Then he cried out to the LORD, and the LORD showed him a piece of wood. He threw it into the water, and the water became sweet. — Exodus 15:25
My dear brothers and sisters, let me tell you what happened to me last Thursday in Akasia.
I was standing outside my gate, watching the municipal truck struggle past the potholes on Daan Street—those craters we have been complaining about since 2019. And as I stood there, a neighbour I shall call Brother Themba walked past with a bucket on his head. "Harold," he said, his voice carrying that familiar weight of exhaustion, "the water is bitter again."
Bitter water. Not just the taste—the whole experience. The pressure is low, the pipes are old, and when it finally comes, it tastes like rust and regret. I looked at that bucket and I heard the Spirit whisper: There is your sermon, Mawela. There is your text.
You see, beloved, Israel had just walked through the Red Sea. They had seen Pharaoh's chariots swallowed by the deep. They had sung the song of deliverance—Miriam with her tambourine, the women dancing, the men shouting hallelujah. Three days of glory. Three days of high-fiving one another about how God had shown up.
And then—Marah.
Three days into the wilderness, and the water is bitter. Three days from the miracle, and they cannot drink. Three days from the song, and now they are complaining.
Sound familiar?
We are a nation intimately acquainted with bitter water. Is it not true that we all feel it? The water that comes from our taps is often undrinkable. But the bitterness runs deeper. There is the bitterness of load-shedding that steals our dignity. There is the bitterness of a government that promises milk and honey but delivers corruption and neglect. There is the bitterness of a youth that graduates with degrees but cannot find work. There is the bitterness of families broken by violence that we pretend does not exist.
Let me be honest with you: I have tasted bitter water in my own life. In 2016, I lost a contract I had prayed over for three years. I had done everything right. I had tithed. I had served. I had believed. And when the email came—"We have decided to go in another direction"—I sat in my study and I tasted bitterness. Not just disappointment. Bitterness. The kind that makes you question whether God actually cares.
I did what Israel did. I grumbled. Not out loud, perhaps, but in my heart. Why, Lord? After all I have done? After all I have sacrificed? After all I have believed?
Defining Our Terms: What Is Bitter Water
Let us be precise, because precision is the enemy of confusion. When I speak of bitter water, I am speaking of that moment when expectation collides with disappointment and the resulting explosion poisons your perspective.
Bitter water is not merely difficulty. Difficulty is the wilderness itself—the heat, the sand, the uncertainty. Bitter water is unexpected difficulty that arrives after a season of victory. It is the trap that springs when you thought you had already escaped. It is the betrayal that comes from a friend you trusted. It is the sickness that appears when you had just finished praying for someone else's healing.
The Scripture declares unequivocally: They could not drink the water because it was bitter. That is the nature of bitterness—it is undrinkable. It cannot be consumed. It cannot be incorporated into your life. It must either be transformed or it will destroy you.
We must sound the alarm against a false teaching that has crept into our churches like a snake in the grass. It says: "If you are in God's will, you will not experience bitter water." This is a lie from the pit of hell, and it has left many saints shipwrecked in their faith.
Let me state this clearly: Being in God's will does not exempt you from bitter water. It qualifies you for the miracle that transforms it.
Israel was following the cloud. Israel was led by God. Israel was exactly where God wanted them—and they hit Marah. If you think your obedience buys you smooth sailing, you have mistaken prosperity preaching for biblical truth. The same God who parted the Red Sea led them to bitter water three days later. The same cloud that guided them also hovered over Marah.
The Wood: A Logical Argument
Now let us reason together, as the prophet Isaiah says. Let us define our terms and construct an argument that will stand against the cynicism of our age.
Premise One: Suffering is not inherently meaningful. Suffering without God is merely pain. It is the random cruelty of a fallen world. It breaks without building, wounds without healing, kills without resurrection.
Premise Two: God does not always remove the source of suffering. Notice carefully: He did not tell Moses to find another well. He did not miraculously transport them to Elim where there were twelve springs. He did not remove the wilderness or change the location. He transformed the water where it was.
Premise Three: The instrument of transformation is the wood. "The LORD showed him a piece of wood." Not a branch from a fruit tree. Not a flowering shrub. A piece of wood. Common. Unremarkable. Possibly dead. And yet—this wood, when applied to the bitter water, made it sweet.
Conclusion: Therefore, the very thing that reveals your bitterness—when surrendered to God—becomes the vessel for your blessing.
A common objection arises: "But Harold, this sounds like spiritualizing suffering. Are you saying all suffering is good? Are you justifying abuse? Are you telling the woman whose husband beats her to just find the wood in her situation?"
No, beloved. A thousand times no. Let me be absolutely clear: There is a difference between suffering that comes from faithfulness and suffering that comes from foolishness. There is a difference between the wilderness God leads you into and the pit you fall into through disobedience. There is a difference between a trial that refines and an abuse that destroys.
The wood does not sanctify abuse. The wood does not make slavery sweet. The wood is not an excuse for passivity in the face of injustice.
But here is what the wood does: It transforms your relationship to your suffering. It changes what the suffering produces in you. It takes the bitterness of the circumstance and converts it into something that sustains rather than poisons.
The Cross That Cuts Is the Tree That Cures
This brings us to the heart of the matter, and I must speak plainly.
The wood that Moses threw into the water was a prophetic picture of the cross. The cross—that instrument of torture, that symbol of Roman cruelty, that wooden beam on which the Son of God was stretched—was the bitterest water humanity ever tasted. All the sin of the world. All the wrath of God. All the injustice of history. All the suffering of the innocent. Poured out on one man on one piece of wood.
And from that cross—from that bitter water—came sweetness. Forgiveness. Reconciliation. Life. The very thing that cut Him became the cure for us.
The cross that cuts you is the tree that cures you.
What is the bitter water in your life right now? Name it. I will wait
Is it a marriage that has turned sour? A child who has walked away from everything you taught them? A dream that died and left you standing at the grave with nothing but questions? A body that is betraying you with illness? A church that wounded you instead of welcoming you? A nation that seems to be collapsing while leaders enrich themselves?
Here is what I have learned in my fifty-seven years of walking with God: The bitter water will not change until you apply the right wood.
And the right wood is not positive thinking. It is not denial. It is not pretending everything is fine when it is not. It is not religious performance. It is not quoting scripture while swallowing rage.
The right wood is surrender.
A Personal Story: The Wood in My Hand
Let me take you back to 2016. I was sitting in my study—I still have the chair, though the cushions are worn now—and I was bitter. Not just sad. Bitter. I had built a consulting business over seven years. I had sacrificed time with my family. I had turned down opportunities that would have paid more because I believed God had called me to build something that would serve the Kingdom. And then, in one email, it was gone.
I remember picking up my phone to call a friend and complain. I wanted to tell him how unfair it was. I wanted to rehearse the injustice. I wanted someone to agree with me that God had let me down.
But before I could dial, I heard that still, small voice—the one that sounds like conviction and feels like fire: What is in your hand, Harold?
I looked down. In my hand was a pen. Not a sword. Not a staff. Not a miracle-working piece of wood. A pen. A cheap Bic pen I had stolen from a hotel in Sandton.
What is in your hand?
And suddenly, I understood. I had been looking for God to show me the wood—some external solution, some miraculous intervention, some dramatic deliverance. But the wood was already in my hand. The very thing I used to write proposals, to draft contracts, to build my business—that same pen, if surrendered, would become the instrument of transformation.
I sat down and I wrote. Not a complaint. Not a letter demanding justice. I wrote a devotional. I wrote about what God was teaching me in the wilderness. I wrote about the sweetness that comes when you stop demanding that God explain Himself and start trusting that He is good even when you cannot taste it.
That devotional became a book. That book opened doors I never imagined. That business I lost? It was a seed. The death of that dream was the planting of something I could not yet see.
I am not telling you this to boast. I am telling you this because I want you to look at your own hand. What is in your hand today?
Maybe it is a skill you thought would never be used again. Maybe it is a relationship you thought was dead. Maybe it is a wound that you have been nursing for years. Maybe it is a testimony that you have been too ashamed to share. Maybe it is a song, a poem, a prayer, a word that God has been waiting for you to release
Use it as He directs.
Grumbling Sees the Problem; Obedience Finds the Wood
Here is where we must confront a hard truth. I say this with love, but I say it with the authority of Scripture.
Israel grumbled. They did not pray. They did not ask. They grumbled. They complained to Moses, but they did not cry out to God until Moses led them. And even then, the text says Moses cried out to the Lord. The people were still standing there with crossed arms and bitter hearts, waiting for someone else to fix their problem.
Grumbling is the language of entitlement. It says: God owes me comfort. It says: I deserve better than this. It says: Someone else should fix this situation.
Obedience is the language of sonship. It says: What do You want me to do with what is in my hand?
I see this in our nation today. We have become professional grumblers. We can complain about load-shedding, about potholes, about corruption, about unemployment—and all of it is true! All of it is real! But grumbling about bitter water does not make it sweet. It only makes you bitter along with it.
Do not misunderstand me. I am not saying we should not demand accountability. I am not saying we should not speak against injustice. The prophets of Israel did not sit silently while leaders led the people astray. But there is a difference between prophetic confrontation and chronic complaining.
Prophetic confrontation says: This is wrong, and here is what God requires.
Chronic complaining says: This is wrong, and someone else should fix it.
Prophetic confrontation comes from a place of faith.
Chronic complaining comes from a place of fear.
Prophetic confrontation applies the wood.
Chronic complaining just stares at the water.
The South African Context: Our Bitter Waters
Let me speak directly to my people. I live in Akasia, Pretoria. I see the same news you see. I read the same headlines. I know that we have just come through an election season where promises were made and hopes were raised and now we are watching to see if anything will actually change.
I know that the Two-Pot System for retirement funds has many of you confused and anxious. I know that the cost of living is crushing families. I know that a bag of groceries that cost R500 two years ago now costs R800. I know that young people with degrees are driving Bolt and Uber because there are no jobs. I know that the water crisis in Gauteng is not just an inconvenience—it is a threat to our dignity.
These are bitter waters. Let no one tell you they are not.
But here is what I also know: God has not abandoned South Africa. And He is looking for people who will stop complaining long enough to see the wood in their hands.
What if the solution to our energy crisis is not just waiting for Eskom to fix it, but for the church to become a light in the darkness—literally and spiritually? What if the answer to corruption is not just another inquiry, but a generation of young people who refuse to participate in the system of bribery and patronage? What if the transformation of our education system begins not with the Department of Basic Education, but with parents who decide that they will teach their children at home if they must, because they will not surrender the next generation to mediocrity?
What if the wood is in your hand right now?
The Sweetness: What Transformation Looks Like
When Moses threw the wood into the water, the water became sweet. The text uses the same word used elsewhere in Scripture for honey. It went from bitter to honey-sweet.
What does this sweetness look like in practical terms?
First, sweetness is sustenance. Water that was undrinkable becomes drinkable. Your suffering, when surrendered to God, becomes something that nourishes rather than poisons. You find that the very thing you thought would destroy you is now the thing that feeds your faith.
Second, sweetness is testimony. The text tells us that after Marah, God gave them a statute and a test. He said: If you listen carefully to the voice of the LORD your God and do what is right in His eyes, if you pay attention to His commands and keep all His decrees, I will not bring on you any of the diseases I brought on the Egyptians, for I am the LORD, who heals you. (Exodus 15:26)
Your transformed bitterness becomes a testimony that heals others. When you walk through Marah and come out with sweetness, you have a story that will help someone else find the wood in their own situation.
Third, sweetness is direction. Marah was not the destination. It was a stop on the journey. After the water was sweetened, they traveled to Elim, where there were twelve springs and seventy palm trees. The bitter water prepared them for the abundance that followed. Without Marah, they would not have known how to value Elim.
A Call to Action: Stop Complaining, Start Casting
I am going to end where I began, but I want to make it personal.
What is in your hand right now?
Not what you wish was in your hand. Not what you think you deserve to have in your hand. Not what your neighbour has in their hand. What is actually in your hand?
Maybe it is a skill that you have been hiding because you are afraid of failure. Cast it into the water.
Maybe it is a relationship that you have been holding onto with a death grip. Release it into the water.
Maybe it is a wound that you have been protecting, keeping it from healing because you are afraid to let go of the story of how you were hurt. Throw it into the water.
Maybe it is a prayer that you have been praying for years, and you have grown tired of waiting. Surrender the timing into the water.
Maybe it is a dream that died, and you have been carrying the corpse around like a funeral procession. Bury it in the water, and watch what God resurrects.
What you surrender to God, God sweetens for you.
This is not magic. It is not a formula. It is the law of the Kingdom: Nothing that enters the hands of God remains unchanged. He is the transformer. He is the sweetener. He is the healer. But He requires that you release it.
Grumbling holds onto the bitterness. Obedience casts the wood.
The Wood That Is Jesus
And finally, let me point you to the ultimate Wood. The cross of Jesus Christ is the tree that has been thrown into the bitter water of human history. All the sin, all the suffering, all the death, all the injustice—everything that made this world undrinkable—Christ took upon Himself on that cross. And He transformed it.
The resurrection is the sweetness. The empty tomb is the proof that the water has been sweetened. Death itself, the bitterest water of all, has been transformed into the gateway to eternal life.
If you are reading this and you have never thrown yourself upon that Wood, I invite you to do so now. You cannot transform your own bitter water. You cannot find the right tree on your own. But the Lord has already shown you the Wood. His name is Jesus. He is the Tree of Life. And when you surrender your life to Him, He throws Himself into your bitterness and makes it sweet.
Not easy, but sweet.
Not painless, but purposeful.
Not without tears, but with a testimony.
Prayer
Lord, teach me to stop complaining and start casting. Forgive me for the years I have spent standing at the edge of Marah, shaking my head at the bitterness, blaming You for the taste, waiting for someone else to fix it. Show me the wood in my hand. Show me the tree of Your cross, and give me the courage to throw it in. Let the wood of Your cross turn my trials into testimony. Turn my bitterness into sweetness. Turn my wilderness into worship. And may I never forget that the same cloud that led me to Marah will lead me to Elim. I ask this in the name of Jesus, who drank the bitterest cup so that I might taste the sweetness of eternal life. Amen.
Go in peace. Find the wood. Cast it in. Taste the sweetness.
Harold Mawela
Akasia, Pretoria
https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-sweet-side-of-suffering/id1506692775?i=1000756445032
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