Jeremiah 14 has become more than a historical prophetic text to me; it has become a mirror. When I read this chapter, I do not simply learn about Judah’s drought — I feel my own droughts rising to the surface. This chapter opens with a description of physical dryness that symbolically exposes spiritual dryness. And when the Lord brought me into a season where my finances began to dry up, the words in Jeremiah 14 stopped feeling ancient and suddenly became alarmingly present. I see myself in Judah.
The chapter opens: “Judah mourns, and her gates languish; her people lament on the ground, and the cry of Jerusalem goes up.” (Jer. 14:2). The Hebrew word used here for “mourn,” אָבַל (abal), means to lament as if grieving the dead. It is not merely sadness; it is the feeling of loss — loss of control, loss of security, loss of what once felt stable. Their gates “languish,” a detail that seems small until you understand that in the ancient world, the city gate was where commerce, decisions, legal agreements, and community life happened. When the gates languished, the entire structure of society was collapsing. When drought comes, everything we thought was predictable suddenly feels fragile.
In the past year, I launched my real estate company with confidence. I invested a significant amount of money into marketing systems, advertising tools, website upgrades, CRM subscriptions — everything the industry says will generate growth. I had momentum, energy, and excitement. Then the market shifted, the volume slowed down, and the return on investment did not come. The money I poured out felt like it was vanishing — like I was pouring water into cracked ground that swallowed everything it received. I would check bank statements, analyze costs, try to justify expenses, and tell myself they were “investments,” but emotionally, it felt like watching wells run dry.
Jeremiah continues: “The nobles send their servants for water; they come to the cistern but find no water. They return with empty vessels.” (v. 3). The painful irony is that even the nobles — those with power, resources, influence — are helpless. Their servants return carrying empty vessels. I understand that image in a visceral way. I kept investing money, time, passion, and professional energy into my business expecting a return, and I kept returning with empty vessels. Instead of results, I felt exhaustion. Instead of growth, I felt increasingly anxious. And I realized something: I was depending on my own ability to manufacture success. I believed that if I worked harder and spent enough money, results would follow. I did not see it as pride; I saw it as determination. But drought reveals what self-sufficiency hides.
Verse 4 says the ground was cracked because there was no rain in the land. The drought had reached a point where even the farmers — those most familiar with the land and its cycles — were ashamed and covered their heads. In Hebrew, the imagery of “covering the head” signifies humiliation and helplessness. This struck me deeply. Financial drought made me feel ashamed — ashamed that I had invested so aggressively, ashamed that the return didn’t come, ashamed that I had convinced myself I could force results through sheer willpower. Everything in me wanted to fix it — to strategize, to tighten expenses, to double my prospecting calls — but internally, I wasn’t facing a business problem, I was facing a spiritual drought. And like Judah, sadness and confusion filled me more than clarity. I remember walking around my house feeling anxious, telling myself, “All this money is going to waste. I should have known better.” I felt the weight of drought in my chest.
The prophet continues by describing the animals collapsed in the field, unable to find water. The imagery is heartbreaking. “Even the doe abandons her newborn fawn in the field because there is no grass.” (v. 5). In Hebrew thought, animals abandoning their young signifies that the land is under judgment — life can no longer sustain even instinctive care. Jeremiah 14 paints a vivid picture of what happens when the source of life is cut off. And as I read it, God confronted me with an uncomfortable truth: I was looking to my business to give me what only God could supply. I was asking my effort to produce what only grace can produce.
In verse 7, Jeremiah prays, “Though our iniquities testify against us, act for Your name’s sake.” The word עָנָה (anah) here for testify carries legal weight — like evidence being presented in court. Judah’s actions were testifying against them. When finances began drying up, I realized that my own actions, my own mindset, were testifying against me. I kept praying for God to bless my efforts, when what God wanted was surrender. I prayed, “God, make this work,” when God was trying to say, “I don’t want to bless your striving. I want to bless your dependence.”
Jeremiah then asks God a devastating question: “Why are You like a stranger in the land?” (v. 8). The accusation is subtle: “God, where are You? Why aren’t You acting?” And in the quietness of my own drought, I found myself asking the same. When the numbers didn’t improve, when the investment didn’t pay off, when I felt the pressure of being responsible for my family and for our future, there were moments I wondered, “God… are You distant? Why are You letting this happen?” But here’s the theological paradox — Jeremiah accuses God of distance, yet the real distance was Judah’s heart. And as I sat in my financial drought, I realized: God was never distant from me. I distanced myself from Him.
I had drifted because of shame. I knew I had fallen into sin. I knew I had allowed compromise. I knew I was relying on my performance instead of resting in God. Shame doesn’t make God step back. Shame makes us step back. Shame convinces us that God is disappointed, that we have to fix ourselves before returning. And yet, drought has a way of revealing the real truth — God was there the whole time.
In verse 10, God responds: “They love to wander; they do not restrain their feet.” The Hebrew word for “wander,” נָוָה (nawah), means to drift without direction — to move toward anything that feels immediately gratifying, instead of staying rooted. God is saying: “They want My blessing without My lordship. They want comfort without conviction.” I saw myself here. I wanted success without surrender. I wanted results without repentance.
Then comes the most sobering verse in the chapter: “Do not pray for the welfare of this people.” (v. 11). It sounds harsh until you realize what God is rejecting: not the people — their hypocrisy. God refuses to bless wandering hearts that want outcomes but not obedience. God refuses to respond to prayers that are really attempts at avoiding repentance. In this moment of looking back at my drought, I realized something painful: I wasn’t praying because I wanted God. I was praying because I wanted relief.
Later in the chapter, Jeremiah confronts the plague of false prophets: “The prophets are telling them, ‘You shall not see the sword, nor shall you have famine.’” (v. 13). These prophets promised ease, comfort, and pleasant outcomes while refusing to confront sin. God calls their messages lies. Soft teaching produces hard hearts. Truthful teaching produces transformed hearts. I resonate with Jeremiah here because I have always believed in telling the whole truth — repentance, hell, salvation through Christ alone — not because it is comfortable, but because it is necessary. And yet, while I preached bold truth to others, I was avoiding truth in myself.
Then something shifts. Jeremiah begins to weep: “Let my eyes flow with tears night and day…” (v. 17). Jeremiah weeps because he loves God and he loves the people. And reading that verse, I thought about my own family — those who don’t know the Lord or are running from Him. I have felt that ache. I have prayed for them. I have wept for them. When you love deeply, you intercede deeply.
The chapter ends with this line: “Are there any among the worthless idols of the nations that can bring rain?” (v. 22). The Hebrew word for rain is מָטָר (matar) — often associated with divine blessing. Rain in Scripture represents God’s sustaining power. And here is the core revelation: No idol can produce rain. No effort can generate blessing. No amount of striving can replace surrender.
In my drought, God shut off the “rain” intentionally. He dried up every financial pathway that I was using to sustain myself. He allowed my “strategies” to return with empty vessels. He gave me the gift of drought so that my self-sufficiency would finally die. When my business slowed, I stepped back. I spent more time with God. More time with my family. Less striving, more surrender. I stopped trying to force outcomes. I stopped trying to make rain.
God used financial drought to dry up spiritual pride.
Looking back, I see what God was doing. He anchored me in Southwest Florida, even when part of me wanted to move to Sarasota. At first, I saw that closed door as disappointing. But now, I see it as protection. He kept us where our children thrive in school and soccer, where my wife has stability in her hospital role, and where both sides of our family are within reach. God didn’t withhold opportunity; He preserved blessing.
My drought taught me dependence.
No marketing system, no CRM, no business plan can give rain. Only God gives rain. My hope is no longer in return on investment. My hope is in the God of rain.
Closing Reflection
Jeremiah 14 is not simply a chapter about drought; it is a confrontation with self-reliance. When the land dries up, when finances dry up, when emotions dry up, God is not absent — He is exposing where I placed my trust. The drought was not God abandoning me; the drought was God realigning me. I once saw the drying of my finances as a failure. Now, I see it as mercy. God used drought to break the illusion that I was my own provider. When the jars came back empty, I finally realized something life-changing:
Success is not rain.
Obedience is rain.
Surrender is rain.
God is the rain.
My jars are no longer empty. My hands are open.
Conform to Jesus 
Leave a comment