Altitude Sickness

 

Altitude Sickness

As your spiritual teacher I give this piece of advice to each one of you. Don’t cherish exaggerated ideas of yourself or your importance but try to have a sane estimate of your capabilities by the light of the faith that God has given to you all. (Romans 12:3)

Sometimes you can climb too high for your own good. It’s entirely possible to ascend too far, stand too tall and elevate too much. Linger too long at high altitudes and at least two of your senses will likely suffer from hypoxemia, i.e., altitude sickness. First, your hearing dulls. It’s hard to hear people when you’re higher than they are. Voices grow distant and sentences seem muffled. And second, when you’re up there, your eyesight dims, too. It’s hard to focus on people when you’re so far above them. They appear so small, like little figures with no faces. You can hardly distinguish one from the other since they all look alike to you. In other words, you don’t hear them, and you don’t see them because you’re above them. Which was exactly David’s altitude at the zenith of his reign.

He’s never been higher. The wave of his success crests at age fifty. Israel’s expanding, and the country’s prospering. In two decades on the throne, he’s distinguished himself as a warrior, musician, statesman and a king. His cabinet is strong, and his boundaries stretch for 60,000 square miles, or about the size of the state of Georgia. No defeats on the battlefield, and no blemishes on his administration. Loved by the people, served by the soldiers and followed by the crowds, David’s at an all-time high. Quite a contrast to how we first found him in the Valley of Elah – kneeling at the brook in search of five smooth stones. Then, everybody else stood. The soldiers stood. Goliath stood. His brothers stood. The others were high; David was low. Never lower, in fact. But then again, never stronger.

Three decades later his situation is reversed. Never higher, yet never weaker. David stands at the highest point of his life, in the highest position in the kingdom and at the highest place in the city — on the balcony of his castle overlooking Jerusalem. He should be with his men in battle, but he isn’t. He’s home. “In the spring, when the kings normally went out to war, David sent out his general, Joab, his servants, and all the Israelites. They destroyed the Ammonites and attacked the city of Rabbah. But David stayed in Jerusalem.” (2 Sam. 11:1)

It’s springtime in Israel. The nights are warm, and the air is sweet. David has time on his hands, love on his mind and people at his disposal. His eyes fall upon a woman as she bathes. Maybe Bathsheba was bathing in a place where she shouldn’t bathe, hoping David would look where he shouldn’t be looking. Then again, maybe she wasn’t. The truth is we’ll never know. But we know that he looks and likes what he sees. So, he inquires about her. A servant returns with the following information: “That woman is Bathsheba daughter of Eliam. She is the wife of Uriah the Hittite.” (2 Sam. 11:3) The servant tactfully laces his information with a warning. He gives not only the woman’s name, but her marital status and the name of her husband. Why tell David she’s married if it wasn’t to caution him? And why give the husband’s name unless David wasn’t familiar with it? Odds are, David knew Uriah.

But even if he didn’t know Uriah, David knew Eliam’s dad, Ahithophel, because Ahithophel was David’s closet cabinet advisor – which, of course, would make Bathsheba his counselor’s granddaughter. See? The servant hopes to respectfully dissuade the king. But David misses the hint because he can’t hear, and the next verse describes his first step down a very slippery slope. “So, David sent messengers to bring Bathsheba to him. When she came to him, he had sex with her.” (2 Sam. 11:4)

Notice that David “sends” a lot in this story. He sends Joab to battle. (2 Sam. 11:1) He sends the servant to inquire about Bathsheba. (v. 3) He sends for Bathsheba to have her come to him. (v. 4) When David learns of her pregnancy, he sends word to Joab (v. 6) to send Uriah back to Jerusalem. David sends him to Bathsheba to “get busy,” so to speak, but Uriah is too noble; he’s on the clock. So, David opts to send Uriah back to a place in the battle where he is sure to be killed. Thinking his cover-up is complete, David sends for Bathsheba and he marries her. (v. 27) That’s a lot of sending.

We don’t like this sending, demanding David. We prefer the pastoring David, caring for his father’s sheep. Or the clever and resourceful David, hiding from Saul. Maybe even the worshiping David, penning psalms. We aren’t prepared for the David who’s lost control of his self-control, and who sins as he sends. What happened? Simple. Altitude sickness. Call it a superiority complex. He’s been too high for too long. The thin air has messed with his senses. He can’t hear like he used to. He can’t hear the warnings of the servant, or the voice of his conscience, or even his Lord. The pinnacle has dulled his ears and blinded his eyes. Did David see Bathsheba? No. He saw Bathsheba bathing. He saw Bathsheba’s body and Bathsheba’s curves. He saw Bathsheba, the conquest. But did he see Bathsheba, the human being? The wife of Uriah? The daughter of Eliam? The creation of God? No. David had lost his vision.

Too long at the top will do that to you. Too many hours in the bright sun and thin air can leave you breathless and dizzy. Of course, who among us could ever ascend as high as David? Who among us is a finger snap away from a rendezvous with anyone we choose? Presidents and kings might send people to do their bidding, but we’re lucky just to send out for pizza. We don’t have that kind of influence. We can understand David’s other struggles like his fear of Saul, and his long stretches of hiding in the wilderness because we’ve been there. But David the high and mighty? David’s balcony is one place we’ve never been. Or, then again, have we?

I wasn’t on a balcony, but I was in a restaurant. And I didn’t watch a woman bathe, but I did watch a waitress fumble. She couldn’t seem to do anything right. Order soda, and she’d bring juice. Ask for an appetizer, and she’d bring the entre – if she remembered to bring anything at all. And I started to grumble. Not aloud, mind you, but in my thoughts. “What’s the matter with her?” Unfortunately, I was feeling a little smug at the time – I’d just won a big trial, and to celebrate the victory my client had invited me to lunch and then proceeded to tell me what a great lawyer I was. I don’t know which was crazier, i.e., the fact that he’d said it, or the fact that I believed it.

So, I entered the restaurant that day feeling just a little cocky. I probably even had to tilt my head just to enter the doorway. Then I asked for the soda, the appetizer, etc., and she blew every assignment. So, I growled. Do you see what I was doing? I was placing myself higher than the waitress because, in the pecking order of a restaurant, she was below me. Her job was to serve, and my job was, of course, to be served.

Have you ever felt that way? Superior to someone? A parking lot attendant. The clerk at the grocery store. The peanut-vendor at the baseball game. The sanitation engineer, maybe? You’ve probably done what I did, and the truth is that we’ve all done what David did. We’ve lost our sight and our hearing. When I looked at the waitress, I didn’t see a human being; I saw a server. Which begs the question: How’s your hearing these days? Do you hear the servants whom God sends? Do you hear the conscience that God stirs? And secondly, what about your vision? Do you still see people? Or do you only see their functions? Do you see people who need you, or do you see people beneath you? To me, the story of David and Bathsheba is less a story of lust, and more a story about power. A story of a man who rose too high for his own good. A man who needed to hear, “Come down from there David before you fall.” David’s son, Solomon, whose mother was Bathsheba by the way, would later pen these words: “First pride, then the crash — the bigger the ego, the harder the fall.” (Prov. 16:18) Makes you wonder if he was writing about his dad.

That must be why God hates arrogance. He hates to see his children fall. He hates to see his David’s seduce, and his Bathsheba’s be victimized. God hates what pride does to his children. God doesn’t merely dislike arrogance, he hates it. Could he state it any more clearly than in Proverbs 8:13: “I hate pride and arrogance”? And then a few chapters later, in case you missed it the first time, “God can’t stomach arrogance or pretense; believe me, he’ll put those upstarts in their place.” (Prov. 16:5)

You don’t want God to do that, i.e., put you in your place. Just ask David. He never quite recovered from his bout with this particular giant. So don’t make his mistake. It’s better to descend the mountain than to fall from it. Pursue humility, instead. C.S. Lewis once said, “Humility doesn’t mean you think less of yourself, but that you think of yourself less.” (Mere Christianity) The apostle Paul said two thousand years earlier, “Don’t cherish exaggerated ideas of yourself or your importance, but try to have a sane estimate of your capabilities by the light of the faith that God has given to you.” (Rom. 12:3) Emphasis, perhaps, on the word sane since its antonym, insane, is defined as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. (attrib. Albert Einstein)

Learn to embrace your poverty. We’re all equally broken and blessed. “People come into this world with nothing, and when they die they leave with nothing.” (Eccles. 5:15) Resist the place of celebrity. “Go sit in a seat that is not important. When the host comes to you, he may say, ‘Friend, move up here to a more important place.’ Then all the other guests will respect you.” (Luke 14:10) Wouldn’t you rather be invited up than put down? God has a cure for the high and mighty: come down from the mountain, or he’ll help you get over your superiority complex. And when you get off your high horse, you’ll be amazed at what you can hear, and who you will see. Plus, you'll breathe much easier, which is key since altitude sickness is serious business.

Grace,

Randy

When God Comes Near

 

When God Comes Near

When God Comes Near - Audio/Visual 

“Look, I myself will be with you every day until the end of this present age.” (Matthew 28:20)

There are two striking pictures in the sixth chapter of 2 Samuel. One man is dead. The other is dancing. One lies on the ground. The other is leaping before the Lord with all his strength. The first is Uzzah. The second is David. And between these two men is one of the Bible's most sobering lessons about the presence of God.

David had determined to bring the Ark of the Covenant to Jerusalem. The Ark was not merely a religious artifact. It represented the presence of God among His people. It contained reminders of God's provision, God's power, and God's law. Above it was the mercy seat, beneath the wings of the cherubim, where God's presence was uniquely manifested among Israel. For generations, the Ark had been neglected. But David wanted it back. So, the procession began. There were songs, shouting, trumpets and celebration. But then the oxen stumbled, the cart shook, and the Ark began to shift. Uzzah reached out his hand to steady it, and Scripture says: “The Lord's anger burned against Uzzah, and God struck him down there for his irreverence.” (2 Samuel 6:7) The celebration stopped.

David was angry and afraid, and he asked the question that gets to the heart of this entire story: “How can the ark of the Lord come to me?” (2 Samuel 6:9) That really is the question, isn't it? How does the presence of God come to us? How does God’s presence fill our homes? How does God’s presence remain with our children? How does God’s presence sustain us when we’re frightened, grieving, uncertain or alone? And perhaps the most important question is this: How are we to approach the presence of God?

The tragedy of Uzzah teaches us something we don’t like to hear: God is holy, and He is not to be approached casually. God had already given Israel precise instructions concerning the Ark. The Levites were commanded to carry the sacred objects in the ark on their shoulders using the poles provided for that purpose. They were specifically warned not to touch the holy things. “But they must not touch the sacred objects, or they will die.” (Numbers 4:15) And Numbers 7:9 says that the sacred objects were to be carried upon the shoulders. Yet when David first attempted to bring the Ark to Jerusalem, it was plopped on a cart. They’d chosen convenience over obedience. They’d devised their own method for handling what God had already told them how to handle. And that’s the heart of the problem. The Ark was holy. God was holy. And familiarity had caused them to forget that little detail.

Uzzah had grown up around the Ark. It had been in his father's house. He was accustomed to it. Perhaps that was precisely the danger – what was holy had become ordinary. And that can happen to us, too. We can become so familiar with church that we forget the God of the church. We can become so familiar with Scripture that we forget the God who gave it. We can become so accustomed to worship that we forget whom we’re worshiping. We can talk about God's presence so casually that we lose our sense of awe before the God who is present. The problem with Uzzah was not that he thought too much about God. It was that he had grown so accustomed to holy things that he no longer treated them as holy.

When the Ark began to fall, Uzzah reached out his hand. And, from a human perspective, that seems totally reasonable. He was trying to help. But Scripture makes clear that the Ark should never have been transported that way in the first place. God did not need Uzzah's hand. God needed Israel's obedience. That’s an important difference, and sometimes we do the same thing. We create our own methods and then ask God to bless them. We make our own plans and ask God to approve them. We pursue our own desires and then ask God to make them succeed. We want God's presence without God's instructions. We want God's blessing without God's authority. We want God's comfort without God's holiness. But the story of Uzzah reminds us that God does not conform Himself to our methods. We conform ourselves to His Word. God comes on His terms.

Fortunately, the story doesn't end with Uzzah because three months later, David tried again. But this time, something was different. First Chronicles tells us: “The Levites prepared themselves to carry the ark of God. They carried the ark of God on their shoulders with the poles, as Moses had commanded according to the word of the Lord.” (1 Chronicles 15:14–15) Notice the difference.

The first time, they used a cart. The second time, they followed God's command. The first time, they relied upon convenience. The second time, they relied upon obedience. The first time, there was tragedy. The second time, there was worship. And then David danced. Not because God had become less holy, but because David had learned how to approach the Holy One. Scripture says: “David danced before the Lord with all his might.” (2 Samuel 6:14) David was not treating God casually. He was celebrating God's presence reverently, and that distinction matters. A person can bow before God in awe and leap before Him in joy. David did both. And this brings us to the promise of Jesus.

At the end of Matthew's Gospel, Jesus commissions his disciples to go into all the world, make disciples, baptize them, and teach them to obey his commands. And then he gives them the promise that makes all of that possible: “I myself will be with you every day until the end of this present age.” (Matthew 28:20) Notice what Jesus did not say. He didn’t say, “I will give you enough strength to manage without me.” He didn’t say, “I will give you enough answers so that you won't need me.” He said: “I myself will be with you.”

The greatest gift God gives us is not merely what he gives us. It’s himself. We can lose possessions and still have God. We can lose our plans and still have God. We can lose our certainty and still have God. We can walk through suffering and still have God. We can walk through the valley of death and still have God. Because the promise is not merely that God will give us something. The promise is that God Himself will be with us. And that’s what David discovered.

The Ark came into Jerusalem. The people rejoiced. David danced. And then he blessed the people in the name of the Lord and gave food to everyone. Why? Because the presence of God had come among them. And that is still a reason to celebrate. The world tells us that happiness depends upon circumstances. Scripture tells us that joy can be found in the presence of God. The circumstances may change. God does not. The diagnosis may change. God does not. The bank account may change. God does not. The people around us may change. God does not. Our plans may change. God does not. And so, the Christian's deepest confidence is not: “Everything is going to work out the way I want.” It’s: “Whatever happens, God will be with me.” That’s a far greater promise.

Perhaps that’s what David understood and Uzzah forgot. Uzzah saw a box; David saw the presence of God. Uzzah treated the sacred as ordinary; David stood in awe of the One represented by it. Uzzah reached out as though God needed to be protected; David worshiped because he knew God was present. And Jesus gives us something even greater than David had. David rejoiced because the Ark — the visible symbol of God's presence — was coming into Jerusalem. We rejoice because Jesus has promised that “I myself will be with you every day.” God is not some distant deity. He’s not waiting for us to discover some secret formula that will make Him come down. He’s not summoned by candles, slogans, rituals or religious tricks. He is God. He is holy. He is sovereign. And yet He has chosen to be with His people. That should humble us. And it should make us rejoice.

The lesson of Uzzah is that we must never lose our reverence for God, and the lesson of David is that reverence does not mean joylessness. David bowed before God's holiness — and then he danced. He obeyed — and then he celebrated. He feared God — and then he rejoiced in God. Those things belong together. A reverent heart and a joyful heart can belong to the same person. In fact, they should. Because when we understand who God is, we bow. And when we understand that this holy God has chosen to be with us, we rejoice.

So perhaps the question for us is not merely: “Do I want God's presence?” The better question is: “Do I recognize the presence of the God who is already with me?” Jesus has already given us the answer. “I myself will be with you every day until the end of this present age.” (Matthew 28:20) Every day. In the morning. At night. In the celebration. In the sorrow. In the church. In the home. In the wilderness. In the hospital. In the uncertainty. At the beginning. At the end. He is with us. And if God is with us, then even in the hardest circumstances, we have reason to worship. We have reason to obey. We have reason to hope. And yes —  we have reason to dance when God comes near.

Grace,

Randy

Hello, My Name is Mephibosheth

 

Hello, My Name is Mephibosheth 

Hello, My Name is Mephibosheth

From Paul, a slave of God and an apostle of Jesus Christ. I’m sent to bring about the faith of God’s chosen people and a knowledge of the truth that agrees with godliness. Their faith and this knowledge are based on the hope of eternal life that God, who doesn’t lie, promised before time began. (Titus 1:1-2)

King David’s life couldn’t have been any better. He’s just been crowned, his throne room has the smell of fresh paint, and his city architect is laying out new neighborhoods. God’s ark is in the tabernacle, gold and silver overflow the king’s treasury and Israel’s enemies keep their distance. The days of ducking Saul are a distant memory, but something stirs one of them. A comment, maybe, resurrects an old conversation. Maybe a familiar face jars a distant decision because in the midst of his new life, David remembers a promise from his old one: “Is there still anyone who is left of the house of Saul, that I may show him kindness for Jonathan’s sake?” (2 Sam. 9:1) Confusion furrows the faces in David’s court.

Why bother with the Saul’s kin? This is a new era, and a new administration. Who cares about the old guard? David does. He does because he remembers the covenant he made with Jonathan. When Saul threatened to kill David, Jonathan sought to save him. Jonathan succeeded and then made this request: “If I make it through this alive, continue to be my covenant friend. And if I die, keep the covenant friendship with my family — forever.” (1 Sam. 20:14–15) Jonathan dies, but David’s covenant doesn’t. No one would have thought twice had he let it, though. David had plenty of reasons to forget the promise he’d made with Jonathan. The two were young and idealistic. Who keeps the promises of youth? Saul was cruel and relentless. Who honors the children of a tyrant? David has a nation to rule. What king has time for such small matters? To David, however, a covenant is no small matter.

When you catalog the giants David faced, be sure the word promise survives the cut and makes the short list. It certainly appears on our lists of life’s most difficult challenges. The husband of a depressed wife knows the challenge of a promise. As she stumbles daily through a gloomy fog, he wonders what happened to the girl he married. Can you keep a promise at a time like that? The wife of a cheating husband asks the same. He’s back. He’s sorry. She’s hurt. She wonders. He broke his promise. . .  Do I keep mine? Parents have asked that, too. Parents of prodigals. Parents of runaways. Parents of the handicapped and the disabled. Even parents of healthy toddlers have wondered how to keep a promise. Honeymoon moments and quiet evenings are buried underneath a mountain of dirty diapers and no sleep. Promises. We can never escape their shadow, but David didn’t even try to.

Finding a descendant of Jonathan wasn’t easy, however. No one in David’s circle knew one. Advisers summoned Ziba, a former servant of Saul. Did he know of a surviving member of Saul’s household? He did, but listen to Ziba’s answer: “Yes, one of Jonathan’s sons is still alive, but he is crippled.” (2 Sam. 9:3) Ziba mentions no name, just calls him by his disability. You sense a thinly veiled disclaimer in his words. “Be careful, David. He isn’t — how would you say? — suited for the palace. You might think twice about keeping that particular promise. He’s a cripple.”

Ziba gives no details about the boy, but the fourth chapter of 2 Samuel does. The person in question is the son of Jonathan, Mephibosheth. When Mephibosheth was five years old, his father and grandfather died at the hands of the Philistines. Knowing their brutality, the family of Saul headed for the hills. Mephibosheth’s nurse snatched him up and ran, but in her haste she tripped and dropped the boy, presumably breaking both of his ankles and leaving him incurably lame. Escaping servants carried him across the Jordan River to an inhospitable village called Lo Debar. The name means “without pasture.” Picture something akin to Death Valley. Mephibosheth hid there – first out of fear of the Philistines, then out of fear of David.

So, ponder the sad details of Mephibosheth’s life: born the rightful heir to the throne; victimized by a fall; left with halting feet in a foreign land; and now living under the threat of death. Victimized. Ostracized. Disabled. Uncultured. “Are you sure?” Ziba’s reply insinuates. “Are you sure you want the likes of that boy in your palace?” David’s sure.

As a result, servants drive a stretch limo across the Jordan River and knock on the door of the shack. They explain their business, load Mephibosheth into the car and carry him into the palace. The boy assumes the worst. He meets David with the enthusiasm of a death-row inmate entering the gas chamber. The boy bows low and asks, “Who am I that you pay attention to a stray dog like me?” David then called in Ziba, Saul’s right-hand man, and told him, “Everything that belonged to Saul and his family, I’ve handed over to your master’s grandson . . . . From now on [he] will take all his meals at my table.” (2 Sam. 9:8–10) Faster than you can say Mephibosheth, he gets promoted from Lo Debar to the king’s table. Good-bye, obscurity; hello, royalty and realty. David could have sent money to Lo Debar – a lifelong annuity would have generously fulfilled his promise to Jonathan. But David gave Mephibosheth more than a pension; he gave him a place — a place at the king’s table.

So, with that, look closely at the new family portrait hanging over David’s fireplace. David sits enthroned in the center, flanked by way too many wives. Just in front of tanned and handsome Absalom, right next to the drop-dead beauty of Tamar, down the row from bookish Solomon, you’ll see Mephibosheth, the grandson of Saul, the son of Jonathan, leaning on his crutches and smiling as if he’d just won the Jerusalem lottery. Which, in fact, he had. The kid who had no legs to stand on now has everything to live for. Why? Because he impressed David? Convinced David? Coerced David? No, Mephibosheth did nothing. A promise prompted David. The king is kind – not because the boy is deserving, but because the promise is enduring. And if you need further proof, follow the life of Mephibosheth. He resurfaces fifteen years later during the drama of Absalom’s rebellion.

Absalom, David’s rebellious curse of a kid, forces his father to flee Jerusalem. It’s a Coup d’état. The king escapes in disgrace with only a few faithful friends. Guess who’s numbered among them? Mephibosheth? You’d think so, but he isn’t. It’s Ziba, instead, and Ziba tells David that Mephibosheth has sided with the enemy. The story then progresses, Absalom perishes, and David returns to Jerusalem, where Mephibosheth gives the king another version of the story. He meets David wearing a ragged beard and dirty clothing. Ziba, he claims, abandoned him in Jerusalem and wouldn’t put him on a horse so he could escape with David and his small entourage – essentially leaving him for dead. So, who’s telling the truth? Ziba or Mephibosheth? One is obviously lying. So, which one is it? We don’t know.

We don’t know because David never asks. He never asks because it doesn’t matter. If Mephibosheth tells the truth, he stays. If he lies, he stays. His place in the palace depends, not on his behavior, but on David’s promise. But why is David so loyal? Loyalty’s one thing, but this? How can he be so loyal? Mephibosheth brings absolutely nothing and takes a lot. Where does David get that kind of resolve? Were we able to ask David how he fulfilled his giant-of-a-promise, he might take us from his story to God’s story, because God sets the standard for covenant keeping. Call it a stubborn love.

As Moses told the Israelites: “Know this: God, your God, is God indeed, a God on which you can depend. He keeps his covenant of loyal love with those who love him and observe his commandments for a thousand generations.” (Deut. 7:9) God makes and never breaks his promises. The Hebrew word for covenant, beriyth, means “a solemn agreement with binding force.” His irrevocable covenant runs like a scarlet thread through the tapestry of Scripture.

Remember God’s promise to Noah? “I establish my covenant with you: Never again will all life be cut off by the waters of a flood; never again will there be a flood to destroy the earth.” And God said, “This is the sign of the covenant I am making between me and you and every living creature with you, a covenant for all generations to come: I have set my rainbow in the clouds, and it will be the sign of the covenant between me and the earth.” (Gen. 9:11–13) Every rainbow reminds us of God’s covenant. Interestingly, rainbows – when situated far above the horizon – form a complete circle, and God’s promises are equally unbroken and unending. Or consider the case of Hosea. Now, there’s a story.

Seven hundred years before the birth of Jesus, God commanded Hosea to marry a prostitute named Gomer. (If her profession didn’t get you, her name might) Still, Hosea obeyed. Gomer gave birth to three children, none of whom were Hosea’s. Gomer then left Hosea for a life equivalent to a call girl at a strip club. Rock bottom came when she was in an auction pit where men bid on her as a slave. Lesser men would have waved her off. Not Hosea. He jumped into the bidding, bought his wife, and took her home again. Why? Here’s Hosea’s explanation. “Then God ordered me, ‘Start all over: Love your wife again, your wife who’s in bed with her latest boyfriend, your cheating wife. Love her the way I, God, love the Israelite people, even as they flirt and party with every god that takes their fancy.’ I did it. I paid good money to get her back. It cost me the price of a slave.” (Hos. 3:1–2)

Need a picture of our promise-keeping God? Look at Hosea buying back his wife. Look at the rainbow. Or look at Mephibosheth. I know that you’ve never introduced yourself as Mephibosheth from Lo Debar before, but you probably could. Recall the details of his disaster? He was born the rightful heir to the throne but was victimized by a fall that left him with halting feet in a foreign land where he lived under the threat of death. Sound familiar? That’s your story. That’s our story.

Aren’t we children of the King? Haven’t we been left hobbled because of the stumble of Adam and Eve? Who among us hasn’t meandered along the deserts of Lo Debar? But then came the palace messenger. Maybe it was a fourth-grade teacher, or a high school friend, maybe an aunt or even a televangelist. They came with big news and an awaiting limo. “You’re not going to believe this,” they announce, “but the King of Israel has a place for you at his table. Your place card has been printed, and the chair’s empty. He wants you in his family.”

Why? Because of your IQ? God doesn’t need your brains – he created you. Your retirement account? Chump change to God. Your organizational skills? Sure, like the architect of the universe needs your advice. Sorry, Mephibosheth. Your invitation has nothing to do with you and everything to do with God. He made a promise to give you eternal life: “God, who never lies, promised this eternal life before the world began.” (Titus 1:2)

Your eternal life is covenant caused, covenant secured and covenant based. You can put Lo Debar in the rearview mirror for one reason — God keeps his promises. So, shouldn’t God’s promise-keeping inspire your own? Heaven knows we could all use some inspiration. Let’s face it, people can be exhausting. And there are times when all we can do is still not enough. When a spouse chooses to leave, we can’t force him or her to stay. When a spouse abuses, we shouldn’t stay. The best of love can go unrequited. And I’m not for a moment minimizing the challenges some of you may be facing. You’re tired. You’re angry. You’re disappointed. This isn’t the marriage you expected, or the life you wanted. But looming in your past is a promise you made. So, will you keep it? Will you give it one more try?

But then again, why should you? Well, the answer to that question is so that you can understand the depth of God’s love for you. When you love the unloving, you get a glimpse of what God does for you. When you keep the porch light on for the prodigal child, when you do what is right even though you’ve been done wrong, when you love the weak and the sick, you do what God does every single moment. Covenant-keeping enrolls you in the postgraduate school of God’s love. Maybe that’s why God’s given you that promise-keeping challenge because when you love liars, cheaters and heartbreakers, aren’t you doing what God has already done for you? Pay attention and take notes about your struggles because God invites you to understand his love, but he also wants you to illustrate it. David did with Mephibosheth. David was a walking parable of God’s loyalty. Hosea did the same with Gomer. He modeled the power of a promise kept. And God calls on you to do the same.

So, illustrate stubborn love. Be the embodiment of incarnate fidelity. God is giving you a Mephibosheth-sized chance to show your children and your friends and neighbors what real love does. Embrace it because who knows? Maybe someone will talk about your story of loyalty to illustrate the loyalty of God. Remember the family portrait in David’s palace? I really doubt David had one; that was just a word picture. But I think heaven just might. And if so, won’t it be great to see your face in that picture? Sharing the frame with folks like Moses and Martha, Peter and Paul . . . there’ll you be, maybe standing next to Mephibosheth for all you know. And if so, he probably won’t be the only one grinning from ear to ear — because there’s more than one Mephibosheth in the picture. Before long, you’ll find yourselves introducing one another: ‘Hello, my name is Mephibosheth.’

Grace,

Randy