Take this Job and ... Love It

Take this Job and Love It / Audio-Visual

Take this Job and Love It

Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving. (Col. 3:23-24)

Contrast these two workers for a moment, if you would. The first one slices the air with his hand, making points and instructing the crowd. He’s a teacher, and from the looks of things, a pretty compelling one at that. He stands on a beach, rendering the slanted seashore his amphitheater. As he talks, his audience increases; as the audience grows, his platform shrinks. The instructor steps back and back until the next step will take him into the water. That's when he spots another worker. A fisherman. Not animated, but frustrated. He’d spent all night fishing, but caught nothing. Double-digit hours' worth of casting, splashing and pulling the net. But he’d caught nothing. Unlike the teacher, the fisherman has nothing to show for his work. He draws no crowds; he doesn't even draw fish. Just nets. Two workers. One pumped up. The other worn-out. The first, fruitful. The second, futile. To whom do you relate?

If you empathize with the fisherman, you walk a pretty crowded path. Consider these statistics: One-third of Americans say, "I hate my job." Two-thirds of your fellow citizens labor in the wrong career. Others find employment success, but no satisfaction. Most suicides occur on Sunday nights. Most heart attacks occur on Monday mornings. Lots of people dread their work. Countless commuters begrudge the 83,000 hours their jobs take from their lives. If you're one of them, what can you do? Change careers? Maybe. Find one that better fits your design. But until you change, how do you survive? You still have bills to pay and obligations to meet. The problem might be less the occupation and more your outlook on it. So, before you change professions, try this: change your attitude toward your profession.

Jesus' word for frustrated workers can be found in the fifth chapter of Luke's gospel, where we encounter the teacher and the frustrated fisherman. And you've likely already guessed their names – Jesus and Peter. Random pockets of people populate the Galilean seacoast today. But in the days of Christ, it swarmed; it was an ant bed of activity. Peter, Andrew, James and John made their living catching and selling fish. Like other fishermen, they worked the night shift – when cool water brought the fish to the surface. And, like other fishermen, they knew the drudgery of a fishless night. While Jesus preached, they cleaned nets. And as the crowd grew, Christ had an idea. “He noticed two boats tied up. The fishermen had just left them and were out scrubbing their nets. He climbed into the boat that was [Peter's] and asked him to put out a little from the shore. Sitting there, using the boat for a pulpit, he taught the crowd.” (Luke 5:2-3)

Jesus claimed Peter's boat. He didn't request the use of it. Christ didn't fill out an application or ask permission; he simply boarded the boat and began to preach. He can do that, you know. All boats belong to Jesus. Your boat is where you spend your day, make your living, and – to a large degree – live your life. The taxi you drive, the horse stable you clean, the dental office you manage, the family you feed and transport – that’s your boat. Christ shoulder-taps us and reminds us: "You drive my truck." "You preside in my courtroom." "You work on my job site." "You serve my hospital wing." To us all, Jesus says, "Your work is my work."

Have you seen the painting The Angelus by Jean-Francois Millet? The painting depicts two peasants bowing in a field over a basket of potatoes to say a prayer, the Angelus, which together with the ringing of the bell from the church on the horizon marked the end of a day’s work, all as a light falls from heaven. The rays don’t fall on the church, however. They don't even fall on the bowed heads of the man and woman. The rays of the sun fall on the wheelbarrow and the pitchfork at the couple's feet. God's eyes fall on the work of our hands. Our Wednesdays matter to him just as much as our Sundays. He blurs the secular and sacred. One stay-at-home mom keeps this sign over her kitchen sink: “Divine tasks performed here, daily.” An executive hung this plaque in her office: “My desk is my altar.” Both are correct. With God, our work matters as much as our worship. Indeed, work can be worship. Peter, the boat owner, later wrote: "You are a chosen people. You are a kingdom of priests, God's holy nation, his very own possession. This is so you can show others the goodness of God." (1 Pet. 2:9)

Next time a job application requests your prior employment, write "priest" or "priestess," because you are one. A priest represents God, and you, my friend, represent God. So "let every detail in your lives – words, actions, whatever – be done in the name of the Master, Jesus." (Col. 3:17) You don't drive to an office; you drive to a sanctuary. You don't attend a school; you attend a temple. You may not wear a clerical collar, but you could. Your boat is God's pulpit.

“When [Jesus] finished teaching, he said to Simon [Peter], ‘Push out into deep water and let your nets out for a catch.’ Simon said, ‘Master, we've been fishing hard all night and haven't caught even a minnow. But if you say so, I'll let out the nets.’" (Luke 5:4-5) A patient getting a root-canal displays more excitement than that. But who can blame Peter? His shoulders ache. His nets are packed away. A mid-morning fishing expedition has zero appeal. Still, he complies. "I will do as you say and let down the nets." (v. 5) Hardly hopping up and down with excitement, but it’s nice to know that obedience doesn’t always wear goose bumps.

In the light of day, in full sight of the crowd, the fishermen dip their oars and hoist the sail. Somewhere in the midst of the lake, Jesus gives the signal for them to drop their nets, and "it was no sooner said than done – a huge haul of fish, straining the nets past capacity. They waved to their partners in the other boat to come help them. They filled both boats, nearly swamping them with the catch." (Vv. 6-7) Peter and his cohorts stand knee high in gills. The catch and the message of their lifetimes surround them. And what’s the message?

Some say it's take Jesus to work and get rich! The presence of Christ guarantees more sales, bigger bonuses, longer weekends and an early retirement. With Jesus in your boat, you'll go from Galilean fishing to Caribbean cruising. But if this passage promises prosperity, Peter apparently missed it. The catch didn't catch his eye. Jesus did. Though surrounded by scales of silver, Peter didn't see dollar signs. He saw Jesus. Not Jesus, the carpenter. Not Jesus, the teacher. Not Jesus, the healer. Peter saw Jesus, the Lord: mighty enough to control the sea, and kind enough to do so from a fisherman's boat. "Simon Peter, when he saw it, fell to his knees before Jesus. 'Master, leave. I'm a sinner and can't handle this holiness. Leave me to myself.'" (v. 8) What a scene. Christ amid the common grind, standing shoulder to shoulder with cranky workers. Directing fishermen how to fish; showing net casters where to throw.

Suppose you were to do what Peter did. Take Christ to work with you. Invite him to superintend your nine-to-five. He showed Peter where to cast his nets. Won't he show you where to transfer funds, file the documents, or take the students on a field trip? “Holy Spirit, help me stitch this seam.” “Lord of creation, show me why this manifold won't work.” “King of kings, please bring clarity to this budget.” “Dear Jesus, guide my hands as I trim this customer’s hair.” Pray the prayer of Moses: "Let the loveliness of our Lord, our God, rest on us, confirming the work that we do. Oh, yes. Affirm the work that we do!" (Ps. 90:17)

Maybe you see no way God could use your work. Your boss has the disposition of a hungry pit bull, hamsters have larger work areas than yours, and your kids have better per diems. You feel sentenced to the outpost of Siberia, where hope left a long time ago on the last train. If so, meet one final witness. He labored eighteen years in a Chinese prison camp, and the Communist regime rewarded his faith in Christ with the porta-potty assignment for the last six (6) of those years.

The camp kept the human waste of its 60,000 prisoners in pools until it fermented into fertilizer. The pits seethed with stench and disease. Guards and prisoners alike avoided the cesspools and all who worked there, including this disciple. And after he'd spent only a few weeks in the pit, the stench pigmented his body. He couldn't scrub it out. Imagine his plight – far from home and even in prison, far from the other prisoners. But somehow this godly man found a garden in his prison. "I was thankful for being sent to the cesspool. This was the only place where I was not under severe surveillance. I could pray and sing openly to our Lord. When I was there, the cesspool became my private garden." He then quoted the words to an old hymn: I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses. And the voice so clear whispers in my ear, the Son of God discloses. And He walks with me, and He talks with me, and He tells me I am His own. And the joy we share as we tarry there none other has ever known. "I never knew the meaning of this hymn until I had been in the labor camp," Pastor Chen Min Lin said.

God can make a garden out of the cesspool you call work, if you’ll take him with you. For Peter and his nets, the prisoner and his garden, and for you and your work, the promise is the same: everything changes when you give Jesus your boat.

Grace,

Randy

Reputation

Reputation - Audio/Visual

Reputation

Jesus . . . made Himself of no reputation . . . He humbled Himself and became obedient to the point of death, even the death of the cross. (Philippians 2:5, 7-8)

My teenage acquaintances included a handful of Christians, none of whom were very cool. One minister's daughter passed on beer parties and gossip. As a result, she spent most lunch hours and Friday nights alone. A football player came back from summer break with a Bible bumper sticker on his car and a smile on his face. We called him a Jesus freak. My voice was among the mockers. It shouldn't have been, but it was. Somewhere inside I knew better, but I didn't go there for advice. My parents took me to church. My minister told me about Christ. But did I make a big deal about God or the church? No. I had something far more important to promote. My reputation.

A three-sport athlete, Student Body President and a bit of a flirt, I polished and protected my reputation like a '65 Mustang. What mattered most to me was people's opinion … of me. But then I went off to college and heard a professor describe a Christ I'd never seen. A people-loving and death-defeating Christ. A Jesus who made time for the lonely, the losers . . . a Jesus who died for hypocrites like me. So I signed up. And as much as I could, I gave him my heart. Not long after that decision, I came back home to meet some of the old gang. Only minutes into the trip I started getting nervous. My friends didn't know about my faith, and I wasn't sure I wanted them to. I remembered the jokes we had told about the preacher's daughter and the Jesus freak. Did I dare risk hearing the same said about me? Didn't I have my status to protect? One can't, at the same time, promote two reputations. Promote God's and forget yours, or promote yours and forget God's. We must choose.

Joseph did. Matthew describes Jesus' earthly father as a craftsman. (Matt. 13:55) He lived in Nazareth – a blip on the map at the edge of boredom. Joseph never speaks in the New Testament. He sees an angel, marries a pregnant girl, and leads his family to Bethlehem and Egypt, mind you. He does a lot, but says nothing. A small-town carpenter who never said a Scripture-worthy word. I’ve thought, “Is Joseph the right choice here, God? Don’t you have better options? An eloquent priest from Jerusalem, or a scholar from the Pharisees, perhaps? But, why Joseph?” A major part of the answer, I believe, lies in his reputation: he gave it up for Jesus. "Then Joseph [Mary's husband], being a just man, and not wanting to make her a public example, was minded to put her away secretly." (Matt. 1:19)

With the phrase "a just man," Matthew recognizes Joseph’s status. He was a tsadiq (tsa-DEEK), a serious student of the Torah. Nazareth viewed Joseph as we might view an elder, deacon or maybe a Bible class teacher. Tsadiqs studied God's law. They recited and lived the Shema daily. They supported the synagogue, observed Jewish holy days, and followed the food restrictions. For a common carpenter to be known as a tsadiq was no small thing. Joseph likely took pride in his standing, but Mary's announcement jeopardized it – “I’m pregnant.” Mary's parents, by this point, have signed a contract and sealed it with a dowry. Mary belongs to Joseph; Joseph belongs to Mary. Legally and matrimonially bound. Now what? What's a tsadiq to do? His fiancée is pregnant, blemished, tainted . . . he, on the other hand, is righteous, godly. On one hand, he has the law. On the other, he has his love. The law says, stone her. Love says, forgive her. Joseph is caught in the middle.

But Joseph is a kind man. "Not wanting to disgrace her, [he] planned to send her away secretly." (Matt. 1:19) A quiet divorce, in other words. But how long would it stay quiet? Not long, likely. But for a time, that was the solution. Then comes the angel. "While he thought about these things, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream, saying, 'Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take to you Mary your wife, for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Spirit.'" (v. 20) Stated differently, Mary's growing belly should give no cause for concern, but a reason to rejoice. "She carries the Son of God in her womb," the angel announces. But who would believe that? Who’d buy that story?

Just picture Joseph being questioned by the city leaders. "Joseph," they say, "we understand that Mary is with child." He nods. "Is the child yours?" He shakes his head. "Do you know how she became pregnant?" Gulp. A bead of sweat forms beneath Joseph's beard. He faces a real dilemma. Make up a lie and preserve his place in the community, or tell the truth and kiss his tsadiq good-bye. But he makes his decision. "Joseph . . . took to him his wife, and did not know her till she had brought forth her first-born Son. And he called His name Jesus." (Matt. 1:24-25) In other words, Joseph tanked his reputation. He swapped his tsadiq diploma for a pregnant fiancée and an illegitimate son, and made the big decision of discipleship. He placed God's plan ahead of his own.

Would you be willing to do that? God grants us an uncommon life to the degree we surrender our common one. "If you try to keep your life for yourself, you will lose it. But if you give up your life for me, you will find true life." (Matt. 16:25) Would you forfeit your reputation to see Jesus born into your world? For instance, let’s say that you’re a photographer for an advertising agency. Your boss wants to assign you to your biggest photo shoot – ever. The account? Hustler magazine. He knows about your faith. Say yes and polish your reputation. Say yes and use your God-given gift to tarnish Christ's reputation. What would you do?

Or, take the college philosophy teacher who daily harangues against Christ and Christians. He derides spirituality and denigrates the need for forgiveness. One day he dares any Christian in the class to speak up. Would you? Or, let’s say you enjoy the role of a Christmas Christian. You sing the carols, attend the services. But come January, you'll jettison your faith and re-shelve your Bible. During December, however, you soar. But something hits you this particular December. The immensity of it all strikes you – heaven hung her highest hope and King on a cross, for me. Radical thoughts begin to surface: joining a weekly Bible study, going on a mission trip, volunteering at a soup kitchen. Your family and friends think you’re crazy. Your changing world changes theirs. They want the Christmas Christian back. You can protect your reputation, or protect his. You have a choice. Joseph made his. Jesus did too.

Jesus "made Himself of no reputation, taking the form of a bondservant, and coming in the likeness of men. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself and became obedient to the point of death, even the death of the cross." (Phil. 2:7-8) Christ abandoned his reputation. No one in Nazareth saluted him as the Son of God. He did not stand out in his elementary-classroom photograph, and didn’t demand a glossy page in his high-school yearbook. Friends knew him as a woodworker, not a star hanger. His looks don’t turn heads; his position earned him no credit. In the great stoop we call Christmas, Jesus abandoned heavenly privileges and aproned earthly pains. "He gave up his place with God and made himself nothing." (Phil. 2:7)

God hunts for those who will do likewise – Josephs through whom he can deliver Christ into the world. But when you're full of yourself, God can't fill you. It’s only when you empty yourself that God has a useful vessel. And your Bible overflows with examples of those who did. In his gospel, Matthew mentions his own name only twice, and both times he calls himself a tax collector. In his list of apostles, he assigns himself the eighth spot. John, on the other hand, doesn't even mention his name in his gospel. The twenty appearances of "John" all refer to the Baptist. John the apostle simply calls himself the "other disciple," or the "disciple whom Jesus loved." Luke wrote two of the most important books in the Bible but never once penned his own name.

Paul, the Bible's most prolific author, referred to himself as "a fool." (2 Cor. 12:11) He also called himself "the least of the apostles." (1 Cor. 15:9) Five years later he claimed to be "less than the least of all the saints." (Eph. 3:8) In one of his final epistles he referred to himself as the "chief of sinners.” (1 Tim. 1:15) As he grew older, his ego grew smaller. King David wrote no psalm celebrating his victory over Goliath, but he wrote a public poem of penitence confessing his sin with Bathsheba. (See Ps. 51) And then there’s Joseph. The quiet father of Jesus.

Rather than make a name for himself, he made a home for Christ. And because he did, a great reward came his way. "He called His name Jesus.” (Matt. 1:25) Queue up the millions who have spoken the name of Jesus, and look at the person selected to stand at the front of the line. Joseph. Of all the saints, sinners, prodigals and preachers who have spoken the name, Joseph, a blue-collar, small-town construction worker, said it first. He cradled the wrinkle-faced Prince of Heaven and, with an audience of angels and pigs, whispered, "Jesus . . . You'll be called Jesus."

Seems right, don't you think? Joseph gave up his name and, in exchange, Jesus let Joseph say his. You think Joseph regretted his choice? I didn't regret mine. I went to the hometown party. As expected, every-one asked questions like, "What's new?" I told them. Not gracefully or eloquently . . . but honestly. "My faith," I remember saying. "I'm taking faith pretty seriously." A few rolled their eyes. Others made mental notes to remove my name from their friends list, since that was before you could be “unfriended” on Facebook. But one or two found their way over and confided, "I've been thinking the same thing." Turns out I wasn't the only one. And neither are you.

Grace,

Randy

AWOL

AWOL - Audio/Visual

AWOL

David went on up the Mount of Olives crying; he was barefoot and had his head covered as a sign of grief. All who followed him covered their heads and cried also. (2 Sam. 15:30)

David looks older than his more than 60 years. His shoulders slump; his head hangs. He shuffles like an old man. He struggles to place one foot in front of the other. He pauses often – partly because the hill is steep; partly because he needs to weep. This is the longest path he’s ever walked. Longer than the one from the creekside to Goliath. Longer than the winding road from fugitive to king, or even the guilty road from conviction to confession. Those trails had some steep turns, to be sure. But none of them compared with his ascent up the Mount of Olives.

He doesn’t wear a crown – his son Absalom has taken it by force. He has no home – those walls rising at his back belong to the city of Jerusalem. He’s fled the capital that he had established. Who wouldn’t cry at a time like this? No throne. No home. Jerusalem behind him and the wilderness and uncertain future ahead of him. What happened? Did he lose a war? Was Israel ravaged by Ebola? Did famine starve his loved ones and drain his strength? How does a king end up old and lonely, walking on a difficult uphill path? Just ask his wives and kids.

If you were to ask David about his kids, he’d probably wince. Fourteen years have passed since David seduced Bathsheba, and thirteen years since Nathan told David, “The sword will never depart from your house.” (2 Sam. 12:10) Nathan’s prophecy has proven painfully true.

One of David’s sons, Amnon, fell in lust with his half-sister Tamar, one of David’s daughters by another marriage. Amnon craved, connived and then raped Tamar. And then, after the rape, kicked her to the curb like yesterday’s garbage. Tamar, understandably, 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.” (13:20) And the next verse tells 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 longer verse. We want a few verbs. Confront will do. Punish would be nice. Banish would be even better. We 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 dressing down. No chewing out. No nothing. And, even worse, he did nothing for Tamar. She needed his protection, his affirmation and validation. She needed a dad. But what she got was silence.

So Absalom, her 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, in just one family we have incest, deceit, one daughter raped, one son dead and another with blood on his hands. David’s is a palace in turmoil. Again, it was time for David to step up. You know, display his Goliath-killing courage, or Saul-pardoning mercy, or even Brook-Besor leadership. David’s family needed to see the best of David. But they saw none of David. He didn’t intervene or even respond. He wept, instead, in complete solitude.

Absalom interpreted David’s silence and inaction as anger and fled Jerusalem to hide in his grandfather’s house. And David made no attempt 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. “Absalom dwelt two full years in Jerusalem, but did not see the king’s face.” (14:28) Frankly, that kind of shunning couldn’t have been easy. Jerusalem wasn’t that big of a town. Avoiding Absalom likely demanded daily planning and spying. But David succeeded in neglecting his son. More accurately, he neglected all of his kids.

A passage from later in his life reveals David’s parenting philosophy. One of his sons, Adonijah, had staged a coup. He assembled chariots and horsemen and personal bodyguards to take the throne. And did David 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 picture of passivity. So, when we ask him about his kids, he groans. But when we ask him about his wives, his face goes chalky white.

We began to suspect trouble back in 2 Samuel chapter 3. What initially appears as just another dull genealogy is actually a 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. (vv. 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. And 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. David fathered other sons through other mothers, and we don’t even know how many. And what about the girls? We know about Tamar, but were there others? Probably, and the cynical side of us wonders if David even knew how many kids he actually had.

David did so much so well. He unified the twelve tribes into one nation. He masterminded military conquests. He founded the capital city and elevated God as the Lord of the people, bringing the ark to Jerusalem and paving the way for the temple. He wrote poetry we still read, and psalms we still sing. But when it came to his family, David was MIA. Going AWOL on his family was David’s greatest failure. Oh, seducing Bathsheba was an inexcusable but explicable act of passion. Or, murdering Uriah was a ruthless yet predictable deed from a desperate heart. But passive parenting and widespread philandering? These weren’t sins of a lazy afternoon, or the deranged reactions of self-defense. David’s family foul-up was a lifelong stupor that cost him dearly.

Because do you remember Absalom? David finally reunited with him, but by then it was too late. The seeds of bitterness had grown deep roots, and Absalom resolved to overthrow his father. He recruited from David’s army and staged a coup d'état. His takeover set the stage for the 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 he tried to escape on horseback, his long hair got tangled in a tree and soldiers speared him to death. When David hears the news he falls to pieces: “O my son Absalom — my son, my son Absalom — if only I had died in your place! O Absalom my son, my son!” (18:33) A little late for that, don’t you think?

David succeeded everywhere except at home. And if you don’t succeed at home, do you succeed at all? How do we explain David’s disastrous household? How do we explain David’s silence when it comes to his family? No psalms were ever written about his kids. And surely, out of all his wives, you’d think that at least one would have been worthy of a sonnet or song. But he never talked about them. Aside from the prayer he offered for Bathsheba’s baby, Scripture gives no indication that he ever prayed for his family. He prayed about the Philistines – his enemies. He interceded for his soldiers – his employees. He offered prayers for Jonathan – his friend. He even prayed for Saul – his archrival. But as far as his family was concerned, it’s as if they never existed.

Was David just too busy to notice them? Maybe. He had a city to settle and a kingdom to build. Was he too important to care for them? “Let the wives raise the kids; I’ll lead the nation,” maybe he rationalized. Was he too guilty to shepherd them? After all, how could David, who had seduced Bathsheba and then intoxicated and murdered Uriah, correct his sons when they raped and murdered themselves? Too busy. Too important. Too guilty. And now? Too late. A dozen exits too late. But it’s not too late for me and you.

Your home is your giant-sized privilege; 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 a part of God’s plan. Don’t make David’s mistake. Be fiercely loyal to your spouse. You’ve made a promise. So keep it. And, as you do, nourish the children God may have given you.

Quiet heroes dot the landscape of our society. They don’t wear ribbons or kiss trophies; they wear spit-up and kiss owie’s. They don’t make the headlines, but they check the outlines and stand on the sidelines. You won’t find their names on the Nobel Peace Prize short list, but you’ll find their names on the homeroom and carpool lists. News programs don’t call them, but that’s okay because their kids do. They call her Mom. 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 or he is 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 David paid for neglecting his family.

David is hours from death. A chill has set in that blankets just can’t warm. So, servants decide that he needs a person to snuggle with him, someone to hold him tight as he takes his final breaths. But do they turn to one of his wives? No. Do they call on one of his kids? Hardly. 1 Kings 1, verses 3 and 4, tells us that they “looked in every corner of Israel until they found Abishag from Shunem. They brought her to the king. She was very beautiful. She cared for the king and served him, but the king didn’t have sex with her.” Oh, that’s nice; she was just a heatilator. Sadly, I suspect that David would have traded all his conquered crowns for the tender arms of a wife. 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.

It’s not too late for you, however. Make your wife the object of your highest devotion. Make your husband 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)

Grace,

Randy

Family

Family - Audio/Visual

Family

I hope to visit you soon. However, I’m writing this to you in case I’m delayed. I want you to know how people who are members of God’s family must live. God’s family is the church of the living God, the pillar and foundation of the truth. (1 Timothy 3:14-15)

Gary Klahr and Steve Barbin acted just like brothers. The two Fairfield, Connecticut, residents looked alike, finished each other's sentences, and even spoke with the same kind of inflection. Gary served as Steve's best man, and Steve supported Gary through his father's death. They were inseparable for twenty-five years. And on December 30, 1998, their friendship made all the sense in the world.

A caseworker called Gary with some personal questions. He thought she wanted to know if he was interested in adoption. He was partially correct. Her call concerned adoption – his own. The news came like a bolt out of the blue. For fifty-one years he’d assumed he was Benjamin and Marjorie Klahr's biological child. Surprise! And that discovery was just the beginning. Gary happened to mention that his friend Steve Barbin was adopted as well. The caseworker showed instant interest and telephoned Steve. "Are you sitting down? You have a brother," she informed him. "Your friend, Gary Klahr." Not just buddies, but brothers. Not just friends, but family. How do you think these two men felt when they got the news? God wants you to find out.

He offers you a family of friends, and friends who are family – his church. "His unchanging plan has always been to adopt us into his own family by bringing us to himself through Jesus Christ. And this gave him great pleasure." (Eph. 1:5) When you transfer your trust into Christ, he not only pardons you but he places you in his family of friends.

The term "family" far and away outpaces any other biblical term used to describe the church. "Brothers," or "brothers and sisters," appears a whopping 148 times between the book of Acts and the book of Revelation. Here’s just a few: “Love the brothers and sisters of God's family.” (1 Pet. 2:17) “Brothers and sisters, now we encourage you to love them even more.” (1 Thess. 4:10) “Keep on loving each other as brothers and sisters.” (Heb. 13:1) “Now that you have made your souls pure by obeying the truth, you can have true love for your Christian brothers and sisters.” (1 Pet. 1:22) “God's family is the church of the living God, the pillar and foundation of the truth.” (1 Tim. 3:15) God is building a family. A permanent family.

Sadly, earthly families enjoy rather short shelf lives. Even those that sidestep divorce are eventually divided by death. God's family, however, will outlive the universe. "When I think of the wisdom and scope of his plan I fall down on my knees and pray to the Father of all the great family of God – some of them already in heaven and some down here on earth." (Eph. 3:14-15) Jesus even defined his family according to faith, not the flesh. "A multitude was sitting around Him; and they said to Him, 'Look, your mother and your brothers are outside seeking you.' But he answered them, saying, 'Who is my mother, or my brothers? . . . Whoever does the will of God is my brother and my sister and mother.'" (Mark 3:32-33, 35)

Common belief identifies members of God's family. And common affection unites them. Paul gives this relationship rule for the church: "Be devoted to one another in brotherly love." (Rom. 12:10) The apostle plays a bit of the wordsmith here, bookending the verse with fraternal-twin terms. He begins with philostorgos (philos means friendly; storgos means family love – and used only this one time in the Bible) and concludes with philadelphia (phileo means tender affection; adelphia means brethren.) An awkward but fairly accurate translation of the verse might be "Have a friend/family devotion to each other in a friend/family sort of way." In other words, if Paul doesn't get us with the first adjective, he catches us with the second. In both he reminds us that the church is God's family.

You didn't pick me, and I didn't pick you. You may not even like me. But since God picked and likes us both, we’re family. And we treat each other as friends. C. S. Lewis said, "Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, 'What! You too? I thought I was the only one.'" If similar experiences create friendships, shouldn't the church be overflowing with them? With whom do you have more in common than fellow believers? Amazed by the same manger, stirred by the same Bible, saved by the same cross, and destined for the same home. Can’t you echo the words of the psalmist? "I am a friend to everyone who fears you, to anyone who obeys your orders." (Ps. 119:63) The church. More than family, we are friends. More than friends, we are family. God's family of friends.

Colorado aspens provide a living picture of the church. Have you ever noticed how they grow in groups, often on the otherwise bald sides of mountains? They are sun-seekers and root-sharers. Unlike firs or pines, which prefer shade, aspens worship warmth. Unlike oaks, whose roots go deep, aspen roots go wide. They intertwine with other roots and share the same nutrients. They’re light lovers, and root-sharers. Sounds like a healthy church.

Oddly, some people enjoy the shade of the church while refusing to put down any roots. God, yes. Church, no. They like the benefits, but resist commitment. The music, the message, and the clean conscience – they accept the perks of church. So they date her, visit her. Enjoy an occasional rendezvous. They use the church. But commit to the church? Can't do that. Got to keep my options open. Don't want to miss out on any opportunities. Sadly, they already have. Miss the church and you miss God's sanctioned tool for God promotion because church is a key place to do what you do best to the glory of God. In fact, Scripture calls the church a poem. "We are His workmanship." (Eph. 2:10)

The Greek word for “workmanship” is poiema, which gives us our English words for poem and poetry. We’re God's poetry. What Longfellow did with pen and paper, our Maker does with us. We express his creative best. But you aren't God's poetry any more than I'm God's poetry. It’s we. We’re God's poetry. And poetry demands variety. "God works through different men in different ways, but it is the same God who achieves his purposes through them all." (1 Cor. 12:6) God uses all types to type his message. Logical thinkers. Emotional worshipers. Dynamic leaders. Docile followers. The visionaries who lead, the studious who ponder, the generous who pay the bills. Alone, we are meaningless symbols on a page. But collectively, we inspire. "All of you together are Christ's body, and each one of you is a separate and necessary part of it." (1 Cor. 12:27) The billions of Christ followers over the last 2,000 years have this in common: "A spiritual gift is given to each of us." (1 Cor. 12:7) God's body has no nobodies. No exceptions. No exclusions. Our gifts make an eternal difference only in concert with the church.

Apart from the body of Christ, we are like clipped fingernails, or shaved whiskers. Who needs them? No one. They make no contribution. The same applies to our gifts. "Each of us finds our meaning and function as a part of his body." (Rom. 12:5) “And Christ gave gifts to people – he made some to be apostles, some to be prophets, some to go and tell the Good News, and some to have the work of caring for and teaching God's people. Christ gave those gifts to prepare God's holy people for the work of serving, to make the body of Christ stronger.” (Eph. 4:11-12)

He grants gifts so we can "prepare God's holy people." Paul reached into the medical dictionary for that term, prepare. Doctors in his day used it to describe the setting of a broken bone. And broken people come to churches. Not with broken bones, but broken hearts, homes, dreams and lives. They limp in on a fractured faith. And if the church operates as the church, they find healing. Pastor-teachers touch and teach. Gospel bearers share good news. Prophets speak words of truth. Visionaries dream of greater impact. Some administer. Some pray. Some lead. Some follow. But all help to heal brokenness: "to make the body of Christ stronger." (Eph. 4:12) God heals his family through his family.

In the church we use our gifts to love each other, honor one another, keep an eye on troublemakers, and carry each other's burdens. Do you need encouragement, prayers, or a place to call home? God entrusts the church to purvey these treasures. Consider the church God's treatment center – a hospital for the sick and broken soul. Don't miss the place to find your place, and heal your hurts. No one is strong all the time. Discover what Gary Klahr and Steve Barbin did: friends and family – all in the same faces.

By the way, the caseworker eventually identified that Gary and Steve had eleven other siblings. A workout partner was Gary's brother, and a former girlfriend was his sister. (That's a little creepy.) Today, consider the immensity, beauty and surprises of family life. In God's church, may you find them all.

Grace,

Randy