Disappointment

Disappointment

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 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 skin sags beneath his beard. “I had intended . . . .”

A huge crowd listens. Courtiers, counselors, chamberlains and caretakers. They’ve assembled at David’s command. The king is tired. The time for his departure is near. They listen carefully as he speaks. “I had intended to . . . .” That’s an odd way to start a farewell speech, don’t you think? 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 he to do that? Hadn’t he, literally, written the book on worship? Didn’t he rescue the ark of the covenant? And 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 had been his intention.

So, he had made preparations: architects chosen; builders selected; blueprints and plans, drawings and numbers; temple columns sketched; steps designed. “I had intended . . . . I had made preparations . . . .” 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 then 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 – Go! Others, such as however, are yellow – Caution. But a few are red. 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. All he could say was: I had intended . . . . I had made preparations . . . . 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 an 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 had intended . . . . They had made preparations . . . . But God.

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 injured dozens of the villagers. 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 had given his salary to the people. The church official was unimpressed. “You look more pitiful than the people you came to teach,” he said. Willem asked if Jesus wouldn’t have done the same. But the older man 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, how do you respond? The man who lost his wife didn’t respond well; he lives in a fog bank 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 to that, 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 the palace. When you’re given an ice cream sundae, you don't complain over 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 fairly crude, but then he tried again. He didn’t know it at the time, of course, but at that very moment Willem had 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. 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 those things that 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 – consider what God has already done and marvel at how far he’s brought you back to the future.

Grace,

Randy

M.I.A.

M.I.A.

So David went up by the ascent of the Mount of Olives, and wept as he went up; and he had his head covered and went barefoot. And all the people who were with him covered their heads and went up, weeping as they went up. (2 Sam. 15:30)

David looks older than his 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 the ascent up the Mount of Olives.

He wears no 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 he established. And who wouldn’t weep at a time like this? No throne. No home. Jerusalem behind him and the wilderness 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 on an uphill path? Just ask his wives and kids.

If you were to ask David about his kids, he’d likely 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 after the rape, he kicked her to the curb.

Tamar, understandably, came undone. 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. David did nothing to Amnon. 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. So, one night Absalom got Amnon drunk and had him killed. Incest. Deceit. One daughter raped. One son dead. Another with blood on his hands. A palace in turmoil. Again it was time for David to step up. You know, display his Goliath-killing courage, 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 was a small town. Avoiding Absalom likely demanded daily plotting and spying. But David succeeded in neglecting his son. More accurately, he neglected all his kids.

A passage from later in his life reveals his parenting philosophy. One of his sons, Adonijah, had staged a coup. He assembled chariots and horsemen and personal bodyguards to take the throne. 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 in David’s family Bible. After listing the names of his sons, the genealogist adds, “These were all the sons of David, besides the sons of the concubines.” (1 Chron. 3:9) The concubines? Yep. David fathered other children 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 had. What was he thinking?

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. Seducing Bathsheba was an inexcusable but explicable act of passion. Murdering Uriah was a ruthless yet predictable deed from a desperate heart. But passive parenting and widespread philandering? These were not 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. Absalom resolved to overthrow his father. He recruited from David’s army and staged a coup. His takeover set the stage for the sad walk of David out of Jerusalem — up the Mount of Olives and 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. David hears the news and 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) Tardy tears.

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 children. And surely, out of all his wives, 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. He interceded for his soldiers. 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 even 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,” perhaps 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 you and me.

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 his mistake. Be fiercely loyal to your spouse. You’ve made a promise. 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 owies. 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 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 them Mom. They call them Dad. Be numbered among them.

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 a neglected family.

David is hours from death. A chill has set in that blankets just can’t help. So, servants decide he needs a person to warm 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? No. They sought “a lovely young woman throughout all the territory of Israel . . . and she cared for the king, and served him; but the king did not know her.” (1 Kings 1:3–4) I suspect that David would have traded all his conquered crowns for the tender arms of a wife. But it was too late. He died in the care of a stranger, because he made strangers out of his family.

But it’s not too late for you. 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.

The rest, as they say, will (with God’s help) take care of itself. (Proverbs 16:3)

Grace,

Randy

Epic Fail

Epic Fail[1]

The Lord is compassionate and merciful, very patient, and full of faithful love. God won’t always play the judge; he won’t be angry forever. He doesn’t deal with us according to our sin or repay us according to our wrongdoing, because as high as heaven is above the earth, that’s how large God’s faithful love is for those who honor him. As far as east is from west — that’s how far God has removed our sin from us. (Psalm 103:8-12)

What will the Vatican give for the pope’s name? That was the question posed in a 2005 article in the San Antonio Express News entitled, “Does Texan Have a Prayer of Trading Domain Name?” And it was Rogers Cadenhead, a Texan, who sought an answer to that question. Because upon the death of Pope John Paul, Cadenhead, a self-described “domain hoarder,” registered www.BenedictXVI.com before the new pope’s name was even announced. In other words, Cadenhead had secured it before Rome even knew they needed it. And a sought-after domain name can prove lucrative. For instance, another name, www.PopeBenedictXVI.com, sold for more than $16,000.00 on E-bay.

Cadenhead, however, didn’t want the money. A Catholic himself, he was happy for the church to own the name. “I’m going to try and avoid angering 1.1 billion Catholics and my grandmother,” he quipped. He did want something in return, however. In exchange for the domain name, Cadenhead asked for: (1) “one of those hats;” (2) “a free stay at the Vatican hotel;” and (3) “complete absolution, no questions asked, for the third week of March, 1987.” Makes you wonder what happened that third week of March, doesn’t it?

Does it remind you of a week of your own like that? Most of us have one … or more. A folly-filled summer, a month off-track, days gone wild. If a box of tapes existed that documented every second of your life, which one of those tapes would you burn? Do you have a season in which you indulged, imbibed, or inhaled? King David did.

Could a collapse, or fail, be more epic than his? He seduces and impregnates Bathsheba, murders her husband, and deceives his general and soldiers. Then he marries her, and she bears the child. And the cover-up appears complete. The casual observer has no cause for concern. David has a new wife and a happy life. All seems well on the throne. But all is not well in David’s heart. Guilt simmers. He later describes this season of secret sin in pretty graphic terms: When I kept it all inside, my bones turned to powder, my words became daylong groans. The pressure never let up; all the juices of my life dried up. (Ps. 32:3–4)

His harp hangs hushed. His hope hibernates. The guy is a walking wreck. His “third week of March” stalks him like a pack of coyotes. He can’t escape it. Why? Because God keeps bringing it up. Underline the last verse of 2 Samuel chapter 11: “The thing that David had done displeased the Lord.” (v. 27) With these words the narrator introduces a new character into the David and Bathsheba drama: God.

Thus far, God’s been completely absent from the text, and unmentioned in the story. David seduces – no mention of God. David plots – no mention of God. Uriah buried, Bathsheba married – no mention of God. God is not spoken to, nor does he speak. And the first half of verse 27 lures us into a false “happy ending” because Bathsheba “became David’s wife and gave birth to his son.” In other words, they’d decorated the nursery and picked names out of a magazine. Nine months pass. A son is born. And we conclude, “Well, it looks like David dodged a bullet that time.” Apparently the angels must have dropped this story into the file marked, “Boys Will Be boys.” Evidently, God must have turned a blind eye. Yet, just when we think so (and David hopes so), someone steps from behind the curtain and takes center stage. “The thing that David had done displeased the Lord.”

God won’t be silent any more. The name not mentioned until the final verse of chapter 11 dominates chapter 12. David, the “sender,” sits while God takes control. So, God sends Nathan to David. Nathan is a prophet, a preacher, a White House chaplain of sorts. The man probably deserved a medal for going to the king because he knew what happened to Uriah. David had killed an innocent soldier. So, what’s he going to do with a confrontational preacher?

Still, Nathan goes. However, rather than declaring the deed, he relates a story about a poor man with one little sheep. David instantly connects. He shepherded flocks before he led people. He knows poverty. He’s the youngest son of a family that was too poor to hire a shepherd. Nathan tells David how the poor shepherd loved this sheep – holding her in his own lap, feeding her from his own plate. She was all he had. And then enters, as the story goes, the rich jerk. A traveler stops by his mansion, so a feast is in order. But, rather than slaughtering a sheep from his own flock, the rich man sends his bodyguards to steal the poor man’s little lamb. So, they Hummer onto his property, snatch the lamb, and fire up the barbecue.

As David listens, the hair on the back of his neck starts to stand on end. He grips the arms of the throne and renders a verdict without even a trial: “As surely as the Lord lives, the one who did this is demonic! He must restore the ewe lamb seven times over because he did this and because he had no compassion.” (12:5–6) David, David, David. You never saw it coming, did you? You never saw Nathan erecting the gallows, or throwing the rope over the beam. You never felt him tie your hands behind your back, lead you up the steps, and stand you squarely over the trap door. Only when he squeezed the noose around your neck, did you gulp. Only when Nathan tightened the rope with four three-letter words: “You are the man!” (12:7)

David’s face pales. A bead of sweat forms on his forehead. He slinks back in his chair. He makes no defense. He utters no response. He has nothing to say. God, however, is just getting warmed up. Through Nathan, God said: I made you king over Israel. I freed you from the fist of Saul. I gave you your master’s daughter and other wives to have and to hold. I gave you both Israel and Judah. And if that hadn’t been enough, I’d have gladly thrown in much more. So why have you treated the word of God with brazen contempt, doing this great evil? You murdered Uriah the Hittite, then took his wife as your wife. Worse, you killed him with an Ammonite sword! (12:7–9) Gulp.

But these words reflect hurt, not hate, don’t they? Bewilderment, not belittlement. Your flocks fill the hills, David. So why rob? Beauty populates your palace. So, why take from someone else? Why would the wealthy steal? David has no excuse. So God levies the sentence: Now, therefore, the sword will never depart from your house, because you despised me and took the wife of Uriah the Hittite to be your own. This is what the Lord says: “Out of your own household I am going to bring calamity upon you. Before your very eyes I will take your wives and give them to one who is close to you, and he will lie with your wives in broad daylight. You did it in secret, but I will do this thing in broad daylight before all Israel.” (12:10-12)

And from that day forward, turmoil and tragedy marked David’s family. The child born of his adultery dies (12:18), and the surrounding nations begin to question the holiness of David’s God. David had soiled God’s reputation, blemished God’s honor. And God, who jealously guards his glory, punishes David’s public sin in a public fashion. And the king of Israel discovers the harsh truth of Numbers 32:23: “. . . you can be sure that your sin will track you down.”

Ever found that to be true? Does your stubborn week of March, 1987 hound you? Infect you? Epic fails and colossal collapses just won’t leave us alone. Unconfessed sins sit on our hearts like festering boils – poisoning, expanding. And God applies the pressure to remove the seed of the boil from our lives: “The way of the transgressor is hard.” (Prov. 13:15) “Those who plow evil and sow trouble reap evil and trouble.” (Job 4:8) God takes your sleep, your peace. He takes your rest. Want to know why? Because he wants to take away your sin.

Can a mom sit idly by as sickness ravages her child? Well then, can God sit idly as sin poisons his? He will not rest until we do what David did: confess our fault. “Then David said to Nathan, ‘I have sinned against the Lord.’ Nathan replied, ‘The Lord has taken away your sin. You are not going to die.’” (2 Sam. 12:13) Interesting. David said the imaginary sheep stealer was worthy of death because that’s what they did with the demon-possessed. But God is more merciful. He put away David’s sin. Rather than cover it up, he lifted it up and put it away. “As far as east is from west — that’s how far God has removed our sin from us. As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him.” (Ps. 103:12–13)

However, it didn’t happen overnight. It took David a year. It took a surprise pregnancy, the death of a soldier, the persuasion of a preacher, the probing and pressing of God, but David’s hard heart finally softened, and he confessed: “I have sinned against the Lord.” (2 Sam. 12:13) And God did with the sin what he does with yours and mine – he put it away.

Is there some sin in your past that you’ve yet to admit, confess and abandon? If so, there’s no better time than now to get before the Lord and name that sin for what it is — spiritual rebellion, a slap in God’s face, a dark stain on the holy person God has made you to be. And then thank God that he has removed your guilt as far as the east is from the west, and ask him for strength to not only avoid that sin in the future, but to gladly obey his counsel and his Word.

Maybe it’s time for you to put your “third week of March, 1987” to rest. And you can do that by assembling a meeting of three parties: you, God, and your memory. Place the mistake before the judgment seat of God. Let him condemn it, let him pardon it, and then let him put it away. Forever.

He will. He said so. Because since when does east ever meet the west?

Grace,

Randy

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[1] Complete and total failure when success should have been reasonably easy to attain. Urban Dictionary