None seemed to feel
when the earth turned
over and spun
the other way

Sitting in rooms
I wanted
to leave I said
words I wanted
to stifle, heard
answers I wanted
to  swallow
like bad medicine
spewing back upstream

When bedrock pitched
to change gears
rapids tore open
and split me in two

And the rest turned
on one heel to keep face
to the wind and
never felt it change

::

Photo: Infinity by Lynn Cummings

When David, as messed up in his sin as the day is long, sought to make his own way to redemption, he dug his hole deeper instead of digging his way out. To cover himself, he sent the husband of his newly manipulated mistress back to to war, with orders for the commander to put this man at the front of the battle where surely he would find the fighting to be most fierce.

It was David’s intent that Uriah be killed.

And so he was.

Curious then, it strikes me, how King Jehoshaphat formed the front line when he assembled his troops to defend a nation against an onslaught of vicious — and superior — armies.

We do not know what to do

The coming invasion would be no ordinary battle. It appeared it would be their last. When word reached Jehoshaphat that no less than three armies had amassed and marched closer by the hour, a people in the past known for rebellion and division came together in order to seek the Lord.

Devastatingly aware they were no match for the encroaching forces, they stood as one — from warrior to wee small — and told God We do not know what to do, but our eyes are upon You.

Rather than gathering arms, sharpening swords, polishing shields, they set their collective face toward God, empty of themselves but intent on knowing and following His purpose.

Did Jehoshaphat just define trust with these few desperate words?

They knew plenty, this people. Even about going to war. But though possessing knowledge they rendered themselves without and laid themselves open before One Who simply is to know. Without hesitation they fixed their gaze and declared aloud, We must see You.

We do not know what else to do.

I can look long out my kitchen window and see small town serenity — kids running and squealing on the school playground, a black lab jumping and panting in her pen at the sight of  a collie on the road, a tractor lumbering by on its way back to the field.

No troops in formation.

But the battle goes on all the same. And not many days in a row pass when my head doesn’t drop splat onto open pages at the bedside while I muster words like I don’t know what to do. My eyes are on You.

I don’t have it, I’m often left to say. I need You to do this thing.

The Lord heard them, He saw them looking, and sent word through the prophet to face the enemy without fear. For the battle is not yours, he would say, but God’s.

Showing up

They rose the next day and set out, charged by the prophet to just show up. God had the rest. Their job, the people, was to show up, take positions and stand firm.

Armies awaited them, weapons at the ready, set to destroy.

Then Jehoshaphat, in what could as easily be considered madness as faith, moved his troops back just a bit to make room for his new front line. There, where the fighting would be most fierce, death and mayhem most certain, he put not his fittest warriors but mere musicians.

He directed a group of singers to the front line to lead the defenders not in hand-to-hand combat, but in worship.

Early in the morning they left for the Desert of Tekoa. As they set out, Jehoshaphat stood and said, “Listen to me, Judah and people of Jerusalem! Have faith in the LORD your God and you will be upheld; have faith in his prophets and you will be successful.”  After consulting the people, Jehoshaphat appointed men to sing to the LORD and to praise him for the splendor of his holiness as they went out at the head of the army, saying:

“Give thanks to the LORD, for his love endures forever.” (2 Chronicles 20:20-21)

As the people, led by “unarmed” musicians, declared the splendor of His holiness, the armies that drooled in anticipation of their slaughter fell upon one another. And the army of Judah, held together by that ever-enduring love of God, lifted voices only, not a single sword or bow, and watched every last enemy soldier cut to ribbons by his very own allies.

So great was this destruction of the enemy, the one who sought Judah’s undoing, that it took a handful of days for God’s people to retrieve all the plunder.

Leading with worship

So this is how we fight the battle, the day-to-day, the sudden onslaught.

We worship.

We declare His unfailing love.

We proclaim His holiness.

We rejoice in His mercy.

And we exult in His goodness.

Conventional weapons, we set these to the back.

Worship is not reserved for preparation only, nor limited to celebration of the victory.

It is the very means by which the battle is waged.

Into the place of fiercest fighting, of greatest danger, we rush with loudest adoration.

::

Photo: Pawns by Jolka Igolka via Stock.xchng

I look forward to it, really.

She charges through the double doors from the foyer into the the sanctuary thrashing her walker. Though it’s designed to aid her steps, it seems no more than a pesky obstruction to the day’s Mission: Critical.

“Helllooo,” she calls once she’s barely past the threshold.

“Good morning to you,” I shout back, though we’re nearly arm’s length away. I made the mistake one morning of not responding, lost as I was in my work in the media booth. I thought she’d spoken to someone else.

She hadn’t.

She let me know.

I haven’t missed a Sunday morning greeting since.

Now, when she comes in before the rest of the Sunday School crowd and makes her way to the library to reload her books for the week, I always stop dropping images and text into their boxes and turn to visit. And I make sure I have my poker face firmly in place. Because I never know what’s coming next.

A few weeks ago, it went something like this:

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“It’s me, Lyla. Just like always,” I smiled.

“Oh. Well. It’s just that you look so . . . strange.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll get a haircut this week.”

And then the next week:

“Who are you?”

“It’s me, Lyla, just like always.”

“Always? Are you always here? What time do you come here?”

“Usually around 7:30 or so.”

“Why? What do you do in that little space so early in the morning?”

“I’m getting the slides ready for the music and Pastor’s sermon this morning.”

“Oh. Well. It’s just that you look so . . . strange.”

“I know. I’m working on that haircut.”

By last week, I’d worked out the haircut thing and didn’t have to introduce myself. She stopped her march to the library abruptly, pausing to look at the screen where I still had a slide hanging to remind parents to pick up a devotional booklet for their young kids.

“Oh dear. I’m afraid I haven’t read mine lately,” she said, shaking her head. “You know, I can’t seem to do it.”

“Well,” I said, “it seems to me that you have it all right where you need it.” And I tapped my chest.

She leaned her frailty hard into the walker and hung her head. “Oh, I just don’t know anymore.”

::

I watched her shoulders slump, and remembered this sweet but feisty character. Once when I was on the church’s staff she recruited me as her co-conspirator to break into the pastor’s office to retrieve a telephone number she was sure he had. She pressed me when I reported back after my covert operation that I’d glanced at his desk and didn’t see it.

“Well, did you look in his desk drawers then?”

“No, I didn’t think I should,” I said.

“Good. I wouldn’t have either. But I wanted to know if you would.”

And I thought back to the time we brought her apples from our tree because I didn’t know what to do with them and baking brought her so much joy.

We had no idea she’d be calling hours later insisting that we come to her apartment right now to pick up those nine pies because she needed her cooling racks for the next nine, and how soon could we pick up that next batch because she had things to do you know?

She’s preached me Jesus more times than I can count.

And I’m pretty sure I’ve felt the earth tremble under my feet when she’s asked God to move.

She’s a rock. The last standing of a generation of her family that piled stones together as the foundation of my church.

::

To hear her exhale resignation there at the library door, held up by an apparatus she despises, my heart may have paused for a beat.

“Hey,” I said, “You listen to me. It’s here. Right here.” I made a fist and rapped my chest hard this time. “You know that.”

She looked back up, met me with weary eyes and said, “Yes, well, maybe it is still in my heart.”

And with that, she rolled the walker into the library.

I turned back to the keyboard and continued typing where I’d left off.

Be still, my soul:
thy God doth undertake
To guide the future,
as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence
let nothing shake;
All now mysterious
shall be bright at last.

I looked out at the congregation that morning, my perch giving me a rare view of the lot of them from the back. I saw silver hair and no hair, pony tails and buzz cuts, blue jeans and t-shirts, dresses and suits, walkers, canes and sippy cups.

And I remembered how much I love my church, a family with whom I’ve walked through fire and flood. We’re small, and we’re regular folks, a mix of farmer and doctor, educator and businessman, stay-at-home and work-away.

We still have pews, though they’re padded. Our praise team is fledgling, staffed with teenagers and retirees and amateur musicians who just love to worship their King. We have one service, and it’s still on Sunday morning. My pastor wears a tie instead of ripped jeans and a v-neck. And we start every service from the hymnal.

We’re not hip.

And that’s okay.

Because if my church were hip, I know one humble servant I’d never see on a Sunday morning.

::

Photo: Lonely Soul by Wendy Swallis via Stock.xchng
Be Still My Soul, Katharina Von Schlegel, Public Domain

Last summer while on a pilgrimage to our daughter’s home in the northern suburbs, Bette and I pulled up behind a Prius, Toyota’s hybrid entry in the development and marketing of greener vehicles. (If it was last weekend, it probably would have been parked on the shoulder, now that Toyota’s recall problems are in the news.)

It wasn’t the hybrid that caught our eye, however. It was the vanity plate on the vehicle.

We often get a smile from some of the plates that we spy while others challenge us to try to figure out what the owner is trying to tell the world. I’m convinced that many times, the significance of the abbreviated, obtuse and hidden message is only obvious and important to the owner of the vanity plate. But the plate we saw was very plain and left no doubt as to the message.

It read I TITHE.

We spotted this plate in a heavily traveled, traffic-delaying intersection known locally as the Devil’s Triangle. I don’t believe that there is any spiritual significance in that but you never know (cue the Twilight Zone theme).

::

Tithing is one of those areas of the Christian faith that gets kicked around a lot. There is a tension between a legalistic requirement imposed on Christians or the tithe as a starting point.

When I was in college back in the early 60s, an evangelist from Missouri became the focal point of many discussions, not only in our dorm but among many in the brotherhood of churches with which he was affiliated. His motto was MXIII, a Roman numeral acronym for Malachi 3:10.

“Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the LORD of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.”( KJV)

Back in the 60s, the King James was the translation du jour. It was believed that using another translation was greasing the skids to perdition. I heard it said more than once by some in our brotherhood (and not totally tongue-in-cheek) that if the “King James was good enough for Paul and Silas it’s good enough for me.”  But the text of the NIV is a little clearer:

“Bring the full tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house. And thereby, put me to the test, says the Lord of Hosts, if I will not open the windows of heaven for you and pour down for you a blessing until there is no more need.”

A B, as he was fondly known, was not a proponent of the Prosperity Gospel, but he was a strong advocate of the tithe as an absolute minimum for Christians. The discussions centered around whether Christians were commanded and obligated to observe this particular element of the Old Covenant, or if it was done away with and supplanted by the New Covenant.

Sorry, I’m not here to resolve that issue today.

::

As a CPA for over 25 years, I assisted in the preparation of thousands of income tax returns for clients. I saw the whole gamut of reported contributions by Christians from across the denominational spectrum as well as taxpayers who claimed little or no affiliation or interest in the things of God. (Our pastor recently cited statistics that Christians give somewhere between 2 and 3 percent.) Two of them stand out in my memory.

The first was a businessman in a small town in South Dakota. During the week between Christmas and New Years, he would drive the 35 miles from his home so we could review his contribution records and his detailed income for the year. We would total wages, interest income and other income items and determine as accurately as possible what his Adjusted Gross Income for income tax reporting purposes would be.

We would then total his giving to his church, parachurch missions, support for local community needs and other charitable giving. If it didn’t total at least 10 percent of his AGI, it was his practice to write a check before December 31, usually to his church, to bring it up to 10 percent.

He was not an outspoken advocate for tithing and he was not rich by any stretch of the imagination but for him tithing (ten percent) was one of the benchmarks for him and his family in their faith journey as followers of Jesus.

The second individual had retired from a management position in the financial services sector with a comfortable retirement benefit. He was also the beneficiary of a family trust that distributed to him a significant amount of income each year. He felt extremely blessed and his substantial charitable giving to his church and other causes well exceeded the so-called standard of the tithe. In fact, his annual giving exceeded the limits imposed by the IRS on deductibility of contributions in any given year. That is, he did not receive a tax benefit for some of his contributions each year and he didn’t care.

::

For both of these individuals, giving was not governed by some legalistic check list promoted from the pulpit or imposed by congregational leadership. Rather, their thankful hearts made a sincere response to the blessings God had bestowed upon them.

And knowing them as I did over the many years of our professional relationship, neither of them would have ever considered driving around the Twin Cities with such a license plate.

In Luke 18, Jesus relates a parable, comparing a Pharisee and Tax Collector.

“Two men went up into the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee, standing by himself, prayed thus: God, I thank you that I am not like other men, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give tithes of all that I get. But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even lift his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’” Luke 18:10-13 (NIV)

Had Caesar and the Roman government made them available, I suspect the Pharisee would have had one of tehse plates prominently displayed on his chariot. Or maybe even more than one so he could say “I’m not a sinner” in Hebrew, Aramaic, Greek and Latin.

::

Christians must ever be on guard against being drawn into the lodge hall of the Pharisees. We want the world to know that we are a redeemed people, revealed daily by how we live.

But we can’t do it by wearing a sign that says I TITHE nor by a fanfare that sounds as we drop our offerings into the plate.

We must ever be vigilant against the enticements of the one who would separate us from our Heavenly Father through pride, self-promotion and hypocrisy.

::

One other observation: While I was not technically a tax collector during my working years as a CPA, I was a cog in the U S system of voluntary tax collection. And, although I was never vilified by my clients or neighbors, I feel a certain kinship with those the King James called Publicans. As a societal group they were despised, but the three that we know something about had many admirable qualities (Matthew, Zacchaeus and the tax collector in Luke 18) and we all would do well to emulate them.

::

You can read more posts from my dad the sort-of publican here.

When God exhaled through the pen of the writer of Judges, just what joint and marrow did He think to divide?

My eyes burn from watching Him brandish the blade with wild flourishes in the final chapters, and I consider that yes, it’s living and active. And of course it’s useful for teaching and training in righteousness.

But really.

Must it have been so grisly?

And to what end?

::

Uneasiness inches up like waves slapping at my feet until I am soaked through. Were this gruesome narrative playing out on a theater screen, I would have to cover my eyes if not walk out altogether.

The story has woven knots of my inside parts. And yet, because it speaks from thin white pages that once twinkled with gold edges, I cannot look away. I cannot mask eyes and ears well enough to escape it.

So I dive deep into it, past the teasing waves. I’m ready to come up for air, but I still don’t know what to make of it.

Today, let me recap events while I catch my breath. I’m afraid that to start any other way would be to chop the concubine into parts all over again. There’s time to break it apart later. (And you can always read it for yourself in Judges 19-21.)

::

In those days Israel had no king.

The statement both precedes and follows this account, echoing the writer’s lament throughout the book that folks just did what seemed right to them. How this all seemed right to anybody, that part goes right past me.

The story begins with a Levite and his concubine. Following her unfaithfulness to him, she returns home to her father. Some months later, he moves toward her in reconciliation, traveling to her father’s home to bring her back. It feels, just for a second, like Hosea and Gomer.

His father-in-law welcomes him, and he stays a few days. And then, at the hospitable man’s urging, a few days more.

The Levite departs for home late in the day with his servant, his concubine and a couple of donkeys. When it comes time to stop for the night, he dismisses his servant’s suggestion that they bed down in near Jebus, not wanting to stay the night with pagans. They traveled on instead to Gibeah, in Benjamin, where they believe they will be safer among their own people.

They stop in the town square and receive nothing but a cold shoulder from their brethren there until an older gentleman comes through and invites them to stay with him.

While they dine with the man, the locals stop over and demand that the host usher his guest out to them for sex. (Imagine the treatment he’d have received had they slept among pagans instead.) Horrified, his host refuses. Not horrified, he offers up his own virgin daughter and shoves the Levite’s concubine into the night for them instead.

It no longer feels like Hosea. Now it bears a stomach-churning resemblance to Sodom.

The men of the city assault the woman all night long, finally releasing her at dawn. Battered and violated, she finds her way back through the city streets only to collapse, dead, at the old man’s door.

::

Outraged, the Levite carts the dead woman home on his donkey. There, he cuts her into twelve pieces to demonstrate the brutality she suffered. He sends one to each of the tribes in his demand for justice from the men of Gibeah.

Benjamin will not participate, as the Gibeans are their own. And so the house of Israel wars with itself, eleven tribes fighting against Benjamin over this horrible act.

The eleven tribes suffer heavy losses, but decimate Benjamin except 600 fighters who flee to the desert. The remaining tribes now grieve the loss of their brethren and and worry the tribe will vanish completely. But it’s a conundrum, since they have all sworn not to let their women marry a Benjaminite.

In a stroke of genius, they discover one tribe did not send representation to the council to take this oath. They attack Jabesh Gilead, killing all but the 400 virgins. These 400, now available for Benjamin, are not enough for the 600 men, so the other 200 single men go off to the annual festival at Shiloh, hide in the vineyards and snatch up brides for themselves from amongst the dancing girls.

And this, we learn, is what happens when everyone does what is right in his own eyes.

::

Stay with me. There’s not a word in the Word that God didn’t give us on purpose.

There’s something for us here.

And we’ll get to it, one piece at a time.

::

Photo credit: Sword (http://www.sxc.hu/profile/bodysoulsp)

“Open it right down the middle. You’ll always land in the Psalms,” she said as we sat knee to knee. “Let’s go, Kidlet. Read to me.”

How blessed is the man who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked,
Nor stand in the path of sinners,
Nor sit in the seat of scoffers!

But his delight is in the law of the LORD,
And in His law he meditates day and night.

I looked up from the tattered pages. Grandma’s head lolled to the side and she began to snore.

Looks like my work here is done. I closed the Psalms back against Job and watched her from the corner of my eye as I started out of my chair. Sure enough, she snapped her head up and ordered my behind back into the seat.

“Find it again — the first Psalm. And don’t stop reading,” she barked. “I’m awake.” For a split second, the corner of her mouth twitched into a knowing smirk.

And then it was gone.

Grandma’s sleeping sickness seemed to strike at moments predictable enough that we grandkids thought we had it timed pretty well. A couple of verses, if we played it right, and we’d be out of the chair and back outside petting the neighbor’s St. Bernard, pestering Grandpa or hunting for agates along the gravel shoulder on the highway.

But me? Clumsy. Seems I always woke her when I closed the big book.

I lost track of how many times I read those first declarations by the Psalmist to Grandma. The words etched themselves in my mind long before I could tell you what was a scoffer and why he would sit where he did.

He will be like a tree firmly planted by streams of water,
Which yields its fruit in its season
And its leaf does not wither;
And in whatever he does, he prospers.

Every summer, Mom and Dad loaded us on the Greyhound bus in downtown Minneapolis and we trekked north on Highway 169 to spend a week or so on the shores of Mille Lacs Lake with Grandpa and Grandma.

When they weren’t carting us around to church meetings or real estate deals, we swam. Grandma put on her bathing suit and floated halfway across the lake before we’d ever see her again. Meanwhile, Grandpa covered himself with leeches, I think just to see if we’d scream.

When it came to be lunchtime, we’d all hop in the car and drive to town to dine at the Jolly Viking restaurant. Grandpa knew how to treat us right: he let us order anything we wanted off the menu. (As long as it wasn’t more than a dollar.)

You’d think Mom and Dad never bought me a thread of new clothing the way I looked forward to the yearly trip to the Indian mission down the road to pick out a new outfit. And at the end of a good day of fishing and swimming, we’d go to Garrison after dark for an ice cream cone at the drive-in.

When I was in college, Grandma told me the Michael W. Smith cassette I listened to was the devil’s music, never mind that all he said was “Great is the Lord.”

Still, she’d have none of it.

This surprised me. Not just because the Psalms said things like that, but because Grandma used my sister and cousin and me to pave the way for contemporary Christian artists long before Larry Norman and Keith Green were household names. Jeremiah was a Bullfrog made an easy transition to worship music, as long as you changed the word “wine” to “orange juice” and propped three little girls onto the platform dressed in their mission finest to sing it.

The wicked are not so,
But they are like chaff which the wind drives away.
Therefore the wicked will not stand in the judgment,
Nor sinners in the assembly of the righteous.

Grandma and Grandpa watched their programs on the t.v., side by side in their recliners. They had a special kind of love, the kind that was open and honest.

Really open. And really honest.

The kind of open and honest that could confuse a kid who wasn’t so accustomed to open and honest at upper decibels all the time.

After one open and honest discussion, Grandpa went outside to tinker with his barbecue grill. We followed him out and asked him why he’d been picking on Grandma. Turns out he thought she did her best work when she was angry, and he’d seen some cobwebs that needed tending to.

He just thought it might be a good time to rile her up a little.

But Grandpa wasn’t afraid to show his appreciation, either. The guys around my dinner table can still be heard quoting Grandpa after a good meal.

Good taters, Margaret. Them were some pretty good taters.

For the LORD knows the way of the righteous,
But the way of the wicked will perish.

I never admitted it then, but I’m pretty sure I liked reading to Grandma.

Even if she did doze on and off.

And even if I didn’t understand the words.

Maybe, just maybe, I woke her on purpose, so I could keep going.

She taught me to draw, and she taught me to pray, and she taught me to read the Psalms.

Late Tuesday afternoon, Grandma floated across the lake one last time. This time, she floated into the waiting arms of her Savior.

Jesus, and Grandpa, welcomed her home.

Well done, faithful servant. Them were some pretty good taters.

::

Photos: My Bible, open to Psalm 1 where years ago I jotted “Grandma Margaret.”
Grandma and Grandpa, Laura and me at Brim View Beach Resort on Lake Mille Lacs in 1965. (I know, nice skirt and leg kick.)

But gosh. Samson’s parents strike me as about as unzipped as Ferris Bueller’s mom and dad.

Later on they bear an awkard resemblance to Veruca Salt’s father in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. But that’s to tackle another day.

When Samson’s screenplay was scripted, somehow or other his parents slipped into that two-dimensional caricature of parents who are endearing but just a little empty-headed.

Cute but clueless.

But they mean well.

::

When the angel first appeared to Mrs. Manoah, their visit was brief and cordial. He brought news, gave instruction, and moved on. Most times when an angel had a face-to-face with a person, the first words out of the angel’s mouth amount to “Fear not.” Angels almost always started their conversations with words of comfort to a terrified soul.

Not this time. With Samson’s mother, there was none of the usual gasping, panicking and falling onto face at standing in the presence of an angel. They just took care of business.

He left and she hurried off to tell her husband. She at least had the sense to know he was a man of God, but she stopped short of recognizing his true stature.

Then the woman went to her husband and told him, “A man of God came to me. He looked like an angel of God, very awesome. I didn’t ask him where he came from, and he didn’t tell me his name. (Judges 13:6)

Well, Honey, he sure did look like everything I ever imagined an angel to be.  But I don’t know. I’m thinking prophet. Not angel.

To their credit, they took his words to heart. The angel told Samson’s mother she would bear a son though she could not, and that they were to raise him as a Nazirite, set apart to God in the most set apart way a guy could be (we’ll also tackle that another day). This boy would be the beginning of Israel’s deliverance from the Philistines.

Manoah knew this was big, and wanted to get it right. He wanted to talk to this man himself.

So he prayed. He begged God to send the man back and make sure they got it straight.

This is a prayer God loves to answer. Help me know what You want.

This is a prayer He doesn’t think twice about.

True to form, God sent the angel back.

::

The angel ran through the plan again, same as before.

Set him apart.

No wine, no dead bodies, no haircuts.

In preparation, Samson’s mother was not to eat anything unclean nor drink any fermented beverage.

Ok, got it.

They were so grateful for this news they pleaded with the angel to stay for a meal. He agreed to stay, but not to eat, and urged them instead to prepare a burnt sacrifice to the Lord.

These folks may have been a bit dizzy, but they never were doubtful. They seemed unaffected by the presence of this angel, awesome though he was, but never found reason to doubt that his message was true.

::

They prepared the sacrifice, and much like the angel who spoke to Gideon (perhaps one and the same?), he disappeared into the flame and they did not see him again.

Then, finally, the shock and awe struck home. In a word, Manoah freaked.

Suddenly, he realized this was no man of God. This was no prophet. This was the Lord’s angel.

And they were done for.

“We are doomed to die!” he said to his wife. “We have seen God!” (Judges 13:22)

They were a little slow, sure. But when the dawning came, it pulled the ground out from under them. When they realized it was God, it blew the doors right out of the house.

::

I see the Buellers, leaning over the altar with their dopey grins, when the horror crosses their faces like the curtains opening wide.

Ahhhh! We’ve seen God! We’re going to die!

And has become my custom as I plod along in Judges, as soon as I start to make that clucking sound with my tongue and shake my head at a character, I see me.

Painfully, honestly me.

How often I see something of God. I see His mighty work. And I go all Katie Bueller and just don’t get it. I give God the patronizing grin, nod along as though I get what He’s doing.

Even though I don’t.

And then, Bam!

He shows me.

He shows me His plan.

He shows me Him.

And then I don’t nod. I don’t grin.

I fall flat.

::

How long?

Twenty-one chapters long.

I just looked.

I just flipped to the end of Judges to see how much longer this was going to be. If I’m on chapter 13 now, that leaves eight more. So then what, another four months?

I have a Bible in 90 Days. I started it about a year ago. A 365-day year, not a 90-day year. I gave it up sometime after the first 90 days when I don’t think I was through Genesis yet.

The point was to simply read. Not delve into study or hop off along rabbit trails. The point was to get a cohesive picture of the whole Word.

But I’m not wired that way. I couldn’t do it. Oh, I read alright. But sometimes I have trouble turning the page. And not turning the page often enough makes it impossible to jog along at a twelve-page per day clip. So I went back to my trusty, worn, marked up Thompson Chain.

::

I was talking about this to a friend on MSN Messenger tonight (I know, so old fashioned). She asked what I was doing, and I responded that I was reading Samson. “For the ninetieth time,” I said, lamenting that I don’t seem capable of just reading.

I went on to explain that I really want a copy of Andy Deane’s Learn to Study the Bible because of the fresh approaches to Bible study he offers. I don’t think my usual method made it into his book of forty ways. I tried to explain how I go at it:

Sometimes the conversation goes downhill fast. (But it’s proof positive that if a spider really bit me the other day, it would have been a long time before anybody got me any help.)

Before we started playing word games, what I said, very flippantly, struck me. I read along until I trip over something, get knocked out and bleed.

I’ve struggled here lately, wrestling hard to get even a couple of posts up a week. Judges is doing a number on me. I’ve stumbled over some really big rocks. And it seems, for a time, it knocks me out.

And some of these things, some of them have drawn blood. Some of them have cut pretty deep into me.

It’s been bloody.

His hands and my hands are bloody and there’s good work going on.

::

Jephthah out of the way, I thought I might get a break. I played around with the shibboleth of chapter 12 a while. Honestly, it just cracked me up (read it, it’s funny). Writing on it would have required watching the 1956 version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers and since I cancelled my NetFlix subscription, I just couldn’t get my hands on it soon enough.

Then I started reading Samson’s story. Another guy brushed over by the writer of Hebrews — clearly a story of great faith but with a lot of rocks to jig around.

I’m not getting a break.

Usually when I need to step away from it, I can fall back on tales of spiders or baseballs or work. But not this time. It’s not there.

So it’s just Samson and me (and his indulgent — and a little goofy — parents, his girlfriend, Philistines, Delilah, a lion, Philistines, a prostitute and Philistines) for the duration.

And as though to encourage me further about the ease with which I will finish Judges, I was reminded tonight of how the book ends. The single Benjamites hide in the bushes while the girls from Shiloh dance in the annual festival. One by one, each catches a dancing girl and carries her off to be his wife.

Nice.

It’s no wonder the book ends with the words, “everyone did as he saw fit.”

I can’t wait.

::

I invite you to peek through the next few chapters of Judges, and share my pain. But to kick off Samson and Me, I’ll first treat you to Delilah — The Samson Version by Tim Hawkins.

Despite my Spanish fluency, I do call for an interpreter when I’m working with a Spanish speaker and a formal statement is required. It protects me from later concerns that I misunderstood or misspoke due to the language and also protects me from being strangled by an English speaking transcriptionist who cannot understand a word of it.

The process goes like this:

I speak to the client in English.

The interpreter interprets what I said into Spanish.

The client responds in Spanish.

The interpreter interprets what he said into English.

Repeat.

Well, that’s how it’s supposed to work. The process can get a little wild, especially when the Spanish speaker also has some level of English proficiency. It got a little crazy that way yesterday.

::

I had a fellow on the phone with some limited English skills. We were carrying on in the hybrid language known as Spanglish. (For me it was the mixed language CasteYankee, since it’s really Castellano that I speak.)

When it became apparent he wasn’t fully tracking with me in English and we’d also need a statement, I dialed up the language line.

Interpreter connected on a conference call, we began.

I introduced myself and we completed the formalities. I asked for a description of the accident. I took my notes in my random CasteYankee mix of language scratched out on paper that only I would understand later.

I had el derecho. Ella no esperó en el green light and dobló en frente de my truck. La choqué. No pude hacer nothing.

Pretty soon the circus started. I asked my question, the interpreter interpreted, the gentleman answered. Without waiting for the translation back, I followed up on his answer. The interpreter tried to interject, but I was way beyond her by then.

We got back on track, following the routine ask-interpret-answer-interpret pattern. Until I asked a question and he answered it before she had a chance to translate.

One or the other of us trampled on the interpreter so many times while she tried to do her job she started just laying back to wait, hoping to avoid the inevitable bruising.

He told a joke.

I started laughing. Way before I should have caught the punchline.

She quickly tried to translate for me, surely so I didn’t look like such a ninny laughing at words she didn’t believe I understood.

I responded in Spanish to his joke.

And on it went.

I began to worry that it would be a complete disaster should we ever need the statement transcribed, and my colleagues would never let me live it down. Then I realized I had neglected to turn on the recorder.

I didn’t have the heart to tell the interpreter we’d have to do it all again.

::

Communicating via an interpreter is a protracted process and typically takes well over double the time necessary to have the same conversation in a single language. It works great when my client speaks Somali or Mandarin or some other language I do not.

But with Spanish, my own comprehension gets in the way.

I struggle to rely on the interpreter, and barge in on her conversation with the client. I prevent her from doing her job and turn the whole interaction into a jumbled mess of a little English here, a little Spanish there, until no one even remembers who was talking and what the question was.

I do some interpreting myself. I should know better than to treat her that way.

::

My own comprehension.

My awareness. My sensibilities.

I think a lot of them. I trust them.

Perhaps sometimes more than anything else.

I get to thinking I’m just so doggone smart.

As I consider in recent days my times of prayer, of communion with the Father, this comes to mind. How my own comprehension, my own sensibilities, my own gut counteract the working of His Spirit as He prompts me to pray in a given direction.

In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express. And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints in accordance with God’s will. (Romans 8:26-27)

When I pull up a chair at the conference table for my business meeting with the Father, I have notepad in hand, agenda prepared. I’ve done my homework. I’m ready.

I know what needs praying for.

I matter of factly notify the Father of items of interest, matters that require His attention, and suggest reasonable timelines for completion. I can provide flowcharts and have the emails to provide the paper trail if requested.

But if I turn aside from the white board for just a second, I might see that I don’t know squat.

That’s what He said.

We do not know what we ought to pray for.

We do not know.

::

The Spirit helps us in our weakness. He intercedes for us in accordance with God’s will.

When will I ever learn that God never called me to my knees because of my brilliance? Because of my comprehension? My sensibilities?

He called me to my knees because that reflects my true lack, my utter bankruptcy before Him.

I don’t even know how to pray.

And I don’t know that yet.

I drag the Holy Spirit onto the three-way call, and leave Him ducking and covering His head with His arms to keep from being elbowed and kneed while I jump ahead of His intercession.

Even in the time of deepest, sweetest communion with the Father, my comprehension gets in the way.

::

For reaching, touching frayed hems. Hands return with threads, but the garment floats free.

I don’t take hold.

How I fight when the Word dances around me. When it taunts, and teases.

It shimmies before me, smirking. My eyes dart, head weaves while I track its frolicking.

My arms flail, and I embrace but air.

I want my hands around it. I want it tight in my fist. Locked down.

And I am learning, reluctantly, that I will not grasp it. I will not hold it.

For if I can contain it, I will smother it. I will press life out of it.

I will form it to me.

Indeed, if I can grasp it, it simply cannot be as great as it is.

::

The wrestling began in Judges 10 over a week ago. What was He saying? What did it mean? Today, I drew up a chair and sat down.

Stopped thrashing.

Rested.

Listened.

Israel was in great distress. Then the Israelites cried out to the LORD, “We have sinned against you, forsaking our God and serving the Baals.”

The LORD replied, “When the Egyptians, the Amorites, the Ammonites, the Philistines, the Sidonians, the Amalekites and the Maonites oppressed you and you cried to me for help, did I not save you from their hands? But you have forsaken me and served other gods, so I will no longer save you. Go and cry out to the gods you have chosen. Let them save you when you are in trouble!”

But the Israelites said to the LORD, “We have sinned. Do with us whatever you think best, but please rescue us now.” Then they got rid of the foreign gods among them and served the LORD. And he could bear Israel’s misery no longer. (Judges 10:9b-16)

Five statements.

Each one excruciating.

From the mouth of the scorned God of a fickle people fascinated with their own pleasure pour words that reveal His broken heart.

You have forsaken Me.

I’ve heard Him say that to the people before. They walked familiar ground. But what He said next, these words were less common. I’d heard something similar just once.

The words chilled. Bones seized up a little.

I will no longer save you.

Frost seemed to draw patterns around my fingers and my heart. The people confessed. Yet He would no longer save.

Go and cry to the gods you have chosen.

He was done. He would have no more to do with them. You want something besides Me? Then go have it. I chose you. You chose them. Go to them. I’m done.

I didn’t like this God who could frighten me, who could make my heart feel as ice within me. The words pierce. They sat before me all week long, my heart cracking a little wider open with each reading.

The humiliated, broken people mouthed words back. More excruciating words.

We have sinned. Do with us what You think best.

Devastating repentance.

Repentance made not at the feet of the overjoyed Father, welcoming home his lost son with tears. No, repentance made at the turned back of a Father who had given up. Who was, in that same moment, walking away.

But even as He walked away, reeling from the sting of how many gods had taken His place, grieving in advance over those who would replace Him in the next days, He stopped.

And turned.

And looked back on His beloved.

And He could bear Israel’s misery no longer.

::

I struggled to find breath in a pool of questions at once splashing me and again pulling me under.

Was there an end to His mercy, though it be new every morning?

Did God do a knee-jerk?

Was it like a parent pretending to walk away to draw his child away from the toy aisle though He knew He’d never really go?

Or did He have every intention of going? Forever?

Does God change His mind?

Does He turn? Could it be called repenting, what He did?

Can He resist our contrition?

Is there something He cannot do? Cannot bear?

Where is this God in the Gospel? Disguised? Replaced?

::

You have forsaken Me.

I will no longer save you.

Go and cry to the gods you have chosen.

We have sinned. Do with us what You think best.

He could bear Israel’s misery no longer.

::

Questions wove in and around all week. What’s the word for me? What’s the lesson? Where’s the application?

And the word came back, at long last.

Stop.

Sit.

See.

I don’t have to see the lesson. I have to see Him. Bigger than I saw Him before.

Bigger than I can cram into the slots to which I’ve fit him.

He leaves me questioning. It’s something He’s allowed to do.

::