More than 6,000 planets have been confirmed beyond our solar system, yet only one is known to sustain life. Our planet, our home, is a remarkably diverse world. Oceans cover about 71 percent of its surface. And the dry land is not always hospitable in terms of geography, climate or natural resources. Take deserts, for example.
From a strictly naturalistic view, deserts serve no vital function in the grander scheme of things. They are the byproducts of weather patterns found elsewhere: sinking dry air in the subtropical high-pressure belts, cold coastal currents and the rain shadow on the leeward side of mountains, where the rain has already fallen on the other side. Yet some creeping and crawling lifeforms claim deserts as their home, adapting to conditions that are harsh, hot and unforgiving.
Deserts and wildernesses appear throughout the Bible. The Hebrew word most often translated “wilderness” is midbar; a rarer word, ʿarabah, usually means a desert plain and also names the Jordan rift valley. Deuteronomy 8:2 says that God led the people of Israel through the wilderness for 40 years to humble and test them, and to discover what was in their hearts. It was in this wilderness that they met their God. He taught the children of Israel lessons in dependence, feeding them with manna for 40 years and with quail on occasion.
The two Hebrew words are not interchangeable, but they describe similar country: dry, uncultivated and sparsely settled. Still, God cares for the wilderness as He does for any landform. In the book of Job, He is the one who brings rain on land where no one lives unless they have no choice, to satisfy the desolate wasteland and make it sprout (Job 38:25-27).
It’s about rain
But this is not a post about exoplanets, oceans or deserts. It is an essay about rain. Rain in an age of global heat storms and perpetual drought.
Rain is precious, and in many places, it is becoming less reliable. A 2024 report from the United Nations Convention to Combat Desertification found that more than three-quarters of Earth’s land grew drier over the three decades leading up to 2020, and that drylands now cover about 41 percent of the land (excluding Antarctica) and are home to some 2.3 billion people. The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change has projected that global rainfall may rise overall even as it declines in some regions and becomes more variable.
Water is also a source of tension between nations. Egypt, which depends on the Nile, calls Ethiopia’s Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam an existential threat, although its president has repeatedly ruled out military action in favor of diplomacy.
And rain alone is not a guarantee of life. It may fall on barren earth or rocky terrain devoid of soil, much as my lectures in college would occasionally fall on deaf ears. And some of the fresh water that rain replenishes is diverted to industry and energy production, water that is then unavailable to a thirsty and growing population.
Beyond the literal need for rain, rain is also a metaphor. Portia, the wealthy heroine of The Merchant of Venice, compares mercy to rain in her speech to Shylock (Act IV, Scene I):
The quality of mercy is not strained; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. . .
Portia is saying that mercy cannot be coerced or demanded. It must be freely given from the heart, even as God freely bestows mercy on those who are merciful to others (Matthew 5:7). He sends us rain. He sends us mercy. This is a very apt analogy.
The Shawshank Redemption
Then there is the rain in the famous scene from the film The Shawshank Redemption. It features a falsely convicted inmate Andy Dufresne (played by Tim Robbins). Dufresne was convicted of murdering his wife over her lover. He did not kill her, but he blames himself for having been emotionally distant to his wife and for driving her away. When he escapes, crawling through a sewer pipe roughly 500 yards long, he emerges during a thunderstorm and lets the rain wash over him. Many critics read the scene as a baptism, a cleansing of Dufresne’s body and soul.
Illustration credit courtesy of Silver Screen (Alamy).
What is it like to die of thirst? It begins with a dry mouth and a headache. As dehydration becomes severe, the heart races, a fever may set in, and confusion and irritability follow; in extreme cases the sufferer becomes delirious, and the condition can be fatal. That is the approach to physical death. But what of people dying of spiritual thirst? Might some of the unrest around us, such as the violence that broke out at the student protests in Paris and Milan this month, be a symptom of a parched metaphysical thirst? Do we slowly but surely approach a tipping point in our essence, as we suffer a lack of gentle rain, of mercy? Not that mercy is not present, but because we are too blind or stubborn or prideful to accept it? Is our culture, our cynicism, the dark side of our very humanity to blame for this spiritual drought?
Do you suppose that many people in the world are dying of thirst and do not know it?
In this age millions of people are living lost lives, thirsting for hope and purpose, neither giving mercy to others nor receiving mercy in return. They are looking for ways to escape the maddening heat and the toxic smoke from fiery maelstroms that form hundreds of miles away.
Even as the Bible assures us that God numbers the stars and notes every sparrow that falls (Psalm 147:4; Matthew 10:29), He knows you as well. You may have thought you were living a life of quiet desperation or happy oblivion, but you are not alone. I believe that if you are reading this, God has already made preparations for your return home when your life in this age ends. Two millennia ago, Jesus died for your sake and rose again, as you may already know. And during your lifetime God has sent heavenly rain to prepare your heart for His Word and to nourish and stir the seed of faith contained in this essay.
These promises can be found in Isaiah 55:10-13 (NIV):
As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it. You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands. Instead of the thornbush will grow the juniper, and instead of briers the myrtle will grow. This will be for the Lord’s renown, for an everlasting sign, that will endure forever.
I encourage you to meditate on these words. You may contact me through the comment section should you wish to discuss this or if you have any questions.
