The finger of God

Exodus 8:16–24; Ephesians 5:1–9; Luke 11:14–28

Lent is a time of reflection. Not a superficial reflection in which we simply feel bad for a moment, but a deeper look—an honest look—at the condition of our hearts. The Church gives us these forty days not because repentance is necessary only now, but because we need space. Space to see. Space to listen. Space to allow God to reveal what we often avoid.

Today’s readings lead us into that honest light. In Exodus 8:16–24, Egypt is struck by plagues: gnats and flies cover the land. The magicians try to imitate what God does, but they fail. And in the end they admit: “This is the finger of God.” They recognize the divine power at work.

But Pharaoh’s heart remains hardened. This is the frightening part. Not that God is absent. Not that His power is unclear. But that a human heart can see the finger of God and still refuse to bow. How many times have you seen the “finger of God” at work in your life, and yet turned instead toward mountains of pain, depression, and sadness? No one says that life is not painful; the question is: have you ever seen the “finger of God” at work in your life? Brothers and sisters, Lent quietly asks us: where has the finger of God been at work in your life, and how have you responded?

Sometimes the “gnats and flies” are small irritations. A conflict. A disappointment. A weakness exposed. Something that disturbs our comfort. Instead of asking what God might be teaching us, we complain. Instead of humbling ourselves, we harden ourselves. Pharaoh even asks for prayer and sacrifice in the following verse. He asks for relief. But he does not surrender. He wants the plague to go away, not his pride. And if we are honest, how often do we pray like that? “Lord, remove this difficulty.” “Lord, change this situation.” But rarely: “Lord, change my heart.” Or even: thank you for keeping me alive until now—which again is the “finger of God” protecting you, though we often fail to see it. As we heard last time, there can be long periods in our lives when we receive no answer. We pray and pray and pray, and eventually we say: “Oh, God has abandoned me.” But think about it: if you had truly been abandoned, would you be sitting here now, breathing normally, with all your limbs attached to your body? No. Because if God had truly abandoned you, Satan would have done everything to destroy you.

The Gospel of Luke 11:14–28 brings the same struggle into even clearer focus. Jesus casts out a demon. A man who could not speak now speaks. Liberation stands before the crowd, and some respond by accusing Jesus of acting with the power of Satan. Light appears, and they call it darkness.

Jesus answers with clarity: a kingdom divided against itself cannot stand. And then He says something striking: “If it is by the finger of God that I cast out demons, then the kingdom of God has come upon you.” The same phrase from Exodus: the finger of God. In Egypt it brought judgment. In the Gospel it brings liberation. God’s power has not changed, but now it is among us in mercy.

Yet Jesus warns about something serious. When an unclean spirit leaves a person and finds the house empty, it returns with seven spirits even worse. An empty house, then, is dangerous.

This is where Lent becomes deeply personal. It is not enough to sweep the house. It is not enough to remove a habit, a visible sin, or an outward flaw. If your heart remains empty—if Christ does not dwell in you—something else will fill the space. We can fast. We can discipline ourselves. We can improve outwardly. But if Christ does not take possession of the house, if Christ does not take possession of your heart, the work is incomplete.

So a woman cries out: “Blessed is the womb that bore you!” But Jesus redirects the blessing: “Blessed rather are those who hear the word of God and keep it.” Not merely admire it. Not simply agree with it. But keep it. That is where the struggle lies. Because keeping the Word means allowing it to challenge us. It means forgiving when we would prefer resentment. It means speaking the truth even when silence would protect our pride. It means walking in obedience when compromise seems easier.

In Ephesians 5:1–9, Paul writes: “Walk as children of light.” He names the darkness clearly: impurity, greed, foolish talk, hidden shame. Lent shines light on these things not to shame us publicly, but to heal us with the truth. The fruit of the light, Paul says, is goodness, righteousness, and truth. But fruit does not grow from a dead branch. It grows from a living connection. And if our hearts are empty—as they can be in difficult moments—we cannot produce the fruit of the light within ourselves.

But it is precisely here that the Gospel begins to shine. Because if our hearts truly are the empty house Jesus speaks about, then our hope is not that we will somehow fill it with our own strength. Our hope is that Christ Himself desires to dwell there. He does not wait for the house to be perfect, tidy, or worthy. He enters precisely into fragile houses, into tired hearts, into lives marked by struggle.

Jesus did not come to find perfect houses, but to reclaim what belongs to Him. When He casts out the demon in the Gospel, He is not simply performing a temporary miracle. He is showing what He came to do for all humanity: to free the captives and reclaim what evil had occupied. And He will accomplish this fully on the cross, where the Son of God confronts the true enemy and defeats him once and for all.

This means that the Christian does not live protected because he is strong, but because Christ is the Stronger One. The heart that belongs to Christ is not guarded by its own discipline, but by the presence of the Lord Himself. He dwells in us through His Word, through forgiveness, through the grace that is given to us again and again. And where Christ dwells, evil does not have the final word.

And so the words of Jesus become a promise for us: “Blessed are those who hear the word of God and keep it.” Blessed not because they manage to live perfectly, but because through that Word Christ Himself enters their lives. The house no longer remains empty. It is filled with the mercy of God, guarded by the presence of Christ, and illuminated by the light that no darkness can overcome.

And here is the comfort that lifts us up: the Stronger One has arrived. Jesus speaks of a strong man guarding his palace, but when someone stronger attacks him, he overcomes him and takes away his armor. Christ is that Stronger One. He does not merely expose our darkness—He overcomes it. He does not simply point out our hardened hearts—He is able to soften them. He does not merely sweep the house—He fills it with His presence.

Where Pharaoh hardened his heart, Christ humbles Himself, even to the cross. Where Egypt experienced plagues, we experience mercy. Where accusations were thrown against Him, He continued to free the captives.

This is the hope of Lent: the kingdom of God has come upon you. The finger of God that once brought judgment now brings you forgiveness. The One who is stronger enters our hearts not to condemn us, but to dwell within us. So this season of reflection is not about despair. It is an invitation.

Therefore do not harden your heart. Do not settle for relief without repentance. Do not leave the house empty. Hear the Word. Keep it. Let Christ Himself dwell in your heart. And as He dwells there, you will not only avoid the darkness, but walk as a child of the light.

Amen.