After Golden Calves
There are moments in the biblical story when the silence feels unbearable. Exodus 32 is one of them.
The mountain still smokes with the presence of God. Moses has been gone forty days. And at the foot of that holy mountain, Israel dances naked around a golden calf, calling it the god who brought them out of Egypt.
When Moses descends with the tablets of the covenant in his hands, he finds a people who have exchanged the glory of the immortal God for the image of a bull that eats grass. The tablets written by the very finger of God are shattered. Three thousand fall by the sword. The camp reeks of judgment.
And then comes chapter 33, with its terrible question hanging in the air: Will God go with us at all?
The tent of meeting is moved outside the camp. God speaks to Moses face to face, but the people watch from a distance, trembling. They have tasted grace at the Red Sea and law at Sinai, and now they have tasted their own treachery. They know what they deserve. What they do not yet know is what kind of God they have sinned against.
Is He the God who gives up on covenant breakers? Is He the God whose patience has a limit, whose mercy has a boundary? Is He the God who will now keep them at arm’s length—leading them to Canaan, but refusing to dwell among them? Or is He something else entirely—something deeper, something more dangerous, something more beautiful than they have ever imagined?
Exodus 34 gives us the answer. And it does so not through another miracle, not through another act of deliverance, but through something more fundamental: God speaks His own name. He tells Moses—and through Moses, tells Israel, and through Israel, tells us—who He is.
This morning, we climb Mount Sinai again. We stand with Moses in the cleft of the rock. We listen as God proclaims His name. And as we do, may we discover that His mercy is deeper than our sin and His justice is firmer than our excuses, and that both together call us into a renewed covenant of holiness grounded in His unchanging character.
The God Who Comes Down Again (34:1–3)
"The LORD said to Moses, 'Cut for yourself two tablets of stone like the first, and I will write on the tablets the words that were on the first tablets, which you broke. Be ready by the morning, and come up in the morning to Mount Sinai, and present yourself there to me on the top of the mountain. No one shall come up with you, and let no one be seen throughout all the mountain. Let no flocks or herds graze opposite that mountain.'" (Exodus 34:1–3)
The first word from God after the golden calf is not a word of abandonment. It is a word of initiative.
"Cut for yourself two tablets of stone like the first."
Do you hear what God is doing? He is starting again. He is renewing what was broken. He is rewriting what was shattered. But notice: Moses must cut the stones. The first tablets were cut by God alone, formed by divine hands in the fire of His holiness. These second tablets require human labor. There is partnership here, cooperation. God has not abandoned His people, but neither does He pretend nothing has happened. The covenant is renewed, but the scar remains. Moses carries stones shaped by his own hands up the mountain to receive words written by God’s hand.
This is the pattern of all biblical restoration. God initiates. God provides. But repentance requires us to do what we can do—to prepare, to labor, to climb—while trusting God to do what only He can do: to write His law upon our hearts. So Moses rises early. He cuts the stones. He climbs. Alone.
The solitude is crucial. “No one shall come up with you.” This is not the gathering of Exodus 19, when all Israel assembled at the base of the mountain. This is not the elders climbing halfway up in chapter 24. This is Moses alone with God in the aftermath of catastrophe, seeking for his people what they cannot seek for themselves.
He is their mediator. He stands in the gap. He carries their guilt and their hope up the mountain, and he waits to see if God will meet him there.
Do you see the biblical-theological beauty of this moment? This is Eden again—God walking in the garden, seeking out guilty sinners. This is Noah again—God establishing a covenant after judgment has fallen. This is the pattern repeated throughout Scripture: humanity breaks covenant, and God comes down to restore it.
God is not exhausted with repentant sinners.
He does not grow weary of renewal. He does not say, “I gave you the law once; you should have kept it.” He says, “Cut stones. Climb again. Meet Me here.”
How many times have you broken covenant with God? How many times have you promised obedience and delivered betrayal? How many golden calves have you fashioned in the workshop of your heart—idols of comfort, security, approval, control? How many times have you stood at the foot of the mountain, watching from a distance, wondering if God is done with you?
Beloved, if you come to Him—if you cut the stones and make the climb—you will find Him there. Not because you deserve it. Not because your repentance is eloquent or your sorrow is sufficient. But because He is the God who comes down again.
“God’s mercy is an ocean where all our sins are buried.” – Thomas Watson
But even that image falls short. An ocean has a floor. God’s mercy has none. It is not that He overlooks your sin or pretends it does not matter. It is that He has made a way—through blood, through substitution, through the cross—to renew covenant with covenant breakers.
Moses climbs in the early morning darkness, and at the summit, wrapped in cloud and glory, God is waiting. He is always waiting.
The God Whose Name Is Mercy (34:4–7a)
"So Moses cut two tablets of stone like the first. And he rose early in the morning and went up on Mount Sinai, as the LORD had commanded him, and took in his hand two tablets of stone. The LORD descended in the cloud and stood with him there, and proclaimed the name of the LORD. The LORD passed before him and proclaimed, 'The LORD, the LORD, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin…'" (Exodus 34:4–7a)
And now we come to the heart of it. The summit. The revelation. The name.
God does not merely appear. He proclaims. He speaks His own name over Moses like a blessing, like a banner, like a song. And what does He say?
Not, “I am the God of vengeance.” Not, “I am the God who remembers every sin.” Not, “I am the God who grows tired of wayward people.” No. Listen:
“The LORD, the LORD”—the repetition is emphasis, intimacy, assurance—“a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness.”
The first attribute is mercy. The first word is compassion. When God introduces Himself to a people fresh from idolatry, He begins with chesed—that rich, untranslatable Hebrew word that means loyal love, covenant faithfulness, unshakable devotion.
This is not sentiment. This is not divine softness. This is the bedrock of God’s character. Mercy is not something God occasionally practices; mercy is something God is. It flows from Him as light flows from the sun, as water flows from a spring.
“Gracious”—channun—the One who bends low, who stoops to help, who gives what is not deserved.
“Slow to anger”—literally “long of nostrils,” patient, restrained, not quick to strike.
“Abounding in steadfast love”—rab chesed—overflowing, excessive, lavish in mercy.
“And faithfulness”—’emet—truth, reliability, the God who keeps His promises.
These attributes become the most quoted description of God in the Old Testament. The psalmists sing them (Psalm 86:15; 103:8; 145:8). Nehemiah prays them (Nehemiah 9:17). Joel proclaims them (Joel 2:13). Even Jonah, sulking under his plant, recites them—though he wishes they were not true (Jonah 4:2).
And when John introduces Jesus to the world, he reaches for this language:
"The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth." (John 1:14)
Full of charis and aletheia—grace and truth—the Greek echo of chesed and ’emet. Do you see it? The God who reveals His name on Sinai is the God who pitches His tent among us in Jesus. The glory that Moses glimpsed in the cleft is the glory that radiates from the face of Christ. Mercy is not merely an attribute of God; mercy is what God looks like when He puts on flesh and walks among idol-makers like us.
But notice something else: God does not say, “I am merciful because you have repented.” He does not say, “I am gracious if you promise to do better.” The revelation of mercy comes before Moses speaks a word. It comes as pure gift, unearned, undeserved, overflowing.
This is the gospel pattern:
While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.
While we were enemies, we were reconciled to God by the death of His Son.
The Father does not wait for us to clean ourselves up before He lavishes His love upon us. He pours out mercy first, and that mercy becomes the very ground of our transformation.
Here is where so many of us stumble in the Christian life. We think holiness begins with effort—with discipline, striving, keeping the rules. And so we try and fail, try and fail, try and fail, until we are exhausted and discouraged and convinced we will never be the Christians we’re supposed to be. But beloved, holiness does not begin with effort.
Holiness begins with beholding.
It begins with standing on the mountain and hearing God proclaim His name. It begins with seeing the mercy that is deeper than your sin, the grace that is greater than your failure, the steadfast love that will not let you go.
The apostle Paul says it plainly:
"Beholding the glory of the Lord, we are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another." (2 Corinthians 3:18)
Transformation comes through vision. You become like what you worship. You reflect what you behold.
If you want to grow in holiness, do not begin by gritting your teeth and trying harder. Begin by lifting your eyes to the God who is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love. Let the beauty of His character captivate you. Let the wonder of His mercy undo you. Let the kindness of God lead you to repentance.
“Nothing teaches us about the preciousness of the Creator as much as when we learn the emptiness of everything else.” – Charles Spurgeon
You have tried the golden calves. You have worshiped at the altars of comfort and control and human approval. And you have found them empty.
Now look up. Look to the mountain. Listen to the name. Let mercy be the air you breathe. And as it fills your lungs, as it soaks into your bones, you will find something stirring within you that no amount of striving could produce: a love for God Himself, a hunger for His presence, a desire to be holy as He is holy—not because you fear punishment, but because you have tasted grace.
The God Whose Name Is Justice (34:7b)
But the proclamation does not end with mercy. God is not finished speaking His name. Listen to what comes next:
"…but who will by no means clear the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children and the children's children, to the third and the fourth generation." (Exodus 34:7b)
The breath catches. The warmth suddenly chills. After all that mercy, all that grace, all that steadfast love—this.
"Who will by no means clear the guilty."
This is not a footnote. This is not fine print at the bottom of the covenant document. This is part of God’s name. This is who He is. The same God who abounds in mercy also refuses to overlook sin. The same God who is slow to anger also executes judgment. The same God who keeps steadfast love for thousands also visits iniquity to the third and fourth generation.
Justice is not a secondary attribute of God, something He practices reluctantly. Justice is essential to who He is. And justice is good.
We struggle with this. Our age has made a kind of peace with a sentimental version of mercy, but we want nothing to do with wrath. We want a God who forgives but never judges, who loves but never condemns, who accepts everyone and never holds anyone accountable.
But that is not the God of Scripture. That is not the God who proclaims His name on Sinai. And if we are honest, that is not even the God we actually want.
Because a God who does not punish sin is a God who does not care about evil. A God who shrugs at injustice is a God who is indifferent to victims. A God who “clears the guilty” is a God who betrays the oppressed.
We want justice when we are wronged. We cry out for it. We demand it. We say, “How long, O Lord?” when violence goes unpunished and wickedness flourishes. We want a Judge who sees, who cares, who acts.
But we want mercy when we are the guilty ones.
God gives us both. And He gives them not in competition but in harmony. Listen again to the balance of the text: “keeping steadfast love for thousands, visiting iniquity to the third and fourth generation.”
Do you see the ratio? Mercy outweighs judgment by orders of magnitude. God’s love extends to thousands of generations. His wrath extends to three or four. This is not a God whose default mode is punishment. This is a God whose hesed overflows, whose justice is real but restrained, whose judgment is measured and whose mercy is extravagant.
But the warning remains: He will by no means clear the guilty. And here is where each of us must reckon with the problem: We are guilty. Not hypothetically. Not theoretically. Guilty.
We have worshiped golden calves. We have broken covenant. We have sinned against light and knowledge and grace. We have trampled underfoot the blood of the covenant and counted it a common thing.
Paul makes it plain:
"None is righteous, no, not one." (Romans 3:10)
"All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God." (Romans 3:23)
"If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us." (1 John 1:8)
So what do we do with a God who will by no means clear the guilty? We run to the cross. Because here—here—is where justice and mercy meet. Here is where the problem of Exodus 34 finds its resolution. God does not clear the guilty by pretending sin does not matter. He does not clear the guilty by lowering the standard or looking the other way. He clears the guilty by punishing sin fully—in His Son.
At Calvary, the wrath of God falls. The judgment that should have crushed us crushes Him. The iniquity that should have separated us from God forever is laid upon Christ, and He bears it into death. Justice is satisfied. The law is honored. The guilt is punished.
And then—wonder of wonders—mercy flows. The One who bore our sin rose from the dead, declaring that the debt is paid, the penalty is satisfied, the guilty are now justified. Paul writes:
"God put forward [Christ] as a propitiation by his blood, to be received by faith. This was to show God's righteousness… so that he might be just and the justifier of the one who has faith in Jesus." (Romans 3:25–26)
Just and justifier. Both. Together. Fully. This is the gospel. Not that God overlooks sin, but that God dealt with sin—decisively, brutally, finally—at the cross. And now He offers mercy to everyone who trusts in His Son. Not because we are innocent. Not because we have made ourselves acceptable. But because Jesus stood in our place and took the judgment we deserved.
“The wonder of the gospel is not that God canceled the debt but that He paid it Himself.” – Sinclair Ferguson
That is the God whose name is both mercy and justice. But here is the pastoral urgency: If you presume upon mercy without trembling at justice, you have not understood the gospel. If you think you can go on sinning casually because “God is gracious,” you have turned mercy into license and grace into an excuse. Paul anticipates this very mistake:
"Are we to continue in sin that grace may abound? By no means!" (Romans 6:1–2)
John warns:
"If we say we have fellowship with him while we walk in darkness, we lie and do not practice the truth." (1 John 1:6)
Beloved, you cannot out-sin God’s mercy. But you cannot outrun His justice either. The cross offers pardon, but it also demands allegiance. It offers freedom, but it calls you to holiness. The God who justified you is also the God who is sanctifying you, and He will not be satisfied until you are conformed to the image of His Son.
Casual attitudes toward sin collapse under the weight of divine holiness. The God who proclaims His name on Sinai is the God who will judge the living and the dead. Revelation 6 shows us the great and terrible day when kings and generals and the mighty of the earth will cry out to the mountains, “Fall on us and hide us from the face of him who is seated on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb” (Revelation 6:16).
The wrath of the Lamb. Let that sink in. The same Jesus who wept over Jerusalem, who welcomed sinners, who said, “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden”—that Jesus will one day return in judgment.
This is not meant to terrorize you. It is meant to sober you. It is meant to strip away every flippant excuse, every casual indulgence, every secret compromise. It is meant to drive you back to the cross in repentance and faith, where mercy and justice have already met, where the guilty are already cleared—if they will believe.
The God Who Creates Humble Worshippers (34:8–9)
"And Moses quickly bowed his head toward the earth and worshiped. And he said, 'If now I have found favor in your sight, O Lord, please let the Lord go in the midst of us, for it is a stiff-necked people, and pardon our iniquity and our sin, and take us for your inheritance.'" (Exodus 34:8–9)
Now we see what the revelation of God’s name produces: worship.
Moses does not debate. He does not negotiate. He does not stand on the mountain weighing mercy against justice, asking philosophical questions about divine attributes. He bows. Quickly. Instinctively. His face to the earth.
This is the only proper response to the self-revelation of God. When you see who He really is—when you hear His name proclaimed in all its fullness—you fall down. You worship. Because you have encountered something infinitely greater than yourself, more beautiful than you imagined, more dangerous than you feared.
Isaiah had the same reaction. When he saw the Lord high and lifted up, with seraphim crying “Holy, holy, holy,” he cried, “Woe is me! For I am lost; for I am a man of unclean lips… for my eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts!” (Isaiah 6:5).
Peter had the same reaction. When Jesus filled his nets after a fruitless night, Peter fell at Jesus’ knees and said, “Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord” (Luke 5:8).
Do you see the pattern? True encounter with God produces immediate self-awareness. Not morbid introspection. Not paralyzing guilt. But honest, humble recognition: I am not what I should be. I am a sinner standing before a holy God.
And notice what Moses prays. He does not ask for judgment to be suspended. He does not ask for the standard to be lowered. He asks for presence.
"Please let the Lord go in the midst of us."
This is the heart of biblical repentance. It is not merely sorrow over sin—though it includes that. It is not merely resolve to do better—though it includes that too. Biblical repentance is a turning toward God. It is a desperate plea: “Don’t leave us. Come with us. Dwell among us. We cannot make it without You.”
Then Moses does something extraordinary. He confesses. Not his own sin only, but the sin of the people. “For it is a stiff-necked people.” He does not minimize. He does not spin. He does not make excuses. He stands before God and says, “We are guilty. We are stubborn. We are prone to wander. And yet—”
"Pardon our iniquity and our sin, and take us for your inheritance."
Take us anyway. Not because we deserve it. Not because we have proven ourselves. But because You are merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love. Take us as Your people. Make us Your possession. Bind Yourself to us in covenant.
This is what it means to be a humble worshiper. It means coming to God with empty hands and a broken heart, asking Him to do for you what you cannot do for yourself. It means confessing your sin honestly, trusting His mercy completely, and desiring His presence above all else.
And here is the glorious truth: God delights in such prayers. He does not turn away the brokenhearted. He does not despise the contrite in spirit. Psalm 51 says it plainly: “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise” (Psalm 51:17).
But beloved, we must ask ourselves: Is this our posture?
- Do we bow quickly when confronted with God’s holiness?
- Do we confess honestly when faced with our sin?
- Do we desire God’s presence more than His gifts?
Or have we become casual in our approach to God? Have we forgotten what it means to tremble at His word? Have we treated grace as permission to live however we please?
The church in the West suffers from a crisis of reverence. We have lost the fear of the Lord. We sing about God’s love, but we do not tremble at His justice. We talk about grace, but we do not pursue holiness. We want God’s blessings, but we do not hunger for God Himself.
And the result is a faith that is shallow, anemic, powerless. We look like the culture around us. We sin like the culture around us. We consume, we compromise, we complain—and we wonder why our prayers seem to bounce off the ceiling, why our worship feels hollow, why we have no power over the sins that keep dragging us down.
It is because we have not bowed. We have not worshiped. We have not seen God as He is.
“The man who is forgiven little loves little. But the man who is forgiven much—he loves much.” – Andrew Murray
The problem is not that we have been forgiven little. The problem is that we think we have been forgiven little. We have minimized our sin and therefore cheapened grace.
But when you stand on the mountain and hear God proclaim His name—when you see the mercy that saved you and the justice that crushed Christ—you will bow. You will worship. You will cry out with Moses, “Take us as Your inheritance!” And you will find that the God who commands holiness also produces holiness. Not through bare law. Not through fear. But through love. Through beholding. Through worship.
The more you see His beauty, the less attractive sin becomes. The more you taste His goodness, the less you crave the cheap substitutes. The more you dwell in His presence, the more you are transformed into His likeness.
This is the way of sanctification. Not striving but beholding. Not working but worshiping. Not earning but receiving. But it begins with bowing. It begins with honest confession. It begins with a desperate plea: “Lord, go with us. We are stiff-necked, but we are Yours. Pardon us. Take us. Make us holy.”
And when you pray that prayer—when you bow low and look up—you will find Him there. Not distant. Not angry. Not exhausted with you. But merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love.
Coming Down the Mountain
Moses climbed the mountain a second time carrying stones shaped by his own hands. He climbed in the aftermath of betrayal, in the shadow of judgment, uncertain whether God would renew covenant with covenant breakers.
And God met him there. Not with condemnation. Not with rejection. But with a proclamation—a name—a revelation of character so rich, so deep, so glorious that it has echoed through every generation since:
"The LORD, the LORD, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness… but who will by no means clear the guilty."
Mercy and justice. Both true. Both essential. Both perfectly harmonized in the character of God, and perfectly displayed at the cross of Jesus Christ.
At Calvary, we see the fullest revelation of Exodus 34. There, the God who will by no means clear the guilty poured out His wrath—on His Son. There, the God who abounds in steadfast love opened the fountain of mercy—through His Son’s blood. There, justice struck its blow and mercy opened its arms, and the guilty were declared righteous, and sinners were called saints, and covenant was renewed forever.
This is the gospel. This is the name above every name. This is the God we worship.
And this God calls us—not to casual religion, not to sentimental spirituality, not to halfhearted obedience—but to a life of holy worship grounded in the beauty of His character.
He calls us to bow quickly when confronted with our sin.
He calls us to confess honestly, without excuse or spin.
He calls us to desire His presence above everything else.
He calls us to be transformed by beholding His glory.
Beloved, you cannot out-sin God’s mercy. His steadfast love extends to thousands of generations. His grace is deeper than your deepest failure. His patience is longer than your longest rebellion. If you will come to Him—if you will bow, confess, believe—you will find Him merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love.
But you cannot outrun His justice. He will by no means clear the guilty. The God who saved you is also the God who calls you to holiness. The cross that justifies you also crucifies your sin. The grace that pardons you also purifies you. Do not presume upon mercy. Do not treat grace as license. Do not play games with the God who sees all and knows all and will one day judge all.
Instead, worship. Bow low. Look up. Let the beauty of His character captivate you. Let the wonder of His mercy undo you. Let the terror of His justice sober you. And let the love that moved Him to come down—again and again and finally in His Son—compel you to live for His glory.
Moses came down the mountain with his face shining, radiant with the reflected glory of God. And Paul tells us that we, with unveiled faces, are being transformed into that same image, from one degree of glory to another.
This is the call. This is the hope. This is the life God offers to everyone who will bow before the God whose name is mercy and justice, grace and truth, love and holiness.
Come. Bow. Worship. Be transformed.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
Amen.
