When David and his men came to Ziklag, they found it destroyed by fire and their wives and sons and daughters taken captive. So David and his men wept aloud until they had no strength left to weep. David’s two wives had been captured—Ahinoam of Jezreel and Abigail, the widow of Nabal of Carmel. David was greatly distressed because the men were talking of stoning him; each one was bitter in spirit because of his sons and daughters. But David found strength in the LORD his God. (I Samuel 30:3-6)
::
I think that Sanchez swallowed a cricket.
One that hasn’t thought to die yet.
This is a cat that has never learned to meow properly. For the longest time she made no noise at all aside of purring and the crazy snorting she would do when she tried to breathe. (Perhaps in sympathy with me for my allergy to cats, she was determined to be allergic to us as well, and has spent much of her short life with chronic nasal congestion.) We’ve speculated that perhaps because she was abandoned at such an early age, she spent too few days with real cats and has no idea how cats sound when they talk.
Eventually she learned to make noise, but it sounds much more like a cricket than a cat. Like the cricket in her belly keeps singing.
Or perhaps a toad with a really high voice.
A high-pitched toad who sings for her supper.
All day long.
::
Her food dish happens to be on the way to almost anywhere in our house, so any movement by any person triggers her hunger dance. She hops off the couch, charges for the food bucket and begins her warbling. Absent an immediate response, she tosses her head sideways toward the bucket, signaling the location of the food, in case we forgot where we left it.
The warble turns to a yodel as she nears hysteria at her deprivation.
Understand, she likely ate just twenty minutes ago.
::
Unless it’s actually feeding time, it ends the same every time. Failing to provoke the desired response (a heaping scoop of the nastiest smelling food I’ve yet to find), she climbs into her toilet to pout.
No kidding.
She has prime real estate to host her own pity party. The mother of all pity parties. An enclosed litter box where she can get a little alone time and sit around in a pile of poop.
What better way to celebrate her deeply held belief that the world has just pooped all over her?
::
She doesn’t live in a world where she gets her way all the time. She doesn’t get to eat whenever she wants. She gets scolded when she hangs out on the kitchen table or in the sink. People don’t want to play with her whenever she wants to play, even when she smacks us in the head to try to entice us to join in her fun. People want to play with her when she’s not in the mood and since she’s small enough to hold, she can’t do much about it.
She’s not in control of her world. She is not the mistress of her own destiny. She doesn’t always get her way.
No matter how backwards that all seems to her.
::
When she climbs out of her box, she smells bad. Like a cat toilet. Sometimes she has . . . um . . . stuff stuck to her. And even though she might suddenly be in the mood to play or hang out, folks don’t want to be around her just yet.
The smell of misery sticks to her a little too long.
She needs a little time to air out.
::
David faced a stark choice when he and his men returned to find that the Amalekites had attacked his people, destroying their homes and taking the people off as slaves. People that included two of his wives. People that included the wives and children of his men.
They wept until there was nothing left in them to weep with. Strength gone, unable even to continue their mourning, the men became embittered. Needing someone to blame, they spoke of stoning David.
David had the choice to crawl into the litter box, blame God and the world for all his troubles. He could have jumped right into the stink with his men.
But he didn’t.
We won’t pretend this wasn’t a devastating circumstance. We won’t suggest that the other guys just overreacted.
But David chose to respond differently. He sought, and he found, his strength in the Lord.
He found his hope. His only hope.
::
Raiders did not just burn my house down and make off with my family. Even so, my life doesn’t always go the way I want it to. People don’t always do the things I want, and certainly not when I want. Circumstances don’t always work out in my favor. I don’t get all my questions answered. And some of the answers I do get aren’t what I was hoping for.
I can become bitter about that, crawling inside the toilet and scratching around in the poop clumps.
And then I can smell bad so folks want to keep a lot of room between them and me.
Or I can stay out of the litter box, face the disappointment and find strength in the goodness of my God.
That’s where I’ll find my only hope as well.
::
When David and his men came to Ziklag, they found it destroyed by fire and their wives and sons and daughters taken captive. So David and his men wept aloud until they had no strength left to weep. David’s two wives had been captured—Ahinoam of Jezreel and Abigail, the widow of Nabal of Carmel. David was greatly distressed because the men were talking of stoning him; each one was bitter in spirit because of his sons and daughters. But David found strength in the LORD his God. (I Samuel 30:3-6)
This is a cat that has never learned to meow properly. For the longest time she made no noise at all aside of purring and the crazy snorting she would do when she tried to breathe. (Perhaps in sympathy with me for my allergy to cats, she was determined to be allergic to us as well, and has spent much of her short life with chronic nasal congestion.) We’ve speculated that perhaps because she was abandoned at such an early age, she spent too few days with real cats and has no idea how cats sound when they talk.
Eventually she learned to make noise, but it sounds much more like a cricket than a cat. Like the cricket in her belly keeps singing.
Or perhaps a toad with a really high voice.
A high-pitched toad who sings for her supper.
All day long.
::
Her food dish happens to be on the way to almost anywhere in our house, so any movement by any person triggers her hunger dance. She hops off the couch, charges for the food bucket and begins her warbling. Absent an immediate response, she tosses her head sideways toward the bucket, signaling the location of the food, in case we forgot where we left it.
The warble turns to a yodel as she nears hysteria at her deprivation.
Understand, she likely ate just twenty minutes ago.
::
Unless it’s actually feeding time, it ends the same every time. Failing to provoke the desired response (a heaping scoop of the nastiest smelling food I’ve yet to find), she climbs into her toilet to pout.
No kidding.
She has prime real estate to host her own pity party. The mother of all pity parties. An enclosed litter box where she can get a little alone time and sit around in a pile of poop.
What better way to celebrate her deeply held belief that the world has just pooped all over her?
::
She doesn’t live in a world where she gets her way all the time. She doesn’t get to eat whenever she wants. She gets scolded when she hangs out on the kitchen table or in the sink. People don’t want to play with her whenever she wants to play, even when she smacks us in the head to try to entice us to join in her fun. People want to play with her when she’s not in the mood and since she’s small enough to hold, she can’t do much about it.
She’s not in control of her world. She is not the mistress of her own destiny. She doesn’t always get her way.
No matter how backwards that all seems to her.
::
When she climbs out of her box, she smells bad. Like a cat toilet. Sometimes she has . . . um . . . stuff stuck to her. And even though she might suddenly be in the mood to play or hang out, folks don’t want to be around her just yet.
The smell of misery sticks to her a little too long.
She needs a little time to air out.
::
David faced a stark choice when he and his men returned to find that the Amalekites had attacked his people, destroying their homes and taking the people off as slaves. People that included two of his wives. People that included the wives and children of his men.
They wept until there was nothing left in them to weep with. Strength gone, unable even to continue their mourning, the men became embittered. Needing someone to blame, they spoke of stoning David.
David had the choice to crawl into the litter box, blame God and the world for all his troubles. He could have jumped right into the stink with his men.
But he didn’t.
We won’t pretend this wasn’t a devastating circumstance. We won’t suggest that the other guys just overreacted.
But David chose to respond differently. He sought, and he found, his strength in the Lord.
He found his hope. His only hope.
::
Raiders did not just burn my house down and make off with my family. Even so, my life doesn’t always go the way I want it to. People don’t always do the things I want, and certainly not when I want. Circumstances don’t always work out in my favor. I don’t get all my questions answered. And some of the answers I do get aren’t what I was hoping for.
I can become bitter about that, crawling inside the toilet and scratching around in the poop clumps.
And then I can smell bad so folks want to keep a lot of room between them and me.
Or I can stay out of the litter box, face the disappointment and find strength in the goodness of my God.
When he returned to his disciples and found them sleeping. “Simon,” he said to Peter, “are you asleep? Could you not keep watch for one hour? (Mark 14:37)
::
New moms think all kinds of wondrous things when their babies are born. How precious they are. What a miracle is childbirth. All the hopes and dreams that have been percolating over the last nine months. How much they love to just hold the little one, feel his tiny heartbeat, listen to his little breaths.
While I had a lot of those thoughts, I recall having a few others. Like the one I had when the nurse brought him to me at about 2:00 in the morning, suggesting that I might have something for him to eat.
At that moment, I had thoughts that a new mothers didn’t write in the baby books. I closed my eyes tight against the bright fluorescents she’d just flipped on, wondered if there were any way to pretend I wasn’t there, and sighed in resignation as I thought a very unnurturing, unmotherlike thing.
I would never, ever sleep in again.
Not ever.
::
For the first few years, my kids helped this prophetic bit of wisdom flourish. They never slept in. So neither did we. If we made it until 6:30, it was a pretty late morning. I decided that I had finally arrived as a parent when one summer the boys started to sleep in later. And later. And later.
As they approached teenagerness, they learned the wonder of staying in bed longer.
And I relish every moment.
::
A few weeks ago, Lane turned on Isaac’s light and gently woke him for the day. In practiced adolescent style, Isaac grunted. Maybe even rolled over. But he didn’t get up.
Several minutes later, he shot up in his bed and called out, “Who turned my light on?”
Lane answered, “I did. It’s time to get up.”
“But when?” Isaac asked.
He had no idea that anyone had been in his room, spoken to him and turned on his light.
As I walked down the hall, I thought to myself, “Poor kid. He’s asleep in the light.”
::
And then, of course, I wondered if the same could be said for me.
That I’m asleep in the light.
And like it was some television musical production playing out in my living room, I heard the sound of Keith Green pounding the keyboard and singing out hard.
The world is sleeping in the dark
That the church just can’t fight
‘Cause it’s asleep in the light
How can you be so dead
When you’ve been so well fed
Jesus rose from the grave
And you, you can’t even get out of bed
::
It’s a bit of a harsh song, I suppose. But it makes its point. I so often get caught up in saying “bless me Lord, bless me Lord,” making sure I get what I want and I need, getting myself fed and nourished.
But when we look at it honestly, I think we find that well nourished doesn’t automatically mean mature. Blessed doesn’t automatically mean compassionate. And living in the light doesn’t automatically mean that we see at all.
I have so much at my fingertips. I have exceedingly more than I can ask or imagine.
But why? Why has God blessed me the way that He has? Or blessed you for that matter? So we can settle in and be content? Rest comfortably on the sofa and be so grateful for all He’s done?
I’ve never been comfortable with the idea that He blesses just so we can possess. I’m convinced He wants us use that blessing to bless others. To seek and save.
At one concert, Keith introduced this song with these words: “I’ve seen the world, folks. I’ve seen that it’s lost. And there’s billions of people out there that don’t know God. Now either it’s His fault or ours.”
Being in the light should never give me excuse to lie down and forget about the dark.
Let’s make sure we get out of bed.
::
When he returned to his disciples and found them sleeping. “Simon,” he said to Peter, “are you asleep? Could you not keep watch for one hour? (Mark 14:37)
New moms think all kinds of wondrous things when their babies are born. How precious they are. What a miracle is childbirth. All the hopes and dreams that have been percolating over the last nine months. How much they love to just hold the little one, feel his tiny heartbeat, listen to his little breaths.
While I had a lot of those thoughts, I recall having a few others.
Like the one I had when the nurse brought him to me at about 2:00 in the morning, suggesting that I might have something for him to eat.
In that moment, I had thoughts that new mothers don’t write in the baby books. I closed my eyes tight against the bright fluorescents she’d just flipped on, wondered if there were any way to pretend I wasn’t there, and sighed in resignation as I thought a very unnurturing, unmotherlike thing.
I would never, ever sleep in again.
Not ever.
::
For the first few years, my kids helped this prophetic bit of wisdom flourish. They never slept in. So neither did we. If we made it until 6:30, it was a pretty late morning. I decided that I had finally arrived as a parent when one summer the boys started to sleep in later. And later. And later.
As they approached teenagerness, they learned the wonder of staying in bed longer.
And I relish every moment.
::
A few weeks ago, Lane turned on Isaac’s light and gently woke him for the day. In practiced adolescent style, Isaac grunted. Maybe even rolled over. But he didn’t get up.
Several minutes later, he shot up in his bed and called out, “Who turned my light on?”
Lane answered, “I did. It’s time to get up.”
“But when?” Isaac asked.
He had no idea that anyone had been in his room, spoken to him and turned on his light.
As I walked down the hall, I thought to myself, “Poor kid. He’s asleep in the light.”
::
And then, of course, I wondered if the same could be said for me.
That I’m asleep in the light.
And like it was some television musical production playing out in my living room, I heard the sound of Keith Green pounding the keyboard and singing out hard.
The world is sleeping in the dark
That the church just can’t fight
‘Cause it’s asleep in the light
How can you be so dead
When you’ve been so well fed
Jesus rose from the grave
And you, you can’t even get out of bed
It’s a bit of a harsh song, I suppose. But it makes its point. I so often get caught up in saying “bless me Lord, bless me Lord,” making sure I get what I want and I need, getting myself fed and nourished.
But when we look at it honestly, I think we find that well nourished doesn’t automatically mean mature.
Blessed doesn’t automatically mean compassionate.
And living in the light doesn’t automatically mean that we see at all.
I have so much at my fingertips. I have exceedingly more than I can ask or imagine.
But why? Why has God blessed me the way that He has? Or blessed you for that matter? So we can settle in and be content? Rest comfortably on the sofa and be so grateful for all He’s done?
I’ve never been comfortable with the idea that He blesses just so we can possess. I’m convinced He wants us use that blessing to bless others. To seek and save.
At one concert, Keith introduced this song with these words: “I’ve seen the world, folks. I’ve seen that it’s lost. And there’s billions of people out there that don’t know God. Now either it’s His fault or ours.”
Being in the light should never give me excuse to lie down and forget about the dark.
The LORD said to Joshua, “Stand up! What are you doing down on your face? Israel has sinned; they have violated my covenant, which I commanded them to keep. They have taken some of the devoted things; they have stolen, they have lied, they have put them with their own possessions. That is why the Israelites cannot stand against their enemies; they turn their backs and run because they have been made liable to destruction. I will not be with you anymore unless you destroy whatever among you is devoted to destruction. (Joshua 7:10-12)
::
I’ve been avoiding this.
But it’s not working.
I’m winding my way through the Bible cover to cover. I ditched the 90-day speed reading thing a long time ago in favor of a more purposeful (and drawn out) study when my friend Chris sent me the Chronological Bible. And I love it.
But when I got to Joshua 7 some weeks ago, I got stuck. I was doing great when all of a sudden plodding turned to slogging. And firm ground turned to muck. My feet sunk in up to my knees and try as I might, I couldn’t move forward.
Now, as luck would have it, I got myself stuck in a place with all kinds of distractions. So I’ve been twisting and turning and looking at all kinds of other interesting things. Calvin and basketball, goofy nieces and computers, Medicare and time changes. But when the distractions fade, as distractions do, I realize I’m still in clay up to my knees. Clay that hardens a bit more each day.
And so I remain stuck.
::
Before the clay grows more firm, let’s look at Joshua 7. I’ll try to set the scene. Israel has crossed the Jordan and begun the long awaited possession of the land. In their first conquest, they took Jericho and burned it to the ground, following God’s outrageous plan of marching around the city for days and then screaming and yelling and blowing trumpets. Crazy plan, but it worked perfectly. The walls tumbled and they took it.
Still breathing in the fragrant victory, they prepared to take Ai. The spies reported that taking Ai would be a piece of cake. No need to send the whole army, for Ai had only a few guys to worry about. Two, may be three thousand men would be more than sufficient.
Three thousand men stormed off to confront Ai, only to turn tail and run while the enemy struck them down. Ai chased Israel back to the quarries, killing a number of the Hebrew fighters along the way.
Poised for victory against a much smaller army, suffering instead a crushing defeat.
The people melted. Fear and discouragement overtook them.
The land was theirs for the taking. What on earth went wrong?
::
Joshua did what any God-fearing mighty man of valor would do when faced with such a staggering defeat.
He tore his clothes and fell on his face.
He stayed there on his face until nightfall.
Finally, he cried out. Why did you do it, God? Why did you bring us here to be destroyed? Why didn’t we stay on the other side of the river? Everyone will hear of our defeat. There will be nothing left of us.
Then what will people say about Your great name?
::
Here is where I get stuck. Listen to God:
“Stand up! What are you doing down on your face?”
I don’t like God talking like this. I don’t like it at all. Joshua dropped to his face. For hours. Humble, contrite, desperate.
He didn’t go to the war room with his generals and draw up new and better battle plans. He fell flat and poured out his heart to God.
What God wouldn’t love this?
What God snaps “Stand up!” at a guy who is so contrite?
::
I know from Sunday School why Israel lost this no-brainer battle against Ai. It all started with a knucklehead by the name of Achan. Even though God was crystal clear about what they could and could not take as spoil when Jericho went down, Achan was greedy. He took some of the “devoted things” and kept them for himself – things that were to have gone straight to the treasury of the Lord.
God had warned that if anyone did such a terrible thing that they would put the whole nation at risk of destruction. Achan let his greed prevail and kept what was not his.
And so the destruction came.
Achan and his family were ultimately destroyed in a gruesome act of justice. And so we learned in Sunday School that sin has terrible consequences.
But I think there’s more.
::
I know that God was terribly upset about what Achan did. Even so, I don’t like God talking this way to Joshua. That’s when the mucky ground caught hold of my feet and sucked me in. I couldn’t square this story up, but it seemed I couldn’t move on to the rest of Joshua either.
So here’s what I’ve come up with. I have a couple of theories.
First, I wonder if Joshua was really so contrite. Yes, he tore his clothes. And yes, he spent the better part of a day face down in the dirt. But listen to what he had to say. He took an approach with God that we heard Moses use before. He put God’s actions up against His own character. “What then will you do for your own great name?” God, how will You defend Your own honor in the face of this defeat?
But while this worked for Moses, Joshua went further. He put the whole thing back on God – why did He bring them across the Jordan just to be destroyed? They’d have been better off not coming to take the land He promised.
Was this true humility? Was this really contrition?
Sure, Joshua was eating sand while he lay on the ground crying out. But blaming God for bringing them there, that smacked of a whole lot of pre-crossing Israel. “Why did you bring us to the desert to die? We should have stayed in Egypt.” Joshua was crying out in the way that had always provoked God to steaming anger. The fact that he did it while prostrate at God’s feet didn’t change the tone of his accusations.
So, sure. God might just want to snap at him. I can live with that.
But the other theory I have is the one that is harder for me to swallow. It’s the one that contributed most to my stuckness. It’s the theory that says that as much as God wants us sprawled out in abject dependence at His feet, some days He’s just going to tell us to suck it up.
Grow up.
Deal with it.
::
That’s what I didn’t like hearing God say. Joshua! Get up! What are you doing on the ground?
Someone among you has done an abominable thing. I told you bad things would happen, and they did. Why are you surprised? Why are you lying there bawling?
Get up and deal with the thing.
::
Does God still talk to us like this sometimes? Do I hear God speaking to me this way?
Do I put on the appearance of humility and contrition and desperation and cry out to God about something He’s already told me how to fix?
Do I only want that part of God that feels really good?
Do I play dumb at God’s feet and think that He will not snap at me?
I don’t like when God talks like this.
::
The LORD said to Joshua, “Stand up! What are you doing down on your face? Israel has sinned; they have violated my covenant, which I commanded them to keep. They have taken some of the devoted things; they have stolen, they have lied, they have put them with their own possessions. That is why the Israelites cannot stand against their enemies; they turn their backs and run because they have been made liable to destruction. I will not be with you anymore unless you destroy whatever among you is devoted to destruction. (Joshua 7:10-12)
I’ve been avoiding this.
But it’s not working.
I’m winding my way through the Bible cover to cover. I ditched the 90-day speed reading thing a long time ago in favor of a more purposeful (and drawn out) study when my friend Chris sent me the Chronological Bible. And I love it.
But when I got to Joshua 7 some weeks ago, I got stuck. I was doing great when all of a sudden plodding turned to slogging.
And firm ground turned to muck.
My feet sunk in up to my knees and try as I might, I couldn’t move forward.
Now, as luck would have it, I got myself stuck in a place with all kinds of distractions. So I’ve been twisting and turning and looking at all kinds of other interesting things. Calvin and basketball, goofy nieces and computers, Medicare and time changes. But when the distractions fade, as distractions do, I realize I’m still in clay up to my knees. Clay that hardens a bit more each day.
And so I remain stuck.
::
Before the clay grows more firm, let’s look at Joshua 7. I’ll try to set the scene. Israel has crossed the Jordan and begun the long awaited possession of the land. In their first conquest, they took Jericho and burned it to the ground, following God’s outrageous plan of marching around the city for days and then screaming and yelling and blowing trumpets. Crazy plan, but it worked perfectly. The walls tumbled and they took it.
Still breathing in the fragrant victory, they prepared to take Ai. The spies reported that taking Ai would be a piece of cake. No need to send the whole army, for Ai had only a few guys to worry about. Two, may be three thousand men would be more than sufficient.
Three thousand men stormed off to confront Ai, only to turn tail and run while the enemy struck them down. Ai chased Israel back to the quarries, killing a number of the Hebrew fighters along the way.
Poised for victory against a much smaller army, suffering instead a crushing defeat.
The people melted. Fear and discouragement overtook them.
The land was theirs for the taking.
What on earth went wrong?
::
Joshua did what any God-fearing mighty man of valor would do when faced with such a staggering defeat.
He tore his clothes and fell on his face.
He stayed there on his face until nightfall.
Finally, he cried out. Why did you do it, God? Why did you bring us here to be destroyed? Why didn’t we stay on the other side of the river? Everyone will hear of our defeat. There will be nothing left of us.
Then what will people say about Your great name?
::
Here is where I get stuck. Listen to God:
Stand up! What are you doing down on your face?
I don’t like God talking like this. I don’t like it at all. Joshua dropped to his face.
For hours.
Humble, contrite, desperate.
He didn’t go to the war room with his generals and draw up new and better battle plans. He fell flat and poured out his heart to God.
What God wouldn’t love this?
What God snaps Stand up! at a guy who is so contrite?
::
I know from Sunday School why Israel lost this no-brainer battle against Ai. It all started with a knucklehead by the name of Achan. Even though God was crystal clear about what they could and could not take as spoil when Jericho went down, Achan was greedy. He took some of the “devoted things” and kept them for himself – things that were to have gone straight to the treasury of the Lord.
God had warned that if anyone did such a terrible thing that they would put the whole nation at risk of destruction. Achan let his greed prevail and kept what was not his.
And so the destruction came.
Achan and his family were ultimately destroyed in a gruesome act of justice. And so we learned in Sunday School that sin has terrible consequences.
But I think there’s more.
::
I know that God was terribly upset about what Achan did. Even so, I don’t like God talking this way to Joshua. That’s when the mucky ground caught hold of my feet and sucked me in. I couldn’t square this story up, but it seemed I couldn’t move on to the rest of Joshua either.
So here’s what I’ve come up with. I have a couple of theories.
First, I wonder if Joshua was really so contrite. Yes, he tore his clothes. And yes, he spent the better part of a day face down in the dirt. But listen to what he had to say. He took an approach with God that we heard Moses use before. He put God’s actions up against His own character. “What then will you do for your own great name?” God, how will You defend Your own honor in the face of this defeat?
But while this worked for Moses, Joshua went further. He put the whole thing back on God – why did He bring them across the Jordan just to be destroyed? They’d have been better off not coming to take the land He promised.
Was this true humility? Was this really contrition?
Sure, Joshua was eating sand while he lay on the ground crying out. But blaming God for bringing them there, that smacked of a whole lot of pre-crossing Israel. “Why did you bring us to the desert to die? We should have stayed in Egypt.” Joshua was crying out in the way that had always provoked God to steaming anger. The fact that he did it while prostrate at God’s feet didn’t change the tone of his accusations.
So, sure. God might just want to snap at him. I can live with that.
But the other theory I have is the one that is harder for me to swallow. It’s the one that contributed most to my stuckness. It’s the theory that says that as much as God wants us sprawled out in abject dependence at His feet, some days He’s just going to tell us to suck it up.
Grow up.
Deal with it.
::
That’s what I didn’t like hearing God say. Joshua! Get up! What are you doing on the ground?
Someone among you has done an abominable thing. I told you bad things would happen, and they did. Why are you surprised? Why are you lying there bawling?
Get up and deal with the thing.
::
Does God still talk to us like this sometimes? Do I hear God speaking to me this way?
Do I put on the appearance of humility and contrition and desperation and cry out to God about something He’s already told me how to fix?
Do I only want that part of God that feels really good?
Do I play dumb at God’s feet and think that He will not snap at me?
On the tenth day of the first month the people went up from the Jordan and camped at Gilgal on the eastern border of Jericho. And Joshua set up at Gilgal the twelve stones they had taken out of the Jordan. He said to the Israelites, “In the future when your descendants ask their fathers, ‘What do these stones mean?’ tell them, ‘Israel crossed the Jordan on dry ground.’ For the LORD your God dried up the Jordan before you until you had crossed over. The LORD your God did to the Jordan just what he had done to the Red Sea when he dried it up before us until we had crossed over. He did this so that all the peoples of the earth might know that the hand of the LORD is powerful and so that you might always fear the LORD your God.” (Joshua 4:19-24)
::
Joshua had no sooner taken over the leadership of the people of Israel when he faced the impossible. If they were going to take the land, he had to somehow get these people across the Jordan River. Tens of thousands of people. People with a long history of being whiny and disagreeable, especially when staring down the throat of impossible.
This was no entry level position. And while Moses had been grooming Joshua for just this moment for much of his life, he couldn’t have been prepared for what awaited him.
God’s commissioning words, “Be strong and very courageous,” still rang in his ears as he looked out over the Jordan. He looked at the water, rushing high and fast. It was harvest, and the water was still running at flood stage. He looked back at the people amassed at the river banks. Tens of thousands. Seemed they were running at flood stage too.
Be strong and very courageous indeed.
::
He had his orders. He went with it. He sent the priests in first, carrying the ark. And as soon as water felt the soles of their feet, the rushing flood held back. The water stopped upstream in a heap, waiting for an entire nation to go across on foot. The scene was familiar. They’d seen something like it before, but when they were much younger. Only then it wasn’t a flooding river, but the whole of the Red Sea opened up a path and let them through.
The people hurried across. They recalled how the walls of water had come crashing back down and drowned the Egyptians. Somehow, stopping to marvel at those walls seemed like so much dilly dallying. They scampered across and out of harm’s way before they dared look back in wonder.
And when the whole nation reached the other side, Joshua sent twelve men, one from each tribe, back into the river. Each picked up an enormous stone, heaved it onto his shoulder, and hauled it back to camp on the other side.
The people safely across, and the stones drawn out from the river bottom, the priests stepped out of the river at Joshua’s command. The river resumed its rushing and was immediately at flood stage again, as though no miracle had split it in two just moments before.
There was no sign of any tampering with the river. No evidence it had been stopped up.
Nothing but a gigantic crowd of people who had moments ago stood on the opposite side.
But they wouldn’t be there forever. They had a world to explore. A land to possess.
They would not stand here to marvel and tell the tale for long.
But stones, they would stay around. They would outlast time.
They would tell a story.
::
The twelve who pulled the rocks from the river brought them to camp. Knowing that people move on and forget even amazing stories, Joshua formed a memorial from the stones. And he told the people that the stones would remind them of the amazing thing God did.
One day in the future, their children and their children and their children would want to know. They wouldn’t know to ask, “Grandpa, how did you all get across the river back in the day?” But they would see the rocks. And then they would ask, “What do these stones mean? What’s this pile of rocks for?”
And then, the people who had seen God’s mind-bending faithfulness firsthand would tell them.
Israel crossed the Jordan on dry ground.
Israel did an impossible thing because God made it possible.
That’s what they would tell their children. They would tell them because the rock pile would make them ask.
::
When the moment has passed, we soon forget God’s goodness. That’s how we are.
Leaving a pile of rocks helps us remember the things that God has done.
What’s your pile of rocks?
::
On the tenth day of the first month the people went up from the Jordan and camped at Gilgal on the eastern border of Jericho. And Joshua set up at Gilgal the twelve stones they had taken out of the Jordan. He said to the Israelites, “In the future when your descendants ask their fathers, ‘What do these stones mean?’ tell them, ‘Israel crossed the Jordan on dry ground.’ For the LORD your God dried up the Jordan before you until you had crossed over. The LORD your God did to the Jordan just what he had done to the Red Sea when he dried it up before us until we had crossed over. He did this so that all the peoples of the earth might know that the hand of the LORD is powerful and so that you might always fear the LORD your God.” (Joshua 4:19-24)
Joshua had no sooner taken over the leadership of the people of Israel when he faced the impossible. If they were going to take the land, he had to somehow get these people across the Jordan River. Tens of thousands of people. People with a long history of being whiny and disagreeable, especially when staring down the throat of impossible.
This was no entry level position. And while Moses had been grooming Joshua for just this moment for much of his life, he couldn’t have been prepared for what awaited him.
God’s commissioning words, “Be strong and very courageous,” still rang in his ears as he looked out over the Jordan. He looked at the water, rushing high and fast. It was harvest, and the water was still running at flood stage. He looked back at the people amassed at the river banks. Tens of thousands. Seemed they were running at flood stage too.
Be strong and very courageous indeed.
::
He had his orders. He went with it. He sent the priests in first, carrying the ark. And as soon as water felt the soles of their feet, the rushing flood held back. The water stopped upstream in a heap, waiting for an entire nation to go across on foot. The scene was familiar. They’d seen something like it before, but when they were much younger. Only then it wasn’t a flooding river, but the whole of the Red Sea opened up a path and let them through.
The people hurried across. They recalled how the walls of water had come crashing back down and drowned the Egyptians. Somehow, stopping to marvel at those walls seemed like so much dilly dallying. They scampered across and out of harm’s way before they dared look back in wonder.
And when the whole nation reached the other side, Joshua sent twelve men, one from each tribe, back into the river. Each picked up an enormous stone, heaved it onto his shoulder, and hauled it back to camp on the other side.
The people safely across, and the stones drawn out from the river bottom, the priests stepped out of the river at Joshua’s command. The river resumed its rushing and was immediately at flood stage again, as though no miracle had split it in two just moments before.
There was no sign of any tampering with the river. No evidence it had been stopped up.
Nothing but a gigantic crowd of people who had moments ago stood on the opposite side.
But they wouldn’t be there forever. They had a world to explore. A land to possess.
They would not stand here to marvel and tell the tale for long.
But stones, they would stay around. They would outlast time.
They would tell a story.
::
The twelve who pulled the rocks from the river brought them to camp. Knowing that people move on and forget even amazing stories, Joshua formed a memorial from the stones. And he told the people that the stones would remind them of the amazing thing God did.
One day in the future, their children and their children and their children would want to know. They wouldn’t know to ask, “Grandpa, how did you all get across the river back in the day?” But they would see the rocks. And then they would ask, “What do these stones mean? What’s this pile of rocks for?”
And then, the people who had seen God’s mind-bending faithfulness firsthand would tell them.
Israel crossed the Jordan on dry ground.
Israel did an impossible thing because God made it possible.
That’s what they would tell their children. They would tell them because the rock pile would make them ask.
::
When the moment has passed, we soon forget God’s goodness. That’s how we are.
Leaving a pile of rocks helps us remember the things that God has done.
Today I experienced one of the scariest moments of my short career.
I am a physical therapist, and part of my current job involves working in a nursing home. I’ve been working with an elderly woman who had a stroke several months ago. She should have died, but her stubborn will kept her heart beating. The first couple of months were spent lying in bed, so when she came to us she was very weak and dependent on everyone to take care of her.
But with the help of physical, occupational, and speech therapies, she quickly began to make a comeback. Now, three months later, she is still quite dependent on others, but is able to sit up, transfer, and walk.
Actually, she doesn’t really walk.
She kind of springs out of her chair and takes off at a dead walk-sprint. (Before her stroke, she was the kind of woman who constantly ran at full speed.)
But her balance isn’t great and she is still weak. So I try to always have a hold of her gait belt when we’re doing stuff. That’s the purpose of the belt – I hold on so my patient doesn’t fall.
Today we were walking. Or more accurately, she was speed walking and I was trying to hold onto her with one hand and pull her wheelchair behind me with the other. She eventually tired out and was ready to sit and rest for a few minutes. So I one-handedly reached down to put the brakes on her wheelchair so she could sit safely.
That’s when things got scary. It happened before either one of us knew what was going on.
Which is usually how it goes. Older people don’t even realize they’re falling until they’re already on the ground.
Suddenly, my patient was taking a nose-dive forward. Straight down into her walker, which would only slightly break her fall before hitting the hard floor. Thank goodness for my hand on her belt. I yanked her backwards from behind her wheelchair and she just barely landed in her seat. Thank goodness for locked brakes.
She was (understandably) startled and began crying out that she couldn’t get herself back into her chair. So I did my best to lift her up far enough into the seat so she could get herself in the rest of the way.
I sat down as well.
This woman also has severe short-term memory deficits. So after a few breaths she asks, “Where do you want me to go?” I’m pretty sure she had already forgotten about her near-smack experience with the floor.
I said, “Let’s just rest here for a few more minutes.” I still needed to sit.
After a while we both got up and finished our walk and all was well. But had I let go of that belt for just the brief second I needed to reach across to the brake, the story would have ended differently. Badly.
What if God let go of us every time we fell? What if He turned His back on us every once in a while and missed catching us?
Our spiritual growth is sequential. As baby Christians, God often holds us and carries us so we can see and experience Him up close. As we grow, we learn to walk on our spiritual legs. But the difference with our spiritual mobility compared to physical mobility is that we never walk independently. No matter how “big” we get, we still need God to hold onto us. For when we stumble.
That’s a promise. We will stumble. No matter how much of a spiritual giant someone may appear, even they will stumble. And even fall.
Sometimes it hurts. We might stub a toe or bump a knee. Sometimes we fall and it hurts so badly we’re not sure we are ever going to be able to walk again. But God always has His hand on us. We never fall so hard that He can’t break our fall.
“If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast” (Psalm 139:9-10).
There is no place we can go where God isn’t holding onto us.
And maybe we should embrace a lack of short-term memory. Sometimes it’s ok to sit down, take a break, and recover a bit. But it does no good to sit and dwell on our mistakes and punish ourselves repeatedly for stumbling. Maybe we should be more like my patient – forget about the near disaster we just about landed in and ask instead, “Where do you want me to go?”
Our destination won’t come to us. We have to walk to it. Even if it’s one baby step at a time.
::
See Elizabeth’s previous guest post here, still one of the most heavily visited post on the site. (Go figure, it’s a guest post.) Want more? Pump her up in the comments and see what happens.
Elizabeth guest posts again for me. Read her previous entry here. You can also see more of Elizabeth’s writing at her own recently launched blog, Made for Something Greater.
Today I experienced one of the scariest moments of my short career.
I am a physical therapist, and part of my current job involves working in a nursing home. I’ve been working with an elderly woman who had a stroke several months ago. She should have died, but her stubborn will kept her heart beating. The first couple of months were spent lying in bed, so when she came to us she was very weak and dependent on everyone to take care of her.
But with the help of physical, occupational, and speech therapies, she quickly began to make a comeback. Now, three months later, she is still quite dependent on others, but is able to sit up, transfer, and walk.
Actually, she doesn’t really walk.
She kind of springs out of her chair and takes off at a dead walk-sprint. (Before her stroke, she was the kind of woman who constantly ran at full speed.)
But her balance isn’t great and she is still weak. So I try to always have a hold of her gait belt when we’re doing stuff. That’s the purpose of the belt – I hold on so my patient doesn’t fall.
Today we were walking. Or more accurately, she was speed walking and I was trying to hold onto her with one hand and pull her wheelchair behind me with the other. She eventually tired out and was ready to sit and rest for a few minutes. So I one-handedly reached down to put the brakes on her wheelchair so she could sit safely.
That’s when things got scary. It happened before either one of us knew what was going on.
Which is usually how it goes. Older people don’t even realize they’re falling until they’re already on the ground.
Suddenly, my patient was taking a nose-dive forward. Straight down into her walker, which would only slightly break her fall before hitting the hard floor. Thank goodness for my hand on her belt. I yanked her backwards from behind her wheelchair and she just barely landed in her seat. Thank goodness for locked brakes.
She was (understandably) startled and began crying out that she couldn’t get herself back into her chair. So I did my best to lift her up far enough into the seat so she could get herself in the rest of the way.
I sat down as well.
This woman also has severe short-term memory deficits. So after a few breaths she asks, “Where do you want me to go?” I’m pretty sure she had already forgotten about her near-smack experience with the floor.
I said, “Let’s just rest here for a few more minutes.” I still needed to sit.
After a while we both got up and finished our walk and all was well. But had I let go of that belt for just the brief second I needed to reach across to the brake, the story would have ended differently.
Badly.
What if God let go of us every time we fell? What if He turned His back on us every once in a while and missed catching us?
Our spiritual growth is sequential. As baby Christians, God often holds us and carries us so we can see and experience Him up close. As we grow, we learn to walk on our spiritual legs. But the difference with our spiritual mobility compared to physical mobility is that we never walk independently. No matter how “big” we get, we still need God to hold onto us. For when we stumble.
That’s a promise. We will stumble. No matter how much of a spiritual giant someone may appear, even they will stumble. And even fall.
Sometimes it hurts. We might stub a toe or bump a knee. Sometimes we fall and it hurts so badly we’re not sure we are ever going to be able to walk again. But God always has His hand on us. We never fall so hard that He can’t break our fall.
“If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast” (Psalm 139:9-10).
There is no place we can go where God isn’t holding onto us.
And maybe we should embrace a lack of short-term memory. Sometimes it’s ok to sit down, take a break, and recover a bit. But it does no good to sit and dwell on our mistakes and punish ourselves repeatedly for stumbling. Maybe we should be more like my patient – forget about the near disaster we just about landed in and ask instead, “Where do you want me to go?”
Our destination won’t come to us. We have to walk to it. Even if it’s one baby step at a time.
If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness. If we claim we have not sinned, we make him out to be a liar and his word has no place in our lives. (1 John 1:8-10)
::
“I’m trying think of how to say it so it’s not a tattle.”
My young niece scrunched up her face while she considered how she might report her big sister’s transgression without being sent to sit on the staircase for tattling. She’d already been there once that morning. It was important to get it right this time.
Insightful, this little one. She desperately wanted the grown ups to know that her sister was acting in a way that hurt her feelings. Yet she knew that if she didn’t say it just so, her sister’s misbehavior would be lost in the tattling.
All eyes would be on the tattler, not on one who gave rise to the tattling.
And she would be on the steps for some alone time.
::
She worked it over well in her mind. But in the end, it wasn’t to be found. There wasn’t a way to tattle without tattling.
So she instead applied the disclaimer.
Dark eyes sparkling, the sprite straightened in her chair and called for the attention of all in earshot that had any authority to make things right. Swift justice was surely on its way.
“Ok, first, this is not a tattle. But,” she said, “she’s writing in her notebook that I am not her favorite friend.”
The older one stiffened. The pen, once scribbling dramatic nonsense lines in the notebook, stood straight in a motionless hand. She slowly lifted her gaze from the tabletop to the jury standing round.
Guilty.
Head bowed, the guilty one slunk to the stairs. But it was the tattler who, surprised, began the time out.
How’d that happen?
::
Disclaimer or not, tattling is tattling.
Call it what you want, sin is sin.
My niece is a smooth talker to be sure. And God bless my brother and his wife when these sweet young ladies are teenagers. But clever words and glistening eyes don’t change disobedience into something else.
They told her not to. And she did it.
Qualify it, justify it, or maybe just deny it.
Can’t get around that it is what it is.
::
But oh, how we try. My niece looks pretty cute and sweet as a four-year old learning to navigate the treacherous waters of truth and kindness and doing the right thing. And we’re not so unlike her, absent the cuteness that fades clean away when we’re old enough to know better. We still try to do what we ought not, but in a way that doesn’t look or sound like the unkind thing that it is.
Failing that, we apply the disclaimer to excuse our offense in advance.
Disclaimer or none, we’ll spend our time on the staircase, using our time out to consider the error of our ways.
::
John reminds us that disclaiming sin, saying we didn’t when we did, doesn’t work. We can’t disclaim it away. We only deceive ourselves.
But to confess it permits us to be freed from it.
::
There on the steps, my niece had the chance to experience her parents’ ready forgiveness.
And lest you think her big sister learned nothing, she had the chance for a little confession and forgiveness of her own. She learned that it’s hurtful to talk about your favorite friends in front of your not so favorite friends, even if they’re your friends but just not your favorites.
And then two little girls met at the staircase, withdrew their disclaimers, and enjoyed walking together in a little 1st John light.
::
If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness. If we claim we have not sinned, we make him out to be a liar and his word has no place in our lives. (1 John 1:8-10)
“I’m trying think of how to say it so it’s not a tattle.”
My young niece scrunched up her face while she considered how she might report her big sister’s transgression without being sent to sit on the staircase for tattling. She’d already been there once that morning. It was important to get it right this time.
Insightful, this little one. She desperately wanted the grown ups to know that her sister was acting in a way that hurt her feelings. Yet she knew that if she didn’t say it just so, her sister’s misbehavior would be lost in the tattling.
All eyes would be on the tattler, not on one who gave rise to the tattling.
And she would be on the steps for some alone time.
::
She worked it over well in her mind. But in the end, it wasn’t to be found. There wasn’t a way to tattle without tattling.
So she instead applied the disclaimer.
Dark eyes sparkling, the sprite straightened in her chair and called for the attention of all in earshot that had any authority to make things right. Swift justice was surely on its way.
“Ok, first, this is not a tattle,” she said. “But she’s writing in her notebook that I am not her favorite friend.”
The older one stiffened. The pen, once scribbling dramatic nonsense lines in the notebook, stood straight in a motionless hand. She slowly lifted her gaze from the tabletop to the jury standing round.
Guilty.
Head bowed, the guilty one slunk to the stairs. But it was the tattler who, surprised, began the time out.
How’d that happen?
::
Disclaimer or not, tattling is tattling.
Call it what you want, sin is sin.
My niece is a smooth talker to be sure. And God bless my brother and his wife when these sweet young ladies are teenagers. But clever words and glistening eyes don’t change disobedience into something else.
They told her not to. And she did it.
Qualify it, justify it, or maybe just deny it.
Can’t get around that it is what it is.
::
But oh, how we try. My niece looks pretty cute and sweet as a four-year old learning to navigate the treacherous waters of truth and kindness and doing the right thing. And we’re not so unlike her, absent the cuteness that fades clean away when we’re old enough to know better. We still try to do what we ought not, but in a way that doesn’t look or sound like the unkind thing that it is.
Failing that, we apply the disclaimer to excuse our offense in advance.
Disclaimer or none, we’ll spend our time on the staircase, using our time out to consider the error of our ways.
::
John reminds us that disclaiming sin, saying we didn’t when we did, doesn’t work. We can’t disclaim it away. We only deceive ourselves.
But to confess it permits us to be freed from it.
::
There on the steps, my niece had the chance to experience her parents’ ready forgiveness.
And lest you think her big sister learned nothing, she had the chance for a little confession and forgiveness of her own. She learned that it’s hurtful to talk about your favorite friends in front of your not so favorite friends, even if they’re your friends but just not your favorites.
And then two little girls met at the staircase, withdrew their disclaimers, and enjoyed walking together in a little 1st John light.
Someone told him, “Your mother and brothers are standing outside, wanting to see you.”
He replied, “My mother and brothers are those who hear God’s word and put it into practice.” (Luke 8:21-22)
::
The other day I picked up a micro SD card for JP so he could transfer his hip tunes to his phone’s MP3 player. At about the size of your fingernail, the micro SD card is tiny.
Drop this little baby on the floor, and it’s like trying to find a contact lens.
On the front lawn.
::
I held the tiny fragment of plastic in my hand and considered how on earth it held a gigabyte* of information. And that’s not even so much. Most hold more. I cheaped out and got him the smallest I could find. One gig for $9.99.
And then I thought back to the 1980s, before the dawn of time, when the personal computer was just rolling onto the landscape. Dad had one in his office. I won’t tell you what it cost; that’s his business. But I can tell you that for that same money today, I could probably buy new computers for all my neighbors. This cutting edge machine was a dual-floppy system. Remember those?
Eight-inch diskettes.
Two disk drives.
No hard drive.
We worked to the cadence of “Insert Disk 2 in Drive A.”
“Insert Disk 5 in Drive B.”
And boy, we thought we had it made. The computer did all the thinking for us. The computer did all the work. Sometimes, I dozed at the screen as I entered checks and journal entries, waking only to change disks. (Don’t tell Mom.)
::
Soon enough, a whopping ten megabyte internal hard drive replaced one of the floppy drives. And as technology careened along at its breakneck pace, disk size plummeted from eight-inch to five and a quarter and at last crash landed with the three and a half-inch hard sided disks. We finally ditched the floppies altogether for the high capacity CDs.
Then came the USB flash drives, followed by memory cards, bigger versions of the micro cards. They started out the size of a postage stamp or two.
And as we have progressed, we have storage units the size of a fingernail.
As the mass decreases, the volume grows.
It boggles the mind.
::
As we have progressed?
Smaller units, more data.
And all at a ridiculously low cost.
The thousands of dollars that went into the old dual-floppy machines couldn’t buy a byte of storage. They couldn’t hold a solitary character. And now, for less than ten bucks, I can store multiple gigabytes of data inside a sliver of plastic I could easily empty from my pocket with the lint, throwing it straight into the trash without knowing.
The fleck that just slipped between the couch cushions to hide amongst the Cheetos and loose change holds more in this moment than the boxy dinosaur could dream in its lifetime.
And I wonder if it isn’t just like us.
::
(Caution: Mild rant ahead.**)
Bigger heads, smaller hearts.
It’s something I find myself muttering under my breath.
Our heads get bigger as we fill them full of information, knowledge, facts, principles, data, trivia. But all the while our hearts seem to get smaller. Rather like squeezing a balloon on one end. One part expands to the point of near rupture while the other stays small, barely enough air to keep the sides from touching.
We read. We study. We watch videos. We attend classes. We join groups. We subscribe to magazines, newspapers, blogs. We talk and talk and talk.
But so what?
I usually mutter “So what?” after I rumble about bigger heads and smaller hearts.
When I finish that two foot stack of books awaiting me on my desk, So what?
When I wrap up my Sunday school class on getting to know Jesus, So what?
When I get done reading fifteen new blog posts today, So what?
What will be different?
I know my head will be bigger. But will my heart be bigger too?
::
It used to be that acquiring knowledge cost more. Kind of like the old big dog storage devices. They held less, but they cost more. Used to be we didn’t stuff our heads quite so full. But we what we did put in was a serious investment.
We put it there intending it to mean something. We expected to apply it. We expected to gain knowledge in order for our hearts to grow bigger, not just our heads.
If nothing else, we knew that to whom much is given, much will be required. We knew we were accountable for what we knew.
We expected there to be an answer to “So what?”
I’m not sure we do anymore.
I’m not at all sure I do anymore.
::
I want my heart to grow faster than my head.
What do you think? How does your heart keep pace with your head?
Can you answer “So what?” about something today?
::
*For those who prefer not to retain such details, the approximate values of these byte measurements:
We don’t need to discuss the measures of zettabytes, yottabytes and brontobytes. Serious.
**I’m still under the age of 50, though I find myself sounding distinctly old in this mini-rant.
Someone told him, “Your mother and brothers are standing outside, wanting to see you.”
He replied, “My mother and brothers are those who hear God’s word and put it into practice.” (Luke 8:21-22)
The other day I picked up a micro SD card for JP so he could transfer his hip tunes to his phone’s MP3 player. At about the size of your fingernail, the micro SD card is tiny.
Drop this little baby on the floor, and it’s like trying to find a contact lens.
On the front lawn.
::
I held the tiny fragment of plastic in my hand and considered how on earth it held a gigabyte* of information. And that’s not even so much. Most hold more. I cheaped out and got him the smallest I could find. One gig for $9.99.
And then I thought back to the 1980s, before the dawn of time, when the personal computer was just rolling onto the landscape. Dad had one in his office. I won’t tell you what it cost; that’s his business. But I can tell you that for that same money today, I could probably buy new computers for all my neighbors. This cutting edge machine was a dual-floppy system. Remember those?
Eight-inch diskettes.
Two disk drives.
No hard drive.
We worked to the cadence of “Insert Disk 2 in Drive A.”
“Insert Disk 5 in Drive B.”
And boy, we thought we had it made. The computer did all the thinking for us. The computer did all the work. Sometimes, I dozed at the screen as I entered checks and journal entries, waking only to change disks. (Don’t tell Mom.)
::
Soon enough, a whopping ten megabyte internal hard drive replaced one of the floppy drives. And as technology careened along at its breakneck pace, disk size plummeted from eight-inch to five and a quarter and at last crash landed with the three and a half-inch hard sided disks. We finally ditched the floppies altogether for the high capacity CDs.
Then came the USB flash drives, followed by memory cards, bigger versions of the micro cards. They started out the size of a postage stamp or two.
And as we have progressed, we have storage units the size of a fingernail.
As the mass decreases, the volume grows.
It boggles the mind.
::
As we have progressed?
Smaller units, more data.
And all at a ridiculously low cost.
The thousands of dollars that went into the old dual-floppy machines couldn’t buy a byte of storage. They couldn’t hold a solitary character. And now, for less than ten bucks, I can store multiple gigabytes of data inside a sliver of plastic I could easily empty from my pocket with the lint, throwing it straight into the trash without knowing.
The fleck that just slipped between the couch cushions to hide amongst the Cheetos and loose change holds more in this moment than the boxy dinosaur could dream in its lifetime.
And I wonder if it isn’t just like us.
::
(Caution: Mild rant ahead.**)
Bigger heads, smaller hearts.
It’s something I find myself muttering under my breath.
Our heads get bigger as we fill them full of information, knowledge, facts, principles, data, trivia. But all the while our hearts seem to get smaller. Rather like squeezing a balloon on one end. One part expands to the point of near rupture while the other stays small, barely enough air to keep the sides from touching.
We read. We study. We watch videos. We attend classes. We join groups. We subscribe to magazines, newspapers, blogs. We talk and talk and talk.
But so what?
I usually mutter “So what?” after I rumble about bigger heads and smaller hearts.
When I finish that two foot stack of books awaiting me on my desk, So what?
When I wrap up my Sunday school class on getting to know Jesus, So what?
When I get done reading fifteen new blog posts today, So what?
What will be different?
I know my head will be bigger. But will my heart be bigger too?
::
It used to be that acquiring knowledge cost more. Kind of like the old big dog storage devices. They held less, but they cost more. Used to be we didn’t stuff our heads quite so full. But we what we did put in was a serious investment.
We put it there intending it to mean something. We expected to apply it. We expected to gain knowledge in order for our hearts to grow bigger, not just our heads.
If nothing else, we knew that to whom much is given, much will be required. We knew we were accountable for what we knew.
We expected there to be an answer to “So what?”
I’m not sure we do anymore.
I’m not at all sure I do anymore.
::
I want my heart to grow faster than my head.
What do you think? How does your heart keep pace with your head?
Can you answer “So what?” about something today?
::
*For those who prefer not to retain such details, the approximate values of these byte measurements:
Something tells me that, as funny as they might think this is, SNL doesn’t come out of this one as the shaper of so much public opinion as they did with Gov. Palin. They seem to do better molding our opinions into something we already want them to be.
You have to indulge me the occasional econ/politico piece. Back to our regular programming . . .
At that time Jesus said, “I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children. Yes, Father, for this was your good pleasure. (Matthew 11:25-26)
::
JP and I had a misunderstanding tonight. It started the way it often does. I didn’t say what I meant in a way that sounded at all like what I really meant.
It hurt and frustrated him enough that he couldn’t bring himself to listen to my worse efforts to explain what I wanted to say. We finally reached a truce, but I could tell he was still not happy with me.
The night went on, and he left for a basketball game. Just now, as we both headed to bed, I took one last shot at using the right words to tell him what I wanted to say in the first place.
He looked at me and smiled, then batted those knee-weakening eyes (just a few more years and we’re in for a world of hurt). He put out his hand and said in mock-sweet voice, “Friends.”
Photo by Sigurd Decroos
::
After he and I have rammed heads in the past, I’ve often asked if we’re still friends. Once in a while he’s told me a flat “No.” But he’s most often proven himself to be a guy who has a hard time holding a grudge. Even when he’s been hurt or wronged, he doesn’t want to stop being friends.
He’s pretty good at what we used to call “keeping short accounts.”
He doesn’t like the rift.
Now, he has enough of his mother’s bullheadedness and his father’s, um, bullheadedness that it’s not as though he just caves because he can’t endure the conflict. He’s pretty bullheaded himself, and if he wanted to hang onto it, he would.
But he’s also very generous when it comes to forgiveness.
At the tender age of twelve, he’s already pretty good at giving grace.
Come morning, no matter what creepy thing he thinks I did to him the day before, and no matter how angry he was about it, we’re friends.
::
Sometimes we wonder how we will teach some of these things to our kids.
Trust. Love. Truth telling. Grace. Forgiveness.
Funny thing is I think a lot of times they already know. Part of the passage to adulthood seems to be learning to doubt. Learning to skirt the truth. Learning to hold on to what should be let go.
It’s as though our job is not to teach these things to them, but help them not to unlearn them. To fan the flame of what is already.
I wonder if this is part of what Jesus meant when He said some things are hidden from the wise and learned, and revealed to children.
::
If this is true, I hope JP doesn’t aspire to be too wise.
And perhaps I could do with being a little less learned.
::
At that time Jesus said, “I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children. Yes, Father, for this was your good pleasure. (Matthew 11:25-26)
JP and I had a misunderstanding tonight. It started the way it often does. I didn’t say what I meant in a way that sounded at all like what I really meant.
It hurt and frustrated him enough that he couldn’t bring himself to listen to my worse efforts to explain what I wanted to say. We finally reached a truce, but I could tell he was still not happy with me.
The night went on, and he left for a basketball game. Just now, as we both headed to bed, I took one last shot at using the right words to tell him what I wanted to say in the first place.
He looked at me and smiled, then batted those knee-weakening eyes (just a few more years and we’re in for a world of hurt). He put out his hand and said in mock-sweet voice, “Friends.”
::
After he and I have rammed heads in the past, I’ve often asked if we’re still friends. Once in a while he’s told me a flat “No.” But he’s most often proven himself to be a guy who has a hard time holding a grudge. Even when he’s been hurt or wronged, he doesn’t want to stop being friends.
He’s pretty good at what we used to call “keeping short accounts.”
He doesn’t like the rift.
Now, he has enough of his mother’s bullheadedness and his father’s, um, bullheadedness that it’s not as though he just caves because he can’t endure the conflict. He’s pretty bullheaded himself, and if he wanted to hang onto it, he would.
But he’s also very generous when it comes to forgiveness.
At the tender age of twelve, he’s already pretty good at giving grace.
Come morning, no matter what creepy thing he thinks I did to him the day before, and no matter how angry he was about it, we’re friends.
::
Sometimes we wonder how we will teach some of these things to our kids.
Trust. Love. Truth telling. Grace. Forgiveness.
Funny thing is I think a lot of times they already know. Part of the passage to adulthood seems to be learning to doubt. Learning to skirt the truth. Learning to hold on to what should be let go.
It’s as though our job is not to teach these things to them, but help them not to unlearn them. To fan the flame of what is already.
I wonder if this is part of what Jesus meant when He said some things are hidden from the wise and learned, and revealed to children.
::
If this is true, I hope JP doesn’t aspire to be too wise.
And perhaps I could do with being a little less learned.
protect my life from the threat of the enemy. (Psalm 64:1)
::
We’re kind of a computer household. Perhaps sometimes to a fault. You’d think after spending all day with two computer screens staring me down, I’d be ready for a break. But at the end of the day, there are RSS feeds to read, bills to pay, emails to answer, a job to look for, writing to do and Facebook to mess with.
With three computers to four family members, it’s not uncommon for us to be in the living room together with one at the desktop, two at laptops and one wondering how to break in. We share stories we’re reading, pass on updates from friends, and poke fun at the odd man out (nearly always it’s one of the men – I don’t share well and keep a tight grip on mine).
When my friend stops by, sometimes she brings her own laptop and adds one more to the mix. The other day, I saw something pop up on her screen that caught my attention. (And no, I was not eavesdropping over her shoulder. Honest.) She has a spyware program that scans her system for creepy little code things that wreak havoc in fragile mind of Vista. When it’s done, it pops up a message like this:
::
“Yikes,” I thought. “What about threat number 324,676? Is also she protected against that?”
Then I jumped down off my cynic post and just marveled at the breadth of protection this little bit of scanning software gave her. All those threats just swept away.
324,675 threats.
That’s a lot of threats.
That’s a lot of protection.
::
David said that too. “Listen, God. That’s a lot of threats.”
Folks were slandering him. Guys were always trying to kill him. They were just waiting for their chance to strike. Just look at the kinds of aggressive words David wrote:
Conspiracy
Sharpen tongues like swords
Words like deadly arrows
Shoot from ambush
Shoot suddenly
Evil plans
Plot injustice
Hiding snares
Surely these guys were up to no good. Their plans were for calamity.
David faced a lot of threats. Maybe even 324,675 threats.
::
But before he even started detailing the threats, he spoke to God’s protection. “Protect my life from the threat of the enemy.” He knew God would. He knew God was his refuge. He knew where to find his fortress.
At the end, he announced the sweep was complete.
“Rejoice,” he said. We’re locked down. We’re secure.
All mankind will fear;
they will proclaim the works of God
and ponder what he has done.
Let the righteous rejoice in the LORD
and take refuge in him;
let all the upright in heart praise him! (Psalm 64:9-10)
Threat number one. Or threat number 324,676.
We are protected.
Hear me, O God, as I voice my complaint;
protect my life from the threat of the enemy. (Psalm 64:1)
We’re kind of a computer household. Perhaps sometimes to a fault. You’d think after spending all day with two computer screens staring me down, I’d be ready for a break. But at the end of the day, there are RSS feeds to read, bills to pay, emails to answer, a job to look for, writing to do and Facebook to mess with.
With three computers to four family members, it’s not uncommon for us to be in the living room together with one at the desktop, two at laptops and one wondering how to break in. We share stories we’re reading, pass on updates from friends, and poke fun at the odd man out (nearly always it’s one of the men – I don’t share well and keep a tight grip on mine).
When my friend stops by, sometimes she brings her own laptop and adds one more to the mix. The other day, I saw something pop up on her screen that caught my attention. (And no, I was not eavesdropping over her shoulder. Honest.) She has a spyware program that scans her system for creepy little code things that wreak havoc in fragile mind of Vista. When it’s done, it pops up a message like this:
“Yikes,” I thought. “What about threat number 324,676? Is also she protected against that?”
Then I jumped down off my cynic post and just marveled at the breadth of protection this little bit of scanning software gave her. All those threats just swept away.
324,675 threats.
That’s a lot of threats.
That’s a lot of protection.
::
David said that too. “Listen, God. That’s a lot of threats.”
Folks were slandering him. Guys were always trying to kill him. They were just waiting for their chance to strike. Just look at the kinds of aggressive words David wrote:
Conspiracy
Sharpen tongues like swords
Words like deadly arrows
Shoot from ambush
Shoot suddenly
Evil plans
Plot injustice
Hiding snares
Surely these guys were up to no good. Their plans were for calamity.
David faced a lot of threats. Maybe even 324,675 threats.
::
But before he even started detailing the threats, he spoke to God’s protection. “Protect my life from the threat of the enemy.” He knew God would. He knew God was his refuge. He knew where to find his fortress.
At the end, he announced the sweep was complete.
“Rejoice,” he said. We’re locked down. We’re secure.
All mankind will fear;
they will proclaim the works of God
and ponder what he has done.
Let the righteous rejoice in the LORD
and take refuge in him;
let all the upright in heart praise him! (Psalm 64:9-10)
Thomas said to Him, “Lord, we don’t know where You are going, so how can we know the way?”
Jesus answered, “I am the way, the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you really knew Me, you would know my Father as well. From now on, you do know Him and have seen Him.” (John 14:5-7)
::
I lost my temper today.
I guess maybe that isn’t so unusual. But I did it at work. On the phone.
A little role reversal. Usually it’s me listening to someone else rant on the other end of the line.
The volcano erupted while on the phone with an unnamed government agency. The hapless customer service rep who was assisting me took the brunt of months of irritation after countless, fruitless, calls to this agency.
Here’s my problem. I need the cooperation of this bureaucratic monstrosity in order to resolve a couple of injury claims for some very kind and decent fellows. Each time I call to elicit the needed assistance, a customer service representative gives me a series of steps to follow. I contact the injured parties, they do precisely what I ask them to do (which, incidentally, is exactly what this agency has instructed me to do), and I call again to move forward.
::
Each time, I learn of a different process. Not the process we followed. Not the process they told me to follow. An entirely different process.
Each time, I am assured that I was regrettably misinformed, but that this is, in fact, the correct procedure. The truly correct procedure.
Each time, I am persuaded that I am talking to a competent employee. The only competent employee.
Each time, I am sadly wrong.
::
When I dared question the process, one of these employees, my tour guide through the hurricane in real-time, told me that this taxpayer-funded red tape superstore has “one way, and one way only,” to do things.
One way, and one way only.
Really. (You might read that with one eyebrow slightly raised.)
Would that it were true. But it was not, I explained. Because every time I call, “one way, and one way only” looks more like “forty-seven ways, and ninety-three ways only.”
“One way, and one way only” my eye.
::
After my tantrum, which served only to embarrass me slightly and give my colleagues a few moments of entertainment in an otherwise uneventful day, I had a more reasoned discussion with the representative. Even so, I was disappointed. This call yielded no better results than any previous call.
But the words “one way, and one way only” stayed with me. I so wished it were true.
I recalled Another who had said such an audacious thing. Only in His case, it was completely true. “I am the way, the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.”
Jesus said, “There is one way, and one way only. And by the way, I’m it.”
::
Every time I read the Word, it’s the same. Nobody comes along and changes the required forms. Nobody offers up an alternate road that leads to nowhere.
When Thomas was confused about how to get to where Jesus would be, Jesus didn’t give him an address on the Web where he could find a handy illustrated flow chart with steps 1 through 12B. Unless you really need the chart that goes through step 13C. (Seriously. If you are over age 65, or work in either the insurance or health care industry, you know my pain.) He didn’t add step to hoop or invoke little known regulations and protocols.
He just said there was one way. One way, one way only, and that Thomas was looking right at it. “Want to know how to get to the Father? Want to go where I’m going? It’s Me. I’m it. I’m the only way there.”
When He said “one way and one way only,” He meant it. For today, and for all eternity.
::
It’s not confusing. It’s not designed to generate frustration. It’s not a big tangled and sticky wad of red tape.
It’s one way, plain and simple, and it’s never going to change.
::
Thomas said to Him, “Lord, we don’t know where You are going, so how can we know the way?”
Jesus answered, “I am the way, the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you really knew Me, you would know my Father as well. From now on, you do know Him and have seen Him.” (John 14:5-7)
I lost my temper today.
I guess maybe that isn’t so unusual. But I did it at work. On the phone.
A little role reversal. Usually it’s me listening to someone else rant on the other end of the line.
The volcano erupted while on the phone with an unnamed government agency. The hapless customer service rep who was assisting me took the brunt of months of irritation after countless, fruitless, calls to this agency.
Here’s my problem. I need the cooperation of this bureaucratic monstrosity in order to resolve a couple of injury claims for some very kind and decent fellows. Each time I call to elicit the needed assistance, a customer service representative gives me a series of steps to follow. I contact the injured parties, they do precisely what I ask them to do (which, incidentally, is exactly what this agency has instructed me to do), and I call again to move forward.
::
Each time, I learn of a different process. Not the process we followed. Not the process they told me to follow. An entirely different process.
Each time, I am assured that I was regrettably misinformed, but that this is, in fact, the correct procedure. The truly correct procedure.
Each time, I am persuaded that I am talking to a competent employee. The only competent employee.
Each time, I am sadly wrong.
::
When I dared question the process, one of these employees, my tour guide through the hurricane in real-time, told me that this taxpayer-funded red tape superstore has “one way, and one way only,” to do things.
One way, and one way only.
Really. (You might read that with one eyebrow slightly raised.)
Would that it were true. But it was not, I explained. Because every time I call, “one way, and one way only” looks more like “forty-seven ways, and ninety-three ways only.”
“One way, and one way only” my eye.
::
After my tantrum, which served only to embarrass me slightly and give my colleagues a few moments of entertainment in an otherwise uneventful day, I had a more reasoned discussion with the representative. Even so, I was disappointed. This call yielded no better results than any previous call.
But the words “one way, and one way only” stayed with me. I so wished it were true.
I recalled Another who had said such an audacious thing. Only in His case, it was completely true. “I am the way, the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.”
Jesus said, “There is one way, and one way only. And by the way, I’m it.”
::
Every time I read the Word, it’s the same. Nobody comes along and changes the required forms. Nobody offers up an alternate road that leads to nowhere.
When Thomas was confused about how to get to where Jesus would be, Jesus didn’t give him an address on the Web where he could find a handy illustrated flow chart with steps 1 through 12B. Unless you really need the chart that goes through step 13C. (Seriously. If you are over age 65, or work in either the insurance or health care industry, you know my pain.) He didn’t add step to hoop or invoke little known regulations and protocols.
He just said there was one way. One way, one way only, and that Thomas was looking right at it. “Want to know how to get to the Father? Want to go where I’m going? It’s Me. I’m it. I’m the only way there.”
When He said “one way and one way only,” He meant it.
For today, and for all eternity.
::
It’s not confusing. It’s not designed to generate frustration. It’s not a big tangled and sticky wad of red tape.
It’s one way, plain and simple, and it’s never going to change.
I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed, but will have sufficient courage so that now as always Christ will be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death. For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain. If I am to go on living in the body, this will mean fruitful labor for me. Yet what shall I choose? I do not know! (Philippians 1:20-22)
::
“Either way, I win.”
One of the dear saints in my church told of her upcoming surgery to clear what even she would call a ginormous aneurysm from way too close to her heart. The surgery is risky, and complicated by other troublesome health conditions. “I’d like to continue on,” she said. “But if I don’t, well, that’s o.k. too. I know where I’m going. And I’ll see Jack again. I haven’t seen my husband since I was, what, 35 years old.”
Either way, she wins.
Either way, a glorious outcome.
Two such excellent choices. One hardly knows which to choose.
::
This gentle warrior would tell us of the ultimate win-win scenario. And while I nod in agreement, I marvel at how she has grasped this in such a tangible way.
For me, it’s much more abstract. I don’t have a daily sense my finite condition. I read in God’s word that our lives are but a vapor, that we are as grass that withers and fades. And of course I agree. But all the while I agree, I don’t see that vapor dissipating today or tomorrow. I expect that the green grass of summer will hold out a few more seasons before it fades.
Would I nod so readily if I sensed that withering to be closer at hand?
::
Paul wrestled with the choice (though it was not his to make). “What shall I choose? I do not know!” He saw the beauty in living on in his body for he knew how God would continue to use him mightily. Yet the tug of kick starting his eternity in the heavenly realms had a certain appeal.
It left him wondering.
What’s the better choice? Which will I love more?
Which will exalt my Redeemer the most?
::
While we may not sense that the choice rests so closely on the horizon, it’s still important that our grip on this mist we call life is not so tight. Not that all the clenching in the world could make us any more able to hold the vapor in our fist.
Holding tight makes withering grass crumble.
::
Will I see the joy in both options today?
And will you join me in praying for this sweet saint and the challenges she faces in the days ahead?
::
I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed, but will have sufficient courage so that now as always Christ will be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death. For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain. If I am to go on living in the body, this will mean fruitful labor for me. Yet what shall I choose? I do not know! (Philippians 1:20-22)
“Either way, I win.”
One of the dear saints in my church told of her upcoming surgery to clear what even she would call a ginormous aneurysm from way too close to her heart. The surgery is risky, and complicated by other troublesome health conditions. “I’d like to continue on,” she said. “But if I don’t, well, that’s o.k. too. I know where I’m going. And I’ll see Jack again. I haven’t seen my husband since I was, what, 35 years old.”
Either way, she wins.
Either way, a glorious outcome.
Two such excellent choices. One hardly knows which to choose.
::
This gentle warrior would tell us of the ultimate win-win scenario. And while I nod in agreement, I marvel at how she has grasped this in such a tangible way.
For me, it’s much more abstract. I don’t have a daily sense my finite condition. I read in God’s word that our lives are but a vapor, that we are as grass that withers and fades. And of course I agree. But all the while I agree, I don’t see that vapor dissipating today or tomorrow. I expect that the green grass of summer will hold out a few more seasons before it fades.
Would I nod so readily if I sensed that withering to be closer at hand?
::
Paul wrestled with the choice (though it was not his to make). “What shall I choose? I do not know!” He saw the beauty in living on in his body for he knew how God would continue to use him mightily. Yet the tug of kick starting his eternity in the heavenly realms had a certain appeal.
It left him wondering.
What’s the better choice? Which will I love more?
Which will exalt my Redeemer the most?
::
While we may not sense that the choice rests so closely on the horizon, it’s still important that our grip on this mist we call life is not so tight. Not that all the clenching in the world could make us any more able to hold the vapor in our fist.
Holding tight makes withering grass crumble.
::
Will I see the joy in both options today?
And will you join me in praying for this sweet saint and the challenges she faces in the days ahead?
MAKING HEADROOMchronicles a year (or so) of weekly trips to a monastery,
where words are spoken slowly,
as though the point is to hear them —
not to see how many can fit into an
already bustling space. It’s the kind
of place where the next thing is glad
to wait as long as it takes for an old man
to shuffle across the room.
I learn to meet him in the quiet
so I can also meet him in the clamor.
And when the whole nation reached the other side, Joshua sent twelve men, one from each tribe, back into the river. Each picked up an enormous stone, heaved it onto his shoulder, and hauled it back to camp on the other side. 
And then I thought back to the 1980s, before the dawn of time, when the personal computer was just rolling onto the landscape. Dad had one in his office. I won’t tell you what it cost; that’s his business. But I can tell you that for that same money today, I could probably buy new computers for all my neighbors. This cutting edge machine was a dual-floppy system. Remember those? 
Two disk drives. 
Soon enough, a whopping ten megabyte internal hard drive replaced one of the floppy drives. And as technology careened along at its breakneck pace, disk size plummeted from eight-inch to five and a quarter and at last crash landed with the three and a half-inch hard sided disks. We finally ditched the floppies altogether for the high capacity CDs. 
Each time, I learn of a different process. Not the process we followed. Not the process they told me to follow. An entirely different process.
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