Firm Foundations: Judges Deborah
Message 3
We Fail When We Trust Visible Strength More Than Spiritual Dependence
Shamgar & Deborah
Judges 3:31; 4–5 31 And after him was Shamgar the son of Anath, which slew of the Philistines six hundred men with an ox goad: and he also delivered Israel.
4 And the children of Israel again did evil in the sight of the Lord, when Ehud was dead. 2 And the Lord sold them into the hand of Jabin king of Canaan, that reigned in Hazor; the captain of whose host was Sisera, which dwelt in Harosheth of the Gentiles. 3 And the children of Israel cried unto the Lord: for he had nine hundred chariots of iron; and twenty years he mightily oppressed the children of Israel. 4 And Deborah, a prophetess, the wife of Lapidoth, she judged Israel at that time. 5 And she dwelt under the palm tree of Deborah between Ramah and Bethel in mount Ephraim: and the children of Israel came up to her for judgment. 6 And she sent and called Barak the son of Abinoam out of Kedeshnaphtali, and said unto him, Hath not the Lord God of Israel commanded, saying, Go and draw toward mount Tabor, and take with thee ten thousand men of the children of Naphtali and of the children of Zebulun?
When we began walking through Judges, we said this book is a mirror. It shows us why God’s people fail — not just in ancient Israel, but in our own lives. In our first message, we learned that we fail because we don’t obey completely. Israel did not drive out the nations fully. They left pockets of compromise. And I compared that to cancer surgery. If a surgeon removes most of the tumor but leaves a few malignant cells behind, those remaining cells will grow. Incomplete removal leads to renewed disease. Partial obedience works the same way. What we tolerate spiritually eventually spreads.
Then we saw that we fail because we slide back into the familiar. After a heart attack, a patient may be put on a strict diet and lifestyle change. For a while, he is careful. But slowly, he begins to cheat — a little salt here, a little indulgence there. He returns to the habits that nearly killed him. The familiar feels comforting, but it quietly weakens the heart again. Israel did the same. They drifted back to the gods around them because they were culturally comfortable. And the spiritual condition of the nation deteriorated.
Now we come to a third reason for failure: We fail when we trust visible strength more than spiritual dependence. Judges 3:31 introduces Shamgar, who delivered Israel with nothing more than an ox goad — a farm tool. But by Judges 4, Israel is oppressed by Jabin of Canaan, whose commander Sisera possessed nine hundred iron chariots. Those chariots were the cutting-edge military technology of their day. Israel looked at iron and saw superiority. They looked at themselves and saw weakness. Yet God raised up Deborah, and through her called Barak to trust not in visible machinery but in the command of the Lord.
And here is the medical corollary for us. In our modern world, we have extraordinary medical advancement. Machines breathe for people. Monitors track every heartbeat. Sophisticated drugs fight infection and regulate chemistry. And yet, doctors will quietly tell you that there is something they cannot manufacture — the human spirit. During COVID, many patients lay in hospital rooms surrounded by the most advanced equipment medicine could provide. But they were isolated. No family. No touch. No encouragement. And in many cases, something inside them began to wither. The body was supported by machinery, but the spirit was starving. We were reminded in a painful way that visible strength — technology, equipment, systems — cannot replace the power of the inner life.
That is the lesson before us tonight. Israel saw iron chariots and believed that visible strength determined victory. But God would show them that rain from heaven could sink iron into mud. Shamgar did not wait for better weapons. Deborah did not tremble before machinery. And we must ask ourselves: have we begun to trust what we can see more than the God we cannot? Because when dependence shifts from the Lord to visible strength, failure is already underway.
Prayer
After Ehud, the narrative gives us only the briefest glimpse of another deliverer. Judges 3:31 says, “After him was Shamgar… who struck down six hundred Philistines with an oxgoad.” That is all we are told. No genealogy. No dramatic call from God. No recorded national repentance. Just one sentence, one unlikely tool, and one decisive act of deliverance. The detail that stands out is the oxgoad — a farm implement, not a weapon —This sets the stage for the rise of Deborah where the Children of Israel are intimidated by iron chariots. Here Shamgar wins the day with an oxgoad.
And notice what is said in the first verse of the next chapter.
4 And the children of Israel again did evil in the sight of the Lord, when Ehud was dead.
This implies to me that Shamgar’s deliverance was during the judgeship of Ehud.
We start the cycle again. Ehud dies and Israel again does evil in the sight of the Lord.
Now, just like last time, it doesn’t tell us what they did. Which would imply that they are falling again into the worship of Baalim and Asherah. Which means that the same lessons from the last judges still apply. They still haven’t removed the idols that caused them to fall, and they are still sliding back into the familiar. They haven’t learned those lessons.
2 And the Lord sold them into the hand of Jabin king of Canaan, that reigned in Hazor; the captain of whose host was Sisera, which dwelt in Harosheth of the Gentiles. 3 And the children of Israel cried unto the Lord: for he had nine hundred chariots of iron; and twenty years he mightily oppressed the children of Israel.
When Judges 4 introduces Israel’s oppressors, it names Jabin, likely a dynastic or title-name for the kings of Hazor rather than merely a single individual ruler, echoing the earlier Jabin defeated in Joshua’s day. Hazor itself was one of the most powerful Canaanite city-states in northern Israel, archaeologically attested as a major fortified center with international trade connections and advanced military infrastructure. Under Jabin’s authority stood Sisera, the military commander who operated from Harosheth-ha-goyim. The detail Scripture emphasizes is striking: nine hundred iron chariots. In the Late Bronze and early Iron Age world, chariots were the elite weapon of war — fast, mobile platforms for archers that could break infantry lines on open plains. The reference to “iron” likely points to reinforced fittings or weaponry that made them especially formidable at a time when iron technology was still emerging and symbolized cutting-edge power. On flat terrain like the Jezreel Valley, such chariots would have been devastating. But beyond their physical capability, they carried enormous psychological weight. They represented organized state power, technological superiority, and near invincibility to a largely agrarian people with limited armament. Judges underscores that Israel endured this domination for twenty years before crying out — not immediate repentance, but prolonged subjugation and helplessness under the shadow of visible military might.
4 And Deborah, a prophetess, the wife of Lapidoth, she judged Israel at that time. 5 And she dwelt under the palm tree of Deborah between Ramah and Bethel in mount Ephraim: and the children of Israel came up to her for judgment.
Judges 4 is careful and deliberate in how it introduces Deborah. She is described plainly as “a prophetess, the wife of Lapidoth,” and as one who “judged Israel at that time.” The text does not present her as rebellious, self-appointed, or irregular; rather, she is already functioning in recognized authority, sitting under the palm of Deborah between Ramah and Bethel, and the people “came up to her for judgment.” In the Old Testament, female prophetesses are rare but not unprecedented—Miriam (Ex. 15:20), Huldah (2 Kings 22:14), and later Anna (Luke 2:36). Conservative scholars, including John MacArthur, generally affirm that Deborah’s prophetic role reflects God’s sovereign choice in an extraordinary period of Israel’s decline. MacArthur in particular argues that her leadership is not presented as a normative model for civil or ecclesiastical structure but as a rebuke to the spiritual passivity of men in that generation—especially seen in Barak’s hesitation to go to battle without her presence. In this reading, the text does not criticize Deborah; it implicitly critiques the absence of decisive male spiritual leadership. The irony is already forming: God raises a woman not because men are incapable, but because they are unwilling. In a time when visible strength and courage were lacking among those expected to lead, God sovereignly appoints whom He wills—and His choice itself becomes part of the lesson.
In May of 1940, the British Army was trapped at Dunkirk. Nearly 400,000 Allied soldiers were pinned against the English Channel. Behind them, the German Panzer divisions — the iron chariots of the twentieth century — had crushed everything in their path. France had fallen. Belgium had collapsed. The German war machine was superior in speed, coordination, and technology. From a military standpoint, annihilation seemed certain.
The British people knew it. Churches across England filled with people praying. On May 26, King George VI called for a National Day of Prayer. Cathedrals were packed. Long lines formed outside churches. The nation understood something — their ships were too few, their defenses too thin, their enemy too strong.
And then something extraordinary happened. Hitler issued what is now known as the “Halt Order,” pausing the Panzer advance for nearly three crucial days. Military historians still debate why. That pause allowed thousands of trapped soldiers to organize along the beaches instead of being overrun.
Then came the weather. For days, a fierce storm had churned the Channel, making evacuation nearly impossible. But suddenly the waters calmed. A rare window of stillness settled over the sea. At the same time, a thick cloud cover moved in, grounding much of the German Luftwaffe and limiting air attacks.
And then the small boats came. Hundreds of civilian vessels — fishing boats, pleasure craft, ferries — crossed the Channel to rescue stranded soldiers. What looked like certain destruction turned into what Churchill later called “the miracle of deliverance.”
From a purely visible standpoint, the iron chariots should have crushed them. The machinery was superior. The firepower was overwhelming. The strategy was ruthless. But something unseen intervened.
Now bring that back to Judges. Israel saw nine hundred iron chariots and trembled for twenty years. Peter saw wind and waves and began to sink. At Dunkirk, Britain saw tanks and dive bombers — and thought it was over. The common thread?
When our
eyes fixate on visible strength, fear expands and faith contracts. But when
dependence shifts upward — when prayer replaces panic — we discover that iron
chariots are not sovereign. Rain can fall.
Clouds can gather. Orders can change. Seas can calm. The visible threat may be
real. But it is never ultimate. And the moment we believe that visible power
determines the outcome, we have already begun to sink.
6 And she sent and called Barak the son of Abinoam out of Kedeshnaphtali, and said unto him, Hath not the Lord God of Israel commanded, saying, Go and draw toward mount Tabor, and take with thee ten thousand men of the children of Naphtali and of the children of Zebulun? 7 And I will draw unto thee to the river Kishon Sisera, the captain of Jabin's army, with his chariots and his multitude; and I will deliver him into thine hand. 8 And Barak said unto her, If thou wilt go with me, then I will go: but if thou wilt not go with me, then I will not go. 9 And she said, I will surely go with thee: notwithstanding the journey that thou takest shall not be for thine honour; for the Lord shall sell Sisera into the hand of a woman. And Deborah arose, and went with Barak to Kedesh.
In Judges 4:6–9, we see the subtle but revealing hesitation of Barak. Deborah delivers to him a clear word from the Lord: he is to gather ten thousand men and draw toward Mount Tabor, and God will give Sisera into his hand. Barak is not ignorant of God’s command. He is not unaware of the promise of victory. He does not deny that the Lord has spoken. Yet his response exposes his fear: “If you will go with me, I will go; but if you will not go with me, then I will not go.” His hesitation is not atheism — it is insecurity. Why does he waver? Because Sisera’s reputation looms large. Because nine hundred iron chariots dominate the battlefield. Because tactically, Israel appears outmatched on open terrain. The visible machinery of war shapes his imagination more than the invisible promise of God. Barak does not doubt God’s existence; he doubts God’s sufficiency against superior technology. And here the theme sharpens: when the people of God become obsessed with technological advantage, even faithful leaders can begin to measure victory by visible strength rather than spiritual dependence.
In Judges 4:9, God responds to Barak’s hesitation with a statement both gracious and corrective: “The road on which you are going will not lead to your glory.” Victory is still promised. The mission is not canceled. The enemy will still fall. But the honor will be redirected. The irony is sharp and deliberate. Barak will participate in the deliverance, yet the glory he might have received will pass to another. Deliverance will come — but through unexpected hands. God does not withdraw His saving purpose because of fear, but He does reshape the outcome. When visible strength becomes our fixation and hesitation replaces bold dependence, God may still accomplish His will, but He may reassign the glory.
10 And Barak called Zebulun and Naphtali to Kedesh; and he went up with ten thousand men at his feet: and Deborah went up with him. 11 Now Heber the Kenite, which was of the children of Hobab the father in law of Moses, had severed himself from the Kenites, and pitched his tent unto the plain of Zaanaim, which is by Kedesh. 12 And they shewed Sisera that Barak the son of Abinoam was gone up to mount Tabor. 13 And Sisera gathered together all his chariots, even nine hundred chariots of iron, and all the people that were with him, from Harosheth of the Gentiles unto the river of Kishon. 14 And Deborah said unto Barak, Up; for this is the day in which the Lord hath delivered Sisera into thine hand: is not the Lord gone out before thee? So Barak went down from mount Tabor, and ten thousand men after him. 15 And the Lord discomfited Sisera, and all his chariots, and all his host, with the edge of the sword before Barak; so that Sisera lighted down off his chariot, and fled away on his feet. 16 But Barak pursued after the chariots, and after the host, unto Harosheth of the Gentiles: and all the host of Sisera fell upon the edge of the sword; and there was not a man left.
In Judges 4:10–16, the battle unfolds with striking strategic detail. Barak gathers his forces at Mount Tabor, an elevated and defensible position rising above the Kishon River valley below. Sisera, confident in his nine hundred iron chariots, deploys them on the flat terrain where they would normally dominate infantry. But Judges 5, in Deborah’s victory song, fills in what chapter 4 only implies: torrential rain falls, the Kishon overflows, and the battlefield turns to mud. The very terrain that favored chariot warfare becomes a trap. The iron wheels bog down. Mobility vanishes. Panic spreads. And here the theological irony becomes unmistakable. Sisera trusts iron. The Canaanites trust Baal, the supposed storm god who was believed to control rain and thunder. Yet it is the LORD who commands the skies. The storm comes not at Baal’s bidding but at Yahweh’s. Baal is silent. Yahweh controls creation. The weapon the enemy trusted becomes useless under the sovereign hand of God.
In 1588, the most powerful military force in the world set sail to crush a small island nation. The Spanish Armada — 130 ships, thousands of soldiers, advanced naval weaponry — was the superpower fleet of its day. Spain intended to invade England, depose Queen Elizabeth I, and restore Catholic dominance. From a purely military standpoint, England looked overmatched. The Spanish navy was larger, better armed, and battle-tested. Their ships were the iron chariots of the sea.
England, by comparison, had fewer ships and less firepower. The nation called for prayer and fasting. Churches were filled. Soldiers prepared, but the people understood that naval strength alone would not determine the outcome.
When the Armada entered the English Channel, the English fleet harassed them but could not decisively defeat them. Then something unexpected happened.
A powerful series of storms swept across the North Sea. Fierce winds scattered the Armada. Ships were driven off course, smashed against rocky coastlines of Scotland and Ireland, and destroyed in violent seas. Spanish sailors later testified that the winds seemed relentless and unnatural in their timing. The English would later commemorate the event with medals inscribed with these words:
“God blew, and they were scattered.” The English navy fought. But the weather finished the battle. What looked like certain domination by superior force was overturned by forces no admiral could command.
Now bring that into Judges. Sisera had nine hundred iron chariots. Spain had 130 warships. The storm decided both battles. In both cases, visible power appeared decisive. In both cases, the unseen hand of God intervened. And that is the lesson. Iron chariots look invincible — until heaven opens. Armadas look unstoppable — until the wind shifts. Storms look overwhelming — until Christ speaks peace.
When we fix our eyes on visible strength, fear grows. But when we remember that God commands the wind, the rain, the sea, and the battlefield, we understand something iron cannot guarantee: The outcome is never determined by machinery. It is determined by the Lord.
In Judges 4:17–22, the spotlight shifts unexpectedly to Jael, whom Deborah later calls, “Most blessed of women.” Jael is not part of Israel’s formal leadership. She is a woman, and a Kenite — a member of a clan allied with Israel but outside its tribal structure. She stands on the margins of the covenant nation’s military hierarchy. Yet it is through her that God completes the deliverance. Sisera, fleeing in panic from the battlefield, abandons his chariots and seeks refuge in her tent, assuming safety in a place he perceives as harmless. He receives hospitality, warmth, and apparent security — and then sudden judgment. The irony is layered deeply. The feared commander does not die in combat. He does not fall before an army. He dies quietly, alone, in a woman’s tent. The one who trusted iron chariots is undone by a tent peg. And in doing so, God finishes His work not through the expected channels of Israel’s leadership, but from the margins — reminding us again that visible strength does not determine victory, and that the Lord is free to accomplish His purposes through whom He chooses.
Judges 5 records the Song of Deborah, and in it God provides His own inspired interpretation of the battle. The song does more than celebrate victory; it evaluates hearts. Willing leaders and volunteers are openly praised for stepping forward when called. Tribes that hesitated or stayed home are gently but unmistakably rebuked. The poetry reminds us that the stars fought from heaven and the torrent of Kishon swept the enemy away — nature itself moved at the Lord’s command — making it clear that human strength was never the decisive factor. Even more striking is the declaration, “Curse Meroz… because they did not come to the help of the LORD.” The issue is not merely who won the battle, but who responded in obedience. The emphasis is on moral responsibility, not military achievement. God’s song teaches that deliverance is His work, but participation in His purposes is our accountability.
As we leave this passage, the ironies stack one upon another. Israel trembles before iron chariots, convinced that visible machinery determines victory. The Canaanites place their confidence in Baal, the supposed storm god who controls the skies. Yet when the battle comes, God sends rain. The chariots sink. The storm answers not to Baal, but to the Lord. A hesitant man steps forward to lead, and though victory is promised, the glory is redirected. Two women — first Deborah, then Jael — stand at the center of the deliverance. The feared commander dies not in triumph but in obscurity. Everything unfolds opposite of expectation. Deliverance comes — but not in the way Israel anticipated, and not through the leaders they assumed God would use. And that is the lesson: when we fixate on visible strength, we misunderstand how God works, because He delights in overturning our assumptions and accomplishing His purposes through means that magnify His power rather than ours.