But God

But God

But God - Audio/visual

Then King David rose to his feet and said, “Listen to me, my brethren and my people; I had intended to build a permanent home for the ark of the covenant of the Lord and for the footstool of our God. So I had made preparations to build it. But God said to me, ‘You shall not build a house for My name because you are a man of war and have shed blood.’ Yet, the Lord, the God of Israel, chose me from all the house of my father to be king over Israel forever. For He has chosen Judah to be a leader; and in the house of Judah, my father’s house, and among the sons of my father He took pleasure in me to make me king over all Israel. (1 Chron. 28:2-4)

“I had intended . . . .” The David who speaks those words is now quite old. The hands that once swung a sling now hang quietly. The feet that had danced before the ark now shuffle. Though his eyes are still sharp, his hair is gray and his skin sags beneath his beard. “I had intended . . . .” A huge crowd had come to listen: courtiers, counselors, chamberlains and caretakers. They had assembled at David’s command. But the king is tired; the time for his departure is near. So, they listen intently as he speaks. “I had intended to . . . .” That’s an odd way to start a farewell speech, don’t you think? David doesn’t mention what he did, but what he wanted to do, yet couldn’t. “I had intended to build a permanent home for the ark of the covenant of the Lord and for the footstool of our God.” (1 Chron. 28:2)

A temple. David had wanted to build a temple. What he had done for Israel, he wanted to do for the ark — protect it. What he’d done with Jerusalem, he wanted to do with the temple — establish it. And who better than David to do that? Hadn’t he, literally, written the book on worship? Didn’t he rescue the ark of the covenant? The temple would have been his swan song, his signature act. David had expected to dedicate his final years to building a shrine to God. At least, that was his intention; his plan.

So, he’d made preparations: architects chosen; builders selected; blueprints and plans, drawings and numbers; temple columns sketched; steps designed. “I had intended.” “I had made preparations,” David said. Intentions. Preparations. But no temple. How come? Did David get discouraged? No, he stood ready, willing and able for the task. Were the people resistant? Hardly; they gave generously. Were resources scarce? Far from it. David “supplied more bronze than could be weighed, and . . . more cedar logs than could be counted.” (1 Chron. 22:3–4) So what happened then? A conjunction – that’s what happened.

Conjunctions operate as the signal lights at the cross-roads of sentences. Some, like the word “and,” are green lights – they mean, “Go!” Others, like the word “however,” are yellow – “Caution.” But a few conjunctions are red. Like fire engine red. They stop you. And David got a red light. “I had made preparations to build it. But God said to me, ‘You shall not build a house for My name because you are a man of war and have shed blood. . . . Your son Solomon is the one who shall build My house and My courts.’” (1 Chron. 28:2–3, 6) David’s bloodthirsty temperament had cost him the temple-building privilege, and all he could say was: I intended; I prepared; but God.

Do you know anyone who’s uttered similar words? That God had different plans than they did? One man, for instance, waited until his mid-thirties to marry. Resolved to select the right spouse, he prayerfully took his time. When he found her, they moved west, bought a ranch and began their life together. After three short years, she was killed in a tragic accident. He had intended. He’d made preparations. But God. A young couple turned a room into a nursery. They papered the walls, refinished a baby crib, selected the name, but then the wife miscarried. They’d intended. They’d prepared. But God. Or, take Willem for example.

Willem wanted to preach. By the age of twenty-five, he’d experienced enough life to know he was a perfect fit for the ministry. He sold art, taught language and traded in books. He’d made a living, but it wasn’t a life. His life was in the church. His passion was with the people. So his passion took him to the coalfields of southern Belgium. There, in the spring of 1879, this Dutchman began to minister to the simple, hardworking miners of Borinage. But within weeks his passion was tested. A mining disaster injured dozens of the villagers. So, Willem nursed the wounded and fed the hungry. He even scraped the slag heaps to give his people fuel. And after the rubble was cleared and the dead were buried, the young preacher had earned a place in their hearts – the tiny church overflowed with people hungry for his simple messages of love. Young Willem was doing what he’d always dreamed of doing. But . . . .

One day his superior came to visit. Willem’s lifestyle shocked his boss. The young preacher wore an old soldier’s coat. His pants were cut from sackcloth, and he lived in a simple hut. Willem giving his salary to the people explained his poverty. The church official was wholly unimpressed. “You look more pitiful than the people you came to teach,” he said. Willem asked him if Jesus wouldn’t have done the same, but his boss would have none of it. This was not the proper appearance for a minister, and he dismissed Willem from the ministry. The young man was devastated. He only wanted to build a church. He only wanted to honor God. Why wouldn’t God let him do this work? He’d intended. He’d made preparations. But God.

What do you do with the “but God” moments in your life? When God interrupts your good plans and careful preparation, how do you respond? The man who lost his wife didn’t respond well; he lives in a fog bank of anger and bitterness. The young couple is coping better. They stay active in church and prayerful about a child. And Willem? Now that’s another story altogether. But before we get back to Willem, what about David? When God changed David’s plans, how did he respond?

He followed the “but God” with a “yet God.” Yet, the Lord, the God of Israel, chose me from all the house of my father to be king over Israel forever. For He has chosen Judah to be a leader; and in the house of Judah, my father’s house, and among the sons of my father He took pleasure in me to make me king over all Israel. (1 Chron. 28:4) Reduce that paragraph to a phrase and it reads something like, “Who am I to complain?” David had gone from runt to royalty; from herding sheep to leading armies; from sleeping in the pasture to living in the palace. When you’re given an ice cream sundae, you don't complain over a missing cherry. David faced the giant of disappointment with, “yet God.” David trusted God. And so did Willem.

 Initially, Willem was hurt and angry. He lingered in the small village of Borinage, not knowing exactly where to turn. But one afternoon he noticed an old miner bending beneath an enormous weight of coal. Caught by the poignancy of the moment, Willem began to sketch the weary figure. His first attempt was fairly crude, but then he tried again. And although he didn’t know it at the time, that’s when Willem discovered his true calling. Not the robe of a clergy, but the frock of an artist. Not the pulpit of a pastor, but the palette of a painter. Not the ministry of words, but of images. The young man the leader would not accept became an artist the world could not resist: Vincent Willem van Gogh. You see, his “but God” became a “yet God.” And who’s to say yours can’t be the same?

“’For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the LORD. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.’” (Jer. 29:11) Many times, unfortunately, we don’t even know our own minds, and fear that God’s plans are against us. But there’s no uncertainty with God, and even those things that appear evil are for our good. God doesn’t give us the expectations of our fears, as many times we suppose, but rewards us in keeping with the expectations of our faith. Even in the midst of a pandemic.

So, if you ever have one of those “but God” moments, be like David – consider what God has already done, and then marvel at how far he’s brought you back to the future.

Grace,

Randy

Victimhood

     Victimhood

Victimhood - Audio/Visual

The older son was in the field, and as he came closer to the house, he heard the sound of music and dancing. So he called to one of the servants and asked what all this meant. The servant said, "Your brother has come back, and your father killed the fat calf, because your brother came home safely." The older son was angry and would not go in to the feast. (Luke 15:25-28)

Ah, the case of the older son. It’s a difficult one because he looked so good. He kept his room straight, and his nose clean. He played by the rules, and paid all his dues. His resume? Impeccable. His credit? Squeaky clean. And his loyalty? Well, while his brother was out sowing his wild oats, he stayed home and sowed the family’s crops. On the outside he was everything a father could want in a son. But on the inside? Well, he was sour and hollow. Overcome by jealousy. Consumed by anger. Blinded by his victimhood.

You remember the story, don’t you? It's perhaps the best known of Jesus’ parables. It's actually the third of three stories in Luke 15; three stories about three parties. The first began after a shepherd found a sheep he'd lost. He had ninety-nine others, and he could have been content to write this one off as a loss. But shepherds don't think like businessmen. So, he searched for it. And when he found the sheep, he carried it back to the flock, cut the best grass for the sheep to eat, and had a party to celebrate. The second party was held on the front porch of a modest house. A housewife had lost a coin. It wasn't her only coin, mind you, but you would have thought it was by the way she acted. She moved the furniture, got out the dust mop and swept the whole house until she found it. And when she did, she ran shouting into the cul-de-sac and invited her neighbors over for a party to celebrate.

Then there’s the story of the lost son. The boy who broke his father's heart by taking his inheritance and taking off. He trades his dignity for drugs and booze, and his self-respect for a pigpen. Then comes the son's sorrow and his decision to go home. He hopes his dad will just give him a job on the farm, and maybe an apartment over the garage. What he finds is a father who has kept his place set at the table, and the porch light on every night. The father is so excited to see his son, he throws a party. And we party-loving prodigals love what that dad did, but it infuriated the older brother. "The older son was angry," (Luke 15:28) and it's not hard to see why.

"So this is how a guy gets recognition in this family: get drunk, go broke, get busy with prostitutes and you get a party. Really?" So he sat outside the house and pouted. I’ve done that. In fact, one time, I pouted at a party. It was a Christmas party. I was in the third grade, and third graders take parties very seriously, especially when gifts are involved. Weeks before, the class had drawn names. But since you didn't know who had your name, you had to drop hints very loudly. Well, I didn't miss a chance. I wanted a "Sixth Finger" – a toy pistol that fit in the palm of your hand and looked like an extra finger. No, I’m not making that up.

Well, finally the day came to open the gifts. I just knew I was going to get my pistol. Everyone in the class had heard my hints – I’d made sure of that. So, I tore into the wrapping and ripped open the box and there it was . . . stationery. Stationery? Yes, western-style stationery. Paper and envelopes with horses in the corners. Probably left over from the Christmas before. Now, everyone knows that eight-year-old boys don't write letters. I mean, what was my gift-giver thinking? No doubt some mom had forgotten all about the gift exchange until that morning. So, she desperately went to the closet, looked through the box labeled, “Regifting,” and came out with the stationery. I was distraught. I was upset. Who wouldn’t be? So, I missed the party. Oh, I was present, but I pouted.

So did the older brother in our story. He, too, felt he was a victim of inequity. When his father came out to meet him, the son started at the top, listing the atrocities of his life. To hear him talk about it, his woes apparently began the day he was born. "I have served you like a slave for many years and have always obeyed your commands. But you never gave me even a young goat to have at a feast with my friends. But your other son, who wasted all your money on prostitutes, comes home, and you kill the fat calf for him!" (Luke 15:29-30). Maybe both sons spent time in the pigpen. One in the pen of rebellion, the other in the pen of self-pity. The younger one had come home; the older one, apparently, hadn’t. He's still in the slop. He’s saying the same thing you said when the kid down the street got a bicycle and you didn't: It's not fair.

That's what Wanda Holloway said. When it looked like her fourteen-year-old daughter wouldn't get chosen for the cheerleading squad, Wanda got angry. So, she decided to get even. She hired a hit man to kill the mother of her daughter's chief competitor, hoping to so upset the girl that Wanda's daughter would make the squad. Bitterness will do that to you. It'll cause you to burn your house down to kill a rat. Fortunately, her plan failed and Wanda Holloway was caught. She was sentenced to fifteen years. She didn't have to be put behind bars to be imprisoned, however. Bitterness is its own prison. Black and cold, bitterness denies easy escape. The sides are slippery with resentment. A floor of muddy anger mucks at the feet. The stench of betrayal fills the air and stings the eyes. A cloud of self-pity and victimhood blocks the view of the tiny exit above.

Just step inside and look at the prisoners. Victims are chained to the walls. Victims of betrayal. Victims of abuse. Victims of the government, the system, the military, the world. They lift their chains as they lift their voices and wail loud and long. They grumble. They're angry at others who got what they didn't. They sulk. The world is against them, they accuse. The pictures of their enemies are darted to the wall. They whine, "Nobody listens to me. Nobody remembers me. Nobody cares about me." Angry. Sullen. Accusatory. Arrogant. Whiny. Put them all together in one word and it spells victimhood.

The dungeon, deep and dark, is beckoning you to enter, too. You can, you know. You've experienced enough hurt, haven’t you? You've been betrayed enough times. You have a history of rejections, don't you? Haven't you been left out, left behind, or left out in the cold? You’re a candidate for the dungeon. And you can choose, like many, to chain yourself to your hurt. Or you can choose, like some, to put away your hurts before they become hates. You can choose to go to the party. You have a place there. Your name is on the placard beside your plate. If you’re a child of God, no one can take away your place as your Father’s child.

Which is precisely what the father said to the older son: "Son, you are always with me, and all that I have is yours." (Luke 15:31) Interestingly, that is precisely what the Father says to you. How does God deal with your bitter heart? He reminds you that what you have is more important than what you don't. You still have your relationship with God. No one can take that. No one can touch it. Your health can be taken and your money stolen. But your place at God's table is permanent. The brother was bitter because he focused on what he didn't have and forgot what he did have. His father reminded him, and us, that he had everything he'd always had. He had his job. His place. His name. His inheritance. The only thing he didn't have was the spotlight. And because he wasn't content to share it, he missed the party.

It takes courage to set aside jealousy and rejoice with the achievements of a rival. Take Abraham Lincoln for an example. Standing before ten thousand eyes, he’s obviously uncomfortable. His discomfort comes not from the thought of delivering his first inaugural address, but from the very ambitious efforts of well-meaning tailors. He's unaccustomed to such fancy clothing – formal black dress coat, silk vest, black pants and a glossy top hat. He holds a huge ebony cane with a golden head the size of an egg. So, there he is. He approaches the platform with his hat in one hand and his cane in the other, and he doesn't really know what to do with either. In the nervous silence that comes after the applause and just before the speech, he searches for a spot to put them both. He finally leans the cane in a corner of the railing, but he still doesn't know what to do with the hat. He could lay it on the podium, but it would take up too much room. Perhaps the floor. No, too dirty. Just then, and not a moment too soon, a man stepped forward and took his hat, returned to his seat, and listened intently to Lincoln's speech.

Come to find out, that man was Lincoln's dearest friend. The president once said of him, "He and I are about the best friends in the world." He was one of the strongest supporters during the early stages of Lincoln's presidency. He even had the honor of escorting Mrs. Lincoln at the inaugural grand ball. And as the storm of the Civil War began to boil, many of Lincoln's friends left. But not this one. He amplified his loyalty by touring the South as Lincoln's peace ambassador: he begged Southerners not to secede and Northerners to rally behind the president.

His efforts were great, but the wave of anger was greater. The country did divide, and civil war bloodied the nation. Lincoln's friend never lived to see it. He died three months after Lincoln's inauguration. Wearied by his travels, he succumbed to a fever and Lincoln was left to face the war alone. Upon hearing the news of his friend's death, Lincoln wept openly and ordered the White House flag to be flown at half-staff. Some have even suggested that Lincoln's friend would have been chosen as his running mate in 1864 and would thus have become president following the assassination of the Great Emancipator. No one will ever know for sure.

But we do know that Lincoln had one true friend. And we can only imagine the number of times the memory of him brought warmth to a cold Oval Office. He was a model of friendship. But he was also a model of forgiveness, because this friend could have just as easily been an enemy. That’s because long before he and Lincoln were allies, they were competitors – politicians pursuing the same office. Unfortunately, their debates are better known than their friendship: the debates between Abraham Lincoln and his dear friend, Stephen A. Douglas. But on Lincoln's finest day, Douglas set aside their differences and held the hat of the president.

Unlike the older brother, Douglas heard a higher call. And unlike the older brother, he was present at the party. And we would be wise to do the same. Wise to rise above our hurts. Because if we do, we'll be present at the Father's final celebration. A party to end all parties. A party where no pouters will be permitted. So, come on. Join the party. Be better – not bitter.

Grace,

Randy

Presence

Presence

Presence - Audio/Visual

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

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

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

During the temple era, the high priest would be granted a once-a-year audience with God at the ark. After offering personal sacrifices of repentance, he would enter the holy of holies with, according to Jewish legend, a rope tied to his ankle should he perish from the presence of God and need to be removed from this very special place. So, with this in mind, can you overstate the significance of the ark? Hardly. For instance, what if we had the manger where Jesus was born? Or, the cross? If we had the very cross on which Jesus was crucified, wouldn’t we cherish it? You’d think so. So, you wonder why the Israelites didn’t cherish the Ark of the Covenant. Stunningly, they let it gather dust for thirty years in the house of a priest who lived seven miles west of Jerusalem. The very presence of God. Neglected. Ignored. Stored in a basement. For 30 years.

But David determines to change all of that. After he settles into the city of Jerusalem, the new capital of Israel, he makes the return of the ark his top priority. He plans a Macy’s-caliber parade and invites thirty thousand Hebrews to attend. They gather near the home of Abinadab, the priest. His two sons, Uzzah and Ahio, are put in charge of transportation. They load the ark on an ox-drawn wagon and begin the march. Trumpets blast, songs erupt, and all goes well for about the first two miles, when they hit a rough patch in the road. The oxen stumble, the wagon shakes and the ark shifts. Uzzah, thinking the holy chest is about to fall off the wagon, extends his hand to steady it. Immediately, heaven Uzis Uzzah, “and he died.” (2 Sam. 6:7) That kind of thing can put a damper on a parade pretty quickly. And, it does.

Everyone goes home. Deeply distressed, David returns to Jerusalem, and the ark is kept at the home of Obed-Edom while David sorts things out. Apparently, he succeeds, because at the end of three months David returns, reclaims the ark, and resumes the parade. This time there’s no death. There’s dancing, instead. David enters Jerusalem with rejoicing – “David danced before the Lord with all his might.” (2 Sam. 6:14) Two men. One dead. The other dancing. What does that teach us, if anything? Perhaps more specifically, what do these events teach us about invoking the presence of God? That’s exactly what David wanted to know, too: “How can the ark of the Lord come to me?” (2 Sam. 6:9)

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

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

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

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

But what about the second figure, David? What is the message from the other man dancing? David’s initial response to the slaying of Uzzah was anything but joyful. He retreated to Jerusalem, confused and hurt, “angry because the Lord had punished Uzzah in his anger.” (1 Chron. 13:11)

Three months pass before David returns for the ark. But he does so with an entirely different protocol. Priests replace bulls. Sacrifice replaces convenience. Levites prepare “themselves for service to the Lord.” They use “special poles to carry the Ark of God on their shoulders, as Moses had commanded, just as the Lord had said they should.” (1 Chron. 15:14–15) No one hurries. No one’s expedient. This time, they choose to do it God’s way.

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

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

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

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

God’s greatest gift is himself. Sunsets may steal our breath, and the Caribbean blue may still our hearts. Newborn babies stir our tears and life-long love bejewels our lives. But take all these away — strip away the sunsets, the oceans, the cooing babies, and the tender hearts — and leave us in the Sahara, and we still have reason to dance in the sand. Why? Because God is with us. He is omnipresent – present in all places at all times. His presence is everywhere, all the time. Maybe that’s what David knew. And maybe that’s what God wants us to know, too – that we’re never alone. Ever.

God loves you too much to leave you alone, so he hasn’t. He hasn’t left you alone with your fears, or your worries, or your disease, or your death. So kick up your heels for joy and dance! David was so thrilled that he “blessed the people in the name of the Lord Almighty. Then he gave a gift of food to every man and woman in Israel: a loaf of bread, a cake of dates, and a cake of raisins.” (2 Sam. 6:18–19) It was a regular party! God was with them. And God’s with us. That’s reason to celebrate – even in a church without walls. Uzzah, it seems, must have missed that point.

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

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

Grace,

Randy