Trusting God When Life Says "But"

 

Trusting God When Life Says "But"

Then King David rose to his feet and said, “Listen to me, my brethren and my people; I had intended to build a permanent home for the ark of the covenant of the Lord and for the footstool of our God. So, I had made preparations to build it. But God said to me, ‘You shall not build a house for my name because you are a man of war and have shed blood.’ Yet, the Lord, the God of Israel, chose me from all the house of my father to be king over Israel forever. For he has chosen Judah to be a leader; and in the house of Judah, my father’s house, and among the sons of my father he took pleasure in me to make me king over all Israel. (1 Chron. 28:2-4)

“I had intended . . . .” The David who speaks those words is now quite old. The hands that once swung a sling now hang quietly. The feet that had danced before the ark now shuffle. Though his eyes are still sharp, his hair is gray and his skin sags beneath his beard. “I had intended . . . .” A huge crowd had come to listen – courtiers, counselors, chamberlains and caretakers. They had assembled at David’s command. But the king is tired, and the time for his departure is near. So, they listen intently as he speaks. “I had intended to . . . .” That’s kind of an odd way to start a farewell speech. David doesn’t mention what he did, but what he wanted to do, yet couldn’t. “I had intended to build a permanent home for the ark of the covenant of the Lord and for the footstool of our God.” (1 Chron. 28:2)

A temple. David had wanted to build a temple. What he had done for Israel, he wanted to do for the ark — protect it. What he’d done with Jerusalem, he wanted to do with the temple — establish it. And who better than David to do that? Hadn’t he, literally, authored the book on worship? Didn’t he rescue the ark of the covenant? The temple would have been his swan song, his signature act. David had expected to dedicate his final years to building a shrine to God. At least, that was his intention; his plan.

So, he’d prepared – architects chosen; builders selected; blueprints and plans, drawings and numbers; temple columns sketched; steps designed. “I had intended.” “I had made preparations,” David said. Intentions. Preparations. But no temple. Why? Did David get discouraged? No, he stood ready, willing and able for the task. Were the people resistant? Hardly; they gave generously. Were resources scarce? Far from it. David “supplied more bronze than could be weighed, and . . . more cedar logs than could be counted.” (1 Chron. 22:3–4) So what happened? A conjunction – that’s what happened.

Conjunctions operate as the signal lights at the cross-roads of sentences. Some, like the word “and” are green lights – they mean, “Go!” Others, like the word “however,” are yellow – “Caution.” But a few conjunctions are red. Like fire engine red. They stop you. And David got a red light. “I had made preparations to build it. But God said to me, ‘You shall not build a house for my name because you are a man of war and have shed blood. . . . Your son Solomon is the one who shall build my house and my courts.’” (1 Chron. 28:2–3, 6) David’s bloodthirsty temperament had cost him the temple-building privilege, and all he could say was: I intended; I prepared; but God.

 Do you know anyone who’s uttered similar words? That God had different plans than they did? One man, for instance, waited until his mid-thirties to marry. Resolved to select the right spouse, he prayerfully took his time. When he found her, they moved west, bought a ranch and began their life together. After three short years, she was killed in a tragic accident. He had intended. He’d made preparations. But God. A young couple turned a room into a nursery. They papered the walls, refinished a baby crib, selected the name, but then the wife miscarried. They’d intended. They’d prepared. But God. Or take Willem for example.

Willem wanted to preach. By the age of twenty-five, he’d experienced enough life to know he was a perfect fit for the ministry. He sold art, taught language and traded in books. He’d made a living, but it wasn’t a life. His life was in the church. His passion was with the people. So, his passion took him to the coalfields of southern Belgium. There, in the spring of 1879, this Dutchman began to minister to the simple, hardworking miners of Borinage. But within weeks his passion was tested. A mining disaster had injured dozens in the village. So, Willem nursed the wounded and fed the hungry. He even scraped the slag heaps to give his people fuel. And after the rubble was cleared and the dead were buried, the young preacher had earned a place in their hearts – the tiny church overflowed with people hungry for his simple messages of love. Young Willem was doing what he’d always dreamed of doing. But . . . .

One day his superior came to visit. Willem’s lifestyle shocked his boss. The young preacher wore an old soldier’s coat. His pants were cut from sackcloth, and he lived in a simple hut. Willem giving his salary to the people explained his poverty. The church official was wholly unimpressed. “You look more pitiful than the people you came to teach,” he said. Willem asked him if Jesus wouldn’t have done the same, but his boss would have none of it. This was not the proper appearance for a minister, and he dismissed Willem from the ministry. The young man was devastated. He only wanted to build a church. He only wanted to honor God. Why wouldn’t God let him do this work? He’d intended. He’d made preparations. But God.

What do you do with the “but God” moments in your life? When God interrupts your good plans and careful preparation, how do you respond? The man who lost his wife didn’t respond well; he lives in a fog of anger and bitterness. The young couple is coping better. They stay active in church and prayerful about a child. And Willem? Now that’s another story altogether. But before we get back to Willem, what about David? When God changed David’s plans, how did he respond?

He followed the “but God” with a “yet God.” Yet, the Lord, the God of Israel, chose me from all the house of my father to be king over Israel forever. For he has chosen Judah to be a leader; and in the house of Judah, my father’s house, and among the sons of my father he took pleasure in me to make me king over all Israel. (1 Chron. 28:4) Reduce that paragraph to a phrase and it reads something like, “Who am I to complain?” David had gone from runt to royalty; from herding sheep to leading armies; from sleeping in the pasture to living in a palace. When you’re given an ice cream sundae, you don't complain about a missing cherry. David faced the giant of disappointment with, “yet God.” David trusted God. And so did Willem.

 Initially, Willem was hurt and angry. He lingered in the small village of Borinage, not knowing exactly where to turn. But one afternoon he noticed an old miner bending beneath an enormous weight of coal. Caught by the poignancy of the moment, Willem began to sketch the weary figure. His first attempt was pretty crude, but then he tried again. And although he didn’t know it at the time, that’s when Willem discovered his true calling. Not the robe of a clergy, but the frock of an artist. Not the pulpit of a pastor, but the palette of a painter. Not the ministry of words, but of images. The young man the leader would not accept became an artist the world could not resist: Vincent Willem van Gogh. You see, his “but God” became a “yet God.” And who’s to say yours can’t be the same?

“’For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.’” (Jer. 29:11) Many times, unfortunately, we don’t even know our own minds and fear that God’s plans are against us. But there’s no uncertainty with God, and even the things that may appear evil are for our good. God doesn’t give us the expectations of our fears, as many times we suppose, but rewards us in keeping with the expectations of our faith.

So, if you ever have one of those “but God” moments, be like David – try trusting God when life says, “but” and then marvel at how far he’s brought you back to the future. In other words, when life says “but” let your faith say “yet.”

Grace,

Randy

Altitude Sickness

 

Altitude Sickness

Altitude Sickness - Audio/Visual 

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