not just plan his burial; he re-anchors his family in covenant time. He, in essence, forces a question upon Joseph: Where do you belong?

This becomes explicit in Genesis 48, when Jacob adopts Joseph’s sons, Ephraim and Manasseh, as his own. This is a maneuver that carries legal weight in the future of the tribes of Israel, but it is also a pastoral act of healing and prophecy.

Joseph names his firstborn Manasseh, meaning “causing to forget,” because the Lord enabled him to forget the pain of betrayal and suffering he had experienced. His second son is Ephraim, meaning “fruitful,” because the Lord made him fruitful in the land of affliction. These names tell Joseph’s story: healing from trauma and blessing in exile.

Jacob honors this story, but he also reframes it to bring healing.

When Jacob reaches out to bless the boys, he crosses his hands, placing the greater blessing upon the younger son, Ephraim. Joseph objects, assuming a mistake. Jacob insists it is intentional. It is not an act of favoritism, but prophetic foresight. 

Jacob knows that Israel is entering a long exile. These are the first sons born in Egypt. Forgetting pain is a gift, but forgetting identity is fatal. Jacob does not deny Manasseh’s blessing, as forgetting sorrow has its place, but the greater blessing belongs to fruitfulness that remembers its source and destination.

In essence, Jacob is saying: healing must never erase calling. Prosperity must never dissolve memory. Blessing must never replace hope for redemption.

This tension remains profoundly relevant. Our faith communities today often wrestle with success, safety, and assimilation. When life becomes comfortable, covenant memory fades. Jacob’s crossed hands remind us that the greatest blessing is not ease, but purpose.

Jacob’s work continues as he blesses all his sons, prophetically situating them within God’s unfolding plan. Two blessings stand out: Judah and Joseph.

From Judah will come kingship and Messiah, as he prophesied that the scepter shall not depart Judah “until Shiloh comes.” From Joseph comes fruitfulness among the nations, echoing the apostolic insight that Israel’s story unfolds alongside the ingathering of the Gentiles (Ro. 11:25). These brothers once stood at odds, one nearly destroyed by the other, are both woven into the redemptive plan of God in Messiah Yeshua/Jesus.

This is covenant time at work: rivalry transformed into cooperation; wounds redeemed into purpose (Ro. 8:28).

The structure of the Torah itself reinforces this message. Vayechi (and he lived) is unique in that it contains no paragraph break from the previous portion, Vayigash. Rabbinic tradition requires breaks between parashot, yet here the text flows uninterrupted. Why? Simply, because covenant history does not stop.

Scripture consistently resists tidy endings. Genesis does not resolve its story; it spills into Exodus. Joseph’s bones do not reach rest until Joshua 24. The Gospels flow naturally into Acts, and Acts ends abruptly, inviting participation. Even Revelation concludes not with finality, but expectancy: “Surely I am coming quickly.” This is not a literary accident. It is theological design.

The Bible is not solely a record of what God has done, it is an invitation into what He is still doing. Covenant time moves forward with purpose, promise, and hope in Christ.

This stands in stark contrast to the Greco-Roman concept of cyclical time, embodied in the myth of Sisyphus, endless repetition without progress or meaning. Covenant time, by contrast, moves toward fulfillment. History matters. Choices matter. Faithfulness matters.

Jacob understood this, and he did not want his descendants to sink into the despair of exile or the emptiness of assimilation, ultimately leading to disappearance. He blessed them with hope, foreshadowing the Spirit of Adoption in his grandsons that Paul will later amplify (Ro. 8:15, 23) as assurance to gentiles in Messiah. But Jacob’s words were not just for their survival, but for destiny.

For us today, Vayechi (and he lives) asks searching questions: Are we living as children of remembrance, or children of forgetting? Do we see our lives as isolated episodes of a sitcom, or as chapters in the Lord’s unfolding story? Do we bless the next generation with comfort, or with calling?

In Messiah Yeshua/Jesus, covenant time continues. Through forgiveness, reconciliation, obedience, and hope, we are still living His story by faith. The road is open, the destination is certain, and the journey matters. Jacob lived, even in Egypt, because he knew where the covenant promise was going. May we always live mindful of His promises. 

Maranatha. Shalom.