Work In Progress

 

Work in Progress

Work In Progress - Audio/Visual 

God began doing a good work in you, and I am sure he will continue it until it is finished when Jesus Christ comes again. (Philippians 1:6).

The hallway is eerily silent except for the squeaky wheels of the mop bucket and the shuffling of the old man’s feet. Both sound tired, and both know these floors. “How many nights have I cleaned these floors,” Rick mumbles. He’s always careful to get in the corners, though. Always careful to set up his yellow caution sign warning of the wet floors – even though no one’s around. Always chuckling, “Be careful everyone,” he says to no one in particular. It’s 3:00 a.m.

Rick’s health isn’t what it used to be. Acid reflux keeps him awake, and rheumatoid arthritis makes him limp. His hair’s falling out of his head at the same rate other hair is sprouting in places where hair shouldn’t be sprouting. His glasses are so thick his eyeballs look twice their size, but he does his work. Slopping soapy water on the pristine travertine tile – scrubbing the heel marks left by the well-heeled lawyers of Bicker, Back & Forth.

He’ll be finished long before quitting time. He always finishes early – has for twenty years. And when he’s finished, he’ll put away his mop and bucket and take a seat outside the office of the senior partner and wait. Never leaves early. Oh, he could if he wanted to – no one would ever know. But he doesn’t. He broke the rules once; never again. And sometimes, if the door’s open, he’ll enter the partner’s palatial office. Not for long, of course; just to take a look. The office suite is larger than his entire apartment. He runs his finger over the desk and strokes the soft leather couch. He stands at the window and watches as the gray sky turns to gold and he remembers: he had an office like that once.

But that was back in the day. Back when Rick was Richard. Back when this custodian was an executive. Back when …. Well, it seems centuries ago now. Long before the night shift. Long before the mop bucket. Long before the janitor’s uniform. Long before the scandal. But Rick doesn’t think about it much anymore. No reason to, really. He got into trouble, got fired and got out. That’s it. Few people know about it. It’s better that way. There’s no need to tell them. It’s just his little secret. Rick’s story, by the way, is true. The names and a detail or two have been changed to protect the innocent. He’s in a different job in a different century. But the story is factual. But more than a true story, it’s a common story. It’s a story of a derailed dream. It’s a story of high hopes colliding with harsh realities. It happens to all us dreamers.

In Rick’s case, it was a mistake he’d never forget. A grave mistake. A capital offense kind of mistake. You see, Rick killed someone. He saw a thug beating up on an innocent man, and Rick lost control. He killed the mugger. And when word got out, Rick got out. Rick would rather hide than go to jail. So, he ran. And in the process, the executive became a fugitive. True story. Granted, most stories aren’t quite as extreme as Rick’s. Few spend their lives running from the law. But many of us live with regrets, don’t we? For instance, I met a young man on the fourth tee several years ago. “I could have gone to college on a golf scholarship,” he said. “Really?” I asked. “Yeah, I had an offer right out of school. But I decided to join a grunge band, instead. Ended up never going to college. Now I’m stuck fixing garage doors.”

“Now I’m stuck.” Now, there’s an epitaph. An epitaph of a derailed dream. Pick up any high school yearbook and read the “What are you going to do after you graduate?” section. Chances are you’ll get dizzy breathing the thin air of mountaintop visions: “I’m going to an Ivy league school,” one says. “Write books and live in Switzerland,” says another “I’m going to be a doctor in a third world country,” she writes. “Teach inner-city kids,” he said. But take that same yearbook to your 20^th high school reunion and see the next chapter. Some dreams have come true, but many haven’t. Not that all of them should, mind you. For instance, I hope the little guy who dreamed of playing professional basketball came to his senses. But then again, I hope he didn’t lose his passion in the process. You see, changing direction in life is not tragic. But losing your passion is.

It seems like something happens to us along the way. Convictions to change the world morph into commitments to pay the bills. Rather than making a difference, we make a living. Instead of looking forward, we look backward. Rather than looking outward, we look inward. And sometimes we don’t like what we see. Rick didn’t. Rick saw a man who’d settled for mediocrity. Educated in the finest institutions in the world, and now working the night shift at a minimum-wage job so he wouldn’t be seen during the day. But all that changed when he heard the voice.

At first, he thought the voice was a joke. Some of the fellows on the third floor play those kinds of tricks every once in a while. “Richard, Richard,” the voice called. Rick turned. No one called him Richard anymore. “Richard, Richard.” He turned toward the pail, and it was glowing. Bright red. Hot red. He could feel the heat ten feet away. He stepped closer and looked in, but the water wasn’t boiling. “That’s strange,” Rick mumbled to himself as he took another step to get a closer look. But then the voice stopped him. “Don’t come any closer, Richard. Take your shoes off. You’re on holy tile.” Suddenly, Rick knew exactly who was speaking. “Yes, Lord,” he said. Okay, God speaking from a hot mop bucket to a janitor named Rick? Really? But would it be more believable if I said God was speaking from a burning bush to a goat roper named Moses?

“One day Moses was taking care of Jethro’s flock. (Jethro was the priest of Midian and also Moses’ father-in-law.)  When Moses led the flock to the west side of the desert, he came to Sinai, the mountain of God. There the angel of the Lord appeared to him in flames of fire coming out of a bush. Moses saw that the bush was on fire, but it was not burning up. So, he said, ‘I will go closer to this strange thing. How can a bush continue burning without burning up?’ When the Lord saw Moses was coming to look at the bush, God called to him from the bush, ‘Moses, Moses!’ And Moses said, ‘Here I am.’ Then God said, ‘Do not come any closer. Take off your sandals because you are standing on holy ground. I am the God of your ancestors – the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.’ The Lord said … ‘I have heard the cries of the people of Israel, and I have seen the way the Egyptians have made life hard for them. So now I am sending you to the king of Egypt. Go! Bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt!’” (Exodus 3:1-6, 9-10)

Maybe the Moses story is easier to handle because we’ve heard it before. But just because it’s Moses and a bush, rather than Rick and a bucket, it’s no less spectacular, is it? It shocked the sandals off of Moses. And we wonder what amazed the old guy more: that God spoke in a bush, or that God spoke at all because Moses, like Rick, had made a mistake. A big mistake.

You remember the story, don’t you? He was adopted nobility. An Israelite reared in an Egyptian palace. His countrymen were slaves, but Moses was privileged. He ate at the royal table. He was educated in the finest schools. Funny thing is that his most influential teacher had no degree at all. She was his mother – a Jewess hired to be his nanny. “Moses,” you can almost hear her whisper to her young son. “God has put you here for a reason. Someday, you’ll set our people free. Never forget, my son. Never forget.” And Moses didn’t. The flame of justice grew hotter until it blazed. Moses saw an Egyptian beating a Hebrew slave. And just like Rick killed the mugger, Moses killed the Egyptian and then buried him. The next day Moses saw the slave and you’d think the slave would have said, “Thanks.” But he didn’t. Rather than gratitude, he was angry. “Are you going to kill me, too?” he asked. And Moses knew right then that he was in serious trouble. So, he fled Egypt and hid in the wilderness. Call it a career change. He went from dining with heads of state to counting the heads of sheep.

Moses thought the move was permanent – there’s no indication that he ever intended to go back to Egypt. In fact, there is every indication he wanted to stay with the sheep. Standing barefoot before the bush, he confessed, “I am not a great man! How can I go to the king and lead the Israelites out of Egypt?” (Exodus 3:11). And I’m glad Moses asked that question because why him? Why Moses? Better yet, why eighty-year-old Moses? The forty-year-old version was way more appealing. The Moses we saw in Egypt was brash and confident, but the Moses we find some four decades later is reluctant and weather-beaten. Had you or I looked at Moses back in Egypt, we would’ve said, “This guy’s ready to rumble.” Trained by the ablest soldiers and instant access to the inner circle of the Pharaoh. Moses spoke their language and knew their habits. He was the perfect man for the job.

The Moses at forty we like. But the Moses at eighty? Not so much. He’s too old. He’s too tired. He smells like a shepherd. He speaks like a foreigner. What impact could Moses possibly have on Pharaoh? He’s the wrong guy for the job. And even Moses would have agreed. “Tried that once before,” he’d say. “Those people don’t want to be helped. Just leave me here to tend my sheep, God. They’re a whole lot easier to lead.” Moses wouldn’t have gone, and we wouldn’t have sent him. But God did. Go figure. Benched at forty and suited up at eighty. Why? What does Moses know now that he didn’t know then? What did he learn in the desert that he didn’t learn in Egypt?

The ways of the desert, for one. Forty-year-old Moses was a city boy, while octogenarian Moses knows the name of every snake, and the location of every watering hole. And if he’s going to lead hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of Hebrews away from Egypt and into the wilderness, he’d better know the basics of Desert Life 101. And family dynamics, for another. If he’s going to be traveling with thousands of families for forty years, it might help just a little bit to understand how families work. Of course, by this time, he’s been married a long time to a woman of faith, the daughter of a Midianite priest, and has kids of his own. He’s a family man.

But more than the ways of the desert and the people, Moses needed to learn something about himself. And now, apparently, he’d learned it because God said that Moses was ready. So, to convince him, God spoke to Moses through a bush because God had to do something drastic to get his attention. God works that way sometimes. ”School’s out,” God told him. “Now, get to work.” Poor Moses. He didn’t even know he was enrolled in school, much less a graduate.

But he was, and so are we. The voice from the bush is the voice that whispers to each of us. It reminds us that God’s not finished with us yet. Oh, we may think he is. We may think we’ve peaked out. We may think he’s got someone else to do the job. But if that’s what we’re thinking then we need to think again because we’re all unfinished. “God began doing a good work in you, and I am sure he will continue it until it is finished when Jesus Christ comes again.” (Philippians 1:6) See what God is doing? He’s doing a good work in you. (Present tense) And did you hear when he’ll be finished? When Jesus comes again. (Future tense) In other words, we’re all unfinished.

Your Father wants you to know that you’re a work in progress. Your present hasn’t met your ultimate future. And to convince you, he may just surprise you. He works that way, you know. He may speak through a bush. He could even speak through a bucket. The question is, are you listening?

Grace,

Randy