(Be) A Lasting Legacy

 

(Be) A Lasting Legacy

(Be) A Lasting Legacy - Audio/Visual 

Josiah was eight years old when he became king, and he reigned in Jerusalem thirty-one years. He did what was right in the eyes of the Lord and followed the ways of his father David, not turning aside to the right or to the left. (2 Chron. 34:1-2)

Janis can tell you about family trees. He makes his living from them. He inherited a Latvian forest that’s been in his family for several hundred years. The trees he harvests now were planted 180 years ago by his great-grandfather, and the trees he plants today won't be ready for market until his great-grandchildren are born; he's part of a chain. "Every generation must make a choice," he told his cousin, a retired pastor of All Saints Lutheran church in Minnetonka, Minnesota. "They can either devastate or plant. They can rape the landscape and get rich, or they can care for the forest, harvest only what is mature, and leave an investment for their children." With the economic situation in such sad shape in Latvia, it would be very tempting for him to cut down more than he should. But he doesn’t.

He harvests seeds sown by others he never knew except in family photographs and stories, and he sows seeds to be harvested by descendants he'll never see. Dependent on the past and responsible for the future, he sees himself as part of a small family who depend upon each other, love each other, and carry a responsibility for leaving a lasting legacy. Just like us. We’re all children of the past and parents of the future. We’re heirs; benefactors – recipients of the work done by others before us. Born, so to speak, into a forest we didn’t seed. So, how’s your forest? As you stand among the trees left by your ancestors, how does it look? Do you have pride in the legacy that’s been left for you? There are some who inherit good soil that nourishes deeply rooted trees of conviction. Row after row of truth and heritage. So, it could be that you stand in the forest of your ancestors with pride. And if you do, give thanks because most don’t.

The truth is that many aren’t particularly proud of their family tree – a tree whose branches are weighed down with poverty, shame or abuse. The land was pillaged, the harvest was taken, and no seed was sown. Some have been reared in a home of bigotry whose result is intolerance for minorities. Others have been reared in a home of greed where the quest for possessions is never-ending. Maybe childhood memories bring more hurt than inspiration. Maybe the voices of your past curse you, belittle you or even ignore you. And at the time you thought that kind of treatment was typical, or maybe even normal. But now you understand. It isn’t. And you find yourself trying to explain your past.

I came across a story of a man who must have had the same thoughts. His heritage was tragic: his grandfather was a murderer and a mystic who sacrificed his own children to false gods, and his dad was a punk who ravaged churches and made a mockery of believers. In fact, his dad was killed at the age of twenty-four ... by his friends. But these men were typical of their era. They lived during a time when the hooker’s favorite street corner was the local church, and wizards treated diseases with chants. People worshiped stars and followed horoscopes. In fact, more thought went into superstition and voodoo than into the education of their kids. Sound familiar?

It was a very dark time in which to be born because what do you do when your grandpa followed black magic, your dad was a scoundrel, and your nation was thoroughly corrupt? Do you simply follow suit, as if your accepted lot in life is to follow your heritage because … well … that’s just what you do? Frankly, some assumed he would - they had even branded him a delinquent before he was even born. You know, a chip off the old rotten block. You can almost hear the people whisper as he passes, “He’s gonna be just like his dad.” But they were wrong. He wasn’t. He bucked the trend and defied the odds. He stood like a dam against the torrents of his day and rerouted the river of destruction that was headed for his nation. In fact, his achievements were so remarkable that we still tell his story twenty-six hundred years later. The story is about King Josiah.

Granted, the world’s seen wiser kings, even wealthier kings. The world has certainly seen more powerful kings. But history has never seen a more courageous king than young Josiah. Born some six hundred years before Jesus, Josiah inherited a fragile throne and a very tarnished crown. The temple was in disarray, the Law had been lost (literally), and the people worshiped whatever god they chose. But by the end of Josiah’s thirty-one-year reign the temple had been rebuilt, the idols destroyed, and the law of God once again elevated to a place of prominence and power. In other words, the forest had been reclaimed despite the fact that Josiah’s grandfather, King Manasseh, was remembered as the king who filled “Jerusalem from one end to the other with [the people’s] blood” (2 Kings 2 1:16), and his father, King Amon, died at the hands of his own officers. “He did what God said was wrong,” reads his epitaph. So, the citizens formed a posse and killed the assassins, leaving little eight-year-old Josiah to ascend to the throne. But early in his reign Josiah made a very brave choice. “He lived as his ancestor David had lived, and he did not stop doing what was right.” (2 Kings 22:2)

In other words, he flipped through the family scrapbook until he found an ancestor worth emulating. Josiah skipped his dad’s life and bypassed his grandpa’s altogether. He leapfrogged back in time until he found David and determined, “I’m gonna be like him.” The principle here? We may not choose our parents, but we can choose our mentors. And since Josiah chose David (who had chosen God), things began to happen in Israel. The people tore down the altars built for the Baal gods as Josiah had directed. They cut down the incense altars, broke up the Asherah idols and beat them into powder. Josiah even burned the bones of the pagan priests and broke down their altars. He cut down all of the incense altars in all of Israel. (2 Chron. 34:4-5; 7) Not exactly a public relations tour.

But then again, Josiah wasn’t out to make friends and influence people. He was out to make a statement: “What my fathers taught, I don’t teach, and what they embraced, I reject.” And he wasn’t finished. Four years later, at the age of twenty-six, he turned his attention to the temple. It was a wreck. It was ghetto. But Josiah was determined. Something had happened that fueled his passion to restore the temple. A baton had been passed; a torch had been received. You see, early in his reign he’d resolved to serve the God of his ancestors, David. Now he chose to serve the God of someone else. Look at 2 Chronicles 34:8: “In Josiah’s eighteenth year as king, he made Judah and the Temple pure again. He sent Shaphan. . . to repair the Temple of the Lord, the God of Josiah.” See that? God was now his God. David’s faith was now Josiah’s faith. He’d found the God of David and made him his own.

But as the temple was being rebuilt, one of the construction workers happened upon a scroll, and on the scroll were the words of God given to Moses nearly a thousand years earlier. When Josiah heard the words, he was shocked. He wept at the fact that his people had drifted so far from God, and that his Word was not a part of their lives. So, he sent word to a prophetess and asked her, “What will become of our people?” She told Josiah that since he had repented when he’d heard the words, his nation would be spared God’s anger. (2 Chron. 34:27) Incredible. An entire generation received grace because of the integrity of just one man. Could it be that God put him on earth for that reason? Could it be that God has placed you on earth for the same? Maybe your past isn’t much to brag about. Maybe you’ve seen evil incarnate. And now you have to make a choice: do you rise above the past and make a difference, or do you remain controlled by the past and make excuses? Many choose the latter.

Many choose the convalescent home of the heart: healthy bodies, sharp minds and retired dreams. Back and forth they rock in the chair of regret, repeating the terms of surrender. And if you lean in you can hear them say, “If only.” The white flag of the heart. “If only ….” “If only I’d been born somewhere else …” or, “If only I’d been treated fairly ….” “If only I’d had kinder parents, more money, greater opportunities .…” “If only I’d been potty-trained sooner, spanked less, or taught to eat without slurping my soup.” And maybe you’ve used those words, too. Frankly, you may have every right to use them. Perhaps you, like Josiah, were hearing the eight count before you even got into the ring. And to find an ancestor worth imitating, you, like Josiah, have to flip way back in your family album. If that’s the case, put the scrapbook down and pick up your Bible. Go to John’s gospel and read Jesus’ words: “Human life comes from human parents, but spiritual life comes from the Spirit.” (John 3:6)

Think about that. Spiritual life comes from the Spirit. In other words, your parents may have given you genes, but God gives you grace. Your parents may be responsible for your body, but God has taken charge of your soul. You may get your looks from your mother, but you get eternity from your heavenly Father who, by the way, is not blind to your problems. God is willing to give you what maybe your family didn’t. Through God you are a son, a daughter; and if you’re a son or daughter, then you’re an heir of God’s estate. (Gal. 4:7) Or maybe you didn’t have a good role model. Try God. You are God’s child whom he loves, so try to be like him. (Eph. 5:1) Never had a parent who wiped away your tears? Think again. God has noted each one: “You have seen me tossing and turning through the night. You have collected all my tears in your bottle! You have recorded every one of them in your book.” (Ps. 56:8)

God has not left you adrift on a sea of heredity. You can’t control the way your forefathers responded to God, but you can control the way you respond to him today. The past doesn’t have to be your prison. You have a choice in the path you take. So, choose well and someday, perhaps even generations from now, your grandchildren and great-grandchildren will thank God for the seeds you sowed; a lasting legacy from which their generations will harvest a forest of pride.

Grace,

Randy

Nursing A Grudge

 

Nursing a Grudge

Nursing a Grudge - Audio/Visual 

Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everybody. If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. Do not take revenge, my friends, but leave room for God's wrath, for it is written: "It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord. (Romans 12:17-20)

Do you know anyone who’s a ticking time bomb? They look normal, but then you raise a certain subject, or look a certain way and … KABOOM! They explode. Maybe it’s a comment, a word or even a look. Maybe it’s a grudge. The dictionary defines a grudge as a “cherished dislike.” Now it’s one thing to cherish something you like – like you cherish your spouse, or you cherish your kids. But cherishing something you don’t like? That’s oxymoronic. Like jumbo shrimp, or pretty ugly. A cherished dislike: a grudge we despise but keep.

Ahithophel was a walking time bomb; normal under the circumstances and a good friend of King David but wound tighter than a drum and ready to explode. It wasn’t like Ahithophel was unintelligent. In fact, he was an extremely bright man. The Bible says that “… the advice Ahithophel gave was like that of one who inquires of God.” (2 Sam. 16:23) And this guy was David’s close counselor. So, anytime the king had a problem, he’d call for Ahithophel. Of course, that kind of access to David and the kingdom gave Ahithophel huge props. But even smart people can do some really dumb things, and Ahithophel, as smart as he was, was a walking time-bomb because he was nursing a grudge. He was full of bitterness, anger and hostility because of a past experience from which he never recovered. Here’s the backstory.

Absalom, David’s son, had rebelled against David and had stolen the hearts of the people of Israel by promising them everything under the sun so long as they would make him king. (Political promises in exchange for votes are not new) Amazingly, Absalom was doing this right under his dad’s nose. But after 4 years of electioneering, kissing babies, undermining David as king and showing off to everyone, Absalom said to his dad, "Let me go to Hebron and fulfill a promise I made to the Lord.” (2 Sam. 15:7) That was just a ruse, however, because when Absalom arrived at Hebron, just twenty miles away, he sent secret messengers to the tribes of Israel with this memo: "As soon as you hear the sound of the trumpets, then say, ‘Absalom is king in Hebron.’" (2 Sam. 15:10) In other words, Absalom didn’t go to Hebron to fulfill a vow; he went there to orchestrate a coup. Kill the legitimate king and Absalom would be the new one – simple as that.

So, there’s Absalom in Hebron, starting a rebellion, gathering an army and organizing his cabinet. He’s reaching out to everyone who’d support him in preparation for his march on Jerusalem and that’s when he makes the call to Ahithophel, David’s counselor, to join the mutiny. (2 Sam. 15:12) But why would he do that? Ahithophel was supposedly a smart guy, and he’d been David’s counselor forever, even serving in David’s cabinet. Yet Absalom reached out and then into David’s inner circle, the ones with all the power, and Absalom gets one of them to be a Judas. Absalom knows that if he could attract some of David’s counselors, especially the one whose advice was like “hearing from God,” then everybody’d think, "Well, I guess we’d better get on the right side of this one; even Ahithophel’s bailing.”

But how’d Absalom manage to do that? Ahithophel was certainly smart enough to know this wasn’t a sure thing. He’s so smart that he probably should have consulted with himself, right? But Absalom knew something about Ahithophel. He knew that Ahithophel was a ticking timebomb and ready to explode because over the years Absalom had had the opportunity to discover that Ahithophel was carrying a grudge, a “cherished dislike,” against his dad, David. And it appears that this grudge probably precipitated Ahithophel’s abandonment of reason, and David, for the enemy’s camp.

So, what was the grudge? What would cause Ahithophel to abandon his long-time friend, David? Well, putting together a few verses from the Old Testament, we can see it for ourselves. In 2 Sam. 23:34, we’re given a list of David’s mighty men and it mentions Eliam, the son of Ahithophel. Then, in 2 Sam. 11:2 we read, “David got up from his bed and walked around on the roof of the palace. From the roof he saw a woman bathing. The woman was very beautiful, and David sent someone to find out about her. The man said, "Isn’t this Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam and the wife of Uriah the Hittite?” Make the connection? Bathsheba was Ahithophel’s granddaughter, taken from her husband, Uriah, who was then murdered at David’s command to cover up a pregnancy – David’s love child. And grandpa never let it go. He never forgave David for that sin. He nursed that grudge, and for years and years it festered until it finally exploded when he had the opportunity in Absalom’s rebellion to take care of David – and his grudge – once and for all.

Absalom’s rebellion eventually led to Absalom chasing David out of Jerusalem. And once David was out of Jerusalem, Absalom asked Ahithophel what he should do next. Ahithophel’s advice was, among other things, to give Ahithophel twelve thousand men to pursue and kill David, and only David, immediately. (Now that’s a grudge) But instead of following Ahithophel’s advice, Absalom decided to ask someone else, Hushai, who was actually David’s friend who’d stayed behind in Jerusalem as a double agent to frustrate Ahithophel’s counsel. Hushai’s advice was that Absalom should wait and then make a full-scale attack on David in his own stronghold. All of Absalom’s men, including Absalom, agreed with Hushai and that was the end of Ahithophel’s advice.

So, what does a wise guy do when his advice is rejected? “When Ahithophel saw that his advice had not been followed he saddled his donkey and set out for his house in his hometown. He put his house in order and then hanged himself.” (2 Sam. 17:23) Ahithophel knew the cause was doomed. He knew that David would be able to rally the troops and, in the end, win the battle. You see, the end of any grudge, the end of carrying bitterness in our hearts results in a total collapse. The thing is, however, it doesn’t destroy the other person that we’re seeking to hurt; it destroys us, instead.

If we’re not able to experience forgiveness, and extend that same forgiveness to others, we don’t destroy others – we destroy ourselves. Forgiveness is not something we give to people when they come crawling back to us on their knees. Forgiveness is not something we extend to people when they finally realize that they were wrong, and we were right and then beg us to forgive them. Forgiveness is an attitude toward people that demonstrates that we don’t hold grudges, that we don’t carry bitterness, that – like them – we’ve been forgiven, too. Bitterness is a poison, and it’s just like a boomerang: you throw it, and it might feel good when you let it go, but it comes back to bite you in the end. Carrying a grudge destroys you; it doesn’t destroy others. Here’s an example.

Imagine I cut my hand and I put a band-aid on it. I then show it to my wife, Sandy, and she says, "It’s alright, don’t worry; it’s just a little cut." Then, the next day, I take the band-aid off and show it to her again. "Wow, it’s healing pretty well,” she says. But then I say, "No, it’s not," and proceed to peel off the scab, reopen the cut and squeeze it until it bleeds. "Now what do you think?” Shocked, Sandy says, "Uh, yeah, I guess that’s pretty bad after all. Let me take care of you (you big baby)." Or, maybe she just says, “You’re crazy.” But I wanted some sympathy, some attention, and I finally got it. And at what price? By re-opening a wound that, through God’s grace, was certain to heal.

Now, I’d never do that with a cut, but I’ll do that with an emotional injury. Why do we do that? Why, when we’re emotionally injured by someone, do we then go to somebody else and keep reopening the wound? Keep showing it off so that the infection will grow? Do that enough and you could die from the infection instead of the wound itself. And do that enough with an emotional injury and you could lose your spiritual life to the infection called sin.

Don’t nurse a grudge. Don’t allow the poison of the past to pollute your present. Whether the past sins are your own, or whether they’re others,’ accept and experience God’s grace. When we comprehend God’s forgiveness of our sins, we can then extend that same forgiveness to others – even when they don’t ask for it. We forgive them not for them, but for us. We’re expressing to them the grace of God in the same way God expressed his grace to us: by dying for us while we were yet sinners. And so, we, in turn, are able to die for others, to forgive others, to live gracefully for others, even while they’re sinners. (Romans 5:8) But didn’t Ahithophel have a right to be offended? Absolutely. And didn’t David do a horrible thing? Yes, he did. And didn’t Ahithophel have a right to be injured? Unquestionably. But did he have a right to be unforgiving and to carry that bitterness throughout his whole life? No, not if he was going to experience what God wants us to experience. God forgave David. Ahithophel, apparently, never did.

The best way to quit nursing a grudge is to forgive before the other person asks, even if they never ask. Try this. Think of someone against whom you may be holding a grudge. It may be a broken or estranged relationship, for instance. Now, think of some way you can stop nursing that grudge. For instance, you could send that person a note, or make a phone call; maybe even invite them to dinner. The truth is you’ll eventually die from an infection if you constantly reopen your physical wounds and expose them to the elements. So, instead, allow the cleansing grace of God to heal those spiritual and emotional wounds that trouble you. Keep that band-aid of his grace on the injury; it’ll heal in time. And then consider that if he did it for you, maybe you should do the same for others.

Otherwise, nursing a grudge could very well kill you.

Grace,

Randy

Work In Progress

 

Work in Progress

Work In Progress - Audio/Visual 

God began doing a good work in you, and I am sure he will continue it until it is finished when Jesus Christ comes again. (Philippians 1:6).

The hallway is eerily silent except for the squeaky wheels of the mop bucket and the shuffling of the old man’s feet. Both sound tired, and both know these floors. “How many nights have I cleaned these floors,” Rick mumbles. He’s always careful to get in the corners, though. Always careful to set up his yellow caution sign warning of the wet floors – even though no one’s around. Always chuckling, “Be careful everyone,” he says to no one in particular. It’s 3:00 a.m.

Rick’s health isn’t what it used to be. Acid reflux keeps him awake, and rheumatoid arthritis makes him limp. His hair’s falling out of his head at the same rate other hair is sprouting in places where hair shouldn’t be sprouting. His glasses are so thick his eyeballs look twice their size, but he does his work. Slopping soapy water on the pristine travertine tile – scrubbing the heel marks left by the well-heeled lawyers of Bicker, Back & Forth.

He’ll be finished long before quitting time. He always finishes early – has for twenty years. And when he’s finished, he’ll put away his mop and bucket and take a seat outside the office of the senior partner and wait. Never leaves early. Oh, he could if he wanted to – no one would ever know. But he doesn’t. He broke the rules once; never again. And sometimes, if the door’s open, he’ll enter the partner’s palatial office. Not for long, of course; just to take a look. The office suite is larger than his entire apartment. He runs his finger over the desk and strokes the soft leather couch. He stands at the window and watches as the gray sky turns to gold and he remembers: he had an office like that once.

But that was back in the day. Back when Rick was Richard. Back when this custodian was an executive. Back when …. Well, it seems centuries ago now. Long before the night shift. Long before the mop bucket. Long before the janitor’s uniform. Long before the scandal. But Rick doesn’t think about it much anymore. No reason to, really. He got into trouble, got fired and got out. That’s it. Few people know about it. It’s better that way. There’s no need to tell them. It’s just his little secret. Rick’s story, by the way, is true. The names and a detail or two have been changed to protect the innocent. He’s in a different job in a different century. But the story is factual. But more than a true story, it’s a common story. It’s a story of a derailed dream. It’s a story of high hopes colliding with harsh realities. It happens to all us dreamers.

In Rick’s case, it was a mistake he’d never forget. A grave mistake. A capital offense kind of mistake. You see, Rick killed someone. He saw a thug beating up on an innocent man, and Rick lost control. He killed the mugger. And when word got out, Rick got out. Rick would rather hide than go to jail. So, he ran. And in the process, the executive became a fugitive. True story. Granted, most stories aren’t quite as extreme as Rick’s. Few spend their lives running from the law. But many of us live with regrets, don’t we? For instance, I met a young man on the fourth tee several years ago. “I could have gone to college on a golf scholarship,” he said. “Really?” I asked. “Yeah, I had an offer right out of school. But I decided to join a grunge band, instead. Ended up never going to college. Now I’m stuck fixing garage doors.”

“Now I’m stuck.” Now, there’s an epitaph. An epitaph of a derailed dream. Pick up any high school yearbook and read the “What are you going to do after you graduate?” section. Chances are you’ll get dizzy breathing the thin air of mountaintop visions: “I’m going to an Ivy league school,” one says. “Write books and live in Switzerland,” says another “I’m going to be a doctor in a third world country,” she writes. “Teach inner-city kids,” he said. But take that same yearbook to your 20^th high school reunion and see the next chapter. Some dreams have come true, but many haven’t. Not that all of them should, mind you. For instance, I hope the little guy who dreamed of playing professional basketball came to his senses. But then again, I hope he didn’t lose his passion in the process. You see, changing direction in life is not tragic. But losing your passion is.

It seems like something happens to us along the way. Convictions to change the world morph into commitments to pay the bills. Rather than making a difference, we make a living. Instead of looking forward, we look backward. Rather than looking outward, we look inward. And sometimes we don’t like what we see. Rick didn’t. Rick saw a man who’d settled for mediocrity. Educated in the finest institutions in the world, and now working the night shift at a minimum-wage job so he wouldn’t be seen during the day. But all that changed when he heard the voice.

At first, he thought the voice was a joke. Some of the fellows on the third floor play those kinds of tricks every once in a while. “Richard, Richard,” the voice called. Rick turned. No one called him Richard anymore. “Richard, Richard.” He turned toward the pail, and it was glowing. Bright red. Hot red. He could feel the heat ten feet away. He stepped closer and looked in, but the water wasn’t boiling. “That’s strange,” Rick mumbled to himself as he took another step to get a closer look. But then the voice stopped him. “Don’t come any closer, Richard. Take your shoes off. You’re on holy tile.” Suddenly, Rick knew exactly who was speaking. “Yes, Lord,” he said. Okay, God speaking from a hot mop bucket to a janitor named Rick? Really? But would it be more believable if I said God was speaking from a burning bush to a goat roper named Moses?

“One day Moses was taking care of Jethro’s flock. (Jethro was the priest of Midian and also Moses’ father-in-law.)  When Moses led the flock to the west side of the desert, he came to Sinai, the mountain of God. There the angel of the Lord appeared to him in flames of fire coming out of a bush. Moses saw that the bush was on fire, but it was not burning up. So, he said, ‘I will go closer to this strange thing. How can a bush continue burning without burning up?’ When the Lord saw Moses was coming to look at the bush, God called to him from the bush, ‘Moses, Moses!’ And Moses said, ‘Here I am.’ Then God said, ‘Do not come any closer. Take off your sandals because you are standing on holy ground. I am the God of your ancestors – the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.’ The Lord said … ‘I have heard the cries of the people of Israel, and I have seen the way the Egyptians have made life hard for them. So now I am sending you to the king of Egypt. Go! Bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt!’” (Exodus 3:1-6, 9-10)

Maybe the Moses story is easier to handle because we’ve heard it before. But just because it’s Moses and a bush, rather than Rick and a bucket, it’s no less spectacular, is it? It shocked the sandals off of Moses. And we wonder what amazed the old guy more: that God spoke in a bush, or that God spoke at all because Moses, like Rick, had made a mistake. A big mistake.

You remember the story, don’t you? He was adopted nobility. An Israelite reared in an Egyptian palace. His countrymen were slaves, but Moses was privileged. He ate at the royal table. He was educated in the finest schools. Funny thing is that his most influential teacher had no degree at all. She was his mother – a Jewess hired to be his nanny. “Moses,” you can almost hear her whisper to her young son. “God has put you here for a reason. Someday, you’ll set our people free. Never forget, my son. Never forget.” And Moses didn’t. The flame of justice grew hotter until it blazed. Moses saw an Egyptian beating a Hebrew slave. And just like Rick killed the mugger, Moses killed the Egyptian and then buried him. The next day Moses saw the slave and you’d think the slave would have said, “Thanks.” But he didn’t. Rather than gratitude, he was angry. “Are you going to kill me, too?” he asked. And Moses knew right then that he was in serious trouble. So, he fled Egypt and hid in the wilderness. Call it a career change. He went from dining with heads of state to counting the heads of sheep.

Moses thought the move was permanent – there’s no indication that he ever intended to go back to Egypt. In fact, there is every indication he wanted to stay with the sheep. Standing barefoot before the bush, he confessed, “I am not a great man! How can I go to the king and lead the Israelites out of Egypt?” (Exodus 3:11). And I’m glad Moses asked that question because why him? Why Moses? Better yet, why eighty-year-old Moses? The forty-year-old version was way more appealing. The Moses we saw in Egypt was brash and confident, but the Moses we find some four decades later is reluctant and weather-beaten. Had you or I looked at Moses back in Egypt, we would’ve said, “This guy’s ready to rumble.” Trained by the ablest soldiers and instant access to the inner circle of the Pharaoh. Moses spoke their language and knew their habits. He was the perfect man for the job.

The Moses at forty we like. But the Moses at eighty? Not so much. He’s too old. He’s too tired. He smells like a shepherd. He speaks like a foreigner. What impact could Moses possibly have on Pharaoh? He’s the wrong guy for the job. And even Moses would have agreed. “Tried that once before,” he’d say. “Those people don’t want to be helped. Just leave me here to tend my sheep, God. They’re a whole lot easier to lead.” Moses wouldn’t have gone, and we wouldn’t have sent him. But God did. Go figure. Benched at forty and suited up at eighty. Why? What does Moses know now that he didn’t know then? What did he learn in the desert that he didn’t learn in Egypt?

The ways of the desert, for one. Forty-year-old Moses was a city boy, while octogenarian Moses knows the name of every snake, and the location of every watering hole. And if he’s going to lead hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of Hebrews away from Egypt and into the wilderness, he’d better know the basics of Desert Life 101. And family dynamics, for another. If he’s going to be traveling with thousands of families for forty years, it might help just a little bit to understand how families work. Of course, by this time, he’s been married a long time to a woman of faith, the daughter of a Midianite priest, and has kids of his own. He’s a family man.

But more than the ways of the desert and the people, Moses needed to learn something about himself. And now, apparently, he’d learned it because God said that Moses was ready. So, to convince him, God spoke to Moses through a bush because God had to do something drastic to get his attention. God works that way sometimes. ”School’s out,” God told him. “Now, get to work.” Poor Moses. He didn’t even know he was enrolled in school, much less a graduate.

But he was, and so are we. The voice from the bush is the voice that whispers to each of us. It reminds us that God’s not finished with us yet. Oh, we may think he is. We may think we’ve peaked out. We may think he’s got someone else to do the job. But if that’s what we’re thinking then we need to think again because we’re all unfinished. “God began doing a good work in you, and I am sure he will continue it until it is finished when Jesus Christ comes again.” (Philippians 1:6) See what God is doing? He’s doing a good work in you. (Present tense) And did you hear when he’ll be finished? When Jesus comes again. (Future tense) In other words, we’re all unfinished.

Your Father wants you to know that you’re a work in progress. Your present hasn’t met your ultimate future. And to convince you, he may just surprise you. He works that way, you know. He may speak through a bush. He could even speak through a bucket. The question is, are you listening?

Grace,

Randy