Genesis 49-50 Hebrew 11:20-31 John 20:17
Every human heart, at some point, wonders about the future. We save, plan, and write wills to secure what’s to come — to leave something meaningful behind. Yet the irony remains: a will is usually read when the giver is gone. It’s a document of absence, not presence. A guarantee wrapped in grief.
Jacob’s story in Genesis breaks that pattern. Before death could silence him, he gathered his sons and spoke his legacy aloud. There was no hidden envelope, no sealed chest of secrets — just a father’s trembling voice declaring destiny over twelve restless men. His words were not a farewell; they were a prophecy that still breathes across centuries.
In the same way, Jesus gave His “Last Will” before He ascended. He didn’t leave behind an estate but an inheritance of grace. His will was not written on parchment but sealed in blood. When He said to Mary Magdalene, “Go to my brothers and tell them, I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God” (John 20:17), He was rewriting the definition of belonging. God was no longer “His” alone — but ours too.
Unlike earthly inheritances that expire or spark family disputes, this one cannot decay, diminish, or be revoked. It’s a covenant rooted in eternity, one that began with Abraham long before Moses received the Torah. Laws came later; promises came first. As the writer of Hebrews reminds us, the old order has grown obsolete, replaced not by rebellion but by renewal — grace fulfilled in Jesus Christ.
And yet, just like Joseph’s brothers who trembled before him after Jacob’s death, many today still approach God with guilt rather than gratitude. We fear punishment where there should be peace. We speak of forgiveness but live as if grace is a fragile rumor. Jesus’ breakfast by the shore — cooking fish for Peter and friends who had failed Him — dismantles that fear. It’s the morning meal of mercy, proving that divine will is stronger than human shame.
So when we talk about the will of God, it’s not about fate written in the stars but love engraved in the wounds of Christ. His wasiat is not speculative hope — it’s a living document of redemption.
The question now is:
do we live as heirs or as hired servants still afraid of rejection?
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