The People God Uses

 The People God Uses

Flawed Vessels, Perfect Grace

Let me tell you about a murderer.

Not just any murderer. A man who killed an Egyptian and buried his body in sand, hoping nobody would notice. He ran. Hid in the wilderness for forty years. Probably thought his life was over, that God had stamped "REJECTED" across his file.

You know his name. Moses.

And here's the thing that still keeps me awake some nights: God didn't wait for Moses to become perfect. Didn't wait for him to sort out his anger issues or attend a leadership seminar or apologize properly for that whole murder situation.

God just showed up in a burning bush and said, "Go. I'm sending you."

Moses argued. Made excuses. Said, "Who am I?" like he hadn't learned anything in forty years. And God said something that still echoes through every flawed life:

"I will be with you."

Not "you're good enough now." Not "you finally fixed yourself." Just: I will be with you.

The Pattern Nobody Talks About

Here's what strikes me as I page through Scripture. God doesn't use people despite their flaws. He uses people through their flaws. The cracks become the channels.

Think about it.

Abraham, the father of faith, laughed at God's promise. Actually laughed. Then lied about his wife. Twice. And God still called him friend.

Jacob, whose name literally means "deceiver," spent his early life cheating his brother and manipulating his father. He wrestled with God at Peniel, limped away with a new name, and became Israel—the man whose twelve sons would birth a nation.

Rahab? A prostitute in Jericho. Not exactly pulpit material. But she hid the spies, believed God, and landed herself in the genealogy of Jesus. Let that sink in. The Messiah's family tree includes a woman whose profession was written on the city walls.

David, the shepherd king, wrote psalms that still feed our souls. Also slept with another man's wife and had that man murdered to cover it up. God called him "a man after my own heart."

Not "a perfect man." After God's own heart.

There's a difference.

Peter, The One Who Keeps Failing

I have a soft spot for Peter.

He walked on water. Then sank. He declared Jesus was the Messiah. Then told Jesus He was wrong about the whole dying thing. He swore he'd die for Christ. Then denied knowing Him three times before a servant girl.

Three times.

And after the resurrection, Jesus didn't say, "Peter, we need to talk about your performance review." He just asked, "Do you love me?" Three times. One for each denial. Not to shame Peter—to restore him.

Feed my sheep, Jesus said. As if to say: your failures qualify you to care for my people because you know what failure feels like.

Paul, The One Who Should Have Been Disqualified

Nobody deserved rejection more than Saul of Tarsus.

He watched Stephen die, holding the coats of those who threw stones. He breathed threats against believers. He dragged men and women to prison, approved their execution, made it his mission to destroy the church.

If anyone had a disqualifying past, it was him.

But on the Damascus road, a light knocked him blind and a voice asked, "Saul, why are you persecuting me?"

Not "why were you." Present tense. Jesus was still feeling the pain of every believer Saul had hurt. And yet. And yet.

Ananias, sent to heal Saul's blindness, protested: "Lord, I've heard about this man. He's evil."

And God said: "Go. He is my chosen instrument."

Paul became the greatest missionary, theologian, and church planter in history. Wrote half the New Testament. Suffered more than most of us can imagine. And never stopped calling himself the worst of sinners.

Not false humility. Just honest awareness: If God can use me, He can use anyone.

What This Means for You

I don't know what you're carrying today.

Maybe it's shame over something you did last week. Maybe it's a past so tangled you can't imagine God ever untangling it. Maybe you've been told, directly or indirectly, that you're not qualified—not educated enough, not holy enough, not together enough.

Here's what I want you to hear.

God doesn't hire the qualified. He qualifies the hired.

Every single person God used in Scripture had a story they'd rather hide. Murderers, liars, adulterers, cowards, persecutors. The only qualification God seems to care about is willingness. "Here I am. Send me."

Isaiah said that before he was purified. Right after admitting he was a man of unclean lips.

Moses said that after forty years of thinking he had nothing to offer.

Peter said that before he understood what he was signing up for.

Paul said that after years of trying to un-say everything he'd done wrong.

The Scandal of Grace

Here's the scandal of the gospel. The church isn't a museum for saints. It's a hospital for sinners. We're all walking around with IV drips of grace, limping but moving forward.

Paul put it like this:

"But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us." (2 Corinthians 4:7)

The jars are cracked. The clay is common. But the treasure inside? That's what matters.

Your cracks aren't accidents. They're where the light gets out.

A Prayer for the Flawed

Lord, I come with my mess. I don't have it together. I never have. But You knew that before You called me. Before You saved me. Before You knit me together in my mother's womb.

Help me stop waiting to be perfect and start letting You be present. Use my cracks. Use my failures. Use the parts of my story I'd rather forget. If You can use murderers and liars and cowards, maybe You can use me too.

Make me willing. That's all. Just willing.

Amen.

Something to Sit With

Before you close this tab, ask yourself one question:

What would I attempt for God if I truly believed my failures didn't disqualify me?

Not "what should I do." Not "what's expected of me." Just: what would I dare to ask for, dream about, step toward—if I really believed the God of Moses and David and Peter and Paul could use someone exactly like me?

The answer might surprise you.

It might be the very thing He's already calling you to.

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If this devotional touched something in you, share it with someone who needs to hear it. Your cracks matter. Your story matters. And the God who used a murderer to lead a nation isn't finished with you yet.