Jehovah Jireh: a painting on the morning run

After my morning run today I saw nine chickens, four of them pairs of rooster and hen. My heart was full of joy: a few pecked about the grass at ease, and now and then a loud crow rang out. The park was quiet at that hour, only birdsong and distant traffic — yet they were in no hurry, walking step by step across the grass. What a beautiful painting.

We live in an environment just like theirs: the same city, the same weather, the same early morning. The difference is that we are often anxious, short on joy, worrying about making a living day after day — about work, about income, about tomorrow’s needs, never quite able to put it down.

There is a word in the Bible: Jehovah Jireh. We are all familiar with it, yet we do not really understand it. It comes from Abraham’s story: God tested Abraham and told him to take his only son Isaac to the land of Moriah and offer him as a burnt offering. The way up the mountain was long. Isaac asked, “Where is the lamb for the burnt offering?” Abraham answered, “My son, God will provide himself a lamb for a burnt offering.”

Abraham did not name that place “the place of sacrifice”, nor “the place of offering”, but called it “Jehovah Jireh” — the place of God’s provision (Genesis 22:14). Today, while running, I listened to Pastor Liu Tong share the Sunday message, and he pointed precisely at this: the name of that place decides how we remember what happened there.

So what touched me is this line: the place where the Lord provides for us must be the place we are willing to offer. Provision often does not appear while we hold on tight; it appears at the moment we are willing to hand over, willing to offer what we love — and then find that God had already prepared it.

The Lord Jesus also said: “Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?” (Matthew 6:26) These chickens on the grass are not anxious about tomorrow; they simply peck with their heads down. Not that effort is unnecessary — but worry is.

Among the high-rises and the traffic, meeting a flock of chickens living freely like this is a very particular Singapore scene. They are like a living painting, and like a gentle reminder: the Provider has always been there; we are simply too busy and too hurried to see.

May we, in our everyday life, not only worry about making a living, but also learn to count the provision we have received; not only see the chickens pecking on the grass, but also see the Provider. If you would like to, we welcome you to share your story with us too.