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

I-Problem

I-Problem - Audio/Visual

I-Problem

It’s who you are and the way you live that count before God. Your worship must engage your spirit in the pursuit of truth. That’s the kind of people the Father is out looking for: those who are simply and honestly themselves before him in their worship. God is sheer being itself — Spirit. Those who worship him must do it out of their very being, their spirits, their true selves, in adoration. (John 4:23-24)

I think a lot of us suffer from poor I-sight. Not the kind of “eyesight” where glasses can correct the distortion. No, I’m talking about “I-sight.” A condition that doesn’t blur our view of the world, but of ourselves. For instance, some see self too highly. Maybe it's the PhD, or pedigree. A tattoo can do it; so can a new truck, or the Nobel Peace Prize. Whatever the cause, the result is always the same: "I have so many gifts. I can do anything." Brazenly self-assured and utterly self-sufficient, the I-focused strut beyond the city limits of self-confidence and enter into the state of cockiness. You wonder who puts the "air" in arrogance and the "vain" in vainglory? Those who say, "I can do anything." You've probably said those words. For a short time, at least. A lifetime, perhaps. We all plead guilty to some level of superiority.

But don’t we also know the other extreme: "I can't do anything"? Forget the thin air of pomposity; these folks breathe the thick, swampy air of self-defeat. Roaches have higher self-esteem. Earthworms stand taller. "I'm a bum. I am scum. The world would be better off without me." Divorce stirs that kind of crud. So do diseases and job dismissals. Where the first group is arrogant, this group is diffident. Blame them for every mishap; they won't object. They'll simply agree.

Two extremes of poor I-sight. Self-loving and self-loathing. We swing from one side to the other. Promotions and demotions bump us back and forth. One day too high on self, the next too hard on self. Neither is correct. Self-elevation and self-deprecation are equally inaccurate. So where’s the truth? It’s dead center between the "I can do anything," and the "I can't do anything" lies. The truth is that "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." (Phil. 4:13) Neither omnipotent nor impotent, neither God's MVP nor God's mistake. Not self-secure or insecure, but God-secure – a self-worth based upon our identity as children of God. The proper view of self is in the middle. But how do we get there? How do we park the pendulum in the center? Through counseling? Therapy? Self-help? Long walks? All advisable activities, but they don't compare with God's cure for poor I-sight. His cure is Worship.

Surprised? The word conjures up many thoughts, not all of which are positive. Outdated songs. Cliché-cluttered prayers. Irrelevant sermons. Meager offerings. Odd rituals. Why worship? What does worship have to do with curing I-sight? Well, honest worship lifts eyes off of self and sets them on God. Scripture's best-known worship leader wrote: "Give honor to the LORD, you angels; give honor to the LORD for his glory and strength. Give honor to the LORD for the glory of his name. Worship the LORD in the splendor of his holiness." (Ps. 29:1-2) Worship gives God honor; it offers him standing ovations. Worship can happen every day and in every activity. We can make a big deal about God on Sundays with our songs, and then on Mondays with our strengths. "Take your everyday, ordinary life – your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life – and place it before God as an offering." (Rom. 12:1)

Worship places God on center stage and us in a proper posture. King David knew that. In the Old Testament book of 1 Chronicles 29, the historian informs us that David and his men had just raised enough money to build the temple. This was the most successful fund-raising campaign in the history of God’s people – ever. Philanthropy magazine would have happily dedicated an entire issue to these fund-raisers. However, they’re now sitting ducks for cockiness to set in. But before their heads could swell, their knees bowed. David leads them in a prayer of worship. Read it . . . slowly:

“Praise be to you, O LORD, God of our father Israel, from everlasting to everlasting. Yours, O LORD, is the greatness and the power and the glory and the majesty and the splendor, for everything in heaven and earth is yours. Yours, O LORD, is the kingdom; you are exalted as head over all. Wealth and honor come from you; you are the ruler of all things. In your hands are strength and power to exalt and give strength to all. Now, our God, we give you thanks, and praise your glorious name. But who am I, and who are my people, that we should be able to give as generously as this? Everything comes from you, and we have given you only what comes from your hand. (1 Chron. 29:10-14)

Imagine a big-headed guy offering this prayer. He begins arrogantly – his chest puffed out and his thumbs in his lapels – but as the worship continues, reality begins to set in. As he recites phrases like "Yours . . . is the greatness," "Wealth and honor come from you," "Everything comes from you," he dismounts his high horse. Worship humbles the smug. By the same token, worship lifts the deflated. Read Psalm 27:10-11, 13-14 to see if the weak wouldn't be strengthened by these words: “Though my father and mother forsake me, the LORD will receive me. Teach me your way, O LORD; lead me in a straight path because of my oppressors. . . . I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living. Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD.”

Can't you see a head lifting? A back straightening? "The LORD will receive me. . . . I will see the goodness of the LORD." Can you see how these words would turn a face toward the Father and away from frailty? Worship does that. Worship adjusts us, lowering the chin of the haughty, and straightening the back of the burdened. Breaking the bread, partaking of the cup. Bowing the knees, lifting the hands. This is worship. In the solitude of a corporate cubicle, or in the community of a church. Opening our mouths, singing to him our praise. Opening our hearts, offering to him our uniqueness. Worship properly positions the worshiper.

And all of us really need that because we walk through life so bent out of shape. Five-talent folks swaggering: "I bet God's glad to have me." Two-talent folks struggling: "I bet God's sick and tired of putting up with me." So sold on ourselves that we think someone died and made us ruler; so down on ourselves that we think everyone died and just left us. Try treating both conditions with worship. Set your eyes on our uncommon King.

One summer at Lake Havasu, I took a sailing lesson from my uncle who owned a Hobie Cat. Ever puzzled by the difference in leeward, starboard and stern, I asked him a few questions. After a while my uncle offered, "Would you like to sail us home?" I reminded him that a city-slicker had never won the America's Cup. He assured me that I would have no trouble and pointed to a rocky outcrop on the shore. "Target that cliff," he instructed. "Set your eyes and the boat on it."

I found the instruction hard to follow. Other sights invited my attention: the springy trampoline of the deck, the piercing blue sky, the rich foam cresting on the waves. I wanted to look at it all. But look too long and I risked losing course. The boat stayed on target as long as I set my eyes beyond the vessel. And worship helps us do the same in life. It lifts our eyes off the boat with its fancy gadgets and sets them "on the realities of heaven, where Christ sits at God's right hand in the place of honor and power." (Col. 3:1) We worship God because we need to. But our need runs a turtle-paced distant second to the thoroughbred reason for worship itself. The chief reason for applauding God? He deserves it.

If singing did nothing but weary your voice, if giving only emptied your wallet – if worship did nothing for you – it would still be the right thing to do. God warrants our worship. How else do you respond to a Being of blazing, blistering, unadulterated, unending holiness? No mark. Nor freckle. Not a bad thought, bad day, or bad decision. Ever. What do you do with such holiness if not simply adore it? And his power. He churns forces that launch meteors, orbit planets, and ignite stars. Commanding whales to spout salty air, petunias to perfume the night, and songbirds to chirp joy into the spring. Above the earth, flotillas of clouds endlessly shape and reshape; within the earth, strata of groaning rocks shift and turn. Who are we to sojourn on a trembling, wonderful orb so shot through with wonder?

And tenderness? God has never taken his eyes off of you. Not for a millisecond. He's always near. He lives to hear your heartbeat. He loves to hear your prayers. He'd die for your sin before he'd let you die in your sin. So he did. What do you do with such a Savior? Don't you sing to him? Don't you celebrate him in baptism, elevate him in Communion? Don't you bow a knee, lower a head, hammer a nail, feed the poor, and lift up your gift in worship? Of course you do.

So worship God. Applaud him loud and often. For our sake, we need it. And for heaven's sake, God deserves it.

Grace,

Randy