The Sacred Weight of Inability
Holding Up the Arms of Moses
There’s a story you find Exodus 17 that feels like holy ground every time I read it. Israel is at war with Amalek, and Moses stands on a hill, the staff of God raised high in his hands. As long as his arms are lifted, Israel prevails. But when his arms grow tired and begin to fall, the tide of battle shifts, and the enemy gains ground.
Moses—the man who spoke to God in burning bushes, the one who stretched out his hand and split the Red Sea—is standing in the middle of a battlefield he can’t win with miracles alone. His arms grow heavy. His strength runs out.
And here’s what grabs me: Moses’ inability wasn’t the problem. It was the plan.
The Divine Design of Weakness
We love stories of strength. Stories where the hero rises above, defies the odds, overcomes. But the kingdom of God flips the narrative. In the kingdom, weakness isn’t a problem to be solved—it’s a platform for connection.
Moses’ arms grew tired. Not because he lacked faith. Not because he wasn’t called. But because he was human.
And God didn’t rush in with supernatural adrenaline. He didn’t suddenly give Moses the stamina of Samson. No, God let his arms grow heavy. He let the fatigue set in. Not to expose Moses’ failure, but to reveal something deeper: Victory was never meant to rest on one person’s shoulders.
Inability Is an Invitation
We often treat inability like a flaw—a sign we’re not enough. But what if inability isn’t a flaw at all? What if it’s an invitation?
When Moses’ strength failed, Aaron and Hur stepped in. They didn’t preach a sermon. They didn’t offer advice. They didn’t say, “Just believe harder, Moses.”
They saw his weakness, and they stepped into it. One on each side, they held up his arms until the sun set and the battle was won.
Here’s the revelation:
Moses’ inability wasn’t the end of his assignment; it was the moment where his assignment became communal. His weakness created space for Aaron and Hur’s purpose.
If Moses had been strong enough to hold his arms up forever, Aaron and Hur’s calling would’ve stayed dormant.
Your weakness might be the stage for someone else’s assignment.
The Ache of Being Human
Can we just sit with that for a minute?
Moses—the leader, the prophet, the one who stood on holy ground and heard the voice of God—he couldn’t do it alone.
And neither can you.
But here’s the thing: beloved identity doesn’t make you invincible. It makes you safe to be fragile. It means you’re held even when your arms are trembling, even when the weight feels too much.
We spend so much time trying to prove we’re strong, like needing help disqualifies us. But in the kingdom, inability isn’t disqualification.
It’s the doorway to deeper connection.
The Sacredness of Holding and Being Held
There’s a sacred beauty in both roles—being the one who holds up the arms and the one whose arms need holding.
For the Moseses reading this:
You are not failing because you’re weary. You are not disqualified because your arms are heavy. You’re human. Even the ones who hear God’s voice, who lead the charge, who carry the staff—even you—aren’t meant to carry it alone.
For the Aarons and Hurs:
Your assignment might not look like standing in the spotlight, but maybe it looks like standing beside someone who is. Maybe your most significant ministry isn’t what you build, but whose arms you hold when they can’t hold themselves.
And that’s not secondary. That’s sacred.
The Weight of Glory in Our Weakness
At the end of the day, Israel didn’t win the battle because Moses was strong enough.
They won because he wasn’t afraid to lean, and Aaron and Hur weren’t afraid to lift.
That’s the kingdom.
Not strength that never wavers, but love that never leaves.
Not flawless leaders, but fragile hearts held together by grace.
Not the absence of weakness, but the presence of people who refuse to let you fall.
Beloved identity says this:
• You are not your strength.
• You are not your stamina.
• You are not less when you’re leaning.
• And you are not more when you’re standing.
You are beloved. In victory and in weakness. In the holding and in the being held.
The Invitation
So, maybe today you’re Moses—arms trembling, heart weary, feeling like the battle depends on you.
Or maybe you’re Aaron or Hur—watching someone else grow tired, wondering if your presence matters.
It does.
Either way, this is the invitation:
• Let your arms down long enough to let someone in.
• Look around and see whose arms need holding.
Because in the end, the battle belongs to the Lord.
But the victory is shared in the spaces where we refuse to stand alone.
And that, my friends, is the sacred weight of inability.
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