You Matter

You Matter - Audio/Visual

You Matter

The next day there was a wedding celebration in the village of Cana in Galilee. Jesus’ mother was there and Jesus and his disciples were also invited to the celebration. The wine supply ran out during the festivities, so Jesus’ mother told him, “They have no more wine.” “Dear woman, that’s not our problem,” Jesus replied. “My time has not yet come.” But his mother told the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.”

Standing nearby were six stone water jars, used for Jewish ceremonial washing. Each could hold twenty to thirty gallons. Jesus told the servants, “Fill the jars with water.” When the jars had been filled, he said, “Now dip some out, and take it to the master of ceremonies.” So the servants followed his instructions. When the master of ceremonies tasted the water that was now wine, not knowing where it had come from (though, of course, the servants knew), he called the bridegroom over. “A host always serves the best wine first,” he said. “Then, when everyone has had a lot to drink, he brings out the less expensive wine. But you have kept the best until now!”

This miraculous sign at Cana in Galilee was the first time Jesus revealed his glory. And his disciples believed in him. (John 2:1-11)

There’s no do-over’s when it comes to making a first impression. And our first impression of Jesus’ glory leaves some of us wondering whether he kind of missed the mark by not going big. You know, like raising the dead, or vacating an entire cemetery for that matter. Because first impressions are crucial, and this was Jesus’ first miracle; it was supposed to be a harbinger of things to come. And changing water to wine … well, it just seems like a nifty chemistry experiment.

The plot is almost too simple. Jesus and his disciples are at a wedding. The host runs out of wine. All the stores are closed, so Jesus, at his mother’s encouragement, transforms six jugs of water into six jugs of wine. That’s it. That’s the lead-off hit. Pretty low key, it seems. Certainly doesn’t have the punch of calling a person back from the dead, or the flair of straightening a crippled leg. Or does it? It was the equivalent of producing some 600 to 900 bottles of wine; a veritable boutique winery. But the content and the quantity of the miracle is not the key. So, maybe there’s more to this than first meets the eye.

You see, a wedding in the day of Christ was no small event. It usually began with a Wednesday sundown ceremony at the synagogue. People would then leave the church and begin a long, candlelight procession through the city, winding their way through the soft evening sunlight of the city streets. The couple would be escorted past as many homes as possible so that everyone could wish them well. But after the processional, the couple didn’t go on a honeymoon; the honeymoon came to them.

The new couple came home to a party. And for several days there would be gift-giving, speechmaking, food-eating and, yes, wine drinking. Food and wine were taken very seriously. The host honored the guests by keeping their plates full and their cups overflowing. It was considered an insult to the guests if the host ran out of food, or wine. In fact, hospitality at a wedding was a sacred duty. So serious were these customs that, if not properly observed, the host could get sued. “Without wine,” said the rabbis, “there is no joy.” So, wine was crucial, not for drunkenness (which was considered a disgrace), but for what it demonstrated. The presence of wine acknowledged that this was a special day, and that all of the guests were special guests. The absence of wine, then, was a social embarrassment.

Mary, Jesus’ mother, is one of the first to notice that the wine’s run out. So, she goes to her son and points out the problem: “They have no more wine.” And Jesus’ response? “Dear woman, that’s not our problem. My time has not yet come.” (John 2:4) It’s almost as though Mary said, “Jesus, they’re out of wine, and we really need to do something,” to which Jesus responds, “What do you mean ‘we,’ mom”? Kind of like the time when the Lone Ranger and Tonto were surrounded by an entire tribe of Indians. Turning to his Indian companion, the Lone Ranger says, “Tonto, I think we’re in trouble.” Tonto looks back at the Lone Ranger and responds, “What do you mean, ‘we,’ kemosabe?” Now was not the time for Jesus’ first miracle.

Jesus was very conscious of time, and he spoke of it often throughout his ministry. “The right time for me has not yet come.” (John 7:6) “The time has come for the Son of Man to receive his glory.” (John 12:23) “The chosen time is near.” (Matt. 26:18) “The time has come for the Son of Man to be handed over to sinful people.” (Mark 14:41) “He looked toward heaven and prayed, ‘Father, the time has come….’” (John 17:1) These phrases imply that Jesus had a schedule; a certain order and time for specified events. The mission of Christ had been carefully thought out and planned. So, he had a time and a place for his first miracle, and this wasn’t the time because the time wasn’t right. (John 2:4)

Jesus knew the plan, and this was neither the time nor the place for implementing the plan. And it appears that he was going to stick with the plan. But as he hears his mother, and looks into the faces of the wedding party, he reconsiders. The significance of the plan is slowly eclipsed by his concern for the people. Timing’s important, but people are more so. So, Jesus changes his plan to meet the needs of his friends. Heaven’s schedule is altered so some friends won’t be embarrassed. The inaugural miracle is motivated not by tragedy or moral collapse, but out of concern for some friends who are in a bind.

And those of us who’re concerned with making good first impressions are left a little bewildered, maybe even a little bothered, because everything about this event seems wrong. Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong crowd. Wrong miracle. We want Jesus to stick to his schedule because this isn’t the way it had been planned. But then again, if you’ve ever been embarrassed, then you like this story a lot because this miracle tells you that what matters to you matters to God.

We may think that’s true when it comes to the big stuff. When it comes to the major-league difficulties like death, disease, sin, and disaster — we know that God cares. But what about the smaller things? What about grouchy bosses, or flat tires or lost dogs? What about broken dishes, late flights, toothaches, or a crashed hard drive? Do these matter to God? Because we know that God’s got a universe to run, planets to keep in balance, wars with which to be worried and famines to fix. So, who am I to tell God about my ingrown toenail? Fortunately, God has already answered that question.

You are an heir of God, and a co-heir with Christ. (Rom. 8:17) You’re eternal, like an angel. (Luke 20:36) You’re a holy priest (1 Pet. 2:5), a treasured possession. (Ex. 19:5) You were chosen before the creation of the world. (Eph. 1:4) You are destined for “praise, fame, and honor, and you will be a holy people to the Lord your God.” (Deut. 26:19) But more than any of these — more significant than any title or position — is the simple fact that you are God’s child. “The Father has loved us so much that we are called children of God. And we really are his children.” (1 John 3:1)

I like that last phrase, “We really are his children.” It’s as if John knew some of us would shake our heads and say, “Naw, not me. Mother Teresa, maybe. Billy Graham, perhaps. But me? Not so much.” If those are your feelings, then John, through inspiration, added that phrase just for you. “We really are his children.” In other words, if something’s important to you, it’s important to God. And if you’re a parent, you already know that.

Imagine if you noticed an infected sore on the hand of your five-year-old. You ask him what’s wrong, and he says that it’s a splinter. You then ask him when it happened, and he says last week. So you ask him why he didn’t tell you sooner, and he says, “I didn’t want to bother you. I knew you had all those things to do around the house and at work, and I didn’t want to get in your way.”“Get in my way? I’m your dad, and you’re my child. My job is to help you. I hurt when you hurt.” Similarly, because you are God’s child, if it’s important to you, it’s important to God.

Why did Jesus change the water to wine? To impress the crowd? No, they didn’t even know he did it. To get the wedding’s master of ceremonies’ attention? No, he thought the groom was being generous. So, why did Jesus do it? What motivated his first miracle? His friends were at risk of being embarrassed, and what bothered them bothered him. If it hurts the child, it hurts the father.

So tell God what hurts. Talk to him. He won’t turn you away. He won’t think it’s silly. “For our high priest is able to understand our weaknesses. When he lived on earth, he was tempted in every way that we are, but he did not sin. Let us, then, feel very sure that we can come before God’s throne where there is grace.” (Heb. 4:15-16)

Does God care about the little things in our lives? Yes, he does – because you matter.

Grace,

Randy

Behold the Man

Behold the Man

Then Jesus came out, wearing the crown of thorns and the purple robe. And Pilate said to them, "Behold the Man!" (John 19:5)

Jesus promised that if he was lifted up, he would draw all men to himself. (John 12:32) So close your eyes. Take a moment from beholding your business, or consulting your calendar. Rest, if even briefly, from your cares and from your duties. Suspend whatever’s absorbing your attention and, for just a short time, behold the Man, Christ Jesus. If you’ve never stopped long enough to behold the Man, the Lamb of God, the One who loves you more than any earthly spouse, family or friend can, or ever will do, then close your eyes and, perhaps for this instant, behold him now.

If you could only get one glimpse of his face, the fairest among ten thousand (Song of Solomon 5:10); if you could only catch the lilt of his voice, sweet as the rushing of many waters (Rev. 14:2); if you could only gaze for a moment into the depths of those tender eyes filled with understanding, compassion, sympathy and love (Heb. 12:2), tears of gratitude would fill your own, and your heart would fill with praise until you’d never want to stop beholding and adoring and worshiping the Man, Christ Jesus. And as you behold the Man, just as the shades of darkness and unbelief are driven back by the light of the sun of his righteousness, you’ll find new beauties, new attributes, new graces – each unfolding themselves before your astonished and adoring eyes. (Isaiah 29:9)

As the curtains of time before are pulled back and expose the undimmed corridors of the past, we behold the Man seated with His Father upon His throne. He was with His Father from the beginning (John 1:2) – the brightest jewel in heaven, the joy of the Father, the delight of the angels, the light of the temple, the only begotten Son, worthy of the praise of angels falling prostrate at His feet as he sat in His kingly splendor in their midst.

But behold the Man filled with sorrow on that memorable day; when Adam and Eve gave into sin, and because of their sin were banished from the sight of God under the penalty of death. And when there was no eye to pity, and no arm to save, when there was none that could pay the ransom for their redemption, we behold the Man saying, "Father, send me; I will pay the price. Without the shedding of blood there is no remission of sins; so I will shed mine, Father; I will be the bridge to span the gulf between us and man that we created," (1. Tim. 2:5) and so we read that "God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." (John 3:16)

So behold the Man standing up to leave the presence of the Father, to leave the songs and the adoration of the angelic hosts, to lay aside his royal robes, his scepter, and his crown, to step down from the throne and come from heaven to the earth he created; to come just for you and me, his creation, that we might not perish but have the everlasting life he’d promised.

Behold the Man living and growing up with Mary, his mother, and Joseph, his earthly father, in a carpenter shop among his siblings. Behold him at the age of thirty, baptized by John in the river Jordan, ready to commence his ministry. Behold the man rising from a watery grave as the heavens open, the Holy Spirit descends upon him, and the voice of God speaks out loud, saying, "This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased." (Matt 3:17) And so he entered into ministry with divine authority, and the power of the Godhead resting upon him; abiding in him.

Behold the Man tempted in the wilderness for forty days, tempted in all points like as we, but without sinning. (Heb. 4:15) Behold the Man turning water into wine, preaching the gospel of the kingdom, healing the sick, cleansing the lepers, raising the dead, opening the eyes of the blind, unstopping the ears of the deaf, feeding the hungry, calming troubled seas, weeping over Jerusalem, forgiving the sinner, giving water to the thirsty, and healing to the brokenhearted.

Behold the Man – the King of glory – walking in humility upon this earth, footsore and weary. See him praying alone, night after night on the mountainside; praying for you and for a sleeping world that would neither appreciate nor understand him. The birds had their nests, the foxes had their holes, but the Son of Man had nowhere to even lay His weary head. (Matt. 10:24)

Behold the Man at his Last Supper, when even though His heart was aching, even though he knew Judas would betray him, and that Peter would deny him . . . even though he knew that all would forsake him and run away, his thoughts were for you and for me when he vowed that he would not drink the fruit of the vine until he drank it anew with us in His Father's kingdom saying, “This cup is the new covenant between God and his people – an agreement confirmed with my blood. Do this to remember me as often as you drink it.” (1 Cor. 11:25)

And then behold the Man praying in the garden, alone, while his disciples slept. See the agony and the heartbreak of his soul as he cried, “Father, if you are willing, please take this cup of suffering away from me. Yet I want your will to be done, not mine …. But, in the surrendering of himself, was in such agony that his sweat fell to the ground like drops of blood.” (Luke 22:42, 44)

Behold the Man bending low over His disciples in his sorrow, craving just one understanding heart to watch with him. But he found them sleeping, instead, and said, “Why are you sleeping? Get up and pray, so that you will not give in to temptation. But even as Jesus said this, a crowd approached, led by Judas, one of the twelve disciples. Judas walked over to Jesus to greet him with a kiss.” (Luke 22:46-47)

Behold the Man led like a sheep to a slaughter, and as a lamb before his shearers was dumb, he didn’t even open His mouth. (Isa. 53:7) Behold him despised and rejected of men, a Man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. (vs. 3) Behold him bearing our griefs, carrying our sorrows, wounded for our transgressions, and bruised for our iniquities. (vs. 5) He was taken from prison and from judgment (vs. 8) to be summarily murdered, instead.

Behold the Man condemned to die by the very multitude he loved and longed to gather in his arms. See him beaten with whips, and then nailed to the very cross he was required to carry to the place of his execution. See a crown of thorns placed on his head; a Roman spear rammed into His side. But hear him cry, "Father, forgive them, they do not know what they’re doing.” (Luke 23:34) And then, when the debt had been paid, when he’d borne our death-penalty in his own body on the cross, hear the glad, triumphant words that rang through the sky that hour, and still resound through the universe today: "It is finished.” (John 19:30)

Behold the Man whose death moved stones and darkened the sky; who forgave a thief and provided for his mother; who thirsted and was shunned by the Father into whose hands he would eventually commend his own spirit by bowing his head and giving up his life as the atoning sacrifice for your own. (Luke 23:43; John 19:26-27; John 19:28; Mark 15:34; Luke 23:46)

Behold the Man lying wrapped in the cold silence of death in a borrowed tomb. Then, in the early dawn of the third day, as the first gold and purple rays of morning rose in glad triumph above the hills of Jerusalem, an angel swept down from heaven, rolled the stone away from the mouth of the tomb to behold the Man resurrected, rising and coming forth again to look upon the world – his world, purchased with his own blood. Behold the Man again, living and loving, walking and talking with his people, feeding the hungry and encouraging the downhearted. (Matt. 28; Mark 16; Luke 24; John 20)

Behold the Man leading a crowd of captives, ascending on high to give gifts unto men (Eph. 4:8) saying, "It’s best for you that I go away, because if I don’t, the Advocate won’t come. If I do go away, however, then I will send him to you.” (John 16:7) The very same Man who reassured us that “if I go away, I will come again and take you unto myself, that where I am there you may be also." (John 14:3) Then behold the Man, received into the clouds and taken from our sight.

Behold the Man seated again at the right hand of God, the Father. Behold him standing now at your side as revealed by the Spirit. Hear him whisper to you, "Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If any man will open to Me, I will come in and dine with him and he with me." (Rev. 3:20) Behold the Man. Knocking. Let him in. Because if you draw near to him, he will draw near to you; to receive the Holy Spirit which he has sent to lead you into all truth; to be faithful just a little while longer. Then, soon enough, you will behold the man coming in the clouds of heaven with power and great glory to take you to himself where, in the midst of joys like the waves of the ocean, you will behold the man by the glassy sea (Rev. 15:2), and worship him. Forever.

Behold the Man. Your Redeemer. Your Savior. Yours to behold.

Grace,

Randy

Behold the Man - Audio/Visual

Fathers

Fathers

David walked up the road to the Mount of Olives, weeping as he went. His head was covered and his feet were bare as a sign of mourning. And the people who were with him covered their heads and wept as they climbed the hill. (2 Sam. 15:30)

David looks a lot older than his roughly 60 years. His shoulders are slumped. His head hangs. He shuffles like an old man. He struggles to put one foot in front of the other. He pauses frequently – partly because the hill is steep, but also because he’s crying. This is the longest path that he’s ever walked. Longer than the one from a creek’s side to meet Goliath. Longer than the winding road from fugitive to king. Even longer than the guilty road that began with his adulterous affair and ended with a confession almost a year later. Those trails had some steep turns, to be sure, but none of them compared with this ascent up the Mount of Olives.

He doesn’t wear a crown – his son, Absalom, has taken it by force. He has no home – those walls rising at his back belong to the city of Jerusalem. He’s fled the capital that he’d earlier established. Who wouldn’t cry at a time like this? No throne. No home. And nothing but the wilderness and an uncertain future ahead. What happened? Did he lose a war? Was Israel ravaged by disease? Did famine starve his loved ones and drain his strength? How does a king end up old and lonely, walking on a difficult, uphill path? Just ask his wives and kids.

If you were to ask David about his kids, he’d probably wince. Fourteen years have passed since David seduced Bathsheba, and thirteen years since Nathan told David, “The sword will never depart from your house.” (2 Sam. 12:10) Nathan’s prophecy has proven painfully true.

One of David’s sons, Amnon, fell in lust with his half-sister Tamar, one of David’s daughters from another marriage. Amnon craved, connived and then raped Tamar. And then, after raping her, he kicked her to the curb like yesterday’s garbage. Tamar, understandably, fell apart. She threw ashes on her head, and tore the robe of many colors worn by virgin daughters of the king. She “remained desolate in her brother Absalom’s house.” (2 Sam. 13:20) And the next verse gives us David’s response to his son’s brutality: “When King David heard of all these things, he was very angry.” That’s it? That’s all? We want a longer verse. We want some verbs. Confront will do. Punish would be nice. Banish would be even better. We expect to read, “David was very angry and . . . confronted Amnon, or punished Amnon, or banished Amnon.” But what did David do to Amnon? Nothing. No lecture. No penalty. No imprisonment. No chewing out. No nothing. And, even worse, he did nothing for Tamar. She needed David’s protection, his affirmation and validation. In other words, she needed a dad. But what she got was silence.

So Absalom, Tamar’s brother, filled the void created by David’s passivity. He sheltered his sister and plotted against Amnon. And then one night, Absalom got Amnon drunk and had him killed. So now, in just one family, we have incest, deceit, a daughter raped, a son murdered and another with blood on his hands. David’s is a palace in turmoil. Again, it was time for David to step up – to display his Goliath-killing courage, or Saul-pardoning mercy, or even the leadership he demonstrated at Brook-Besor. David’s family needed to see the best of David. But they saw none of David. He didn’t intervene, or even respond. Instead, he wept in complete solitude.

Absalom interpreted David’s silence and inaction as anger, and fled Jerusalem to hide at his grandfather’s house. David never made an attempt to see his son. For three years they lived in two separate cities. Absalom eventually returned to Jerusalem, but David continued to refuse to see him. Absalom even married and had four children, but “Absalom dwelt two full years in Jerusalem, and did not see the king’s face.” (14:28) Frankly, that kind of shunning couldn’t have been easy. Jerusalem wasn’t that big a town. Avoiding Absalom likely demanded daily planning and spying. But David succeeded in neglecting his son. More accurately, he succeeded in neglecting all of his kids.

A passage from later in David’s life reveals his parenting philosophy. One of his other sons, Adonijah, had staged a military coup. He assembled chariots and horsemen and personal bodyguards to take the throne from his father. And did David object? Are you kidding? David “never crossed him at any time by asking, ‘Why have you done so?’” (1 Kings 1:6) David – the Homer Simpson of Biblical dads. The poster-child for passivity. So, if you asked David about his kids, he’d likely groan. But if you asked him about his wives, his face would turn as white as a sheet.

We began to suspect trouble way back in 2 Samuel, starting in chapter 3. What initially appears to be just another dull genealogy is, actually, a parade of red flags. Sons were born to David at Hebron. The first was Amnon, whose mother was Ahinoam from Jezreel. The second son was Kileab, whose mother was Abigail, the widow of Nabal from Carmel. The third son was Absalom, whose mother was Maacah daughter of Talmai, the king of Geshur. The fourth son was Adonijah, whose mother was Haggith. The fifth son was Shephatiah, whose mother was Abital. The sixth son was Ithream, whose mother was Eglah, David’s wife. These sons were born to David at Hebron. (2 Sam: 3:2–5)

Count them. Six wives. Add to this list Michal, his first wife, and Bathsheba, his most famous wife, and David had eight spouses — too many to give each one even a day a week. But the situation worsens as we uncover a passage buried deep in David’s family Bible. After listing the names of his sons, the genealogist adds in 1 Chron. 3:9, “These were all the sons of David, besides the sons of the concubines.” The concubines? Yes, the mistresses. His harem side-hustle. So David fathered other sons through other mothers, and we don’t even know how many. And what about the girls? Well, we know about Tamar, but were there others? Probably, at least statistically speaking. And the cynical side of us wonders if David even knew how many kids he actually had.

David did so much so well. He unified the twelve tribes into one nation. He masterminded military conquests. He founded the capital city, and elevated God as the Lord of the people, bringing the ark of the covenant to Jerusalem and paving the way for the temple. He wrote poetry that we still read, and psalms that we still sing. But when it came to his family, David was missing in action. Going AWOL on his family was David’s greatest failure. Sure, seducing Bathsheba was inexcusable, but later self-justified as an act of passion. And murdering Uriah was ruthless, but a predictable cover up of the pregnant wife of a soldier on deployment. But passive parenting and widespread philandering? These weren’t the sins of a night of passion, or the panicked response of an unfaithful husband. David’s family foul-ups were a lifelong stupor that cost him dearly. Here’s why.

Remember Absalom? David finally reunited with him, but by then it was too late. The seeds of bitterness of a once-abandoned child had grown very deep roots, and Absalom resolved to exact revenge by overthrowing his father and taking his kingdom. So, he recruited from within David’s army and staged a coup d’état. His takeover set the stage for the sad walk of David out of Jerusalem, up the Mount of Olives and out into the wilderness. No crown. No city. Just a heavy-hearted, lonely old man. Loyalists eventually chased Absalom down. And when Absalom tried to escape on horseback, his long hair got tangled in a tree and soldiers speared him to death. When David hears the news of his son’s death he falls to pieces: “O my son Absalom — my son, my son Absalom — if only I had died in your place! O Absalom my son, my son!” (18:33) A little late for that, don’t you think David?

David succeeded everywhere except at home. And if you don’t succeed at home, do you really succeed at all? How do we explain David’s disastrous household? How do we explain David’s silence when it comes to his family? No psalms were ever written about his kids. And surely, out of all his wives, you’d think that at least one of them would have been worthy of a sonnet or two. But he never talked about them. Aside from the prayer he offered for the baby he had with Bathsheba, which eventually died, Scripture gives no indication that he ever prayed for his family. He prayed for his enemies – the Philistines. He interceded for his employees – his soldiers. He offered prayers for a close friend, Jonathan, and he even prayed for his former archrival, Saul. But as far as his family was concerned, it’s as if they didn’t exist. Prayers for his family were either unimportant or unrecorded.

Was David just too busy to notice them? Maybe. He had a city to settle, and a kingdom to build, right? Was he too important to care for them? “Let the wives raise the kids; I’ll lead the nation,” maybe he rationalized. Was he too guilty to actually parent them? After all, how could David, who had seduced Bathsheba and then intoxicated and murdered her husband to cover up the affair, correct his sons when they raped and murdered themselves? Too busy. Too important. Too guilty. Reminds me of a song by the Eagles, “Too Busy Being Fabulous,” where the final chorus says, You were too busy being fabulous; too busy to think about us; to drink the wine from your winner's cup to notice the children were growin' up. And you were just too busy being fabulous. Uh-huh. And David? Too busy. Too fabulous. Too guilty. Too late. A dozen exits too late. But it’s not too late for me and you.

Your home is your giant-sized privilege, Dad, and should be your towering priority. Don’t make David’s tragic mistake. He collected wives like trophies. He saw spouses as a means to his pleasure, not as a part of God’s plan. So don’t make David’s mistake. Be fiercely loyal to your spouse. You’ve made a promise to her, so keep it. And, as you do, nourish, encourage and parent the children that God has given you both.

The real news is that quiet heroes dot the landscape of our society. They don’t wear ribbons, or kiss winner’s cups; they wear spit-up and kiss owie’s, instead. They don’t make the headlines, but they check their kids’ outlines, and stand and cheer on the sidelines. You won’t find their names on the Nobel Peace Prize short list, but you’ll find their names on the PTA and carpool lists. News programs don’t call them, but that’s okay because their kids do. They call him Dad. Be numbered among those heroes. Your children are not your hobby; they are your calling. Your spouse is not your trophy; she’s your treasure. Don’t pay the price David paid, because if you flip ahead a few chapters to his final hours, you’ll see the ultimate cost that David paid for neglecting his family.

David is now just hours from death. A chill has set in that blankets just can’t warm. So, servants decide that David needs a person to snuggle with him, someone to hold him tight as he draws his final breath. But do they turn to one of his wives? He had at least eight of them, you know. But no, they don’t. Alright, then how about calling on one of his kids? He probably had hundreds of them, too. But no, they don’t call on the kids either. The servants, instead, “looked in every corner of Israel until they found Abishag from Shunem. They brought her to the king. She was very beautiful. She cared for the king and served him, but the king didn’t have sex with her.” (1 Kings 1:3-4) Oh, that’s nice. So she was just a pretty heatilator. Sadly, I suspect that David would have traded all his conquered crowns for the tender arms of a wife, maybe even a child. But it was too late. Now hundreds of exits too late. David died in the care of a complete stranger, because he’d made complete strangers out of his family.

It’s not too late for us Dads, however. Make your wife the object of your highest devotion; make her the recipient of your deepest passion. Love the one who wears your ring, and cherish the children who share your name. Succeed at home first – for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. (Luke 12:34) Otherwise, you’ll end up being too fabulous for anyone to really care.

You know, Dads, it only takes a moment to make a child, but it takes a lifetime to love and nurture one. So love your kids like God loves you. God would do anything for you, and he proved it by sending his son to die for your sins. And although you can’t be a sacrifice for your child’s sins, much less your own, you can model that sacrifice by being present in your child’s life since it started with you. And, like Christ, he died to have a relationship with you, not for a religion called by his name in which he’s no longer involved. It’s called “Father’s Day” for a reason, Dads. So, be one.

Happy Father’s Day,

Randy

Fathers - Audio/Visual

My Way

My Way

We all have wandered away like sheep; each of us has gone his own way. (Isa. 53:6)

The Lord is my shepherd. (Psalm 23:1)

So you think can swing a club like Tiger Woods? That's saying a lot, even if he’s a bit past his prime. Or do you think you can throw touchdowns like Joe Montana? Maybe, but you’ll have to work pretty hard at it. And you, young lady? You want to be soccer’s next Mia Hamm? Good for you; she was a great athlete and an even better person. And me? Well, actually, there’s one fellow who caught my attention some time ago, because he reminds me of me. You've probably never heard of him before. Remember the 1999 British Open? Yeah, the one in Carnoustie, Scotland. Recall the player who had a three-shot lead with one hole to go? That's right, it was the Frenchman – Jean Van de Velde.

He was six strokes and 480 yards away from a major championship, a wad of cash in his pocket and a place in the history books. All he needed to do was score a six on a par four. I could shoot a six on a par four. My mother could make a six on a par four. This guy could shoot a six with a waffle iron and a banana. So, just tell the trophy engraver to start warming up his pen and practicing his V’s. He'll need two to write "Van de Velde."

Granted the hole wasn’t easy. Bisected three times by a "wee burn," which is the Scottish term for a marshy creek. No problem. Hit three short shots . . . putt three times if you have to. Just take a six, win the hole and smile for the cameras. Besides it's windy, and the "wee burn" is “wee deep.” Don't flirt with it, Jean. But, you know, the French love to flirt. So, Van de Velde pulls out his driver, and somewhere in Escondido an armchair duffer who'd been lured to sleep by the three-stroke lead opens one eye. He's holding a driver?

Van de Velde's caddie was a thirty-year-old Parisian named Christophe with untidy English, a paintbrush on his chin and bleached hair under his hat. "I think he and I – we wanted too much show," he later confessed. Van de Velde pushes his drive halfway to the Eiffel Tower. Now he’s 240 yards to the green with nothing but deep grass and heartache in between. Surely he’ll hit a short shot back into the fairway. Logic says, "Don't go for the green." Golf 101 says, "Don't go for the green." Every Scot in the gallery says, "Aye, laddie. Don't go for the green." Van de Velde says, "I'm going for the green."

So, he pulls out a two iron, and the armchair golfer in Escondido opens the other eye. A two iron!? Maybe if you're teed up on the beach, trying to hit it into the Caribbean! The spectators are silent. Most out of respect. Some in prayer. Van de Velde's two iron becomes a FORE! iron. Whack. Clang. Plop. The ball caroms off the bleachers, and disappears into marsh tall enough to hide a lawn gnome. The next shot lands in the water, and the next one finds the beach – a yawning sand trap.

Tally the damage, and you've got four strokes plus a penalty. He's lying five and not even on the green yet. So much for winning the hole. Now he's praying for a seven and a tie. And to the great relief of the civilized world, Van de Velde makes the seven. But you've got to wonder if he ever recovered from the "wee burn." He lost in the play-off. Golf, like nylon running shorts, reveals a lot about a person.

So, like I said, what the eighteenth hole revealed about Van de Velde reminds me a lot of me. I've done the same thing. Not in golf, mind you, although I’ve been known to pull a Van de Velde occasionally. But all he needed was a five iron, and he had to go and pull out the driver. Or, in my case, all I needed to do was apologize, but I had to argue; all I needed to do was listen, but I had to open my big mouth; all I needed to do was be patient, but I had to take control; all I had to do was give it to God, but I tried to fix it myself. Why don't I just leave the driver in the bag? I know how Christophe the caddie would answer: "I think Randy and I – we wanted too much show." Too much stubbornness. Too much independence. Too much self-reliance. I don't need advice – Whack. I can handle this myself – Clang. I don't need a shepherd, thank you very much – Plop. Can you relate?

Are Van de Velde and I the only ones to make an anthem out of Sinatra's song, "I Did It My Way"? Are we the only two dragging around that boat anchor of self-reliance? I don't think so. We humans want to do things our way. Forget the easy way. Forget the common way. Forget the best way. Forget God's way. We want to do things our way. And, according to the Bible, that's precisely our problem. "We all have wandered away like sheep; each of us has gone his own way." (Isa. 53:6)

Frankly, you wouldn't think that sheep would be so obstinate. Of all of God's animals, the sheep is the least able to take care of itself. Sheep are not very bright. For instance, have you ever met a sheep trainer? Ever seen sheep do tricks? Know anyone who has taught his sheep to roll over? Ever witnessed a circus sideshow featuring "Old McDonald and his jumping sheep"? No, because sheep aren’t smart. And they’re defenseless, too. They don’t have fangs or claws. They can't bite you, or outrun you. That's why you never see sheep as team mascots. You’ve probably heard of the Los Angeles Rams, or the Chicago Bulls, maybe even the Seattle Seahawks. But the New York Sheep? Who wants to be a sheep? You can’t even stir up a decent yell for the cheerleading squad. Because who wants to hear, We are the sheep. We don't make a peep. Victory is yours to keep, but count us if you need some sleep. Sis-boom-bah.

What's more, sheep are dirty. A cat can clean itself. So can a dog. We see a bird in a birdbath, or a bear in a river. But sheep? They get dirty and simply stay that way. Couldn't David have thought of a better metaphor? A better noun? Surely he could have. After all, he outran King Saul and outgunned the giant, Goliath. Why didn't he choose something other than sheep? How about, "The Lord is my commander-in-chief, and I am his warrior." There. We like that better. A warrior gets a uniform and a weapon, maybe even a medal. Or, "The Lord is my inspiration, and I am his singer." We are in God's choir; that’s a pretty flattering assignment. Or, "The Lord is my king, and I am his ambassador." Who wouldn't like to be a spokesperson for God? Everyone stops when the ambassador speaks. Everyone listens when God's minstrel sings. Everyone applauds when God's warrior passes by. But who notices when God's sheep show up? Who notices when the sheep sing, or speak, or act?

Only one person notices. The shepherd. And that’s precisely David's point. When David, who was a warrior, minstrel, and ambassador for God, searched for an illustration of God, he remembered his days as a shepherd. He remembered how he lavished attention on his sheep day and night. How he slept with them and watched over them. And the way he cared for his sheep reminded him of the way God cares for us. David rejoiced saying, "The LORD is my shepherd," and in doing so he was proudly implying, "I am his sheep." Still uncomfortable with the notion of being considered a sheep? Then take a simple quiz. Let’s see if you succeed in self-reliance.

Raise your hand if any of the following describe you. You can control your moods. You're never grumpy or sullen. You can't relate to Jekyll and Hyde. You're always upbeat and upright. Does that describe you? No? Alright then. So, how about another. You’re at peace with everyone. Every relationship is as sweet as fudge. Even your old flames speak highly of you. Love all, and are loved by all. Is that you? No again? Really? Well then, how about this description? You have no fears. Call you the Teflon toughie. Wall Street plummets – no problem. Heart condition discovered – yawn. World War III starts – what’s for dinner? Is that you? Okay, maybe this describes you. You need no forgiveness. Never made a mistake. As square as a game of checkers. As clean as grandma's kitchen. Never cheated, never lied, and never lied about cheating. Is that you? No? Well then, let’s take a minute to evaluate your test results.

You can't control your moods. Some of your relationships are pretty shaky. You have fears and foibles, and you’ve messed up a time or two. Hmmm. Do you really want to hang on to your lead balloon of self-reliance? Sounds to me as if you could use a shepherd. Otherwise, you might end up with a Twenty-third Psalm sounding a little like this: I am my own shepherd. I’m always in need. I stumble from mall to mall and shrink to shrink, seeking relief but never finding it. I creep through the valley of the shadow of death and fall apart. I fear everything from pesticides to power lines, and I'm starting to act like my mother. I go to the weekly staff meeting and am surrounded by my enemies. I go home, and even my goldfish scowls at me. I anoint my headache with extra-strength Tylenol. My Jack Daniel's runneth over. Surely misery and misfortune will follow me all the rest of my life, and I will live in the desolate house of self-doubt forever.

Why is it that the ones who most need a shepherd resist him so? Ah, now there’s a question for the Van de Velde’s of life. Scripture says, "Do it God's way." Experience says, "Do it God's way." Every Scot in heaven begs, "Aye, laddie, do it God's way." And, every so often, we do. And when we do, when we follow God’s lead and keep the driver in the bag, somehow the ball stays in the fairway. Yes, Van de Velde reminds me of me, and maybe you, too.

After losing the play-off hole, Van de Velde kept his composure for the crowds. But once he sat in the scorer's tent, he buried his face in his hands. "Next time I'll hit zee wedge," he sobbed. "You'll say I'm a coward, but next time I'll hit zee wedge." You and me both, Jean. You and me both.

Grace,

Randy

My Way - Audio/Visual

Yahweh

Yahweh

The LORD is my shepherd, I lack nothing. (Psalm 23:1)

I'm only five feet from an eagle. His wings are spread, and his talons are lifted above the branch. White feathers cap his head, and black eyes peer at me from both sides of a golden beak. He’s so close I can touch him. So near I could stroke him. With only a lean and a stretch of my left arm, I could cover the eagle's crown with my hand. But I don't. I don't reach for him. Why not? Afraid? Hardly. He hasn't budged in fifteen years. When I first received him as a gift, he really impressed me. When I first set him on the credenza, I admired him. Man-made eagles are nice, but you kind of get used to them after awhile. David is concerned that you and I don't make the same mistake with God.

His pen has scarcely touched papyrus, and he's urging us to avoid gods of our own making. With his very first words in this psalm, David sets out to deliver us from the burden of a lesser deity. You could even make the argument that he seeks to do nothing else in this psalm. For though he speaks of green pastures, his thesis isn’t about rest. He describes death's somber valley, but this poem isn’t an ode to the dying. He tells of the Lord's forever house, but his theme isn’t about heaven. So why, then, did David write the Twenty-third Psalm? Maybe it was to build our trust in God . . . to remind us of who God is. In his psalm, David devotes one hundred and fifteen words to explaining the first two: "The LORD." In the arena of unnecessary luggage, the psalmist begins with the heaviest: the refashioned god. One who looks nice but does very little.

For instance, have you ever thought of God as something like a genie in a bottle? Convenient. Congenial. Need a parking place, a date, or even a field goal in the last seconds of the game? All you have to do is rub the bottle and poof – it’s yours. And, what's even better, this god goes back into the bottle after he's done. Or maybe you’ve thought of God as a sweet grandpa. So tender-hearted. So wise. So kind. But very, very, very old. Grandpas are great when they’re awake, but they tend to doze off when you need them. Ever viewed God as a busy dad? Leaves on Mondays, and returns on Saturdays. Lots of road trips and business meetings. He'll show up on Sunday, though, so you better clean up and look spiritual; then on Monday you can go ahead and be yourself again because he’ll never know.

Have you ever held those views of God? If so, you know the problems that they can cause. A busy dad doesn't have time for your questions. A kindly grandpa is too weak to carry your load. And if your god is a genie in a bottle, then you’re greater than he is. He comes and goes at your command. A god who looks nice but does little. Reminds me of a briefcase I bought many years ago.

I'd like to fault the salesman, but I really can't. The purchase was my decision, but he certainly made it an easy one to make. I didn't need a new satchel. The one I had was fine. Scarred and scratched, but otherwise perfectly serviceable. The chrome was worn off the zippers, and the edges were scuffed, but the bag was fine. Oh, but this new one, to use the words of the college-aged boy in the leather store, was "really fine." Loaded with features: copper covers on the corners, smooth leather from Spain, and, most of all, an Italian name near the handle. The salesman gave his line and handed me the bag, and I bought them both. I left the store with a briefcase that I have used maybe twice.

What was I thinking? It carries so little. My old bag had no copper-covered corners, but it had a belly like a beluga. A notepad and a newspaper, and this fancy Italian satchel is "fullisimo." The bag looks nice but does nothing. Is that the kind of God you want? Is that the kind of God we have? David's answer is a resounding “No.”

"You want to know who God really is?" he asks. "Then read this." And he writes the name Yahweh. "Yahweh is my shepherd." Though foreign to us, the name was rich to David. So rich, in fact, that David chose Yahweh over El Shaddai (God Almighty), El Elyon (God Most High), and El Olam (God the Everlasting). These and many other titles for God were all at David's disposal, but when he considered his options, he chose Yahweh. Why Yahweh? Because Yahweh is God's name. You can call me a lawyer, or a dad or even a duffer when it comes to golf – these are all accurate descriptions – but they aren't my name. I might call you dad, mom, doctor or student, and those terms may describe you, but they aren't your name, either. If you want to call me by my name, you say Randy. If I call you by your name, I say it. And if you want to call God by his name, say Yahweh. God has told us his name

Moses was the first to learn of it. Seven centuries prior to David, the eighty-year-old shepherd was tending sheep when the bush began to blaze and his life began to change. Moses was told to return to Egypt and rescue the Hebrew slaves. He raised more excuses than a kid at bedtime, but God trumped each one. Finally Moses asked, "When I go to the Israelites, I will say to them, 'The God of your fathers sent me to you.' What if the people say, 'What is his name?' What should I tell them?" Then God said to Moses, "I AM WHO I AM. When you go to the people of Israel, tell them, 'I AM sent me to you.'" (Exod. 3:13-14) God would later remind Moses: "I am Yahweh. To Abraham and Isaac and Jacob I appeared as El Shaddai; I did not make myself known to them by my name Yahweh." (Exod. 6:2-3)

The Israelites considered the name too holy to be spoken by human lips. Whenever they needed to say Yahweh, they substituted the word Adonai, which means "Lord." If the name needed to be written, however, the scribes would take a bath before they wrote it and then destroy the pen afterward. God never gives us a definition of the word Yahweh, and Moses never requested one. Many scholars wish he had, because the study of the name has raised some healthy discussions. The name I AM sounds strikingly close to the Hebrew verb to be – havah. It's quite possibly a combination of the present tense form (I am) and the causative tense (I cause to be). Yahweh, then, seems to mean, "I AM" and "I cause." God is the "One who is," and the "One who causes."

So why is that important? Because we need a big God. And if God is the "One who is," then he is an unchanging God. Think about it. Do you know anyone who goes around saying, "I am"? Neither do I. When we say "I am," we always add another word. "I am happy." "I am sad." "I am strong." "I am Randy." God, however, starkly states, "I AM," and adds nothing else. "You are what?" we want to ask. "I AM," he replies. God needs no descriptive word because he never changes. God is what he is. He is what he has always been. His immutability motivated the psalmist to declare, "But thou art the same." (Ps. 102:27) The writer is saying, "You are the One who is. You never change." Yahweh is an unchanging God. And he’s also an uncaused God.

Though he creates, God was never created. Though he makes, he was never made. Though he causes, he was never caused. Hence the psalmist's proclamation: "Before the mountains were born or you brought forth the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God." (Ps. 90:2) God is Yahweh – an unchanging God, an uncaused God, and an un-governed God.

You and I, on the other hand, are governed. The weather determines what we wear. The terrain tells us how to travel. Gravity dictates our speed, and health determines our strength. We may challenge these forces and alter them slightly, but we never remove them. God – our Shepherd – doesn’t check the weather; he makes it. He doesn't defy gravity; he created it. He isn't affected by health; he has no body. Jesus said, "God is spirit." (John 4:24) Since he has no body, he has no limitations – equally active in Cambodia as he is in California. "Where can I go to get away from your Spirit?" asked David. "Where can I run from you? If I go up to the heavens, you are there. If I lie down in the grave, you are there." (Ps. 139:7-8) Unchanging. Uncaused. Ungoverned. These are only a fraction of God's qualities, but aren't they enough to give you a glimpse of your Father? Don't we need this kind of shepherd?

When Lloyd Douglas, author of The Robe, attended college, he lived in a boardinghouse. A retired, wheelchair-bound music professor resided on the first floor. Each morning Lloyd would stick his head in the door of the teacher's apartment and ask the same question, "Well, what's the good news?" The old man would pick up his tuning fork, tap it on the side of the wheelchair and say, "That's middle C. It was middle C yesterday; it will be middle C tomorrow; it will be middle C a thousand years from now. The tenor upstairs sings flat. The piano across the hall is out of tune, but, my friend, that is middle C." You and I need a middle C. Haven’t you had enough change in your life? Relationships change. Health changes. The weather changes. But the Yahweh who ruled the earth last night is the same Yahweh who rules it today. He never changes. Yahweh is our middle C – a still point in a turning and out-of-tune world. Don't we need a still point? Don't we need an unchanging shepherd? We need a Yahweh. We don't need what Dorothy found.

Remember her discovery in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz? She and her trio followed the yellow-brick road only to discover that the wizard was a wimp. Nothing but smoke and mirrors and tin-drum thunder. Is that the kind of god you need? You don't need to carry the burden of a lesser god . . . a god on a shelf, a god in a box, or a god in a bottle. No, you need a God who can place 100 billion stars in our galaxy and 100 billion galaxies in the universe. You need a God who can shape two fists of flesh into 75 to 100 billion nerve cells, each with as many as 10,000 connections to other nerve cells, place it in a skull, and call it a brain. And you need a God who, while so mind-numbingly mighty, can come in the soft of night and touch you with the tenderness of a May morning mist. You need a Yahweh. And, according to David, you have one. He’s your shepherd.

Grace,

Randy

Yahweh - Audio/Visual