What Do You Say at a Funeral?

 

What Do You Say at a Funeral?

What Do You Say at a Funeral - Audio/Visual 

A man named Lazarus was sick. He lived in Bethany with his sisters, Mary and Martha. This is the Mary who later poured the expensive perfume on the Lord’s feet and wiped them with her hair. Her brother, Lazarus, was sick. So, the two sisters sent a message to Jesus telling him, “Lord, your dear friend is very sick.” But when Jesus heard about it, he said, “Lazarus’s sickness will not end in death. No, it happened for the glory of God so that the Son of God will receive glory from this.” So, although Jesus loved Martha, Mary and Lazarus, he stayed where he was for the next two days. Finally, he said to his disciples, “Let’s go back to Judea….”

When Jesus arrived at Bethany, he was told that Lazarus had already been in his grave for four days. Bethany was only a few miles down the road from Jerusalem, and many of the people had come to console Martha and Mary in their loss. When Martha got word that Jesus was coming, she went to meet him. But Mary stayed in the house. Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask.” Jesus told her, “Your brother will rise again.” “Yes,” Martha said, “he will rise when everyone else rises, at the last day.” Jesus told her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Anyone who believes in me will live, even after dying.” (John 11:1-7; 17-25)

We never know what to say at funerals, and this one was no exception. The chapel is library quiet. People acknowledge each other with soft smiles and sympathetic nods. You say nothing because, well, what can you say? There's a dead body in the room. Just last month you took the guy out for lunch and laughed over sushi. And aside from a cough, you thought he was pretty healthy. But within a week you learned of the diagnosis – the doctor gave him sixty days. He didn't even make it that long. Now you're both at his funeral. He’s in the casket, and you’re in the pew. Death has silenced you both.

The church is full, so you stand at the back. Stained glass prisms the afternoon sun, streaking faces with shafts of purple and gold. You recognize many of the attendees because Bethany’s a small town. The two women on the front pew you know very well. Martha and Mary are Lazarus’ sisters. Quiet, pensive Mary. Bustling, busy Martha who, even now, can't seem to sit still. She keeps looking over her shoulder. “For whom?” you wonder. But in a matter of moments the answer enters. And when he does, Martha rushes up the aisle to meet him. Had you not known his name, the many whispers would have informed you. "It's Jesus." Every head turns.

He's wearing a tie, though you get the impression he rarely does. His collar seems a little tight, and his jacket a bit outdated. A dozen or so men follow him – some stand in the aisle, others in the foyer. They have that well-traveled, wrinkled look to them – as if they’d been driving all night. Jesus embraces Martha and she weeps. And as she weeps, you wonder. You wonder what Jesus is going to do. You wonder what Jesus is going to say. He spoke to the winds and the demons. But death? Does he have anything to say about death?

Your thoughts are then interrupted by Martha's accusation, "Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died." (John 11:21) And you can't fault her frustration because aren’t they friends? When Jesus and his followers had nowhere else to go, "Martha welcomed them into her home." (Luke 10:38) Mary and Martha know Jesus very well, and they know Jesus loved Lazarus. "Lord," they told the courier to tell him, "your dear friend is very sick." (John 11:3)

This is no Facebook friend request. This is a friend needing help. Desperately. Interestingly, the Greek language has two principle words to express sickness: one describes the presence of a disease, the other its effects. Martha uses the latter. So, a fair translation of her appeal could well read, "Lord, your dear friend is sinking fast." In other words, friends send Jesus an urgent appeal in a humble fashion, and what does he do? "He stayed where he was for the next two days." (v. 6) Wow. Some kind of friend.

By the time he finally arrives, Martha is so broken up she hardly knows what to say. With one breath she criticizes, "Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died," (v. 21) and with the next she concludes, "But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask." (v. 22) The truth is that every funeral has its Martha’s. Sprinkled among the bereaved are the bewildered. "Help me understand this one, Jesus. Please?"

Grief fogs in the heart like Cape Disappointment, Washington – foggy three and a half months out of the year. The mourner hears the waves but can’t see the water. The griever detects voices but no faces. The life of the brokenhearted becomes like a foot-watcher, walking through shopping malls or the grocery store staring at feet; methodically moving – one foot, then the other – through a misty world. Martha sat in a damp and misty world; fog-shrouded and tearful. And Jesus sat in it with her.

"I am the resurrection and the life. Anyone who believes in me will live, even after dying.” (v. 25) Hear those words in a Superman tone, if you will – like Clark Kent descending from nowhere, ripping his shirt open to reveal the “S” underneath. It’s certainly not a Savior with Terminator tenderness, bypassing the tears of Martha and Mary and, in doing so, essentially telling them and all the gathered grievers to simply get over it and trust. I don't see the Terminator here saying, “He’ll be back.” I don't see it that way because of what Jesus does next. He weeps. He sits on the pew between Mary and Martha, puts an arm around each of them, and sobs. Among the three, a tsunami of sorrow is stirred; a monsoon of tears is released. Tears that reduce to streaks the chalky conceptions of a cavalier Christ.

Jesus weeps. He weeps with them. He weeps for them. He weeps with you. He weeps for you. He weeps so we will know that mourning is not disbelieving. Flooded eyes don't denote a faithless heart because a person can enter a cemetery absolutely Jesus-certain of life after death, and still have a Twin Tower crater in their heart. Christ did. He wept, and he did so despite knowing that within ten minutes he’d see a living, breathing, walking Lazarus. And Jesus’ tears give you permission to shed your own.

Grief doesn’t mean you don't trust; it simply means you can't stand the thought of another day without the Lazarus of your life. And if Jesus gave the love, then he certainly understands the tears when your love is gone. So, we can grieve, but don't grieve like those who don't know the rest of this story. Jesus touches Martha's cheek, gives Mary a hug, stands and then turns to face the corpse. The casket lid is closed. He tells Martha to have it opened. She shakes her head and starts to refuse, but then pauses.

Eventually, she turns to the funeral home director. "Oh, alright. Open it," Martha says. And since you’re standing, you can see the face of Lazarus. It's waxy and white. You think Jesus is going to weep again, and you certainly didn’t expect him to speak to his friend. But he does. A few feet from the casket Jesus shouts, "Lazarus, come out!" (John 11:43)

Curious. Preachers always address the living. But the dead? One thing is for sure, though. There better be a rumble in that casket, otherwise this crazy preacher yelling at a casket is going to need a straight-jacket, or some serious therapy at a minimum. But you and everyone else hear it. There’s a rumble. There’s movement in the coffin, "and the dead man came out." (v. 44)

But dead men don't do that, do they? Dead men don't come out. Dead men don't wake up. Dead hearts don't beat. Dried blood doesn't rush. Empty lungs don't inhale. No, dead men don't come out – unless they hear the voice of the Lord of life. The ears of the dead may be deaf to your voice and to mine, but not to his. Christ is "Lord of both the dead and the living." (Rom. 14:9) When Christ speaks to the dead, the dead listen. In fact, had Jesus not addressed Lazarus by name, the tenants of every tomb on the planet would have likely jumped out of their graves. So, Lazarus bolts up in the coffin, blinks his eyes and looks around the room like someone had carted him there during a nap. A woman screams. Another faints. Everyone shouts. And you?

I don’t know, but maybe you’ve learned something from the experience. Maybe you’ve learned what to say at funerals. Maybe we’ve all learned that there’s a time to say . . . nothing. Because your words can't dispel a fog, but your presence can warm it. And your words can't give a Lazarus back to his sisters. But God's can. And it's just a matter of time before he speaks. "The Lord himself will come down from heaven with a commanding shout. . . . and all the Christians who have died will rise from their graves." (1 Thess. 4:16)

Till then, we grieve. But not like those who have no hope. And we listen. We listen for his voice. Because we know who has the final say about death. And for those who call him both Savior and Lord, the voice calls us home – forever.

Grace,

Randy

It's Not Too Late

 

It’s Not Too Late

It's Not Too Late - Audio/Visual 

“Now go out where it is deeper and let down your nets to catch some fish.” “Master,” Simon replied, “we worked hard all last night and didn’t catch a thing. But if you say so, I’ll let the nets down again.” (Luke 5:4-5)

Have you ever seen that look that says, "It's too late"? Probably. You know – the eyes rolling, head shaking, lips pursed look? Maybe it’s your father and brother who don't speak to each other. Haven't for years. "Won't you try again?" you ask your dad. He looks away, takes a deep breath and then just sighs. Or, maybe five years this side of retirement the economy Titanic’s your wife’s retirement. You try to make the best of it, so you say, "You can go back to school, honey. Learn a new skill." But you might as well have told her to swim to Africa. She shakes her head and says, "I'm too old . . . It's too late." Too late to reconcile. Too late for a new career. Too late to catch any fish. Or so Peter thought.

He’d been fishing all night. He’d seen the sun set and then the sun rise and has absolutely nothing to show for his efforts. While other fishermen are cleaning their catch, he’s cleaning his nets. But now Jesus wants him to try again. "One day as Jesus was preaching on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, great crowds pressed in on him to listen to the word of God." (Luke 5:1) As more people arrived, more people pressed in and with every press, Jesus took a step back. Soon he was stepping off the sand and into the water. Seeing two boats lying at the edge of the lake, Jesus got into one of the boats, which was Simon Peter's, and asked him to put out a little way from the land. From that vantage point, Jesus then sat down in the boat and began teaching the people who’d lined the shore.

"When he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, ‘Now go out where it is deeper, and let down your nets to catch some fish.’” (Vv. 2-4) Jesus needs a boat; Peter provides one. Jesus preaches; Peter’s content to listen. Jesus suggests a midmorning fishing trip, and Peter just gives him a look. The “it's-too-late” look. He runs his fingers through his hair and sighs, "’Master, we worked hard all last night and didn’t catch a thing." (v. 5) Can you feel a sense of futility in Peter's words? All night the boat’s been floating, fishless, on the lake. Lanterns from distant vessels bounced like fireflies. Men swung their nets and filled the air with the percussion of their trade: swish, slap . . . silence. Swish, slap . . . silence. Midnight. Maybe another boat had found a school. Peter considered moving but decided against it. Swish, slap . . . silence. Every yank of the net was easy. Too easy. The nets were empty.

Most mornings the sunrise inspired the men. Today it only tired them. They didn't want to see it. Who wants to dock an empty boat? Who wants to tie up and clean up, knowing the first question their wives will ask is “So, how’d you do?” And, most of all, who wants to hear a well-rested carpenter-turned-rabbi say, "Go out where it’s deeper, and let down your nets to catch some fish"? (v. 4) Peter’s probably thinking, “I'm tired. Bone tired. I want a meal and a bed, not a fishing trip. Like I’m some sort of tour guide or something? Besides, half of Galilee is watching. I feel like a loser already. Now he wants to put on a mid-morning fishing exhibition? Everyone knows you can't catch fish late in the morning. Count me out.” Whatever thoughts Peter had were distilled into one phrase: "We worked hard all last night and didn’t catch a thing." (v. 5)

Do you have any worn-out, wet, empty nets? Do you know the feeling of a sleepless, fishless night? Maybe. For instance, what have you been casting out there lately? Sobriety? "I've worked so hard to stay sober, but . . . ." Or, solvency? "My debt is an anvil around my neck . . . ." Maybe faith? "I want to believe, but . . . ." How about healing? "I've been sick so long . . . ." Perhaps a happy marriage? "No matter what I do . . . ." In other words, you’ve worked hard all night and didn’t catch a thing. You've felt what Peter felt. You've sat where Peter sat. And now Jesus is asking you to go fishing. Really?

He knows your nets are empty. He knows your heart is weary. He knows you'd like nothing more than to turn your back on the mess and call it a life. But he urges, "It's not too late to try again." See if Peter's reply won't help you formulate your own. "But if you say so, I’ll let the nets down again." (Luke 5:5) Not much passion in those words. You’d expect a 100-watt smile and some fist pumping – “I’ve got Jesus in the boat; so, Baby, fire up the grill!" But Peter shows no excitement. He feels none. Now he has to unfold the nets, pull out the oars and convince James and John to postpone their nap. He has to work.

If faith is measured in seeds, Peter’s is an angstrom – faith the size of a molecule. Inspired? Hardly. But obedient? Remarkably. And a molecule of obedience is all Jesus wanted. "Go out where it’s deeper," Jesus instructs. (V. 4) Why the deep water? Do you think Jesus knew something Peter didn't? Or do you suppose Jesus is doing with Peter what parents do with their kids on an Easter Sunday?

During a typical Easter egg hunt, the kids find most of the eggs on their own. But a couple of treasures inevitably survive the first pass. "Look behind the tree," we whisper in the ears of our kids. A quick search around the trunk, and . . . what do you know? Dad was right. And that’s because spotting treasures is easy for the one who hid them. So, it should come as no surprise that finding fish is simple for the God who made them. To Jesus, the Sea of Galilee is a dollar-store fishbowl on the kitchen counter. Peter gives the net a swish, lets it slap and watches it disappear. Luke doesn't tell us what Peter did while waiting for the net to sink, but I think that Peter, maybe holding the net, may have looked over his shoulder at Jesus as if to say, “Really?” And maybe Jesus, knowing Peter is about to be nearly yanked into the water, just smiles. “Really.” You know, one of those Mommy-daughter Easter-egg smiles.

“This time their nets were so full of fish they began to tear! A shout for help brought their partners in the other boat, and soon both boats were filled with fish, on the verge of sinking.” (Vv. 6-7) Peter's arm is yanked into the water. It's all he can do to hang on until the other guys can help. Within moments the four fishermen and the carpenter are up to their knees in flopping silver. Amazed at the sight, Peter lifts his eyes off the catch and onto the face of Christ. And in that moment, for the first time, he sees Jesus. Not Jesus the Fish Finder, or Jesus the Multitude Magnet, or Jesus the Rabbi, but Jesus the Lord. And with that realization, Peter falls face-first among the fish. Their stink doesn't bother him. It’s his stink that he's worried about. “Oh, Lord, please leave me — I’m too much of a sinner to be around you.” (v. 8) Of course, Christ had no intention of honoring his request because Jesus doesn't abandon self-confessed schlemiels. To the contrary, he recruits them: "Don’t be afraid! From now on you’ll be fishing for people!” (v. 10)

 Contrary to what you may have been told, Jesus doesn't limit his recruiting to stout-hearted saints and seminarians. The beat-up and worn-out are prime prospects in his book, and he's been known to climb into boats, bars and brothels to tell them, "It's not too late to start over." Peter had learned the lesson. But wouldn't you know it? Peter then forgot the lesson.

Two short years later this man who confessed Christ in the boat cursed Christ at a fire. The night before Jesus' crucifixion, Peter told people that he'd never heard of Jesus before. He couldn't have made a more tragic mistake. And he knew it. The burly fisherman buried his bearded face in thick hands and spent Friday night in tears. All the feelings of that Galilean morning came back to him. “It's too late.” But then Sunday came. Jesus came. Peter saw him. And although Peter was convinced that Christ had come back from the dead, he wasn't convinced that Christ had come back for him.

So, he went back to the boat – to the same boat, the same beach and the same sea. He came out of retirement. He and his buddies washed the barnacles off the hull, unpacked the nets and pushed out. They fished all night and, like before, they caught nothing. Poor Peter. He blew it as a disciple. Now he's blowing it as a fisherman. And about the time he wonders if it's too late to take up carpentry, the sky turns orange, and they hear a voice from the coastline: "Had any luck?" “No,” they yell back. "Try the right side of the boat!" With nothing to lose and nothing left of their pride to protect, they give it a go. "So, they cast, and then they were not able to haul it in because of the great number of fish." (John 21:6)

Like the late, great Yogi Berra said, it’s Déjà vu all over again. And when it finally hits Peter, he cannonballs into the water and swims as fast as he can to see the one who loved him enough to recreate a miracle. And this time the message stuck. Peter never again fished for fish. He spent the rest of his days telling anyone who would listen, "It's not too late to try again."

Is it too late for you? Before you answer, before you fold up the nets and head for the dock – two questions. Have you given Christ your boat? You know. Your heartache? Your dead-end dilemma? Your struggle? Have you really turned it over to him? And have you gone deep? Have you bypassed the surface-water solutions you can see in search of the deep-channel provisions God can give? If not, try the other side of the boat. Go deeper than you've gone before. You may find what Peter found.

The payload of Peter’s second effort was not the fish he caught, but the God he saw. The God-man who spots weary fishermen, who cares enough to enter their boats, who will turn his back on the adoration of a crowd to solve the frustration of a friend. The Savior who whispers a word to the owners of empty nets: "Let's try again – this time with me on board."

Grace,

Randy

Deadbeat Dad

 

Deadbeat Dad

Deadbeat Dad - 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)

We can only speculate, but David may have looked a lot older than his roughly 60 years of age. Maybe his shoulders were slumped; head hung. Perhaps shuffling like an old man – struggling to put one foot in front of the other. He pauses frequently. Mostly because it’s a steep hill, but partly because he’s crying. This is likely the longest path 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 earlier trails had some steep turns to be sure, but none of them compared with his ascent up the Mount of Olives.

David’s not wearing his crown because his son, Absalom, had taken it by force. He’s also without a home – those walls you see rising behind him belong to the city of Jerusalem. He’s running away from the capital that he’d earlier established. Who wouldn’t be crying at a time like this? He has no throne, no home and nothing but wilderness and an uncertain future lay ahead. What happened? Did he lose a war? Was Israel ravaged by COVID? Did inflation starve his loved ones and drain his strength? How does a king end up old and lonely, walking on a difficult uphill path away from his home? Just ask his wives and kids.

If you were to ask David about his kids, the truth is that he’d probably cringe. Fourteen years have passed since David seduced Bathsheba, and thirteen years have vanished since Nathan told David, “The sword will never depart from your house.” (2 Sam. 12:10) Nathan’s God-given 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. Understandably, Tamar 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 much longer description. We want some verbs. Confront will do. Punish would be nice. Banish would be even better. We would 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. Even worse, he did absolutely nothing for Tamar. She needed her Dad’s protection, his affirmation and validation. In other words, she needed a Dad but got silence instead.

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; didn’t even respond. He wept in solitude, instead.

Absalom interpreted his Dad’s silence and inaction as anger. So, he fled Jerusalem to hide at his grandfather’s house. Despite knowing Absalom’s whereabouts, David never, ever attempted 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.” (2. Sam. 14:28) That kind of shunning couldn’t have been easy because Jerusalem, at that time, wasn’t that big a city. Avoiding Absalom probably required daily planning with the help of spies. But David succeeded in neglecting his son. More accurately, David succeeded in neglecting all of his kids.

A passage from later in David’s life reveals his patented parenting philosophy. One of his other sons, Adonijah, had staged a military coup against his Dad. He assembled chariots and horsemen and personal bodyguards to take the throne away from his father. And did David ever 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 probably have groaned. But if you asked him about his wives, his face would likely have turned 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? Did he have all boys? 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 fathered. Kind of like a modern-day Nick Cannon who’s had twelve kids from six different women – at last report.

David did so much so well. He unified the twelve tribes into one nation. He masterminded military conquests. He founded the capital city, elevated God as the Lord of the people, brought the ark of the covenant to Jerusalem and paved 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.

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 Dad and taking his kingdom. So, he recruited from within David’s army and staged a coup d’état. His takeover set the stage for that 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 apart: “O my son Absalom — my son, my son Absalom — if only I had died in your place! O Absalom my son, my son!” (2 Sam. 18:33) A little late for that, don’t you think?

David succeeded everywhere except at home. And Dads, 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 came to his family? No psalms were ever written about his kids. And surely, out of all those wives, you’d think 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. Too guilty to actually parent them? After all, how could David, who had seduced Bathsheba and then 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 Dads, it’s not too late for me and you.

Your home is your giant-sized privilege 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 being a deadbeat dad.

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. All right, 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 incredibly 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, I suppose. 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, today, 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 today 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. So, decide, with prayer, to be one – to really be a Dad, and announce your God-inspired intentions. Then, defend that choice – your family. It’s called “Father’s Day” for a reason, Dads. So, man up and be one.

Happy Father’s Day,

Randy