Asleep in the Light
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.
Let’s make sure we get out of bed.
::
Slicing the Salami
Then Abraham spoke up again: “Now that I have been so bold as to speak to the Lord, though I am nothing but dust and ashes, what if the number of the righteous is five less than fifty? Will you destroy the whole city because of five people?” ”If I find forty-five there,” he said, “I will not destroy it.” (Genesis 18:27-28)
One of the things I have the opportunity to do often in my job is negotiate. Injured parties want to be compensated, and they come to the table with an idea of what they think they’re entitled to. I also have an idea of what I think they’re entitled to. We don’t usually start out in the same place. So we negotiate to try to find a place somewhere in between we can both live with. We both give enough to be able to reach an agreement. Or as a mediator recently told me, the goal is to get to an amount we both find mutually disagreeable. There are all kinds of tactics we use on both sides of the negotiation to try to reach that mutually disagreeable agreement.
It’s one of those tactics that I think Abraham put to use with God in Genesis 18. He certainly didn’t participate in any continuing education workshops or webcast training sessions to learn the technique. But he sure knew how to use it. The section heading in my Bible calls this account “Abraham Pleads for Sodom.” If I’d have been writing the captions, I think I’d have named it differently. I think Abraham was doing what today is known as “Slicing the Salami.”
Slicing the Salami is a negotiating tactic that understands that you’re more likely to gain a concession from the other party if you don’t make a big demand or request all at once. You don’t eat a whole salami at once; you eat it in slices. In negotiation, you make smaller, incremental demands. The gradual moves make the final outcome more palatable for the party making the concessions.
Read this whole account in your Bible. It’s not too long. Sodom is out of control. Its sin as a community has become so heinous that God has determined to destroy the whole of it. He tells Abraham of His plan, and Abraham does plead with God to relent. He calls on Him to be true to His character: “Far be it from you to do such a thing—to kill the righteous with the wicked, treating the righteous and the wicked alike. Far be it from you! Will not the Judge of all the earth do right?” And then he makes his request, asks for his first concession. He doesn’t ask God to do nothing. He doesn’t ask Him not to act. He doesn’t ask Him to preserve everyone without condition. He asks Him to “spare the place” if fifty righteous people can be found. And God agrees.
So Abraham continues. What if only forty-five? That’s just five less than fifty. You wouldn’t destroy the place for just five, would You? (Did you see how the baseline moved? Now it’s just a matter of five, not fifty.) No, God says, for the sake of forty-five I will not destroy them.
Each time, Abraham is cautious, but bold: Don’t be angry, if I may be so bold. He’s bold, alright. Asking God to turn back His wrath. Asking Him to stay His hand. Asking Him to relent. He’s bold.
But he’s also humble. He recognizes that he’s not God, he is man. He is nothing but dust and ashes. He’s humble.
That mix of boldness and humility is powerful.
God, what about only forty? Slice. What about thirty? Slice. What about twenty? Slice. And so God agrees. He responds to Abraham’s bold humility. If 20 righteous men can be found, he says, I will spare the place.
Lord, don’t be angry, but let me ask one more thing. One more slice of the salami.
What if there are only ten found? Slice.
For the sake of ten, I will not destroy it.
For the sake of ten. We just went from destroying the whole place, no matter what, to relenting if there were fifty righteous men found, all the way to holding off if there were just ten righteous men. All a series of slices. Slices made in profound boldness. Slices made in profound humility.
God was willing to come to the negotiating table and meet Abraham there. He responded to Abraham’s faith. And his boldness. And his humility.
I’m not suggesting any professional development courses to hone our negotiating skills so we can be better prayers. I am suggesting we approach the table to meet with God in boldness and in humility.
And in anticipation that God will come to the table too. He’s already there, waiting.
The Conversation