Have you ever had to look at the very thing that hurt you in order to be healed?
That sounds counterintuitive, doesn’t it? We tend to run from pain, not toward it. We avoid the memories that wounded us, the people who betrayed us, the experiences that left us scarred. But what if God invites us, not to avoid those places, but to look directly at them? To see them differently; not as places of shame, but as places where healing might begin?
In Numbers 21, we find one of the strangest stories in the Old Testament. It’s a story about snakes. About pain. About judgment. But also about mercy, healing, and, believe it or not, the gospel.
If you’ve ever felt stuck in the wilderness… If you’ve ever felt the bite of disappointment or failure… If you’ve ever wondered why God allows pain and how He brings healing… this passage is for you.
Let’s walk together through this ancient text and discover how God turns curses into cures.
Numbers 21:4 says: “From Mount Hor they set out by the way to the Red Sea, to go around the land of Edom; but the people became impatient on the way.”
By this point in the Israelites’ journey, they’ve been wandering in the wilderness for almost 40 years. They’re nearing the end—but they don’t know it.
All they know is that once again, the route to the Promised Land is blocked. The Edomites, distant relatives of Israel, have refused to let them pass through their land. So instead of taking the direct route north, they’re forced to circle around, again, through the harsh desert wilderness.
Imagine the frustration. Day after day of walking. The heat. The hunger. The uncertainty. The feeling that this is never going to end.
Have you ever been there spiritually? You’re trying to follow God, but it feels like the journey just keeps circling. Your prayers feel unanswered. Your progress feels stalled. You can’t see the destination; just more wilderness.
Verse 5 tells us how the people respond: “The people spoke against God and against Moses, ‘Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? For there is no food and no water, and we detest this miserable food.’”
That last line says a lot, doesn’t it? “There is no food… and we detest this miserable food.” So which is it? No food; or food you don’t like?
Of course, they had food. God had been providing manna, bread from heaven, every day. But they had grown weary of it. They were tired of depending. Tired of trusting. Tired of being in-between. And their spiritual fatigue turned into bitterness.
And here’s something to notice: This isn’t the first time they’ve complained. In fact, this is at least the fifth time we’re told they grumbled against God and Moses.
But this time… something different happens.
Verse 6 says: “Then the Lord sent poisonous serpents among the people, and they bit the people, so that many Israelites died.”
Let’s sit with that for a moment, because it’s hard to hear. God sends serpents?
In Hebrew, the phrase is?seraphim nachash—literally, “fiery serpents.” The word “fiery” likely refers to the burning pain of the venom. These were deadly snakes. Real, physical, painful. And they infiltrated the camp.
Now, we struggle with this. Why would God do that?
There are a few possible interpretations. One is that this is an act of divine judgment.
A wake-up call for a people who had repeatedly rejected God’s provision. Another possibility is that God didn’t so much send the snakes as withdraw His protective hand, allowing the dangers of the wilderness to affect a people who had pushed Him away.
Either way, the result is terrifying. The people are being bitten. Some are dying. And suddenly, the thing that seemed so frustrating, God’s daily provision, now looks like a lifeline they desperately need.
C.S. Lewis once wrote, “Pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our consciences, but shouts in our pains.” In this moment, God’s people hear the shout.
Verse 7: “The people came to Moses and said, ‘We have sinned by speaking against the Lord and against you; pray to the Lord to take away the serpents from us.’ So Moses prayed for the people.”
This is the first time in the book of Numbers that the people confess without making excuses. No blame-shifting. No denial. Just: “We have sinned.”
The snakes, painful as they are, become the catalyst for repentance. The people recognize their rebellion. And they do the right thing—they go to Moses and ask for help.
Now remember, this is the same Moses they had been criticizing for decades. The same Moses they accused of trying to kill them. The same Moses they slandered and gossiped about. But in their moment of need, they turn to him.
And Moses? He doesn’t say, “I told you so.” He doesn’t lecture them. He prays for them.
This is what grace looks like. Moses stands in the gap. He becomes a mediator—a preview of what Christ will do for all of us.
Then comes verse 8, and it’s one of the most peculiar verses in all of Scripture: “And the Lord said to Moses, ‘Make a poisonous serpent, and set it on a pole; and everyone who is bitten shall look at it and live.’”
Now let’s be clear: God doesn’t remove the snakes. He doesn’t make them vanish. He doesn’t prevent future bites. Instead, He gives Moses a strange assignment: Make a bronze snake. Mount it on a pole. And tell the people to look at it.
Why? Why not just heal them directly?
Because healing isn’t just about removing the pain. It’s about confronting the truth.
By looking at the serpent on the pole, the Israelites were forced to look at the very thing that represented their rebellion. The bronze snake symbolized both judgment and mercy. It reminded them of their sin, but also pointed to God’s provision.
This was no magic trick. Healing didn’t come from the metal snake itself. It came through an act of trust, through obedience. It came through lifting their eyes in faith.
And isn’t that the same for us?
When we’re in pain, our natural instinct is to look down. To collapse into ourselves. To fixate on our wounds. To ruminate, to replay, to spiral.
But healing often begins when we lift our eyes.
In Psalm 121, the psalmist says, “I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where will my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.”
The Israelites were invited to lift their eyes. Not to pretend the pain wasn’t real, but to acknowledge that healing comes from God.
Think about this: in a camp of thousands, someone gets bitten. They cry out. And someone says, “Look at the pole! Look up!” That person turns their gaze from their wound to the object of healing.
And they live.
This is faith. Not the removal of the wound, but the decision to look beyond it.
We are not promised a life without snakes. But we are promised a Savior who invites us to lift our eyes.
This story is strange, but it’s also beautiful. Because it’s not the end of the story.
Centuries later, a man named Nicodemus came to Jesus in the night. He was searching, questioning. And in John 3:14–15, Jesus said to him: “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in Him may have eternal life.”
Jesus saw in the bronze serpent a foreshadowing of His own crucifixion. Just as the serpent was lifted up, so Jesus would be lifted up, on a Roman cross. And just as the Israelites were invited to look at the symbol of sin and be healed, so we are invited to look to Christ and be saved.
Think about this: The cross, like the serpent, was a symbol of shame. Of judgment. Of suffering. But God turned it into a symbol of healing.
The cure looks like the curse.
And that’s the gospel.
Let’s bring this story into today.
You may not be surrounded by literal snakes, but many of us live with spiritual ones. What are the “serpents” in your life?
Maybe it's a painful memory that keeps resurfacing, something that happened years ago that still has a hold on your soul. Maybe it's an addiction, the kind that sneaks in quietly and sinks its fangs in deep. Maybe it's anger or unforgiveness that poisons your spirit a little more every time you rehearse the story.
Maybe it’s grief, the loss of someone you loved, and it feels like it took not just them, but your joy and sense of direction too. Or maybe, like the Israelites, it’s just exhaustion. You’re tired of wandering. Tired of waiting. Tired of trusting.
Whatever your wilderness looks like, know this: you are not alone. The same God who met the Israelites in their desert is with you now.
But here’s the deeper truth of the passage: sometimes God doesn’t remove the serpents. Sometimes, the snakes stay in the camp. And that’s hard.
We want healing to mean erasing the pain. We want faith to mean freedom from struggle. But in this story, God doesn’t take away the serpents. He gives the people a choice: look up and live.
So what does “looking up” mean for us? For Israel, it was a literal act; turning their gaze toward the bronze serpent in faith. For us, it’s a daily spiritual practice. Looking up means lifting our eyes to the cross.
It means choosing to believe, again and again, that God is still good, even when life is not.
It means we stop rehearsing the wounds and start remembering the Healer.
Looking up might be…
• Choosing to pray when your heart feels numb.
• Opening the Bible when the last thing you want is another religious answer.
• Showing up to worship even when your soul is dragging.
• Reaching out for help instead of hiding in shame.
In Numbers 21, the act of healing wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t immediate. It was simple: look.
Sometimes, the deepest healing comes not from grand gestures, but from consistent, quiet choices to keep looking toward Jesus.
Let’s go back to Jesus’ words in John 3:14–15: “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up…”
This isn’t just a clever metaphor. Jesus is claiming that He is the fulfillment of that ancient image.
Think about it:
• The serpent was the image of sin and judgment.
• The cross was the instrument of Roman execution, a symbol of shame and suffering.
But God uses both as instruments of healing.
In both cases, the people were called to look upon what they feared, to see their brokenness, their mortality, their rebellion, and trust that God could transform it.
On the cross, Jesus takes the poison into Himself. The sin, the pain, the judgment; all absorbed. And in its place, He gives us healing, freedom, life.
The serpent on the pole foreshadowed the paradox of grace: that God doesn’t always remove what hurts, but He redeems it. That the place of pain becomes the place of restoration. That the worst moment in human history, the crucifixion of Jesus, becomes the greatest moment of salvation.
And just like Israel, we are invited to lift our eyes to what seems foolish, what seems offensive, what seems like failure, and discover in it the very power of God.
There’s one more layer I don’t want us to miss.
God didn’t just heal the people. He used the symbol of their sin and suffering as the tool for healing. And here’s what that means for you: God can use what bit you.
Let me say that again: The thing that nearly destroyed you can become the platform for your testimony. The place where you were wounded can become the place where you speak healing into others.
I’ve seen this again and again in ministry:
• A man who spent 15 years battling alcohol addiction now leads a recovery group at his church.
• A woman who endured abuse in her childhood now works with young girls who have experienced the same.
• A father who lost his son in a car accident started a grief ministry for parents who’ve lost children.
They didn’t just survive the bite. They let God use the bite.
God didn’t remove the memory. He redeemed it. And maybe that’s what He wants to do with you.
You might not feel ready. You might still feel wounded. But the grace of God is not just for your healing, it’s for your calling.
Let’s shift the lens a little. What does this story mean for us as a church?
If the bronze serpent was lifted up so that people could see and be healed… and if Jesus said the same about Himself… then the church is called to be the community that lifts up Christ for others to see.
We are the “pole” in the wilderness.
Our mission is to be the people who say to the wounded, to the bitten, to the broken: “Look up. You are not alone. There is healing.” That means we’re not in the business of hiding our scars or pretending we have it all together. We’re in the business of pointing to the cross.
It means we create space for honesty, for confession, for lament. We don’t gloss over pain—we stand beside people in it and say, “You don’t have to stay in it forever.”
In a world full of venom: political venom, racial venom, family venom, emotional venom, we are called to be a place of antidote.
Not because we have all the answers, but because we know where to look.
Let’s return to the central theme of this entire passage. Numbers 21:9: “So Moses made a serpent of bronze, and put it upon a pole; and whenever a serpent bit someone, that person would look at the serpent of bronze and live.”
That’s the line that stays with me. Look and live. It was true then. It’s true now.
You may be in a wilderness season. You may feel like the pain is too much. You may be haunted by the bite of regret, or loneliness, or grief. You may be asking God, “Why haven’t You taken this away?”
I don’t know why some snakes stay. I don’t know why healing sometimes comes slowly. But I do know this: the cross is still lifted high. And when you lift your eyes to Jesus, even with trembling hands and aching heart, you will live.
Maybe not in the way you imagined. Maybe not all at once.
But healing begins when we stop staring at our wounds and start looking to our Savior.
Let me end with a symbol you’ve probably seen hundreds of times but may never have connected to this story. Have you ever noticed that the symbol for medicine and healing, the staff with a snake wrapped around it. Is based on this passage?
It’s called the Rod of Asclepius, and though it’s rooted in Greek mythology, many scholars believe its connection to a serpent on a pole goes back even further, to Numbers 21.
Isn’t it remarkable? The very symbol of poison and fear has become the symbol of healing and life. That’s exactly what God does in this passage. And that’s what He does in your life too.
The story of Numbers 21 is strange, but deeply human.
It’s a story of a people who grumble, a God who disciplines, a leader who intercedes, and a symbol that saves.
It’s about how healing isn’t always the removal of pain, but the redirection of our gaze. It’s about how what once brought death can, in the hands of God, bring life.
And it’s an invitation: to look up. To fix your eyes not on the wound, but on the One who heals.
So let me ask you today:
• What’s bitten you?
• What are you staring at instead of looking up?
• What wound is God ready to redeem?
Lift your eyes. Look to the cross. Look to Jesus.
And live. Amen.
