During World War II, a small team of British cryptanalysts worked day and night to decode the German military’s encrypted messages. Most people have heard of Alan Turing. But fewer know that Turing once brought in a young mathematician named Joan Clarke, brilliant, reserved, and not officially part of the war cabinet. When someone asked Turing why he shared classified details with someone not “on the list,” he reportedly answered, “Because some minds are not just clever, they are trustworthy.”
In today’s reading from Genesis, something just as similar happens between Abraham and God. After the mysterious visitors share the astonishing promise of a child for Abraham and Sarah, they rise to go toward Sodom. But then comes this curious moment. The Lord pauses and says, “Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do?” Now, let’s be honest, why is this hesitation? God doesn’t need Abraham’s input. He is not taking a vote.
This is not a cold transaction between Creator and creature. It’s a relationship. God doesn’t just want Abraham’s obedience; He wants his friendship and trust. And friends are trusted with difficult conversations. So, God draws Abraham close and shares His concern: “The outcry against Sodom and Gomorrah is great.” And then something remarkable happens. Abraham, the old man who laughed at God’s promise and bumbled through Egypt pretending Sarah was his sister, he becomes something more: he becomes an intercessor.
Abraham doesn’t protest the evil of Sodom. He doesn’t defend their actions. What he pleads for is the presence of goodness, “Will You sweep away the righteous with the wicked?” With reverent boldness, Abraham begins a dialogue, fifty… forty-five… forty… all the way to ten.
What’s happening here is not just negotiation. It’s intimacy. Abraham is being drawn deeper into the heart of God. He is learning that the God of justice is also the God of mercy, that divine wrath is never rushed, and divine compassion is never stingy.
This is the privilege of friendship with God. Not safety, not predictability, but the invitation to stand with Him in the tension between justice and mercy. It’s not unlike what Moses will later do when he pleads for Israel after the golden calf. Or what Jeremiah will attempt when he weeps over Jerusalem. And it’s fulfilled most completely in Jesus, who doesn’t just intercede from a distance, but steps into the fire for us, praying from the cross: “Father, forgive them.”
What does this mean for us? It means that prayer is not just about asking for things, it’s about being drawn into God’s perspective. Into His heartbreak. His longing. His search for the few righteous who might heal the many who are broken.
Maybe the greatest compliment God ever gave Abraham wasn’t in the promise of land or descendants, but in the moment, He paused and said, “Should I tell him?” Because when God shares His concern with you, it’s a sign of trust. A call to stand with Him, not apart from the world’s pain, but in the middle of it.
May we never take lightly the holy privilege of being invited into that conversation.
And let us pray for the courage, not just to listen, but to stay in the conversation.