It’s a simple question, but the answer is surprisingly...we don't know. Obadiah was a minor prophet in the Old Testament, and he wrote a book that is only one chapter with 21 verses. We don’t know his background; we don’t know where he came from. We don’t know his family, his occupation, or even exactly when he lived. His name means “servant of the Lord,” and beyond that, Scripture gives us very little.
And yet, his message is anything but small, which is ironic. A man we know virtually nothing about was chosen to deliver a message about pride. A man whose identity fades into the background is the one God uses to confront a nation that had made everything about themselves.
Edom was a nation defined by pride. They believed they were secure, untouchable, elevated above everyone else. When Israel was attacked and in distress, Edom didn’t step in to help. They stood back and watched. They even joined in the attack by looting the Israelites and blocking their escape routes (1:13-14). Instead of recognizing their connection to Israel, they elevated themselves above them.
And God saw it.
In Obadiah 1:3, the warning is clear: “The pride of your heart has deceived you.” Pride didn’t just exist in Edom—it blinded them. It convinced them that they were safe, that their position could not be shaken, and that what they were doing either didn’t matter or wouldn’t be dealt with.
But pride always distorts reality. It causes us to overestimate ourselves and underestimate the consequences of our actions. It convinces us that we are justified, that we are right, that we are somehow above correction. It not only hurts us, but those around us. And the longer it goes unchecked, the harder it becomes to see clearly.
Edom thought they were secure, but God makes it clear that what is elevated in pride will be brought low. Their downfall was not random—it was the direct result of what they had allowed to take root in their hearts. And that’s where this message moves from being about them to being about us.
Because pride doesn’t always look obvious. It doesn’t always show up as arrogance or loud self-importance. More often, it shows up quietly—in our unwillingness to admit when we are wrong, in the way we justify our behavior, in the way we distance ourselves from the struggles of others, or even in the way we think we are somehow different, somehow better.
Pride convinces us that we see clearly when we don’t, and that is why it is so dangerous.
What makes Obadiah’s message so powerful is not just what he said, but how little we know about him. There is no distraction. There is no personality to focus on, no story to follow. The spotlight is not on the messenger—it is entirely on the message.
God does not need recognition, status, or visibility to accomplish His purposes. He does not need a well-known name or a compelling backstory. He can use anyone, and sometimes He chooses someone we know almost nothing about so that we don’t miss what matters most. The message stands on its own.
In the end, Obadiah is not remembered for who he was, but for what God said through him. And maybe that’s the reminder we need—that our lives are not about making a name for ourselves, but about being willing to carry what God has called us to carry.
Because it has never been about the messenger—It has always been about the message.
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