Thin Air, High Hope

When I read Joshua 5:13–14 this morning, I stopped at the exchange between Joshua and the angel of the Lord:

“Are you for us or for our enemies?”
“Neither,” He replied. “I have now come as Commander of the Lord’s army.”

There’s something deeply comforting in that word: neither.

We live in a world obsessed with sides. Every conversation, from church pews to social media threads, seems to demand that we declare where we stand, what we believe, who we’re with, and who we’re against. We are constantly asked to pick teams, to draw lines in the sand, to declare what is true and what is not. Even among friends, the pressure to align can feel heavy.

So when I read that the angel of the Lord did not claim allegiance to Israel or to its enemies, I felt relief, the kind of peace that comes when you realize God stands outside our human divisions. He isn’t swayed by emotion, past pain, or fear of the future. He isn’t for or against us in the way we imagine. Instead, He is wholly, unwaveringly for what is good, true, and just, and He alone actually knows what those are.

James describes God’s wisdom as “impartial and sincere, full of mercy and good fruit.” God is not ruled by offense or bias. He is faithful and loving to a thousand generations, yet does not let injustice go unaddressed (Exodus 34:7). There is safety in that kind of presence, in knowing that God will not take sides out of pity, pride, or preference, but only out of truth.

This doesn’t mean that following God calls us to moral neutrality. Truth still matters; holiness still matters. But I think our human tendency is to mistake our emphases for God’s. We proclaim truth loudly in some areas and quietly in others, condemning what offends us while overlooking what might convict us. Our biases shape which sins we spotlight and which we excuse. God’s impartiality doesn’t erase moral standards; it exposes how unevenly we apply them.

And yet, that realization leads to another question: if God is impartial, if He doesn’t take sides, then how do we, as His followers, stand with truth without falling into partiality ourselves?

If I could ask Jesus, “What do you believe, so that I can believe it too?” (though I hesitate to say exactly what He may or may not do) I suspect He wouldn’t hand me a statement of faith. I imagine He might say, “Come, follow me.”

That invitation says everything. Truth, in the Kingdom of God, isn’t a position, it’s a person. It’s not a set of claims to defend, but a life to walk behind. To know where Jesus stands, we must watch how He moves: toward the hurting, the excluded, the shamed. To see His truth, we must look at His life.

And perhaps that’s also the way we discern truth in others, especially those we trust in public positions. What do their lives look like? How are their days filled? Not that we should look with a critical eye, but as Paul wrote in 1 Corinthians 11:1, “Follow my example, as I follow the example of Christ.” Are they known more for their opinions, or for the way they build up their community (and not only those who think the same)? Do their actions bear good fruit? The kind of fruit that is sweet, nourishing, and healing, or bitter, that only a select few can stomach?

But I think the harder, more honest question is the one we must ask ourselves.

Do I spend more time expressing opinions, drawing boundaries, and defining what I believe than I do actually walking alongside the people who suffer? Are my feet covered in the dust of compassion, or are they still clean from keeping my distance?

Am I found beside those who have been cast out to graveyards, those who fetch water alone in the heat of the day, who stink from illness, bleed in isolation, or whisper their questions in the dark, desperate for truth?

When Joshua encountered the Commander of the Lord’s army, his question, “Whose side are You on?”, was met not with allegiance, but with holiness. Realizing whose presence he was in, Joshua fell with his face to the ground in reverence and said, “I am at your command. What do you want your servant to do?”

Maybe that’s where we begin too: not by taking sides, but with our faces to the ground, laying down our claims, our certainties, our self-importance, quieting the urge to defend or declare. Maybe reverence, for us, begins in action.

Perhaps obedience looks less like winning arguments and more like washing feet. Less like proving a point and more like feeding the hungry, visiting the lonely, listening before speaking, forgiving before being asked. If God’s truth is a life to follow, then our call is to walk it out in humility: serving, loving, and embodying the mercy we so often debate.

Maybe the only words worth speaking are the ones Joshua spoke:

“I am at your command. What do you want your servant to do?”