God on a Credenza

 

God on a Credenza

God on a Credenza - Audio/Visual 

The LORD is my shepherd, I lack nothing. (Psalm 23:1)

I'm only five feet from an eagle. His wings are spread, and his talons are lifted above the branch. White feathers cap his head, and black eyes peer at me from both sides of a golden beak. He’s so close I can touch him; so near I could stroke him. With only a lean and a stretch of my right arm, I could cover the eagle's crown with my hand. But I don't. I don't reach for him. Why not? Afraid? Hardly. He hasn't budged in fifteen years. When I first received him as a gift, he really impressed me. When I first set him on the credenza, I admired him. Man-made eagles are nice, but you kind of get used to them after a while. David is concerned that you and I don't make the same mistake with God.

His pen has scarcely touched papyrus and he's urging us to avoid gods of our own making. With his very first words in this psalm, David sets out to deliver us from the burden of a lesser deity. You could even make the argument that he seeks to do nothing else in this psalm. For though he speaks of green pastures, his thesis isn’t about rest. He describes death's somber valley, but this poem isn’t an ode to the dying. He tells of the Lord's forever house, but his theme isn’t about heaven. So why, then, did David write the Twenty-third Psalm? Maybe it was to build our trust in God . . . to remind us of who God is. In his psalm, David devotes one hundred and fifteen words to explain the first two: "The LORD." In the arena of unnecessary baggage, the psalmist begins with the heaviest: the refashioned god. One who looks nice on a credenza but does very little.

For instance, have you ever thought of God as something like a genie in a bottle? Convenient. Congenial. Need a parking place, a date, or even a field goal in the last seconds of the game? All you have to do is rub the bottle and poof – it’s yours. And what's even better, this god goes back into the bottle after he's done. Or maybe you’ve thought of God as a sweet grandpa. So tender-hearted. So wise. So, kind. But very, very, very old. Grandpas are great when they’re awake, but they tend to doze off when you need them. Or, ever viewed God as a busy dad? Leaves on Mondays and returns on Saturdays. Lots of road trips and business meetings. He'll show up on Sunday, though, so you better clean up and look spiritual; then on Monday you can go ahead and be yourself again because he’ll never know.

Have you ever held those views of God? If so, you know the problems that they can cause. A busy dad doesn't have time for your questions. A kindly grandpa is too weak to carry your load. And if your god is a genie in a bottle, then you’re greater than he is. He comes and goes at your command. A god who looks nice but does little. Reminds me of a briefcase I bought a few years ago.

I'd like to fault the salesman, but I really can't. The purchase was my decision, but he certainly made it an easy one to make. I didn't need a new satchel. The one I had was fine – scarred and scratched, but otherwise perfectly serviceable. The chrome was worn off the zippers, and the edges were scuffed, but the bag itself was just fine. Oh, but this new one. To use the words of the college-aged kid in the leather store, was “fire." Loaded with features: copper covers on the corners, smooth leather from Spain, and, most of all, an Italian name near the handle. The salesman gave his line and handed me the bag, and I bought them both. I left the store with a briefcase that I have used maybe twice.

What was I thinking? It carries so little. My old bag had no copper-covered corners, but it had a belly like a beluga whale. A notepad and a newspaper, and this fancy Italian satchel is "fullisimo." The bag looks nice but does nothing. Is that the kind of God you want? Is that the kind of God we have? David's answer is a resounding “No.”

"You want to know who God really is?" he asks. "Then read this." And he writes the name Yahweh. "Yahweh is my shepherd." Though foreign to us, the name was rich to David. So rich, in fact, that David chose Yahweh over El Shaddai (God Almighty), El Elyon (God Most High), and El Olam (God the Everlasting). These and many other titles for God were all at David's disposal, but when he considered his options he chose Yahweh. Why Yahweh? Because Yahweh is God's name. You can call me a lawyer, or a dad or even a duffer when it comes to golf – these are all accurate descriptions – but they aren't my name. I might call you dad, mom, doctor or student, and those terms may describe you, but they aren't your name, either. If you want to call me by my name, you say Randy. If I call you by your name, I say it. And if you want to call God by his name, say Yahweh. God has told us his name

Moses was the first to learn of it. Seven centuries before David, the eighty-year-old shepherd was tending sheep when the bush caught on fire and his life began to change. Moses was told to return to Egypt and rescue the Hebrew slaves. He raised more excuses than a kid at bedtime, but God trumped each one. Finally, Moses asked, "When I go to the Israelites, I will say to them, 'The God of your fathers sent me to you.' What if the people say, 'What is his name?' What should I tell them?" Then God said to Moses, "I AM WHO I AM. When you go to the people of Israel, tell them, 'I AM sent me to you.'" (Exod. 3:13-14) God would later remind Moses: "I am Yahweh. To Abraham and Isaac and Jacob I appeared as El Shaddai; I did not make myself known to them by my name Yahweh." (Exod. 6:2-3)

The Israelites considered the name too holy to be spoken by human lips. Whenever they needed to say Yahweh, they substituted the word Adonai, which means "Lord." But if the name needed to be written, however, the scribes would take a bath before they wrote it and then destroy the pen afterward. God never gives us a definition of the word Yahweh, and Moses never requested one. Many scholars wish he had because the study of the name has raised some healthy discussions. The name I AM sounds strikingly close to the Hebrew verb to be – havah. It's quite possibly a combination of the present tense form (I am) and the causative tense (I cause to be). Yahweh, then, seems to mean, "I AM" and "I cause." God is the "One who is," and the "One who causes."

But why is that important? Because we need a big God. And if God is the "One who is," then he is an unchanging God. Think about it. Do you know anyone who goes around saying, "I am"? Neither do I. When we say, "I am," we always add another word or two. "I am happy." "I am really stressed." "I am strong." "I am Randy." God, however, starkly states, "I AM," and adds nothing else. "You are what?" we want to ask. "I AM," he replies. God needs no descriptive word because he never changes. God is what he is. He is what he has always been. His immutability motivated the psalmist to declare, "But thou art the same." (Ps. 102:27) The writer is saying, "You are the One who is. You never change." Yahweh is an unchanging God. And he’s also an uncaused God.

Though he creates, God was never created. Though he makes, he was never made. Though he causes, he was never caused. Hence the psalmist's proclamation: "Before the mountains were born or you brought forth the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God." (Ps. 90:2) God is Yahweh – an unchanging God, an uncaused God, and an un-governed God.

You and I, on the other hand, are governed. The weather determines what we wear. The terrain tells us how to travel. Gravity dictates our speed, and health determines our strength. We may challenge these forces and alter them slightly, but we never remove them. God – our Shepherd – doesn’t check the weather; he makes it. He doesn't defy gravity; he created it. He isn't affected by health; he has no body. Jesus said, "God is spirit." (John 4:24) So, since he has no body, he has no limitations – equally active in Cambodia as he is in California. "Where can I go to get away from your Spirit?" asked David. "Where can I run from you? If I go up to the heavens, you are there. If I lie down in the grave, you are there." (Ps. 139:7-8) Unchanging. Uncaused. Ungoverned. These are only a fraction of God's qualities, but aren't they enough to give you a glimpse of your Father? Don't we need this kind of shepherd?

When Lloyd Douglas, author of The Robe, attended college, he lived in a boardinghouse. A retired, wheelchair-bound music professor resided on the first floor. Each morning Lloyd would stick his head in the door of the teacher's apartment and ask the same question, "Well, what's the good news?" The old man would pick up his tuning fork, tap it on the side of the wheelchair and say, "That's middle C. It was middle C yesterday; it will be middle C tomorrow; it will be middle C a thousand years from now. The tenor upstairs sings flat. The piano across the hall is out of tune, but, my friend, that is middle C." You and I need a middle C. Haven’t you had enough change in your life? Relationships change. Health changes. The weather changes. But the Yahweh who ruled the earth last night is the same Yahweh who rules it today. He never changes. Yahweh is our middle C – a constant in an out-of-tune world. Don't we need a constant? Don't we need an unchanging shepherd? We need a Yahweh. We don't need what Dorothy found.

Remember her discovery in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz? She and her trio, along with Toto, of course, followed the yellow-brick road only to discover that the wizard was a wimp. Nothing but smoke and mirrors and tin-drum thunder. Is that the kind of god you need? You don't need to carry the burden of a lesser god . . . a god on a shelf, a god in a box, a god in a bottle or a god on a credenza. No, you need a God who can place 100 billion stars in our galaxy and 100 billion galaxies in the universe. You need a God who can shape two fists of flesh into 75 to 100 billion nerve cells, each with as many as 10,000 connections to other nerve cells, place it in a skull, and call it a brain. And you need a God who, while so mind-numbingly mighty, can come in the soft of night and touch you with the tenderness of a May morning mist. You need a Yahweh. And, according to David, you have one. He’s your shepherd. Now, take him off the credenza.

Grace,

Randy

Pack Light

 

Pack Light

Pack Light - Audio/Visual 

Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.

(Matt. 11:28)

I have a confession to make. I don’t know how to pack light. I've tried. Really. But I also need to be prepared – kind of like a Boy Scout. Prepared for church, prepared for court, prepared for the zombie apocalypse. Prepared to parachute behind enemy lines or play in a rugby tournament. And if, by some odd chance, the Dalai Lama were on my flight and invited me to join him for dinner in Tibet, I carry snowshoes, just in case. You have to be prepared, right? That’s why I just don't know how to pack light.

Truth is, there's a lot about travel that I don't know. For instance, I don't know how to interpret the restrictions on a Supersaver-Seat – half price if you leave on Wednesdays during bass season and return when the moon is full in a non-election year. I don't know why they don't build the whole plane out of the same material they use to construct that little black box that planes carry to record events in case of a disaster. And I don't know how to escape the airplane toilet without sacrificing a limb to the jaws of the self-closing door. There's just a lot about traveling that I don't know.

I don't know why men would rather floss a crocodile than ask for directions. I don't know why vacation pictures aren't used to treat insomnia, and I don't know when I'll learn not to eat foods whose names I can't pronounce. But most of all, I don't know how to pack light. I don't know how to travel without granola bars, sodas and rain gear. I don't know how to travel without flashlights and a generator and a GPS. I've got an iron that doubles as a paperweight, a hair dryer the size of a coach's whistle, a Swiss Army knife that expands into a pup tent, and a pair of pants that inflate upon impact. See? I just don't know how to pack light. But I really do need to learn. And you’re probably wondering why I can't do just that: learn. Loosen up! you're probably thinking. You can't possibly enjoy a journey carrying so much stuff. Why don't you just drop all of that excess baggage? Funny you should ask because I'd like to ask you the same.

Haven't you been known to pick up a few bags, too? Odds are you did this morning, in fact. Somewhere between the first step onto the floor and the last step out the door, you grabbed some luggage. You stepped over to the baggage carousel and loaded up. Don't remember doing that? That's because you did it without thinking. Don't remember seeing a baggage terminal? That's because the carousel is not the one in the airport; it's the one in your head. And the bags we grab are not made of leather; they're made of burdens. The suitcase of guilt. A sack of discontent. You drape a duffel bag of weariness on one shoulder, and a hanging bag of grief on the other. Add on a backpack of doubt, an overnight bag of loneliness, and a trunk full of fear. Pretty soon you're pulling more stuff than a Southwest skycap. No wonder you're so tired at the end of the day. Lugging luggage is exhausting.

And what you may have been saying to me, God is saying to you: "Set all that stuff down. You're carrying burdens you don't need to bear." "Come to me," Jesus invites, "all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest." (Matt. 11:28) If we let him, God will lighten our loads. Okay, fine, but how do we let God do that? Turn to the 23^rd Psalm.

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul; he leads me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil. My cup runs over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

Do more cherished words exist? Framed and hung in hospital halls, scratched on prison walls, quoted by the young and whispered by the dying. In these verses sailors have found a harbor, the frightened have found a father and strugglers have found a friend. And because the passage is so deeply loved, it’s also widely known. Can you find ears on which those words have never fallen? Maybe, but not likely. Set to music in a hundred songs, translated into a thousand languages, domiciled in a million hearts, and maybe one of those hearts is your own.

So, what kinship do you feel with those words? Where do the verses transport you? To a fireside? Bedside? Graveside? Hardly a week passes that I don’t say them, or at least a few of the verses depending upon my circumstances. It’s like a wonder drug to a physician, and a balm applied to the heart of a friend. Summoned to his house with the words, "The doctors aren't giving him more than a few days," you look at him and understand. Face pale. Lips stretched and parched. Skin draped between bones like old umbrella cloth between spokes. The cancer has taken so much: his appetite, his strength, and his days. But the cancer hasn’t touched his faith.

Pulling a chair close to his bed you squeeze his hand and whisper, "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want." He rolls his head toward you as if to welcome the words. "He makes me to lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul; he leads me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake." Reaching the fourth verse, and fearful that he might not hear, you lean forward until you’re just a couple of inches from his ear and whisper, "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me." He doesn’t open his eyes but arches a brow. He doesn’t speak, but his thin fingers curl around your own, and you wonder if the Lord isn’t helping him set down some luggage, maybe the fear of dying.

Do you have some luggage of your own? Do you think God might use David's psalm to lighten your load? Packing light means trusting God with the burdens you were never intended to bear. Why don't you try it? Try it for the sake of those you love because you may not have considered the impact that excess baggage has on relationships.

I saw a play that made this point through some pretty effective drama. A wedding was reenacted in which we heard the thoughts of the bride and groom. The groom enters, laden with luggage. A bag dangles from every appendage. And each bag is labeled: guilt, anger, arrogance, insecurities. The fellow was loaded down with all of it. And as he stands at the altar, the audience hears him thinking, Finally, a woman who will help me carry all my burdens. She's so strong, so stable, so . . . And as his thoughts continue, hers begin.

She enters, wearing a beautiful wedding gown but, like her fiancé, covered with luggage. Pulling a hanging bag, shouldering a carry-on, hauling a makeup kit, paper sack – everything – everything you could imagine and everything labeled. She has her own bags, too: prejudice, loneliness and disappointments. And her expectations? Listen to what she was thinking: Just a few more minutes and I’ll have the man of my dreams. No more counselors. No more group sessions. So long, discouragement and worry. I won't be seeing you anymore. He's going to fix me.

Finally, they stand at the altar, lost in a mountain of luggage. They smile their way through the ceremony, but when given the invitation to kiss each other, they can't. How do you embrace someone if your arms are full of bags? So, for the sake of those you love, learn to set them down. And, for the sake of the God you serve, do the same. He wants to use you, you know. But how can he if you’re exhausted? That truth came home to me while I was on a hike last year.

Preparing for the hike, I couldn't decide what to wear. The sun was out, but the wind was a little chilly. The sky was clear, but the forecast said rain. Jacket or sweatshirt? I wore both. I found two old iPods – one loaded with books and the other with music. I took both, of course. Needing to stay in touch with my wife and the kids, I carried my cell phone. So no one would steal my car, I pocketed my keys. As a precaution against dehydration, I brought a bottle of water along with some change in a little pouch in case I needed to buy more. Of course, where do you find kiosks selling water on a hike out in the middle of east county? You don’t. I looked more like a pack mule than a hiker, and within half a mile I was peeling off the jacket and threw it in a bush to retrieve later on my way back to the car. That kind of weight will slow you down.

And what's true on a hike is true in our faith. God has a great race for you to run. Under his care you will go where you've never been, and serve in ways you've never dreamed. But you have to dump some stuff. How can you share grace if you’re full of guilt? How can you offer comfort if you’re disheartened? How can you lift someone else's load if your arms are full of your own? For the sake of those you love, pack light. For the sake of the God you serve, pack light. For the sake of your own joy, pack light.

There are certain weights in life you simply can’t carry. Your Lord is asking you to set them down and trust him. He’s the father at the baggage claim. When a dad sees his five-year-old son trying to drag the family’s luggage off the carousel, what does he say? The father will say to his son what God is saying to you. "Set it down, child. I'll carry that one." Let’s take God up on his offer. We might just find ourselves packing a little lighter. "Unload all your worries onto him, because he cares for you." (1 Pet. 5:7)

Grace,

Randy