There is something in the human heart that hates second place. Korach could not bear it. Judas could not bear it. Often, if we are honest, neither can we. Pride whispers that we deserve more, that our gifts are being wasted, that God Himself should rearrange His order so we can be in the center of the stage.
The Torah portion of Korach pulls back the curtain on that impulse in a terrifying way. Korach is not a nobody; he is a Levite, a cousin to Moshe and Aharon, entrusted with the holiest responsibilities in the wilderness. His clan, the sons of Kehat, carry the Ark, the Menorah, the golden altar of incense – the very furniture of God’s presence. But they are only allowed to carry what Aharon and his sons have first reverently covered in tekhelet, that deep blue reminding Israel of the heavens and of a holy God above them.
Think about that: you are so close to the presence of God that your whole life revolves around moving His dwelling place. You walk under the weight of His glory, yet you are forbidden to see it unveiled. Your work is vital, but it is not center stage. Someone else goes behind the veil; someone else stands in the light.
For a humble heart, this would be honor enough. “Let me sweep the floor of the Mishkan; I will still feel special,” as someone once said. But for Korach, it was not enough. The same fire of rebellion we see in ha-Satan in the heavenlies flares up in Korach in the camp. “We are all holy,” he protests. “Why do you exalt yourselves over the assembly of Adonai?” (Numbers 16:3).
It sounds spiritual, even democratic: “We’re all equal before God. No one should be above anyone else.” But the subtext is clear: if there can be no leaders, then I am free to exalt myself. Korach is not really fighting for the people; he is fighting for the throne in his own heart.
God’s response is severe. The ground itself opens and swallows Korach and those who join his rebellion. Others are consumed by fire. The holy things are normally covered and protected, but here the Lord “covers” the rebels in a different way: they are swallowed whole. Pride that refuses to bow does not merely stumble; it is devoured.
We have seen this pattern before. Aharon’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, decide to bring “strange fire” before the Lord (Leviticus 10). They want more than what God has prescribed; they want access on their own terms. They step into a place that is not given to them, and fire comes out from before Adonai and consumes them. Once again, the sin is the same: God will not be treated as common or convenient.
Later in Israel’s story, in the days of Shmuel, the people cry, “Give us a king like all the nations” (1 Samuel 8). They are tired of the unseen King who rules them through prophets and judges. They want something visible, impressive, manageable. God tells Shmuel, “They have not rejected you; they have rejected Me from being King over them.” The wound is always the same: the Holy One refuses to play second fiddle.
This same drama unfolds again in the Gospels. In the home of Miriam of Bethany, a woman breaks an alabaster jar of costly perfume and pours it out on Yeshua’s feet (Matthew 26:6–13; John 12:1–8). A year’s wages in a single act of love. The fragrance fills the house, and so does the scandal. The disciples murmur about waste, but Judas is the loudest voice. His heart is offended by such extravagant devotion.
That moment becomes a turning point. The Gospels tell us that after this, Satan enters Judas’ heart and he begins to look for an opportunity to betray Yeshua. To Judas, money and control mattered more than the preeminence of the Messiah. To Miriam, nothing mattered more than lavishing love on the One she knew was worth everything. The same fragrance that drew her to her knees exposed the idolatry in his heart.
In Korach’s heart, Korach came first. In Judas’ heart, Judas and the money bag came first. In Israel’s demand for a king, the people’s fear and desire for sameness with the nations came first. In each case, God’s rightful place at the center is challenged by something else we would rather trust: our status, our security, our sense of fairness, our image in the eyes of others.
If we’re honest, this is not just their story – it is ours. I remember as a little girl, far out in front during a race. I was “smoking everybody,” as we say. Then suddenly another girl, Cathy, passed me right before the finish line. She took first place; I came in second. The feeling in my chest was raw, burning. I despised coming in second. I did not yet know the name for that feeling, but heaven did: pride.
Years later, I stood in a different kind of race. I was engaged and caught my fiancé in the arms of another woman. The heartbreak was fierce. As I wrestled with the pain, the Holy Spirit whispered to my heart, “You don’t like to be second, do you?” I answered honestly, “No, Lord, I don’t.” And He replied, “Neither do I.”
That sentence pierced me. God is not petty or insecure; He is simply truthful. There is only room for one on the throne of the human heart. He will not share first place with our relationships, our children, our ministries, our callings, our money, or even our fears. He loves us too much to let us be ruled by anything less than Himself.
Sometimes, we betray His preeminence not with dramatic rebellion, but with quiet substitutions. I remember a day I wasn’t feeling well. A dear friend wanted to pray for me. Instead of turning first to the Lord, I ran for a rice cake, hoping a snack would fix what only His presence could touch. As I drove, the Lord nudged my heart: “You did not sanctify Me in front of your friend. You reached for the substitute before you reached for Me.” It was such a small thing – but it revealed a pattern.
We do this often. We substitute scrolling for prayer, busyness for intimacy, entertainment for worship, our own reasoning for His counsel. We insist we don’t need to gather with the kehillah, the body – “We’re holy; God is with us wherever we are.” And yet the Scriptures tell us, “Do not forsake the assembling of yourselves together” (Hebrews 10:25). We are God’s Mishkan, His dwelling place – but we still need to tabernacle together. The King delights in the corporate sacrifice of praise.
Perhaps one of the hardest areas to surrender is our finances. Tithing is not about God trying to get ten percent of our money; it is about whether He has one hundred percent of our trust. Everything we have is His: our income, our homes, our “nest eggs.” Sometimes He asks for ten percent. Sometimes – as with a young realtor I once knew who gave away her entire $100,000 nest egg at His prompting – He asks for the whole thing. She obeyed, and God flooded her with more provision than she had imagined. You truly cannot outgive Him.
I have had my own wrestling matches here. As a college student, barely able to pay tuition, I sat in a service where a missionary called for a specific gift – “There is someone here who is to give $500 for Africa.” I had already heard the Lord whisper that amount to my heart. My knuckles turned white on the back of the chair. I argued, I resisted… and then my hand went up. I left Bible college “in debt to God,” as I like to say, paying off pledges slowly. Everyone around me wondered why I didn’t just buy a car.
But God had heard another prayer: my grandmother wanted a four-door car; I wanted a blue one; my mother wanted it to be newer than what we had. In His time, He brought a family from far away who could not sell their blue car. The Lord told them to give it to us. Every detail was exactly what we had asked. My grandmother could hardly believe it. My stepfather, Bob, couldn’t either. But I knew what it was: God keeping covenant with a girl who had chosen to trust Him first.
There is also the “eye of the needle” – not only the verse about the rich man (Matthew 19:24), but the small, low door in ancient cities. To enter, a camel had to be stripped of its burdens and kneel. Years ago, the Lord gave a prophetic picture of believers standing before that low doorway, loaded with gifts, callings, ministries, visions. No one wanted to lay anything down. “If I strip this off, will I lose it forever?” Fear kept many outside.
Then one person decided, “I want more of Him.” They began to remove the pack and treasure, crawled low to the ground, and squeezed through. On the other side, every gift surrendered was waiting – purified, rightly ordered, safe in His hands. What we “lose” for His sake, we find again on the far side of surrender.
The missionary whose husband was murdered in front of her, whose daughters were assaulted in Africa, once stood beside me in worship. I didn’t know who she was, but in my spirit I heard, “You are standing next to a general.” When she later spoke, she testified that in the midst of unspeakable trauma, a song rose in her heart: “In moments like these, I sing out a love song to Jesus.” Everything had been taken from her – except the One she had already placed first. She had passed through the eye of the needle. She had nothing left to lose, and so she had everything.
Job knew this place: “Adonai gave, and Adonai has taken away; blessed be the name of Adonai” (Job 1:21). When you have surrendered all, jealousy finds no foothold. It is hard to envy another’s calling, anointing, or blessing when your hands are already open and empty before God. But when we cling tightly to our version of “first place,” we will always be comparing, always afraid someone else will pass us at the finish line.
This is true even on a national scale. The gifts and calling of God upon Israel are irrevocable (Romans 11:29). And yet the nations – including much of the Church – have often been jealous of the “firstborn,” treating the Jewish people with disrespect and dishonor instead of recognizing their calling as a light to the world. We can see the same pattern of jealousy in the Middle East today. Only repentance, humility, and a return to God’s order will heal that wound.
So what does it look like, practically, to let God have preeminence?
- It means choosing His counsel moment by moment instead of our own – letting the kingdom of God, His rule and wisdom, guide every decision.
- It means treating the mundane as holy: gardening, cleaning, cooking, driving kids, working a job – all offered as worship.
- It means gathering with His people, even when it’s inconvenient, because He promised to dwell in the midst of “two or three.”
- It means trusting Him with our children, our homes, our farms, our health, our old age – and not clutching them as if they were ours alone.
- It means holding our finances with open hands, ready to obey when He nudges, whether that is a tithe or an alabaster-jar kind of gift.
Isaiah promises, “You will keep in perfect peace the one whose mind is stayed on You, because he trusts in You” (Isaiah 26:3). Perfect peace – shalom shalom – is like a pie with no missing slices. Nothing lacking, nothing broken. That kind of peace is found only when our minds and hearts are fixed on God in trust, not on ourselves in worry or ambition.
In the end, Korach’s tragedy, Judas’ betrayal, and Israel’s demand for a king all come down to one question:
Who will have first place in your heart?
God will not play second fiddle, not because He is needy, but because every false god that takes His place will eventually destroy us. The man of chaos, the woman of chaos, the community of chaos – they are born wherever pride refuses to bow. But wherever we surrender, wherever we go low and crawl through the eye of the needle, there the fragrance of the alabaster jar fills the house. There the kingdom of God is at hand.
Tonight, as you read, perhaps the Spirit is gently asking, “Will you trust Me with that? With your house? Your future? Your farm? Your children? Your old age? Your finances? Your reputation? Your hurt?” He is not asking because He loves to take; He is asking because He longs to give Himself to you without rival.
May we answer, in every hidden place where pride still clings, “Have Your own way, Lord. Have Your own way. You are the Potter; I am the clay. Mold me and make me after Your will, while I am waiting, yielded and still.”
