Around 1400 b.c., the air atop the craggy peaks of Moab hangs thick with the scent of burning animal fat and charred cedar. Demanding curses against a sprawling encampment in the valley below, King Balak watches the sacrifices burn. Hastily built from rough-hewn sandstone, seven altars bear the heavy weight of slaughtered bulls and rams. The heat of the fire radiates against the skin of Balaam, a hired diviner standing at the edge of the precipice. Swirling upward in the thin mountain atmosphere, dust from the sheer volume of nomadic travelers settling miles away mixes with the heavy sacrificial smoke.

The Lord meets the diviner right there in the swirling ash. God does not demand a clean, orthodox sanctuary to intercept this mercenary prophet. Instead, He places a word directly into Balaam's mouth amid the pagan rituals and the scent of singed wool. Bypassing the superstitious maneuvering of a fearful king, the Creator turns purchased malice into a stubborn blessing. He looks down at the dust settling over the valley and claims that scattered, weary multitude as His own.

Rising with unyielding strength, a wild ox becomes the imagery God chooses for His people. The divine decree rings out over the crackling flames, declaring that no sorcery or divination holds power against the campers below. Wrapping around the vulnerable tribes like a thick blanket, His protection remains impenetrable. Even from a distance, the sheer vitality of the Israelites resembles a lion rousing itself to consume its prey.

That sharp scent of burning cedar and ash lingers when fear tries to purchase security. Kings and commoners alike construct elaborate defenses, piling up their resources to control outcomes and dictate futures. Stacking up stones of our own making, we hope the sheer volume of our efforts will compel the heavens to align with our anxieties. Yet, the wind catches the smoke, blowing it away into the vast expanse. Standing on the high places, looking down at the intimidating circumstances covering the valley floor, the instinct to curse the unfamiliar rises quickly. The rough texture of those makeshift sandstone altars reminds the hands of the futility found in manufactured control.

The coarse grit of that sandstone dust remains caught under the fingernails of anyone trying to manipulate the heavens. Blowing through the valleys of the present day, the same wind scattering the ancient sacrificial embers continues its work. God speaks a firm blessing right through the noise of crackling fires and frantic human negotiation. His word stands immoveable against the gritty, unpredictable gusts of human panic.

A stubborn blessing always finds a way through the thickest smoke.