You-nique
He has filled them with skill to do all
kinds of work as engravers, designers, embroiderers in blue, purple and scarlet
yarn and fine linen, and weavers—all of them skilled workers and designers.
(Exodus 35:35)
You were born
pre-packed. God looked at your entire life, determined your assignment, and
gave you the tools to do the job. Does that surprise you? But don’t you do the
same thing before going on a trip? You consider the demands of the journey and you
pack accordingly. Cold weather? Bring a jacket. Business meeting? Carry the
laptop. Time with grandchildren? Pack the track shoes. And God has done the
same with you. John will research animals
. . . install curiosity. Sally will lead a private school . . . add an extra
dose of management. I need Jim to comfort the sick . . . include a healthy
share of compassion. "Each of us is an original," Paul said to
the Galatian Christians. (Gal. 5:26 - MSG) God packed you on purpose for a
purpose. And if that’s news to you, maybe you’re living out of the wrong bag.
I once grabbed
the wrong bag at the airport. The luggage looked like mine. Same size. Same
material. Same color. Thrilled that it had emerged early from the baggage
catacombs, I yanked it off the carousel and headed for the hotel. One glance
inside, however, and I knew I'd made a mistake. Wrong size, style and . . . gender.
What would you do if that happened to you? You could make do with what you had,
I guess; cram your body into the tight clothes, deck out in other-gender jewelry,
and head out for your appointments. But would you? Probably not. You'd likely hunt
down your own bag, instead. Issue an all-points bulletin; call the airport; call
the airlines; call the taxi service; call the FBI. You'd try every possible way
to find the person who can't find her suitcase and is wondering what kind of idiot
would fail to check the nametag. No one wants to live out of someone else's
bag. Then why do we?
Odds are someone
has urged a force fit into clothes not packed for you. Parents do. The dad puts
an arm around his young son’s shoulder and says, "Your great-grandfather
was a farmer. Your grandfather was a farmer. I'm a farmer. And you, my son,
will someday inherit the farm." A teacher might. She warns the young girl
who wants to be a stay-at-home mom, "Don't squander your skills. With your
gifts you could make it to the top. The professional world is the way to
go." Church leaders assign luggage from the pulpit, too. "God seeks
world-changing, globetrotting missionaries. Jesus was a missionary. So, do you
want to please your Maker? Follow him into the holy vocation. Spend your life
on foreign soil." Sound counsel or poor advice? That depends on what God
packed in the person's bag.
An inherited farm
blesses the individualist and physically active. But what if God fashioned the
farmer's son with a passion for literature or medicine? Work outside the home
might be a great choice for some, but what if God gave the girl a singular
passion for kids and homemaking? Those wired to learn languages and blaze
trails should listen carefully to sermons encouraging missionary service. But
if foreign cultures frustrate you, while predictability invigorates you, would
you be happy as a missionary? No, and you’d end up contributing to some
worrisome statistics – seven out of ten people are neither motivated nor
competent to perform the basics of their job, and 43% of employees feel anger
toward their employer often, or very often as a result of feeling overworked.
Feel the force of those figures.
You wonder why
work-bound commuters seem so cranky? Fully 70% of us go to work without much
enthusiasm or passion. So, if 70% of us dread Mondays, dream of Fridays, and
slug through the rest of the week, is it any wonder that our relationships
suffer? Our work suffers? Our health suffers? Those kinds of numbers qualify as
an epidemic. An epidemic of commonness. It’s like someone sucked the sparkle
out of our days, or the air out of the room. A stale fog has settled over our
society. Week after week of energy-sapping sameness. Walls painted gray with
routine. Commuters dragging their dread to the office. Buildings packed with
people working to live rather than living to work. Boredom. Mediocrity. So
what’s the cure? God's prescription begins with unpacking your bags.
You exited the
womb uniquely equipped. David puts it this way: "My frame was not hidden
from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the
depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for
me were written in your book before one of them came to be." (Ps.
139:15-16) You just can’t be anything you want to be. But you can be everything
God wants you to be. In the passage, David emphasizes the pronoun
"you" as if to say "you, God, and you alone." "The
secret place" suggests a hidden and safe place, concealed from intruders
and evil. Just like an artist takes a canvas into a locked studio, so God took
you into his hidden chamber where you were "woven together." Moses
used the same word to describe the needlework of the tabernacle's inner
curtains – stitched together by skillful hands for the highest purpose. (See Exod. 35:35; 36:8; 38:9)
The Master
Weaver selected the threads of your temperament, the texture of your character,
and the yarn of your personality – all before you were born. God didn’t drop
you into the world utterly defenseless and empty-handed. You arrived fully
equipped. "All (your) days (were) ordained,” as David says. The day of your
birth and the day of your death. Days of difficulty and days of victory. What
motivates you, what exhausts you . . . God authored, and authors it all. Other
translations of this Psalm employ equally intriguing verbs: You . . . knit me together. (v. 13) I was sculpted from nothing into something.
(v. 15) I was . . . intricately wrought
– as if embroidered with various colors. (v. 15)
How would you
answer this multiple-choice question? I am: (a) a coincidental collision of
particles; (b) an accidental evolution of molecules; (c) random flotsam on the
sea of life; or (d) "fearfully and wonderfully made." (v. 14) Don't
dull your life by missing this point: you are more than statistical chance,
more than a marriage of heredity and society, more than a confluence of
inherited chromosomes and childhood trauma. Thanks to God, you have been
"sculpted from nothing into something." (v. 15) Envision Rodin
carving The Thinker out of a rock.
The sculptor chisels away a chunk of stone, shapes the curve of a kneecap,
sands the forehead . . . Now envision God doing the same: sculpting the way you
are before you even were, engraving you with an eye for organization, or an ear
for fine music, or a mind that understands quantum physics. He made you you-nique.
Secular
thinking, as a whole, doesn't buy this. Secular society sees no author behind
the book, no architect behind the house, no purpose behind or beyond life. It
simply says, "You can be anything you want to be." Be a butcher if
you want to, a sales rep if you like. Be an ambassador if you really care. You
can be anything you want to be – if you work hard enough. But can you? If God
didn't pack within you the meat sense of a butcher, the people skills of a
salesperson, or the world vision of an ambassador, can you be one? An unhappy,
dissatisfied one perhaps. But a fulfilled one? No.
Can an acorn
become a rose, a whale fly like a bird, or lead become gold? No. You cannot be
anything you want to be. But you can be everything God wants you to be. God never
prefabs or mass-produces people. "I make all things new," he declares.
(Rev. 21:5) He didn't hand you your grandfather's bag or your aunt's life; he
personally and deliberately packed you. When you live out of the bag God gave,
you discover an uncommon joy. One job-placement firm suggests that only 1
percent of its clients have made a serious study of their skills. Don't imitate
their mistake. "Don't live carelessly, unthinkingly. Make sure you
understand what the Master wants." (Eph. 5:17) You can do something no one
else can do in a fashion that no one else can perform. Exploring and extracting
your uniqueness is exciting, it honors God, and expands his kingdom. So
"make a careful exploration of who you are and the work you have been
given, and then sink yourself into that." (Gal. 6:4) Charles Steinmetz
did.
Charlie designed
the generators that powered Henry Ford's first assembly lines in Dearborn,
Michigan. Sometime after he retired, the generators stalled out, bringing the
entire plant to a screeching halt. Ford's engineers couldn't find the problem,
so Henry called his old friend, Charlie. Steinmetz fiddled with this gauge,
jiggled that lever, tried this button, played with a few wires, and after a few
hours threw the master switch. The motors kicked on, and the system returned to
normal. Some days later Ford received a bill from Steinmetz for $10,000.00.
Ford found the charge excessive and wrote his friend a note: "Charlie: It
seems awfully steep, this $10,000, for a man who for just a little while tinkered
around with a few motors." Steinmetz prepared a new, itemized bill and
sent it back to Mr. Ford. "Henry: For tinkering around with motors, $10.00;
for knowing where to tinker, $9,990.00." Ford paid the bill.
You tinker
unlike anyone else. Explore and extract your tinker talent. A gift far greater
than $10,000.00 awaits you. "Remember that the Lord will give a reward to
everyone . . . for doing good." (Eph. 6:8) When you do the most with what
you do best, you put a smile on God's face. And what could be better than that?
Grace,
Randy
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