It begins with a question that has echoed across centuries:
Does faith really make sense?
It’s a question that hums beneath the noise of modern life, rising in quiet moments—when prayers seem unanswered, when obedience feels costly, when God’s timing seems painfully slow.
To believe in a God you cannot see, to forgive people who will never apologize, to love enemies, to wait for promises that feel overdue—it all seems so unreasonable.
And yet, this is where the kingdom of God lives.
Not in the obvious, but in the upside-down.
Not in the logic of power, but in the wisdom of surrender.
Paul once called it “the foolishness of the cross.” To those looking on, it appeared weak, even absurd. But to those who have tasted grace, it is the power that changes everything.
David understood that kind of “foolishness.”
He was still young when God marked him for kingship, but the anointing came with no schedule, no explanation—just a promise and a long, uneven road.
Years passed.
Saul’s rage grew.
David’s opportunities came and went.
There were nights in the wilderness when he could have ended it all with one stroke—when Saul’s life was literally in his hands. Every voice around him urged action: “Take what’s yours. God already said it belongs to you.”
But David wouldn’t do it.
He would not use his own strength to grasp what God had promised to give.
So he waited.
And while the world might have called it weakness, heaven called it wisdom.
It’s easy to think faith means constant motion—always solving, always striving, always proving. But David’s life teaches us something quieter: sometimes the most courageous act of faith is to stay still.
To refuse revenge.
To pray instead of panic.
To pause when every instinct screams, move.
Foolish wisdom is what happens when obedience outruns understanding—when we choose to trust God even when the outcome makes no sense.
David’s restraint in the cave wasn’t fear; it was reverence. His waiting wasn’t delay; it was devotion.
Long after David’s songs faded, another King would walk the same paradox.
Jesus, the rightful heir to all things, stood before the very people He created—and said nothing.
He could have called angels. He could have defended Himself. He could have proven every critic wrong.
But He didn’t.
“When He was reviled,” Peter writes, “He did not revile in return… but entrusted Himself to Him who judges justly.”
It is the same pattern we see in David’s wilderness—strength wrapped in surrender, power restrained by love, wisdom that looks like foolishness to the watching world.
“Foolish wisdom is what happens when obedience outruns understanding—when we trust God even when the outcome makes no sense.”
We spend most of life between anointing and arrival—between what God has promised and what we can see. The waiting feels long, sometimes endless. But it is in that in-between where faith is formed.
The world will tell you to hurry, to fix, to control.
But the Spirit whispers, be still.
For it is often in the silence, the hidden obedience, and the quiet surrender that God shapes a heart after His own.
So if you find yourself in a season where nothing makes sense—where faith feels foolish—take courage.
You are not behind.
You are becoming.
And the One who called you is still working, even in the waiting.
