What Should I Do?

 

What Should I Do?

What Should I Do? - Audio/Visual 

“I will guide you along the best pathway for your life. I will advise you and watch over you.” (Ps. 32:8) “Seek his will in all you do, and he will direct your paths.” (Prov.3:6) “Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’” (Isa.30:21)

I can get lost anywhere. Seriously. Anywhere. Sometimes, the simplest map confuses me, and the clearest trail bewilders me. I couldn’t track an elephant through four feet of snow. I can misread instructions to the bathroom down the hall. I’ve since learned to ask for directions. My list of mishaps reads like a comedy skit for the Pink Panther. I once got lost in my hotel. I told the receptionist my key wasn’t working, only to realize that I’d been on the wrong floor trying to open the wrong door. One time, while driving from San Diego to Los Angeles, I exited the freeway to get some gas. After gassing up, I re-entered the freeway and drove for almost twenty minutes before I realized I was headed back toward San Diego. I can relate to Christopher Columbus who didn’t know where he was going when he left, didn’t know where he was when he got there, and didn’t know where he’d been when he got back.

We’ve all scratched our heads from time to time. And if not at highway intersections then, perhaps, at the crossroads of life. The best navigators among us have wondered, “Do I take the job or leave it?” “Accept the marriage proposal or pass?” “Leave home or remain home?” “Build or buy?” One of life’s giant-sized questions is, How can I know what God wants me to do? David asked the same question. He’d just learned of the deaths of Saul and Jonathan. Suddenly, the throne is empty and David’s options are wide open. But before he steps out, he looks up: “It happened after this that David inquired of the Lord, saying, ‘Shall I go up to any of the cities of Judah?’ And the Lord said to him, ‘Go up.’ David said, ‘Where shall I go up?’ And He said, ‘To Hebron.’” (2 Sam. 2:1)

Early in his life, David made a habit of running his options past God. And he does so with a fascinating tool – the ephod. Trace its appearance to David’s initial escape from Saul. David had sought comfort from the priests of Nob. But Saul accused the priests of harboring the fugitive and, consistent with Saul’s paranoia, had them murdered. Fortunately, one of the priests, Abiathar, got away. And he escaped with more than just his life; he escaped with the ephod. After Abiathar took refuge with David, he joined David in the raid on Keilah and brought the Ephod with him.

David had gotten wind of Saul’s strategy to destroy him and said to Abiathar, “’Get the Ephod.’ Then David prayed to God: ‘God of Israel, I’ve just heard that Saul plans to come to Keilah and destroy the city because of me. Will the city fathers of Keilah turn me over to him? Will Saul come down and do what I’ve heard? O God, God of Israel, tell me!’ God replied, ‘He’s coming down.’ ‘And will the head men of Keilah turn me and my men over to Saul?’ And God said, ‘They’ll turn you over.’ So David and his men got out of there.” (1 Sam. 23:6, 9–13) Good choice. David donned the ephod, spoke to God and received an answer. Amazing.

Something similar occurred after the destruction of Ziklag. With his village in ruins and his men ready to stone him, David ordered Abiathar, “‘Bring me the Ephod so I can consult God.’ Abiathar brought it to David. Then David prayed to God, ‘Shall I go after these raiders? Can I catch them?’ The answer came, ‘Go after them! Yes, you’ll catch them! Yes, you’ll make the rescue!’” (1 Sam. 30:7– 8) So what’s with this ephod thing anyway? Are they available at Wal-Mart?

The ephod originated in the era of the wilderness wanderings. Moses presented the first one to Aaron, the priest. It was an ornate vest, woven of white linen, laced with threads of blue, purple, scarlet and gold. A breastplate bearing twelve precious stones adorned the vest. The breastplate contained one or two, maybe three, resplendent diamonds or diamond-like stones. These stones had the names Urim and Thummim. No one knows the exact meaning of those terms, but “light” and “perfection” lead the scholars’ lists. And God revealed his will to the priests through these stones. But how? Well, ancient writers have suggested several methods. One theory is that the stones illuminated when God said “Yes.” Another is that the stones contained moving letters that gathered to form a response. Yet another theory is that the stones were sacred lots that, when cast, would reveal an answer. No one knows for sure, and there’s a few who’ve even suggested that it was something like a present-day Ouija board.

While we can speculate on the technique, we don’t need to guess at its value. Wouldn’t you love an ephod? When faced with a puzzling choice, David could, with reverent heart, make a request and God would answer. Will Saul come after me? He will. Will the men capture me? They will. Should I pursue the enemy? You should. Will I overtake them? You will. Sometimes I wish that God would do the same for us, don’t you? That we could ask and he would answer; that we could cry out and he would reply. Wouldn’t you cherish an ephod? Well, you have one – of sorts. God hasn’t changed. He still promises to guide us. “I will guide you along the best pathway for your life. I will advise you and watch over you.” (Ps. 32:8) “Seek his will in all you do, and he will direct your paths.” (Prov.3:6) “Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’” (Isa.30:21)

The God who guided David guides us today. We simply need to consult our Maker. Granted, we don’t have an Urim or a Thummim but we do have the Bible. Has any other book ever been described like this? “For the word of God is living and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.” (Heb. 4:12) “Living and active.” The words of the Bible have life. Nouns with pulses. Muscular adjectives. Verbs darting back and forth across the page. God works through these words. The Bible is to God what a surgical glove is to the surgeon – he reaches through them to touch deep within you.

Have you ever felt his touch before? For instance, in a late, lonely hour you read the words, “I will never fail you. I will never forsake you.” (Heb. 13:5) The sentences comfort like a hand on your shoulder. And then when anxiety termites away at your peace, someone shares this passage: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.” (Phil. 4:6) Those words stir a sigh from your soul.

Words that comfort; words that let you breathe out. Words. God’s words. So, put them to use. “Let the words of Christ, in all their richness, live in your hearts and make you wise. Use his words to teach and counsel each other.” (Col. 3:16) Don’t make a decision without sitting before God with an open Bible, an open heart and open ears, imitating the prayer of Samuel: “Your servant is listening.” (1 Sam. 3:10) The truth is that others have asked your questions. You aren’t the first to face your problems. Others have stood where you stand and have wondered exactly what you wonder. So, seek their advice. “Consider the outcome of their way of life, and imitate their faith.” (Heb. 13:7) Wrestling with business ethics? Seek wise counsel from a Christian businessperson. Battling midlife decisions? Before you abandon your family and cash in your retirement, take some time to get good counsel. “The way of a fool seems right to him, but a wise man listens to advice.” (Prov. 12:15) You don’t need an ephod to wear, or stones to consult; you have God’s family. He will speak to you through them.

And he will speak to you through your own conscience because Christ nudges the Christ-possessed heart. “God is working in you to help you want to do and be able to do what pleases him.” (Phil. 2:13) What does your heart tell you to do? What choice spawns the greatest sense of peace? Sometimes a choice just “feels” right. For instance, when Luke justified the writing of his gospel to Theophilus, he said, “Since I myself have carefully investigated everything from the beginning, it seemed good also to me to write an orderly account for you, most excellent Theophilus.” (Luke 1:3) Did you catch that phrase, “it seemed good also to me”? Words of a saint standing at a crossroads. Luke pondered his options and selected the path that “seemed good.”

Jude did, too. He intended to dedicate his letter to the topic of salvation but, apparently, felt a little uneasy about that choice. Look at verse three: “Dear friends, I wanted very much to write you about the salvation we all share. But I felt the need to write you about something else: I want to encourage you to fight hard for the faith that was given the holy people of God once and for all time.” (Jude 3) Did you read those words? “I wanted … But I felt ….” Where’d those feelings come from? Right. The same God who “is working in you to help you want to do . . . what pleases him.” (Phil. 2:13)

God creates the “want to” within each of us. But be careful. People have been known to justify stupidity based upon a “feeling.” For instance, “I felt God leading me to cheat on my wife, or disregard my bills, or lie to my boss.” Wrong. God didn’t lead you to that conclusion. God will not lead you to violate his Word; he will not contradict his teaching. So, be careful with the phrase “God led me . . . .” Don’t banter it about. Don’t disguise your sin as a leading of God. He will not lead you to lie, cheat or hurt. He will faithfully lead you through the words of his Scripture, and the advice of his faithful.

So maybe we don’t need an ephod or precious stones after all; we have a heart in which God’s Spirit dwells. Do you have a heart for God? Then heed it. A family of faith? Consult them. A Bible? Read it. You have all you need to face the giant-sized questions in your life. Most of all you have a God who loves you too much to let you get lost.

Grace,

Randy

Tragedies

 

Tragedies

Tragedies - Audio/Visual 

“This will happen just as I have described it, for God has revealed to Pharaoh in advance what he is about to do. The next seven years will be a period of great prosperity throughout the land of Egypt. But afterward there will be seven years of famine so great that all the prosperity will be forgotten in Egypt. Famine will destroy the land. This famine will be so severe that even the memory of the good years will be erased. As for having two similar dreams, it means that these events have been decreed by God, and he will soon make them happen.” (Genesis 41:28-32)

Is God good only when the outcome is? When the cancer is in remission we say, "God is good." When the final score favors our team we say, "God is good." But do we say the same under different circumstances? In an elementary school where kids are gunned down rather than raised up? In the cemetery as well as the nursery? In the unemployment line as well as the grocery line? In days of stagflation as much as in days of provision? Is God always good?

Many of us have this kind of quasi-contract with God, and the fact that God hasn't signed it doesn't deter us from still believing it. From a lawyer’s perspective, that’s not a contract; that’s a wish list. But it goes like this: “I pledge to be a good, decent person and in return God will … save my child; protect my job; heal my friend; or ______.” (Fill in the blank) Only fair, right? Yet, when God fails to meet our bottom-line expectations, we’re left spinning in a tornado of questions. Is he good at all? Is God angry with me? Is his power limited, or authority restricted? When life isn't good, where’s God anyway?

Joseph's words for Pharaoh offer some help in this area. Granted, we don't generally think of Joseph as being much of a theologian because we don't have many of Joseph's words. Yet the few we have reveal a man who wrestled with the nature of God. To the king he announced that following a period of prosperity, there would be a famine so great that prosperity would be all but forgotten; that famine would destroy the land with such severity that any memory of the former good years would be erased. (Gen. 41:30-32) Joseph saw both seasons, i.e., one of plenty and one of scarcity, beneath the umbrella of God's jurisdiction because both were "decreed by God." But how could God do that?

Was the calamity God's idea? No, because God doesn’t create or parlay evil. "God can never do wrong! It is impossible for the Almighty to do evil." (Job 34:10; See also James 1:17) He is the essence of good. So, how can God, who is good, invent anything bad? Furthermore, God is sovereign. Scripture repeatedly attributes utter and absolute control to his hand. "The Most High God rules the kingdom of mankind and sets over it whom he will." (Dan. 5:21) In summary, God is good, and God is sovereign. But if that’s true, how do you factor tragedies into God's world if he’s good and self-determining?

Here’s how the Bible explains it: God permits it. When the demons begged Jesus to send them into a herd of pigs, he "gave them permission." (Mark 5:12-13) Regarding the rebellious, God said, "I let them become defiled . . . that I might fill them with horror so they would know that I am the Lord." (Ezek. 20:26) The Old Law even speaks of the consequence of accidentally killing someone: "If [the man] does not do it intentionally, but God lets it happen, he is to flee to a place I will designate." (Ex. 21:13)

God, at times, permits tragedies. He allows the ground to grow dry and stalks to grow bare. He allows Satan to unleash mayhem, like the Allstate guy. But he doesn't allow Satan to triumph. Isn't that the promise of Romans 8:28? "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." The key is that God promises to render beauty out of "all things," not "each thing." Isolated events may be evil, but the ultimate culmination is good.

We see lots of examples of that. For instance, when you sip a Starbucks and say, "Now, that’s a good cup of coffee," what are you saying? That the bag that held the beans is good? That the beans are good? That hot water is good? That a coffee filter is good? No, “good” happens when the ingredients work together: the bag is opened, the beans are ground and the water is heated to just the right temperature for that perfect brew. It’s the collective cooperation of the elements that creates “good.”

Nothing in the Bible would cause us to call a famine good, or a heart attack good, or the massacre at Robb Elementary School good. These are horrible tragedies, born out of a fallen earth. Yet every message in the Bible, especially the story of Joseph, compels us to believe that God will mix them with other ingredients and bring good out of them. But we have to let God define “good.” Our definition of “good” includes health, comfort and success. His definition? In the case of his Son, Jesus Christ, the “good” life consisted of struggles, storms and death. But God worked it all together for the greatest of good: his glory, and our salvation.

That was the message of Jesus. When his followers spotted a blind man on the side of the road, they asked Jesus for an explanation. Was God angry? Were his parents to blame? Who sinned here? But Jesus' answer provided a higher option: the man was blind so that "the works of God should be revealed in him." (John 9:3) God turned blindness, a bad thing, into a billboard for Jesus' power to heal. Satan acted, God counteracted, and good won. It's a divine jujitsu of sorts. God redirects the energy of evil against its source. God uses evil to ultimately bring evil to nothingness.

Jesus is the only picture of God that we have in our photo album. And do you want to know heaven's clearest answer to the question of suffering? Just look at Jesus. He pressed his fingers into the sore of the leper. He felt the tears of the sinful woman who wept. He inclined his ear to the cry of the hungry. He wept at the death of a friend. He stopped his work to tend to the needs of a grieving mother. He doesn't recoil, run or retreat at the sight of pain, or even life’s tragedies. Just the opposite, actually. He didn't walk the earth in an insulated bubble, or preach from an isolated, germ-free, pain-free island. He took his own medicine. Trivial irritations of family life? Jesus felt them. Cruel accusations of jealous men? Jesus knew their sting. A seemingly senseless death? Just look at the cross.

Suppose the wife of George Frideric Handel came upon a page of her husband's famous work, “The Messiah.” The entire symphony was more than two hundred pages long. But imagine that she discovered a single page lying on the kitchen table one morning and on it her husband had written only one measure in a melancholic, minor key; one that didn't work standing on its own. Now suppose Mrs. Handel, armed with this fragment of dissonance, marched into his studio and said, "What are you thinking, George? This music doesn’t make any sense! You’re a horrible composer." What would George think? Maybe something similar to what God thinks when we do the same.

We point to our minor key – our sick child, joblessness, or famine – and say, "This doesn’t make any sense, God. I thought you were supposed to be good?" Yet out of all his creation, how much have we actually seen? And of all his work, how much do we really understand? Not much. So is it possible that some explanation for suffering exists of which we know nothing about? What if God's answer to the question of suffering requires more gigabytes than our puny minds can comprehend? Your pain won't last forever, but you will. "Whatever we may have to go through now is less than nothing compared with the magnificent future God has in store for us." (Rom. 8:18) Less than nothing?

That’s the same puzzling question that Wilbur asked the lamb in Charlotte’s Web. “What do you mean less than nothing? I don't think there is any such thing as less than nothing. Nothing is absolutely the limit of nothingness. It's the lowest you can go. It's the end of the line. How can something be less than nothing? If there were something that was less than nothing, then nothing would not be nothing, it would be something - even though it's just a very little bit of something. But if nothing is nothing, then nothing has nothing that is less than it is.”  To which the lamb responded, “Oh, be quiet. Go play by yourself. I don’t play with pigs.” Ouch.

None of us are exempt from suffering, loneliness, discouragement or unjust criticism because God is developing within us the character of Christ. And in order to do that, he must take us through all of the circumstances in life through which he took his Son. Does this mean God causes tragedies? No. God is good, and he will not cause evil or do evil. But God can use the dark and stressful times of our lives for good. He'll use them to teach us to trust him, to show us how to help others and to draw us closer to other believers.

Some 2,000 years ago, Christians, just like you and me, felt the same way: “We were crushed and overwhelmed beyond our ability to endure, and we thought we would never live through it. In fact, we expected to die. But as a result, we stopped relying on ourselves and learned to rely only on God, who raises the dead.” (2 Cor. 4:8-9) We all go through difficult times. The difference for those who believe in Jesus is not the absence of shadow, but the presence of His Light. It’s a different paradigm.

So perhaps our prayers for strength are answered by God giving us difficulties to make us strong. Prayers for wisdom may result in God giving us problems to solve. Requests for prosperity may be answered by God’s gifts of both brain and brawn so that we can get to work. Even prayers for courage could lead to dangers to overcome. And in our prayers for love, God gives us people to help. Rather than favors, God gives us opportunities. In other words, we pray for the things we want and receive everything we need, instead.

Let God finish his work, and the composer his symphony. The forecast is simple: Good days. Bad days. God in all our days. He’s the Lord of the famine and the feast, and he uses both to accomplish his will – even amidst life’s tragedies.

Grace,

Randy

I'll Do It My Way

 

I’ll Do It My Way

I'll Do It My Way - Audio/Visual 

We all have wandered away like sheep; each of us has gone his own way. (Isa. 53:6)

The Lord is my shepherd. (Psalm 23:1)

Do you think you can swing a club like Tiger Woods? That would be saying a lot, even if Tiger’s a bit past his prime. Or do you think you can throw touchdowns like Joe Montana? Maybe, but you’ll have to work pretty hard at it. And you, young lady? You want to be soccer’s next Mia Hamm? Good for you; she was a great athlete, and an even better person. And me? Well, actually, there’s one fellow who caught my attention some time ago, because he reminds me of me. You've probably never heard of him before. But do you remember the 1999 British Open? The one in Carnoustie, Scotland. Recall the player who had a three-shot lead with one hole to go? That's right; it was the Frenchman – Jean Van de Velde.

He was six strokes and 480 yards away from a major championship, a wad of cash in his pocket and a place in the history books. All he needed to do was score a six on a par four. I could shoot a six on a par four. My mother could make a six on a par four. Van de Velde could shoot a six with a waffle iron and a banana. So, just tell the trophy engraver to start warming up his pen and practicing his V’s because he'll need two to write "Van de Velde."

Granted the hole wasn’t easy. It’s bisected three times by a "wee burn," which is a nice Scottish term for a marshy creek. No problem. Hit three short shots; even putt three times if you have to. Just take a six, win the hole and smile for the cameras. Besides, it's windy and the "wee burn" is “wee deep.” Don't flirt with it, Jean. But you know how the French love to flirt. So, Van de Velde pulls out his driver and somewhere in Escondido an armchair duffer who'd been lured to sleep by the three-stroke lead opens one eye. He's holding a driver?

Van de Velde's caddie was a thirty-year-old Parisian named Christophe with untidy English, a paintbrush on his chin and bleached hair under his hat. "I think he and I – we wanted too much show," he later confessed. Van de Velde pushes his drive halfway to the Eiffel Tower. Now he’s 240 yards to the green with nothing but deep grass and heartache in between. Surely he’ll hit a short shot back into the fairway. Logic says, "Don't go for the green." Golf 101 says, "Don't go for the green." Every Scot in the gallery says, "Aye, laddie, don't go for the green." Van de Velde says, "I'm going for the green."

So, he pulls out a two iron and that armchair golfer in Escondido opens the other eye. A two iron!? Maybe if you're teed up on the beach trying to hit it into the Caribbean! The spectators are silent. Most out of respect; some deep in prayer. Van de Velde's two iron becomes a FORE! iron. Whack. Clang. Plop. The ball caroms off the bleachers and disappears into a marsh tall enough to hide a lawn gnome. The next shot lands in the water, and the next one finds the “beach” – an enormous, yawning sand trap.

Tally the damage and you've got four strokes plus a penalty. He's laying five and not even on the green yet. So much for winning the hole. Now he's praying for a seven and a tie. And to the great relief of the civilized world, Van de Velde makes the seven. But you've got to wonder if he ever recovered from the "wee burn." He lost in the play-off. Golf, like nylon running shorts, reveals a lot about a person.

So, like I said, what the eighteenth hole revealed about Van de Velde reminds me a lot of me. I've done the same thing. Not in golf, mind you, although I’ve been known to pull a Van de Velde more than I’d care to admit. But all he needed was a five iron, and he had to go and pull out the driver. Or, in my case, all I needed to do was apologize, but I had to argue; all I needed to do was listen, but I had to open my big mouth. All I needed to do was be patient, but I had to take control; all I had to do was give it to God, but I tried to fix it myself. Why don't I just leave the driver in the bag? I know how Christophe the caddie would answer: "I think Randy and I – we wanted too much show." Too much stubbornness. Too much independence. Too much self-reliance. I don't need advice – Whack. I can handle this myself – Clang. I don't need a shepherd, thank you very much – Plop. Can you relate?

Are Van de Velde and I the only ones to make an anthem out of Sinatra's song, "I Did It My Way"? Are we the only two dragging around that boat anchor of self-reliance? I don't think so. We humans want to do things our way. Forget the easy way. Forget the common way. Forget the best way. Forget God's way. We want to do things our way. And, according to the Bible, that's precisely our problem. "We all have wandered away like sheep; each of us has gone his own way." (Isa. 53:6)

Frankly, you wouldn't think that sheep would be so obstinate. Of all of God's creatures, sheep are the least able to care for themselves. Sheep aren’t very bright. For instance, have you ever met a sheep trainer? Ever seen sheep do tricks? Ever witnessed a circus featuring "Old McDonald and his jumping sheep"? No, because sheep aren’t that smart. And they’re defenseless, too. They don’t have fangs or claws. They can't bite you, or outrun you. That's why you never see sheep as team mascots. You’ve probably heard of the Los Angeles Rams, or the Chicago Bulls, maybe even the Seattle Seahawks. But the New York Sheep? Who wants to be a sheep? You can’t even stir up a decent yell from the cheerleading squad because who wants to hear, We are the sheep. We don't make a peep. Victory is yours to keep, but count us if you need some sleep. Sis-boom-bah. Yah. Sheep.

What's more, sheep are dirty. A cat can clean itself; so can a dog. We see a bird in a birdbath, or a bear in a river. But sheep? They get dirty and just stay that way. Couldn't David have thought of a better metaphor? A better noun, perhaps? Surely he could have. After all, he outran King Saul and outgunned Goliath. Why didn't he choose something other than sheep? How about, "The Lord is my commander-in-chief, and I am his warrior." There; we like that a whole lot better. A warrior gets a uniform and a weapon, maybe even a medal. Or, "The Lord is my inspiration, and I am his singer." We are in God's choir; that’s a pretty flattering assignment. Or, "The Lord is my king, and I am his ambassador." Who wouldn't like to be a spokesperson for God? Everyone stops when the ambassador speaks. Everyone listens when God's minstrels sing. Everyone applauds when God's warrior passes by. But who notices when God's sheep show up? Who notices when the sheep sing, or speak or even act?

Only one person notices. The shepherd. And that’s precisely David's point. When David, who was a warrior, minstrel and ambassador for God, searched for an illustration of God, he remembered his days as a shepherd. He remembered how he lavished attention on his sheep day and night; how he slept with them and watched over them. And the way he cared for his sheep reminded him of the way God cares for us. David rejoiced saying, "The LORD is my shepherd," and in doing was proudly implying, "I am his sheep." Still uncomfortable with the notion of being considered a sheep? Then take a simple quiz, and let’s see if you succeed in self-reliance.

Raise your hand if any of the following describe you. You can control your moods. You're never grumpy or sullen. You can't relate to Jekyll and Hyde. You're always upbeat and upright. Does that describe you? No? Then how about another. You’re at peace with everyone. Every relationship is as sweet as fudge. Even your old flames speak highly of you. Love all, and are loved by all. Is that you? No, again? Really? Well then how about this description? You have no fears. Call you the Teflon toughie. Wall Street plummets – no problem. Heart condition discovered – yawn. World War III starts – what’s for dinner? Is that you? No? Well then maybe this last one better describes you. You need no forgiveness. Never made a mistake. As square as a game of checkers. As clean as grandma's kitchen. Never cheated, never lied and never lied about cheating or never lying. Is that you? No? Well then, let’s take a minute to score your test results.

You can't control your moods. Some of your relationships are pretty shaky. You have fears and foibles, and you’ve messed up a time or two. Hmmm. Do you really want to hang on to your lead balloon of self-reliance? Sounds to me as if you could use a shepherd. Otherwise, you might end up with a Twenty-third Psalm sounding a little like this: I am my own shepherd. I’m always in need. I stumble from mall to mall and from shrink to shrink, seeking relief but never finding it. I creep through the valley of the shadow of death and fall apart. I fear everything – from pesticides to power lines – and I'm starting to act like my mother. I go to the weekly staff meeting and am surrounded by my enemies. I go home and even my goldfish scowl at me. I anoint my headache with extra-strength Tylenol. My Jack Daniel's runneth over. Surely misery and misfortune will follow me all the rest of my life, and I will live in the desolate house of self-doubt – forever.

Why is it that the ones who most need a shepherd resist him so? Ah, now there’s a question for the Van de Velde’s of life. Scripture says, "Do it God's way." Experience says, "Do it God's way." Every Scot in heaven begs, "Aye, laddie, do it God's way." And, every so often, we do. And when we do, when we follow God’s lead and keep the driver in the bag, somehow the ball stays in the fairway. Yes, Van de Velde reminds me of me, and just maybe he reminds you of you, too.

After losing the play-off hole, Van de Velde kept his composure for the crowds. But once he sat in the scorer's tent, he buried his face in his hands. "Next time I'll hit zee wedge," he sobbed. "You'll say I'm a coward, but next time I'll hit zee wedge." You and me both, Jean; you and me both.

Grace,

Randy

Wilderness Survival

 

Wilderness Survival

Wilderness Survival - Audio/Visual 

Take a good look, friends, at who you were when you got called into this life. I don’t see many of “the best and brightest” among you, not many influential, not many from high-society families. Isn’t it obvious that God deliberately chose men and women that the culture overlooks and exploits and abuses, chose these “nobodies” to expose the hollow pretensions of the “somebodies”? That makes it quite clear that none of you can get by with tooting your own horn before God. Everything that we have — right thinking and right living, a clean slate and a fresh start — comes from God by way of Jesus Christ. (1 Cor. 1:26-30)

The Dead Sea is dying. Sounds like an oxymoron, but it’s true. Drop by drop, it’s losing three to five feet elevation every year. In other words, the Dead Sea is shrinking. Galilee sends fresh water through the Jordanian Canal, water worthy of Jesus’ baptism, but the Dead Sea poisons it. Darkening and acidizing, it’s a regular saline cemetery. There’s little life in its waters, and its surroundings are equally lifeless. Ominous cliffs rise to the west, flattening out at about two thousand feet. Erosion has scarred the land into a patchwork of caves and ruts and sparse canyons. It’s home for hyenas, lizards and buzzards. And it was home to David for ten (10) years. Not by choice, mind you. He didn’t want to swap the palace for the badlands. No one chooses the wilderness. It comes at you from all directions — heat and rain, sandstorms and hail – despite the fact that we prefer air-conditioned bedrooms and cul-de-sac safety. But sometimes we don’t have a vote. Calamity hits, the roof rips, the tornado lifts and drops us smack dab in the middle of the desert. Not the desert in Israel, but the desert of the soul – for a season of dryness.

More than anything else, isolation seems to mark these seasons, and Saul has effectively and systematically isolated David from every source of stability. His half-dozen assassination attempts ended David’s military career. His murderous pursuit drove a wedge in David’s marriage – after David’s wife, Michal, helped him escape, Saul demanded an explanation from her. “I had to,” she lied. “He threatened to kill me if I didn’t help him.” (1 Sam. 19:17) David never trusted his wife again; they stayed married, but slept in different beds. David races from Saul’s court to Samuel’s house. But no sooner does he arrive than someone tells Saul, “Take note, David is at Naioth in Ramah!” (1 Sam. 19:19) So, David flees to Jonathan, his best friend. Jonathan wants to help, but what can he do? Leave the court in the hands of a madman? No, Jonathan has to stay with Saul, and David can see the rope fraying on his lifeline. No place in the court. No position in the army. No wife, no priest, no friend. Nothing to do but run. And although the wilderness begins with disconnections, it continues with deceit.

We see David’s deceit in Nob, the city of the priests. The city was holy while David was anything but. He lied each time his lips moved. In fact, David gets worse before he gets better. He escapes to Gath, the hometown of Goliath, and tries to forge a friendship based upon a mutual adversary, i.e., If your enemy is Saul and my enemy is Saul, we become friends, right? Wrong. The Gittites weren’t feeling very hospitable. “Isn’t this David, the king of the land?” they asked. “Isn’t he the one the people honor with dances, singing, ‘Saul has killed his thousands, and David his ten thousands’?” (1 Sam. 21:11) David panics. He’s a lamb in a pack of wolves with piercing glares and spears. And right about now we’d like to hear a prayer to his Shepherd; we’d appreciate a pronouncement of God’s strength. But don’t hold your breath. David doesn’t see God. He sees trouble, instead. So he takes matters into his own hands.

David pretends to be insane, scratching on doors and drooling on his beard. Finally the king of Gath says to his men, “‘Must you bring me a madman? We already have enough of them around here! Why should I let someone like this be my guest?’ So David left Gath and escaped to the cave of Adullam.” (1 Sam. 21:14 – 22:1) You can just picture it. Staring with galvanized eyes. Quivering like jelly. He sticks out his tongue, rolls in the dirt, grunts and grins, spits, shakes and foams. David feigns something like epilepsy. The Philistines, however, believed that an epileptic was possessed by Dagon’s devil, and that he made husbands impotent, women barren, children die and animals vomit. Fearing that every drop of an epileptic’s blood created one more devil, the Philistines drove epileptics out of their towns and into the desert to die. And that’s what they did with David. They shoved him out the city gates and left him with nowhere to go.

So now what? He can’t go to the court of Saul, the house of Michal, the city of Samuel or the safety of Nob. So he goes to the only place he can — the place where no one goes because nothing survives. He goes to the desert; the wilderness. To the honeycombed canyons that overlook the Dead Sea. And there he finds a cave, the cave called Adullam. In it he finds shade, silence and safety. He stretches on the cool dirt and closes his eyes and begins his decade in the wilderness.

Can you relate to David’s story? Has your Saul cut you off from the position you had and the people you love? In an effort to land on your feet, have you stretched the truth? Distorted the facts? Are you seeking refuge in Gath? Under normal circumstances you’d never go there, but these aren’t normal circumstances so you loiter in the breeding ground of giants; the hometown of trouble. You walk shady streets and frequent shadier places. And while you’re there, you go crazy. So the crowd will accept you, so the stress won’t kill you, you go wild. You wake up in a Dead Sea cave, in the grottoes of Adullam, at the lowest point of your life, feeling as dumb as a roomful of anvils. You stare out at an arid, harsh, un-peopled future and ask, “What do I do now?” Well, let this same David be your teacher. Sure, he goes wacko for a few verses, but in the cave of Adullam he gathers himself. The faithful shepherd boy surfaces once again. The giant-killer rediscovers courage. Yes, he has a price on his head. Yes, he has no place to lay his head. But somehow he manages to keep his head; he returns his focus to God and finds refuge.

Refuge surfaces as a favorite word of David’s. Circle its appearances in the book of Psalms, and you’ll count as many as forty-plus appearances in some versions. But never did David use the word more poignantly than in Psalm 57. Even the introduction to the passage explains its background: “A song of David when he fled from Saul into the cave.” So, close your eyes and envision Jesse’s son in the dimness: on his knees, perhaps on his face, lost in shadows and thought. He has nowhere to turn. Go home, he endangers his family; go to the tabernacle, he imperils the priests. Saul will kill him; Gath won’t take him. He lied in church and went crazy with the Philistines and here he sits, all alone. But then he remembers: he’s not. He’s not alone. And from the recesses of the cave a sweet voice floats: “Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me! For my soul trusts in You; and in the shadow of Your wings I will make my refuge.” (Psalm 57:1)

Make God your refuge – not your job, your reputation or your retirement account. Make God your refuge. Let him, not Saul, encircle you. Let him be the ceiling that breaks the sunshine, the walls that stop the wind and the foundation upon which you stand. The truth is that most of us, like David, will never know that Jesus is all we need until Jesus is all we have. Wilderness survivors find refuge in God’s presence. They also discover community among God’s people. “Soon [David’s] brothers and other relatives joined him there. Then others began coming — men who were in trouble or in debt or who were just discontented — until David was the leader of about four hundred men.” (1 Sam. 22:1–2)

Not exactly a corps of West Point cadets. In trouble, in debt or discontent. Quite a crew. Misfits, yes. Dregs from the bottom of the barrel, no doubt. Rejects. Losers. Dropouts. Just like the church. (No, that’s not a typo) Because if we’re honest with ourselves, aren’t most of us the distressed, the debtors and the discontent? Strong congregations are populated with current and former cave dwellers, people who know the terrain of Adullam. They’ve told a few lies in Nob. They’ve gone loopy in Gath. And they haven’t forgotten it. And because they haven’t, they imitate David: they make room for people like you and me. And who’s David to turn these men away? He’s no candidate for archbishop, that’s for sure. He’s a magnet for marginal people. So David creates a community of God-seeking misfits, and God forges a mighty group out of them: “(t)hey came to David day by day to help him, until it was a great army, like the army of God.” (1 Chron. 12:22) Gath. Wilderness. Adullam. Folly. Loneliness. Restoration. David found them all. So did Whit Criswell.

Whit was raised in a Christian home. As a young man, he served as an officer in a Christian church. But he fell into gambling, daily risking his income on baseball games. Over the course of time, he lost $200,000.00, and found himself in very deep debt to his bookie. So, Whit decided to embezzle funds from the bank where he worked. Welcome to Gath. Of course, it was only a matter of time until the auditors detected a problem and called him in for an appointment. Criswell knew he’d been caught. The night before the meeting he couldn’t sleep, so he resolved to take the Judas path. Leaving his wife a suicide note, he drove outside of Lexington, parked the car and put a gun to his head. But he couldn’t pull the trigger. So he took a practice shot out the car window and then pressed the nose of the barrel back on his forehead and mumbled, “Go ahead and pull the trigger. This is what you deserve.” But he couldn’t do it. The fear that he might go to hell kept him from taking his life. Finally, at dawn, he went home, a broken man.

Meanwhile, his wife had found the note and called the police. She embraced him, the officers hand-cuffed him and then led him away. He was, at once, humiliated and liberated: humiliated to be arrested in front of family and neighbors, but liberated from the chains of mistruth. He didn’t have to lie anymore. Whit Criswell’s Adullam was a prison cell. In it, he came to his senses; he turned back to his faith and upon his release he plunged into the work of a local church doing whatever needed to be done. Over a period of years, he was added to the staff of the congregation. He’s now the Senior Pastor at Cornerstone Christian Church in Winchester, Kentucky. Another David restored.

Are you in the wilderness? Crawl into God the way a fugitive would a cave. Find refuge in God’s presence. Find comfort in his people. Cast your hat in a congregation of folks who are one gift of grace removed from tragedy, addiction and disaster. Seek community in the church of Adullam. Refuge in God’s presence. Comfort in God’s people. Your keys for wilderness survival. Do this and who knows? In the midst of the desert you may write your sweetest psalm.

Grace,

Randy