Capsized

Capsized

Then Peter called to him, “Lord, if it’s really you, tell me to come to you, walking on the water.” “Yes, come,” Jesus said. So Peter went over the side of the boat and walked on the water toward Jesus. But when he saw the strong wind and the waves, he was terrified and began to sink. “Save me, Lord!” he shouted. Jesus immediately reached out and grabbed him. “You have so little faith,” Jesus said. “Why did you doubt me?” When they climbed back into the boat, the wind stopped. Then the disciples worshiped him. “You really are the Son of God!” they exclaimed. (Matt. 14:28-33)

Faith is often the child of fear. Fear propelled Peter out of the boat. He’d ridden these waves before. He knew what these storms could do. He’d heard the stories. He’d seen the wreckage. He knew the widows. He knew the storm could kill. And he wanted out. Desperately. All night he wanted out. For nine hours he’d tugged on sails, wrestled with oars, and searched every shadow on the horizon for hope. He was soaked to the soul, and bone weary of the wind’s wail. Look into Peter’s eyes and you won’t see a man of conviction. Search his face and you won’t find a gutsy grimace. Later on, you will. You’ll see his courage in the garden. You’ll witness his devotion at Pentecost. You’ll behold his faith in his letters. But not tonight. Look into his eyes tonight and you see fear — a suffocating, heart-racing fear of a man who has absolutely no way out.

But out of this fear would be born an act of faith, for faith is often the child of fear. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,” wrote the wise man. (Prov. 9:10) Peter could have been his sermon illustration. If Peter had seen Jesus walking on the water during a calm, peaceful day, do you think that he would have walked out to him? Had the lake been carpet smooth and the journey pleasant do you think that Peter would have begged Jesus to take him on a stroll across the top of the water? Doubtful. But give a man a choice between sure death and a crazy chance, and he’ll take the chance . . . every time. Great acts of faith are seldom born out of calm calculation.

It wasn’t logic that caused Moses to raise his staff on the bank of the Red Sea. (Exodus 14:15,16) It wasn’t medical research that convinced Naaman to dip seven times in the river. (2 Kings 5:13-14) It wasn’t common sense that caused Paul to abandon the Law and embrace grace. (Romans 3) And it wasn’t a confident committee that prayed in a small room in Jerusalem for Peter’s release from prison. (Acts 12:6-17) It was a fearful, desperate band of backed-into-the-corner believers. It was a church with no options. A congregation of have-nots pleading for help. And never were they stronger, because at the beginning of every act of faith there’s often a seed of fear. Biographies of bold disciples begin with chapters of honest terror. Fear of death. Fear of failure. Fear of loneliness. Fear of a wasted life. Fear of failing to know God. Faith begins when you see God on the mountain and you’re in the valley and you know that you’re too weak to make the climb. You see what you need . . . you see what you have . . . and what you have isn’t enough to accomplish anything.

Peter had given it his best. But his best wasn’t enough. Moses had a sea in front and an enemy behind. The Israelites could swim or they could fight. But neither option was enough. Naaman had tried the cures and consulted the soothsayers. Traveling a long distance to plunge into a muddy river made little sense when there were plenty of clean ones in his own backyard. But what option did he have? Paul had mastered the Law. He had mastered the system. But one glimpse of God convinced him that sacrifices and symbols weren’t enough. The Jerusalem church knew that they had no hope of getting Peter out of prison. They had Christians who would fight, but too few. They had clout, but too little. They didn’t need muscle. They needed a miracle.

So does Peter, and he’s aware of two facts: he’s going down, and Jesus is staying up. He knows where he would rather be. And there’s nothing wrong with this response. Faith that begins with fear will end up nearer the Father. “Lord, if it’s you,” Peter says, “tell me to come to you on the water.” (Matt. 14:28) Peter’s not testing Jesus; he’s pleading with him. Stepping out onto a stormy sea is not a move of logic; it’s a move of desperation. Peter grabs the edge of the boat. Throws out a leg . . . follows with the other. Several steps are taken. It’s as if an invisible ridge of rocks runs beneath his feet, and at the end of the ridge is the face of a never-say-die friend.

We do the same, don’t we? We come to Christ in an hour of deep need. We abandon the boat of good works. We realize, like Moses, that human strength won’t save us. So, we look to God in desperation. We realize, like Paul, that all the good works in the world are puny when laid before the Perfect One. We understand, like Peter, that spanning the gap between us and Jesus is a feat too great for our feet. So we beg for help. Hear his voice. And step out in fear, hoping that our little faith will be enough. Faith is not born at the negotiating table where we barter our gifts in exchange for God’s goodness. Faith is not an award given to the most learned. It’s not a prize given to the most disciplined. It’s not a title bestowed upon the most religious. Faith is a desperate dive out of the sinking boat of human effort, and a prayer that God will be there to pull us out of the water. Paul wrote about this kind of faith in his letter to the Ephesians: “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith — and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God — not by works, so that no one can boast.” (Eph. 2:8-9)

Paul is clear. The supreme force in salvation is God’s grace. Not our works. Not our talents. Not our feelings. Not our strength. Salvation is God’s sudden, calming presence during the stormy seas of our lives. We hear his voice; we take the step. We, like Paul, are aware of two things: we are great sinners in need of a great Savior. We, like Peter, are aware of two facts: we’re going down and God is standing up. So we scramble out. We leave behind the Titanic of our self-righteousness and stand on the solid path of God’s grace. And, surprisingly, we are able to walk on water. Death is disarmed. Failures are forgivable. Life has real purpose. And God is not only within sight, he’s within reach. With precious, wobbly steps we draw closer to him. For a season of surprising strength, we stand upon his promises. It doesn’t make sense that we’re able to do this. We don’t claim to be worthy of such an incredible gift. When people ask how in the world we can keep our balance during such stormy times, we don’t boast. We don’t brag. We point unabashedly to the One who makes it possible. Our eyes are on him. “Nothing in my hand I bring; simply to Thy cross I cling,” we sing. (Rock of Ages) “‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved,” we explain. (Amazing Grace)

Some of us, unlike Peter, never look back. Others of us, like Peter, feel the wind and we’re afraid. (Matt. 14:30) Maybe we face the wind of pride: “I’m not such a bad sinner after all. Look at what I can do.” Or, perhaps we face the wind of legalism: “I know that Jesus is doing part of this, but I have to do the rest.” Most of us, though, face the wind of doubt: “I’m too bad for God to treat me this well. I don’t deserve to be rescued.” And downward we plunge. Weighed down by mortality’s mortar, we sink. Gulping and thrashing, we fall into a dark, wet world. We open our eyes and see only blackness. We try to breathe, and no air comes. We kick and fight our way back to the surface. With our heads barely above the water, we have to make a decision.

The prideful ask: “Do we ‘save face’ and drown in pride? Or do we scream for help and take God’s hand?” The legalists ask: “Do we sink under the lead-heavy weight of the Law? Or do we abandon the codes and beg for grace?” The doubters ask: “Do we nurture doubt by mumbling, ‘I’ve really let him down this time?’ Or do we hope that the same Christ who called us out of the boat will call us out of the sea?” We know Peter’s choice. But when he saw the strong wind and the waves, he was terrified and began to sink. “Save me, Lord!” he shouted. (Matt. 14:30)

We also know the choice of another sailor in another storm. Although separated by seventeen centuries, this sailor and Peter are drawn together by several striking similarities: both made their living on the sea; both met their Savior after a nine-hour battle in a storm; both met the Father in fear and then followed him in faith; and both walked away from their boats and became preachers of the Truth. You know the story of Peter, the first sailor. But let me tell you about the second sailor, John. He had served on the seas since he was eleven years old. His father, an English shipmaster in the Mediterranean, took him aboard and trained him well for a life in the Royal Navy. But what John gained in experience, he lacked in discipline. He mocked authority. Ran with the wrong crowd. Indulged in the sinful ways of some sailors. Although his training would have qualified him to serve as an officer, his behavior caused him to be flogged and demoted.

So, in his early twenties, he made his way to Africa, where he became intrigued with the lucrative slave trade. At age twenty-one, he made his living on the Greyhound, a slave ship crossing the Atlantic Ocean. John ridiculed the moral, and poked fun at the religious. He even made jokes about a book that would eventually reshape his life: The Imitation of Christ. In fact, he was degrading that book a few hours before his ship sailed into an angry storm. That night the waves pummeled the Greyhound, spinning the ship one minute on the top of a wave. Plunging her the next into a watery valley. John woke up with his cabin filled with water. A side of the Greyhound had collapsed. Ordinarily such damage would have sent a ship to the bottom in a matter of minutes. The Greyhound, however, was carrying buoyant cargo and remained afloat.

John worked at the pumps all night. For nine hours, he and the other sailors struggled to keep the ship from sinking. But he knew that it was a losing cause. Finally, when his hopes were more battered than the vessel, he threw himself on the saltwater-soaked deck and pleaded, “If this will not do, then Lord have mercy on us all.” John didn’t deserve mercy, but he received it. The Greyhound and her crew survived. And John never forgot God’s mercy shown on that tempestuous day in the roaring Atlantic. He returned to England where he became a prolific composer. You’ve sung his songs, like: Amazing grace! How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me! I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see.

This slave-trader-turned-songwriter was John Newton. And along with his hymn writing, he also became a powerful preacher. For nearly fifty years, he filled pulpits and churches with the story of the Savior who meets you and me in the storm. A year or two before his death, people urged him to give up preaching because of his failing eyesight. “What!” he explained. “Shall the old African blasphemer stop while he can yet speak?” He wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. What had begun as a prayer of fear resulted in a lifetime of faith. During his last years, someone asked him about his health. He confessed that his powers were failing. “My memory is almost gone,” he said, “but I remember two things: I am a great sinner, and Jesus is a great Savior.” What more do you and I need to remember?

Two sailors and two seas. Two vessels in two storms. Two prayers of fear and two lives of faith. Uniting them is one Savior — one God who’ll walk through hell or high water to extend a helping hand to a child who cries out for help. Capsized? Hardly. Though water in the boat may be its ruin, water under the boat is its support.

Grace,

Randy

Relative Difficulty

Relative Difficulty
Relative Difficulty - Audio/Visual 

Then Jesus’ mother and brothers came to see him. They stood outside and sent word for him to come out and talk with them. There was a crowd sitting around Jesus, and someone said, “Your mother and your brothers are outside asking for you.”

Jesus replied, “Who is my mother? Who are my brothers?” Then he looked at those around him and said, “Look, these are my mother and brothers. Anyone who does God’s will is my brother and sister and mother.” (Mark 3:31-35)

Give me a word picture to describe a relative in your life who really bugs you. A parasite, perhaps? – your wife has this brother who never works and always expects you and your family to provide. Or, a cactus wearing a silk blouse? – she looks nice and everyone thinks she’s the greatest, but get close to her and she is prickly, dry and thirsty for life. Maybe a marble column – dignified, noble, but high and hard. That’s how it can be sometimes with difficult relatives. Stuck to someone with whom we can’t communicate. And it’s not as if they’re a neighbor from whom you could move away, or an employee you could fire. They’re family. And you can choose your friends, but you can’t … well, you know the rest. Odds are, you probably know that expression very well.

Maybe you’ve got someone like that in your life – someone you can’t talk to but can’t walk away from. A mother who whines, or an uncle who slurps his soup, or a sister who flaunts her figure. A dad who’s still waiting for you to get a real job, or a mother-in-law who wonders why her daughter married you. Sticky wicket relationships — stuck together but falling apart. It’s like being in a crammed elevator – people thrust together by chance on a short ride, saying as little as possible. The only difference is you’ll eventually get off the elevator and never see them again — not so with the difficult relative. Family reunions, Christmas, Thanksgiving, weddings, funerals. They’ll be there. And you’ll be there sorting through the tough questions. Why does life get so relatively difficult? If we expect anyone to be sensitive to our needs, it’s our family members isn’t it? When we hurt physically, we want our family to respond. When we struggle emotionally, we want our family to know. But sometimes they act like they don’t know. And sometimes they even act like they don’t care.

In her book, Irregular People, Joyce Landorf tells of a woman in her thirties who learned that she had breast cancer which would require a mastectomy. She and her mother seldom communicated, so the daughter was apprehensive about telling her. One day over lunch, however, she decided to reveal the news. “Mother, I just learned that I am going to have a mastectomy.” The mother was silent. The daughter asked her if she’d heard what she’d said. The mother nodded affirmatively. Then she calmly dismissed the subject by saying, “You know your sister has the best recipe for chicken enchiladas.” What can you do when those closest to you keep their distance? When you can get along with others, but you can’t get along with your relatives? Does Jesus have anything to say about dealing with difficult relatives? Is there an example of Jesus bringing peace to a painful family? Yes, there is. His own.

It may surprise you, but Jesus had a difficult family. Maybe it surprises you to know that Jesus had a family at all; you may not be aware that Jesus had brothers and sisters. Well, he did. Quoting Jesus’ hometown critics, Mark wrote, “[Jesus] is just the carpenter, the son of Mary and the brother of James, Joseph, Judas, and Simon. And his sisters are here with us.” (Mark 6:3) It may even shock you to know that his family was less than perfect. But they were. So, if your family doesn’t appreciate you, take heart, neither did Jesus’. In fact, here’s Jesus’ conclusion on life in the neighborhood: “A prophet is honored everywhere except in his hometown and with his own people and in his own home.” (Mark 6:4)

I wonder what he meant when he said those last five words – and in his own home. Because he went to the synagogue where he was asked to speak. And the people were proud that this hometown boy had done well — until they heard what he said. He referred to himself as the Messiah, the one to fulfill prophecy. Their response? “Isn’t this Joseph’s son?” Translation? This is no Messiah. He’s just like us! He’s the plumber’s kid from down the street. He’s the accountant on the third floor. He’s the construction worker who used to date my sister. God doesn’t speak through familiar people, especially through some Jewish kid who grew up in our own back yard. One minute he’s a hero, the next he’s a heretic. And then look at what happens next. “But when they heard this, everyone in the synagogue was furiously angry. They sprang to their feet and drove him right out of the town, taking him to the brow of the hill on which it was built, intending to hurl him down bodily. But he walked straight through the whole crowd and went on his way.” (Luke 4:29–30)

What an ugly moment. Jesus’ neighborhood friends tried to kill him. But even uglier than what we see is what we don’t see. Notice what’s missing from this verse. Note what words should be there, but aren’t. “They intended to hurl him down bodily (from the brow of the hill, i.e., cliff), but Jesus’ brothers came and defended him.” We’d like to read that, but we can’t because it doesn’t say that. That’s not what happened. When Jesus was in trouble, his brothers were either not around or, worse yet, part of the mob. They weren’t always invisible, though. There was a time when they spoke. There was a time when they were seen with him in public. Not because they were proud of him but because they were ashamed of him. “His family … went to get him because they thought he was out of his mind.” (Mark 3:21). Jesus’ siblings thought their brother was a lunatic. They weren’t proud — they were embarrassed! “He’s off the deep end, Mom. You should hear what people are saying about him.” “People say he’s crazy.” “Yeah, somebody asked me why we don’t do something about him.” “It’s a good thing Dad isn’t around to see what Jesus is doing.”

Hurtful words spoken by those closest to Jesus. But it gets worse, because here’s some more: So Jesus’ brothers said to him, “You should leave here and go to Judea so your followers there can see the miracles you do. Anyone who wants to be well known does not hide what he does. If you are doing these things, show yourself to the world.” (Even Jesus’ brothers did not believe in him.) (John 7:3–5) Listen to the sarcasm in those words. They drip with ridicule. How does Jesus put up with these morons? How can you believe in yourself when those who know you best don’t? How can you move forward when your family wants to pull you back? Or worse yet, want to commit you! When you and your family have two different agendas, what do you do? Fortunately, Jesus gives us some answers.

It’s worth noting that he didn’t try to control his family’s behavior, nor did he let their behavior control his own. He didn’t demand that they agree with him. He didn’t sulk when they insulted him. He didn’t make it his mission to try to please them. I think a lot of us have a fantasy that our family will be like the Walton’s, an expectation that our dearest friends will be our next of kin. Jesus didn’t have that expectation. Look how he defined his family: “Look, these are my mother and brothers. Anyone who does God’s will is my brother and sister and mother.” (Mark 3:35) When Jesus’ brothers didn’t share his convictions, he didn’t try to force them. He recognized that his spiritual family could provide what his physical family did not. The fact is, if Jesus himself couldn’t force his family to share his convictions, what makes you think you can force your own?

We can’t control the way our family responds to us. When it comes to the behavior of others toward us, our hands are tied. We have to move beyond the naive expectation that if we do good, people will treat us right. They may. And, then again, they may not. We can’t control how people respond to us. If your brother’s a jerk, you could be the world’s best sister and he still won’t tell you so. If your aunt doesn’t like your career, you could change jobs a dozen times and still never satisfy her. If your sister is always complaining about what you got and she didn’t, you could give her everything and she still may not change. As long as you think you can control people’s behavior toward you, you are held in bondage by their opinions. If you think you can control their opinion, and their opinion isn’t positive, then guess who you have to blame? Yourself. It’s a game with unfair rules and fatal finishes. Jesus didn’t play it, nor should we.

We don’t know if Joseph affirmed his son Jesus in his ministry — but we know God did: “This is my Son, whom I love, and I am very pleased with him.” (Matt. 3:17) I can’t assure you that your family will ever give you the blessing you seek, but God will. Let God give you what your family doesn’t. If your earthly father doesn’t affirm you, then let your heavenly Father take his place. How do you do that? By emotionally accepting God as your father. You see, it’s one thing to accept him as Lord, another to recognize him as Savior — but it’s another matter altogether to accept him as Father. To recognize God as Lord is to acknowledge that he is sovereign and supreme in the universe. To accept him as Savior is to accept his gift of salvation offered on the cross. But to regard him as Father is to go a step further. Ideally, a father is the one in your life who provides and protects. And that’s exactly what God has done.

He has provided for your needs. (Matt. 6:25–34) He has protected you from harm. (Ps. 139:5) He has adopted you. (Eph. 1:5) And he has given you his name. (1 John 3:1) God has proven himself a faithful father. Now, it falls upon each of us to be trusting children. Let God give you what your family doesn’t. Let him fill the void others have left. Rely upon him for your affirmation and encouragement. Look at Paul’s words: “You are God’s child, and God will give you the blessing he promised, because you are his child.” (Gal. 4:7) Having your family’s approval is desirable but not necessary for happiness, and not always possible. Jesus did not let the difficult dynamic of his family overshadow his call from God. And because he didn’t, the chapter has a happy ending. So, what happened to Jesus’ family?

“Then [the disciples] went back to Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives .… They all continued praying together with some women, including Mary the mother of Jesus, and Jesus’ brothers.” (Acts 1:12, 14)

Wow, what a change! The ones who mocked him now worship him. The ones who pitied him now pray for him. What if Jesus had disowned them? Or worse yet, what if he’d suffocated his family with his demand for change? He didn’t. He gave them space, time and grace instead. And because he did, they changed. How much did they change? Well, one brother became an apostle (Gal. 1:19), and others became missionaries. (1 Cor. 9:5) So, don’t lose heart. God still changes families. They’re like flowers in a bouquet: there's always one determined to face in an opposite direction from the way the Arranger intended.

Grace,

Randy

Too Busy Being Fabulous

Too Busy Being Fabulous
Too Busy Being Fabulous - Audio/Visual 

But David, his head covered, walked barefoot up the slope of the Mount of Olives crying. All the people who were with him covered their heads too and cried as they went up. (2 Sam. 15:30)

David probably looked a lot older than his roughly 60 years. His shoulders were likely slumped. His head maybe hung. He’s shuffling like an old man, struggling 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, but none of them compared with this ascent up the Mount of Olives.

He’s not wearing his crown – his son, Absalom, has it; taken by force. He’s without a home – those walls rising at his back belong to the city of Jerusalem. He’s running away from the capital that he’d earlier established. And who wouldn’t be crying at a time like this? He has no throne. He has no home. And there’s nothing but wilderness and an uncertain future ahead. So 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 and away from his home? Just ask his wives and kids.

If you were to ask David about his kids, he’d probably cringe. 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. And 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 even 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 because Jerusalem, at that time, wasn’t that big a town. Avoiding Absalom likely required daily planning and spying. But David succeeded in neglecting his son. Perhaps more accurately, David 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 likely turn chalky white.

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 Rose 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 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, right? 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.

But it’s not too late for us, Dads. 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

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Just a moment, now, you who say, “We are going to such-and-such a city today or tomorrow. We shall stay there a year doing business and make a profit”! How do you know what will happen even tomorrow? What, after all, is your life? It is like a puff of smoke visible for a little while and then dissolving into thin air. Your remarks should be prefaced with, “If it is the Lord’s will, we shall be alive and will do so-and-so.” As it is, you get a certain pride in yourself in planning your future with such confidence. That sort of pride is all wrong. No doubt you agree with the above in theory. Well, remember that if a man knows what is right and fails to do it, his failure is a real sin. (James 4:13-17)

It’s easy to think about today as just another day, isn’t it? You know, an average, typical day where we go about life concerned with our to-do lists, preoccupied by appointments, focused on family, and thinking about our desires and needs. On the average day, we live life caught up in ourselves. On the average day, we don’t consider God very much, if at all. On the average day, we forget that our life is like smoke. The truth is, there’s nothing normal about today. Just think about everything that has to function properly just to survive. Take your liver, for example. The only people who really think about their liver are people whose livers don’t work right. The majority of us take our livers for granted, including other internal organs that we’re dependent upon to live.

Or, what about driving down the road at 70 miles per hour, only a few feet away from cars going in the opposite direction, and at the same speed? Someone would only have to jerk his or her arm and we’d be gone. I don’t think that’s particularly morbid; that’s just reality. It’s crazy that we think today is just a normal day to do whatever we want to with it. And to those of us who say, “We’re going to such-and-such a city today or tomorrow. We shall stay there a year doing business and make a profit,” James writes, “How do you know what will happen even tomorrow? What, after all, is your life? It’s like a puff of smoke visible for a little while and then dissolving into thin air.” (James 4:13-14)

When we really think about it, what James says is a little disconcerting. But even after reading that verse, do we really believe that we could vanish at any minute? Or do we instead feel, somehow, invincible? Frederick Buechner writes, “Intellectually we all know that we will die, but we do not really know it in the sense that the knowledge becomes a part of us. We do not really know it in the sense of living as though it were true. On the contrary, we tend to live as though our lives would go on forever.”

I used to believe that there were just two kinds of people in the world: natural worriers and naturally joyful people. I’m in the worrying camp, but I don’t call it “worry.” I use euphemisms like, “I’m just a little concerned,” or “The situation makes me feel a bit unsettled,” or “I guess I’m just over-thinking the situation,” or “I suppose I’m just a tiny bit stressed.” I’m a problem solver. That’s my job. So, I have to focus on things that need fixing. Certainly God can see that my intensity and anxiety are work-related, can’t he? Didn’t he give me my job in the first place? So, I worry because I take the work he’s given me very seriously. Right?

But then there’s this perplexing command from Paul, penned from a Roman jail, to a little church he and Silas established in Greece: “Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!” (Phil. 4:4) Notice that it doesn’t end with “ … unless you’re doing something extremely important.” No, it’s a command for all of us, and it follows with the charge, “Don’t worry about anything.” (Vs. 6) Pretty staggering.

I’ve found that when I’m consumed by my problems – stressed out about life, or my job – I actually convey the belief that I think my circumstances are more important than God’s command to rejoice. In other words, I have the “right” to disobey God because of the magnitude of my responsibilities. But worry implies that we don’t quite trust that God is big enough, or powerful enough, or even loving enough to take care of what’s happening in our lives. And stress says that the things that we’re involved in are important enough to merit our impatience, or our lack of grace toward others, or our tight grip of control.

Basically, these two behaviors communicate that it’s okay to sin and not trust God because the stuff in my life is somehow exceptional. In a word, worry and stress reek of arrogance. They declare our tendency to forget that we’ve been forgiven, that our lives here are brief, that we’re headed to a place where we won’t be lonely, afraid or hurt ever again, and that in the context of God’s strength, our problems are small. So why are we so quick to forget about God? I mean, who do we think we are, anyway? I don’t know about you, but I have to relearn this lesson often. Even though I glimpse God’s holiness, I’m still dumb enough to forget that life is all about God and not about me at all.

It’s like being an extra in an upcoming movie. An extra. Scrutinizing that one scene where hundreds of people are milling around, just waiting for that two-fifths of a second when you can see the back of your head. Maybe your wife or your mom get excited about that two-fifths of a second with you – maybe. But no one else will even realize it’s you. Even if you tell them, they won’t care. It’s two-fifths of a second of a shot of the back of your head among hundreds of heads. But then what if you rent out the theater on opening night and invite all your friends and family to come see the new movie about you? People would say, “You’re an idiot. How could you even begin to think this movie is about you?” Unfortunately, many of us are like that extra because we live like the movie is all about us. Here’s the real movie.

God creates the world. Then people rebel against God, and God floods the earth to rid it of the mess people had made. Several generations later, God singles out a 99 year old man called Abram and makes him the father of a nation. Later, along come Joseph and Moses and many other ordinary and inadequate people that the movie is also not about. God is the one who picks them and directs them and works miracles through them. In the next scene, God sends judges and prophets to his nation because the people can’t seem to give him the one thing he asks of them – obedience. And then, the climax: the Son of God is born among the people whom God still somehow loves. While in this world, the Son teaches his followers what true love looks like. Then the Son of God is murdered and is resurrected and goes back up to be with God. And even though the movie isn’t quite finished yet, we know what the last scene holds – it’s the throne room of God where every being worships God who sits on the throne, for He alone is worthy to be praised.

From start to finish, the movie is obviously about God. He is the main character. How is it possible, then, that we live as though it is about us? Our scene in the movie, our brief lives, falls somewhere between the time Jesus ascends into heaven (Acts) and when we will all worship God on his throne in heaven. (Revelation) We have only our two-fifths-of-a-second-long scene to live. Don’t we want that two-fifths of a second to be about our making much about God? First Corinthians 10:31 says, “So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.” That’s what each of our two-fifths of a second is about.

So, what does that mean for us? Well, what that means is that we need to get over ourselves. That may sound a little harsh, but that’s what it means. Because maybe life’s pretty good for you right now. God has given you this good stuff so that you can show the world a person who enjoys blessings, but who is still totally obsessed with God.

Or, maybe life is tough right now, and everything feels like a struggle. God has allowed hard things in your life so you can show the world that your God is great and that knowing him brings peace and joy, even when life is hard. Like the psalmist who wrote, “I saw the prosperity of the wicked …. Surely in vain have I kept my heart pure …. When I tried to understand all this, it was oppressive to me until I entered the sanctuary of God.” (Psalm 73:3, 13, 16-17; emphasis added) It’s easy to become disillusioned with the circumstances of our lives compared to others’. But in the presence of God, he gives us a deeper peace and joy that transcends it all. In other words, it doesn’t really matter what place we find ourselves in now. Our part is to bring God the glory – whether eating a sandwich on a lunch break, or drinking coffee at 12:04 a.m. so you can stay awake to study, or watching your four-month-old take a nap. The point of our life is to point to Him. Whatever we’re doing, God wants to be glorified because this whole thing is His. It’s His movie; it’s His world; it’s His gift.

But even though God has given us this life – this brief scene in His movie – we still forget we’re not in control. It’s like having a newborn and now the 5 year-old wants to carry the baby around the house. You’re constantly telling them to be careful because the baby’s fragile. But when will the newborn no longer be fragile? Two? Eight? In junior high? College? Married with kids of their own? Life’s always fragile, and it’s never under control. And isn’t it the easiest thing at that point to start living in a guarded, safe, controlled way? To stop taking risks and to be ruled by our fears of what could happen?

Turning inward is one way to respond; the other is to acknowledge our lack of control because it makes us run to God. Just think about it. Throughout time, somewhere between forty-five billion and one hundred twenty-five billion people have lived on this earth. That’s 125,000,000,000. In about fifty years (give or take a couple of decades), no one will remember us. Everyone we know will have died. No one will care about the job we had, or the car we drove, what school we attended, or what clothes we wore. Take Stan Gerlach, for example. Stan was a successful businessman, a flag football coach, and very well known in his community. He was asked to give a eulogy at a memorial service of a friend when he decided to share the gospel. At the end of his message, Stan told the mourners, “You never know when God is going to take your life. At that moment, there’s nothing you can do about it. Are you ready?” Then Stan sat down, bowed his head like he was praying, and died. Attendees tried to resuscitate him, but there was nothing they could do – just as Stan had said only minutes earlier.

Imagine what it must have felt like for Stan. One moment, he’s at a memorial service for a friend saying to a crowd, “This is who Jesus is!” The next, he’s standing before God hearing Jesus say, “This is who Stan Gerlach is!” One second he’s confessing Jesus; a second later, Jesus is confessing him. It can happen that quickly.

Ready?

Grace,

Randy