But God
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
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