Rebekah and the Tension of Trust

   

        When somebody says Rebekah, what comes to mind is a beautiful young girl, bustling along with her water jars, in the heat of Upper Mesopotamia, in what is today southeastern Turkey. She had courageously and generously offered water to a traveller and his camels, while he watched, wide-eyed, as God answered his prayers in technicolour. She was the heroine of dreams, the perfect wife for his young master, Isaac. She was young, radiant, and unafraid; her simple act of kindness unfolding like the first scene in a story only heaven could have written.

        And as in all good stories, the plot quickly twisted. Rebekah was barren. For a long time. That is a very hard pill to swallow. It is the kind of waiting that wears a woman down from the inside out. It can make you bitter and it can make you desperate. Hope, when stretched too thin, can start to look like a loss of control. From there rises the need to shape life’s outcomes with your own hands, especially when heaven seems silent.

        In that season of longing, Isaac prayed, and God answered. Rebekah conceived. But it was a difficult pregnancy, and she begged God to comfort her. But instead of immediate relief, God revealed a surprising word to Rebekah:

“Two nations are in your womb, and two peoples from within you will be separated; one people will be stronger than the other, and the older will serve the younger.” 
(Genesis 25:23)

       The prophecy given to Rebekah spoke of destiny, not instruction. God revealed what would be, but not how it should unfold. It was a promise, not a method. Yet Rebekah did not wait. She favoured Jacob and engineered the deception that secured Isaac’s blessing. Her intervention brought fear, division, rivalry, discord, broken relationships and finally, exile. This leaves me with an unsettling question. Was the resulting conflict part of God’s design, or the result of a human need for anxious control? 

I recognise this tension in myself. How often do I confuse faith with intervention because waiting feels unsafe?

       Rebekah is often called a prophetess, but revelation did not guarantee wisdom. Divine insight revealed purpose but not permission. Struggle did not remove human limitation and revelation did not excuse manipulation.

        And finally, God’s sovereignty did not depend on human control. His purposes stand without fear, urgency or coercion. As Job confesses, “I know that you can do all things; no purpose of yours can be thwarted” (Job 42:2). Human impatience, however, often disguises itself as discernment. Scripture reminds us that God looks at the heart, and not performance but alignment.

        Human wisdom remains fragile. Even well-intended action can sometimes distort what trust would have ultimately preserved. James warns that wisdom driven by envy or selfish ambition is not from God, but earthly and disordering. True wisdom, he writes, is pure, peace-loving, gentle, full of mercy, impartial and sincere (James 3:13–18).

        Rebekah’s story reveals a central truth. God’s plans and purposes are secure, but human fear can complicate our path. Rivalry and deception arise from human hearts, not divine intent. God’s choosing is not favouritism, but purpose shaped by covenant and calling.

        So then, is free will simply the illusion of choosing lentil soup over barbecued steak, and are our lives being moved like pieces in a divine puppet show? Rebekah’s story helps us sit with this divine mystery. God’s sovereignty secures the outcome, but within that framework, our choices are real and consequential. They are not meaningless gestures, yet they cannot ultimately thwart God’s purposes. We act, we think and we respond or react, but the stage on which we act is held firmly in God’s hands. Our freedom is real, yet it is exercised within a larger story that He alone can see in full.

        The lesson is both sobering and gentle. Knowing God’s will does not justify manipulation. Waiting is often the truest act of faith. God’s grace can carry His purposes forward even through human error. Rebekah’s tragedy was not misunderstanding the promise, but being unable to rest in it.

My Reflection

        Rebekah’s story does not resolve the tension between promise and action. It teaches us how to live within it. Faith is rarely tested in moments of clarity, but in the long, uneasy stretches where waiting feels unsafe and control feels like wisdom. Revelation and prophecy may show us what God intends, but trust shapes how we live while we wait for Him to move.

        When life wounds us or leaves us exposed for too long, something in us tightens. Hurt, loss and prolonged hardship can push the human heart into survival mode. When fear takes hold, we often respond through fight, trying to force outcomes; flight, withdrawing or escaping; freeze, becoming paralysed by indecision; or fawn, managing people and circumstances to keep peace or secure safety. In these moments, helping God along can feel responsible rather than reactive, even faithful rather than fearful.

        Yet even the most clever and seemingly justified plans can arise not from trust, but from anxiety, favouritism or impatience. True wisdom moves differently. It is humble, peaceable, and attentive to God’s timing rather than driven by urgency.

        Perhaps the deepest lesson Rebekah leaves us is this. God’s purposes do not depend on our anxiety. His promises are not fragile, and His sovereignty is not endangered by our restraint. The invitation is not to withdraw from action, but to act from peace rather than panic, from trust rather than fear.

        When we hear Rebekah’s name, we might remember not only the manipulative mother, but actually hold up a mirror to our own hearts. Her story reminds us to ask if we will trust God enough to let Him remain God.

The real question is not whether God will fulfil His promises, but whether we will trust Him enough to let Him decide how. 

When God reveals His purposes, will we rest in His ways, or rush ahead and hope that He will follow?