Omnipresent

Omnipresent

Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain where Jesus told them to go. When they saw him, they worshipped him, but some doubted. Jesus came near and spoke to them, “I’ve received all authority in heaven and on earth. Therefore, go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to obey everything that I’ve commanded you. Look, I myself will be with you every day until the end of this present age.” (Matthew 28:16-20)

One man’s dead, the other’s dancing. One’s flat on the ground, the other’s leaping in the air. The dead man is Uzzah, the priest. The dancing man is David, the king. And readers of 2 Samuel don’t really know what to do with either one them. Maybe a little background will help.

The death of the first, and the dancing of the second, had something do with the ark of the covenant: a rectangular box commissioned by God and built during Moses’ lifetime. The chest, or box, wasn’t large at all: just three feet, nine inches tall by two feet, three inches wide. And a trio of the most precious of Hebrew artifacts were inside: a gold jar of unspoiled manna, Aaron’s walking stick that had budded long after it was cut, and the precious stone tablets that had felt the engraving finger of God. A heavy golden plate, called the mercy seat, served as a lid to the chest. Two cherubim of gold, with outstretched wings, faced each other and looked down on the golden lid. They represented the majesty of Jehovah watching over the law and the needs of His people. The ark symbolized God’s provision (the manna), God’s power (the staff), God’s precepts (the commandments), and, most of all, God’s presence.

During the temple era, the high priest would be granted a once-a-year audience with God at the ark. After offering personal sacrifices of repentance, he would enter the holy of holies with, according to Jewish legend, a rope tied to his ankle should he perish from the presence of God and need to be removed from this very special place.

So, with this in mind, can you overstate the significance of the ark? Hardly. For instance, what if we had the manger where Jesus was born? Or, the cross? If we had the very cross on which Jesus was crucified, wouldn’t we cherish it? You’d think so. So, you wonder why the Israelites didn’t cherish the ark of the covenant. Stunningly, they let it gather dust for thirty years in the house of a priest who lived seven miles west of Jerusalem. The very presence of God. Neglected. Ignored. Stored in a basement … for 30 years.

But David determines to change all of that. After he settles into the city of Jerusalem, the new capital of Israel, he makes the return of the ark his top priority. He plans a Macy’s-caliber parade and invites thirty thousand Hebrews to attend. They gather near the home of Abinadab, the priest. His two sons, Uzzah and Ahio, are put in charge of transportation.

They load the ark on an ox-drawn wagon and begin the march. Trumpets blast, songs erupt, and all goes well for about the first two miles, when they hit a rough patch in the road. The oxen stumble, the wagon shakes and the ark shifts. Uzzah, thinking the holy chest is about to fall off the wagon, extends his hand to steady it. Immediately, heaven Uzis Uzzah, “and he died.” (2 Sam. 6:7) That kind of thing can put a damper on a parade pretty quickly. And, it does.

Everyone goes home. Deeply distressed, David returns to Jerusalem, and the ark is kept at the home of Obed-Edom while David sorts things out. Apparently, he succeeds, because at the end of three months David returns, reclaims the ark, and resumes the parade. This time there’s no death. There’s dancing, instead. David enters Jerusalem with rejoicing – “David danced before the Lord with all his might.” (6:14)

Two men. One dead. The other dancing. What does that teach us, if anything? Perhaps more specifically, what do these events teach us about invoking the presence of God? That’s exactly what David wanted to know, too: “How can the ark of the Lord come to me?” (6:9)

This is one giant-sized issue, isn’t it? Because it begs the question as to whether God is just some sort of distant deity? Mothers ask, “How can the presence of God come over my children?” Fathers wonder, “How can God’s presence fill my house?” And churches crave the touching, helping, healing presence of God in their midst. So, should we light a candle, sing chants, build an altar, head up a committee, or give a barrelful of money to get God to come down and be with us? What, exactly, invokes the presence of God? The story of Uzzah and David blend both death and dancing to reveal the answer to that question.

Uzzah’s tragedy teaches us this: God comes on his terms. He gave specific instructions in connection with the care and transport of the ark. Only the priests could get close to it, and then only after they had offered sacrifices for themselves and for their families. (Lev. 16) The ark would be lifted, not with hands, but with acacia poles – priests ran long rods through the rings on the corners to carry the ark. “The Kohathites will come and carry these things to the next destination. But they must not touch the sacred objects, or they will die. . . . they were required to carry the sacred objects of the Tabernacle on their shoulders.” (Num. 4:15; 7:9)

And Uzzah should have known this. He was a priest, a Kohathite priest, a descendant of Aaron himself – the first high priest. Further, the ark had been kept in the house of Uzzah’s father, Abinadab. So he’d grown up with it. Which may be the best explanation for his actions. He gets word that the king wants the chest and says, “Sure, I’ll get it. We keep it out back in the barn. Let’s load it up.” The holy has become humdrum. The sacred has become second-rate. Uzzah exchanges commands for convenience, uses a wagon instead of poles, and bulls instead of priests. We don’t see any obedience or sacrifice; we see expediency. And God is angered.

The image of a dead Uzzah sends a sobering and shuddering reminder to those of us who can attend church as often as we wish, and take communion anytime we desire. The message? We shouldn’t grow lax before the holy. God won’t be loaded onto convenient wagons, or dragged around by dumb animals. Don’t confuse him with a genie who pops out by rubbing a lamp, or a butler who appears at the ringing of a bell. God comes, mind you. But he comes on his own terms. He comes when commands are revered, hearts are clean and confession is made.

But what about the second figure, David? What is the message from the other man dancing? David’s initial response to the slaying of Uzzah was anything but joyful. He retreated to Jerusalem, confused and hurt, “angry because the Lord had punished Uzzah in his anger.” (1 Chron. 13:11) Three months pass before David returns for the ark. But he does so with an entirely different protocol. Priests replace bulls. Sacrifice replaces convenience. Levites prepare “themselves for service to the Lord.” They use “special poles to carry the Ark of God on their shoulders, as Moses had commanded, just as the Lord had said they should.” (1 Chron. 15:14–15) No one hurries. No one’s expedient. This time, they choose to do it God’s way.

“Whenever those bearing the chest advanced six steps, David sacrificed an ox and a fattened calf. David, dressed in a linen priestly vest, danced with all his strength before the Lord. This is how David and the entire house of Israel brought up the Lord’s chest with shouts and trumpet blasts.” (2 Sam. 6:13-15) And when David realized that God wasn’t angry, he “danced with all his strength ….” (6:14) Not some little toe-tapping, finger-snapping routine, or swaying back and forth, holding hands and singing Kumbaya. The Hebrew term portrays David as hopping and leaping. Forget a token shuffle, or an obligatory waltz. David the giant-killer is like the mayor of Dublin on Saint Patrick’s Day: dancing at the head of the parade.

And, if that’s not enough, he strips down to the ephod, the linen prayer vest. It covers about the same amount of territory as a long T-shirt. So, right there in front of God and the altar and everyone else, David removes every kingly thing – right down to his holy skivvies. And as David dances, we duck. We hold our breath because we know what’s coming. We’ve read about Uzzah. We know what God does to the irreverent and cocky. Apparently, David wasn’t paying attention because there he is, in the full presence of God and God’s children, doing a jig in his underwear. Hold your breath and call the undertaker. It’s been nice knowing you, David.

But nothing happens. The sky is silent, and David keeps twirling, and we’re left wondering: doesn’t his dancing bother God? What does David have that Uzzah didn’t? Why isn’t the heavenly Father angered? Interestingly, the scripture doesn’t portray David dancing at any other time. For instance, he didn’t tap dance on Goliath’s grave, or pirouette in front of the Philistines. He didn’t inaugurate his term as king with a waltz at the inaugural ball, or dedicate Jerusalem with a jazz dance competition. But when God came to town, he couldn’t sit still.

Maybe God wonders how we can. Don’t we want what David wanted? The presence of God? Jesus promised, “I myself will be with you every day until the end of this present age.” (Matt. 28:20) Yet, how long has it been since we rolled back the rug and celebrated the night away because of that promise? His very presence. What did David know that maybe we don’t? What did he remember that maybe we’ve forgotten? In a sentence, it’s this: God’s present is his presence.

God’s greatest gift is himself. Sunsets may steal our breath, and the Caribbean blue may still our hearts. Newborn babies stir our tears, and life-long love bejewels our lives. But take all these away — strip away the sunsets, the oceans, the cooing babies, and the tender hearts — and leave us in the Sahara, and we still have reason to dance in the sand. Why? Because God is with us. He is omnipresent – present in all places at all times. Ubiquitous.

Maybe that’s what David knew. And maybe that’s what God wants us to know, too – that we’re never alone. Ever. God loves you too much to leave you alone, so he hasn’t. He hasn’t left you alone with your fears, or your worries, or your disease, or your death. So kick up your heels for joy and dance! David was so thrilled that he “blessed the people in the name of the Lord Almighty. Then he gave a gift of food to every man and woman in Israel: a loaf of bread, a cake of dates, and a cake of raisins.” (2 Sam. 6:18–19) It was a regular party! God was with them. And God’s with us. That’s reason to celebrate. Uzzah, it seems, must have missed that point.

Uzzah had a small view of a small god; a god who fit in a box and needed help with his balance. So Uzzah didn’t prepare for him. He didn’t purify himself to encounter the holy: no sacrifice was offered, no commandments were observed. Forget the repentance and the obedience stuff. Just load God in the back of the wagon, and let’s get going. In our case maybe it’s living like we want for six days and then cashing in on Sunday grace. For others, maybe it’s who cares what you believe – just wear a cross around your neck for good luck. Or, perhaps, light a few candles and say a few prayers and get God on your side.

Uzzah’s lifeless body cautions us against that kind of irreverence. No awe of God leads to the death of man. God won’t be cajoled, commanded, conjured up, or called down. He’s a personal God who loves and heals and helps and intervenes. But God doesn’t respond to magic potions or clever slogans. He looks for more. He looks for reverence, obedience, and God-hungry hearts. And when he sees them, he comes. And when he comes, let the celebration begin! And, yes, a reverent heart and a dancing foot can belong to the same person. David had both.

Do you?

Grace,

Randy