Old Testament Remix: Jericho

Lately, God has been asking me to do things that haven't made a ton of sense. I've prayed; I've even fasted a few times. The answer to my problem was clear. But it really didn't make much sense. I looked at the situation, knew what needed to happen, but I couldn't understand why. I'm still really fuzzy on the details. Why does He lead His children through green light after green light only to abruptly change the traffic signal to a blinking red? I don't know. Though I'm sure that He's cooking up something beautiful, all I can see are a couple of the ingredients, and let's just say that individually, they aren't the most delectable.

But I'm not the only one.

I was reminded that God regularly does this kind of thing. It's all over the Bible. I was in Joshua 6 this morning, and saw one of the best examples. 

Time for Make Believe.

Do you best to picture this scene: 

You've been walking for 40 years in a desert. You've rarely slept in the same place for more than a week, so you're exhausted. You come to the place where you and your entire nation have been promised--a paradise with luxurious food and mostly all things that an Ancient Near East nomad could ever dream to have.

Pause. Reality.

You live in America, and you feel like everyone around you is enjoying the life that you want. Then at some point, your path leads you to a place where you feel like you are about to taste this dream life (fill in whatever sounds most satisfying) for yourself.

Play. Make Believe.

You come to a raging rive that looks impossible to cross. God says to you, "No problem." He stops its flow miles upstream, so you have dry ground to walk on, and your exhausted, dusty, parched nation crosses without incident.

Pause. Reality.

You're getting close. The Lord is opening doors. He overcomes obstacles that you thought were going to ruin everything. But since He made everything, everything is not a problem for Him. You keep walking in faith, and He keeps providing for and protecting you.

Play. Make Believe.

You've crossed this raging river that has a reputation for its muck and turbulence, but Yahweh has handled that problem. It's nothing to Him. You're now on the other side, and you see a city. You thought the river was hard? Here's one of the most prominent cities in the Ancient Near East with literally insurmountable defenses. Between the stacked layers of walls, one estimation puts the cumulative height of the walls at approximately 60 feet. You have no siege engines. You have no way to attack without losing most, if not all, of your soldiers. You thought you had finally arrived. But alas, you were wrong. 10/12 of your wisest spies said that crossing the Jordan and attempting to take Jericho was foolish. And now you're seeing that they were probably right.

Pause. Reality.

You've been walking in faith. You've seen your Father take care of problems that you thought were going to be deadly, but in His faithfulness, He saw you through. But you finally hit a wall that you know you can't overcome. You see your utter helplessness in the situation. In fact, you might even say that you'd wished that God hadn't teased you with the thought of being so close to something so good, only to let you down in such a devastating fashion.

Play. Make Believe. Enter, insanity.

Your fearless leader, Joshua, commands the priests and the soldiers to walk together around this wonder of structural impregnability. Do that same thing again, and again, for six days in a row. Then, on the seventh day, everyone (not just soldiers) must walk around the city not once, not twice, but seven times. Oh, and by the way, the priests that will carry the ark of the covenant are going to need to play their trumpets, loudly, without stopping. The entire time. One more thing, nobody can make any shout, or even make their voices heard until the day that Joshua gives the command (6:10). So basically, the only noise you will hear for six days is that of the trumpets when the priests are marching, then nothing the rest of the time. Don't overspiritualize it. As an Israelite, I doubt that you are thrilled to not make a sound for six days, while a bunch of soldiers and priests walk in circles and blare their horns for six days. Then on the seventh day, you still couldn't make any noises, and you would have to walk around the city a full seven times.

Pause. Reality.

This is kinda how I've felt, but I think the Israelites had it just slightly more difficult than I have it. I'm in the place where I don't understand where God is taking me. There are even specifics in my day-to-day interactions that I don't even know what to say or how to say it; not really one of the most comfortable places I have ever been. So, so far, I'm tracking with Joshua 6. In a very strange way, I can sympathize.

Play. Make Believe.

It's the seventh day. It's been a long week. No talking for anyone (6:10). It's not like you are only having six "no-talking days" with one or two people, but you have six "no-talking days" with every single person there is. Like I said. Long week. The march in circles around this massive city is really quite draining, but it's the final lap. Now you've just finished. Joshua gets up and screams at the top of his lungs:

Shout! God has given you the city! The city and everything in it is under a holy curse and offered up to God.

It was finally time. The trumpets were blown, and as soon as the people heard the sound of the trumpet, the people shouted a great shout, and the wall fell down flat, so that the people went up into the city, every man straight before him, and they captured the city.

Stop. Story's over.

What a joyful day that must have been.

The joyous victory in this way hasn't yet been realized in my life. The Lord hasn't yet led to the place past the walking in circles, from what I've seen (though I could be wrong). I think I'm just starting the first lap. But picture it. The children of Israel are an INCREDIBLE example of faith. I never saw that before I read this morning. Basically, God told His people His plan, and they needed to have faith that He knows what He's commanding; they need to do what He says with the security that He would reward their faithful obedience. And He did. Amazingly so. What continued to stun me was how in Joshua 6:16-19, Joshua is commanding the people to shout and yell and scream on their trumpets as heartily as the Lord gave them strength. The conjunction astonished me:

[Command in blue] “Shout, for the LORD has given you the city. And the city and all that is within it shall be devoted to the LORD for destruction. Only Rahab the prostitute and all who are with her in her house shall live, because she hid the messengers whom we sent. But you, keep yourselves from the things devoted to destruction, lest when you have devoted them you take any of the devoted things and make the camp of Israel a thing for destruction and bring trouble upon it. But all silver and gold, and every vessel of bronze and iron, are holy to the LORD; they shall go into the treasury of the LORD.” So the people shouted, and the trumpets were blown. As soon as the people heard the sound of the trumpet, the people shouted a great shout, and the wall fell down flat, so that the people went up into the city, every man straight before him, and they captured the city.

How glorious! The people of Israel, who I ragged on in only my second blog post, are an example of faith par excellence. They heard a command that outside the power of God would make no sense, and to them, it was a simple matter of obedience. They had full confidence that their God would be faithful, and He was.

I was immensely encouraged to read Joshua say, "Yell your brains out, and blare your trumpets." The next word, "so", shows me that these people, in a much more difficult place than I am, saw the command as a matter of fact. It was logical:

1) God told me to do something that I would never do in my right mind.
2) God is faithful, and He loves me more than I will ever be able to comprehend.
3) Obedience is an easy decision because I see that He is good, and will fulfill all that He promises.

Wow.

I never thought I would hear/see myself say/write this, but I wish I had the faith of the Israelites.

.DSN.

Maturing Into Manhood 3.0 - "The Brave Face"

The Lord has used the last few weeks to reveal a lack of God-honoring manliness in the way I navigate the seas of life. Through prayer meetings and counseling sessions, one particularly poignant admonition was the encouragement that I need to grow in my ability to wear what one called, "the brave face."

A man who has the ability to wear his brave face well is a man who is able to face adversity in various forms, and appropriately portray the inward emotions that accompany the situation.

Wearing the brave face means 1) one should continually cultivate a sense of discernment that rightly determines who in the world should know what details of life.

Wearing the brave face means 2) knowing how each piece of information will affect those who are made aware of it.

This likely means not telling every person every problem, even in honesty's name. When things around are crumbling, a man who wears a brave face knows when to say that things are still "going alright." This man knows when and how to express concern. He knows when and how to be vulnerable, which can be trickiest of all.

To wear a brave face is to daily die to oneself, especially in the tough times. As a human, a man will, at times, feel like the cogs running his sanity will come to a smoking, squealing, abrupt, miserably painful halt. As with most things, there are two extremes in dealing with this natural discomfort of suffering: one might either desire to tell everybody everything, or desire not to tell anyone anything.

These two extremes look completely different, but at the root, are exactly the same. Both come from a false conception of what will satisfy our need to be healed. One might have the tendency to desire the world to be an encyclopedia of his or her life. This person wants everyone to know what's going on. This person thinks that if someone else can be fully informed, the act of informing a third party will displace the burden, thus circumventing the daily grind of having to bear all its weight. On the other hand, there is the foolish macho-man who won't tell anyone anything because he thinks like the young Mr. Incredible: "I work alone." As with most things, the correct answer is somewhere in the gray. Both attitudes contain particles of truth. There is a sense in which a man needs to let other people know the deeply painful things. Galatians 6:2 speaks directly to this: "Bear one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ." We need each other, and the man who tells everyone everything has found the truth, but brought to excess.

The other morsel can be found in the false-strength of the man's man. Though this guy might exceed in being too private because "he works alone", Galatians 6:4-5 also speaks directly to his attitude: "But let each one test his own work, and then his reason to boast will be in himself alone and not in his neighbor. For each will have to bear his own load." Paul makes plainly clear that "each will have to bear his own load." In other words, there are some things for which God is holding me, and only me, accountable.

In summary:
1) We need to understand that we need help.
2) We need to understand that God holds us responsible for our own day-to-day situations that He has given for our own personal sanctification.

To tie this back to the brave face, if I come home after a long hard week of work and I am drained, acutely feeling the sufferings of this present age, I need to wear my brave face for my children. Referring back to the two points I stated at the beginning, 1) my kids don't need to know all of what's going on because 2) the effect will be detrimental to their souls. I need to protect them and show them that though this life is wrought with affliction, I still love them. I still find joy in them.

In a husband/wife relationship, the game is much different but very similar. She 1) needs to know all the details of why a situation has gotten tough (e.g. finances, personal conflict); but because her stability is directly tied to the stability of her husband, 2) her husband needs to know how to communicate the truths in a way that won't open her up to unnecessary concern and the temptation to become anxious. He needs to know how what says will affect her. This means that the husband might need to mask how difficult things are for him. Even if he feels on the brink of hopelessness, he still has the duty to guard and guide her heart towards the Rock of Salvation, giving her hope that though times are hard, Jesus never moves.

You might say, "But David, you're ridiculous. What if this man is actually falling apart at the seams? It sounds like you're advocating that the husband give his wife a false sense of security. Shouldn't he tell her how he is truthfully doing on the inside? She's your wife after all!"

This was my objection when I was first presented with the idea of the brave face. I still stand by the two principles listed at the beginning:

1) Wisely choose who is best to know the deep things about you.
2) Know how what you communicate will affect those to whom you communicate.

1 Peter 3:7 commands husbands to live with their wives in an understanding way. Not only should we live with our wives in an understanding way, we should live with everyone in an understanding way, and husbands should especially do so with their wives. From what I have learned, it's not wrong to tell someone that life is incredibly hard, because struggling is a face. However, as a man (or maturing adult) I can tell anyone that I am truly doing "alright" because I am resting safe and secure in Christ. Life might not be easy, but I am doing OK. Nothing happens to me that Jesus doesn't want to see me through. As I presented in a post from January, Courage is the ability to do something because one realizes a reality that is greater than one's own. That basis for courage is the reason for why I can genuinely say that I'm doing "alright."

And yes, as protectors and providers, men are still human. I'm not advocating a kind of brusqueness/macho-ness/faux-toughguy-ness. Men need (I need) older wiser fathers in the faith actively in my life, so I can safely approach them and let it all hang out, looking to them for guidance and direction. Men, no matter how impervious, still need a place to safely freak out for a little while. We just need to know 1) where, and 2) how. The Lord has given us the body of Christ for times like these.

I recognize that this concept is idealistic. I recognize that I'm an unmarried 20-year-old, thus lacking most of the experience that would validate my claims. I recognize that nothing ever works perfectly. But I see the wisdom in the brave face. I see that the brave face can't be done well without being secured in the Rock-solid foundation of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, aka, the Gospel.

He is the hope for a self-controlled, servant-hearted growth into manhood.

.DSN.

Cheese Puffs and the Deceitfulness of Sin

The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it? (Jeremiah 17:9 ESV)

A couple days ago, I walked into the kitchen to come upon the scene of one of my housemates devouring a bag of Wal-Mart brand Cheese Puffs. Lately, he has had a peculiar fixation with those little orange things. At any given time, there are 2-3 bags of unopened crunchy cheese puffs, just to make certain that he never runs out.

However, this time, he was commiserating with a slightly heftier bag of the puffy Cheese Puffs. I took the opportunity to ask a provocative question, especially provocative for the kinds of people here at the college and seminary. I asked, "Hey [insert name], are you addicted to cheese puffs?" As I have lately been dialed into my powers of perception, I discerned that he was mildly taken aback. Stunned that I would ask such a personal question, he did not have very much to say to me, other than offer me the rest of his bag, which I (of course) helped him devour.

I was curious as to why these cheese puffs tasted so exceptionally good. They were "Great Value" cheese puffs. How does Wal-Mart consistently put out such amazingly good products? I was about to find out.

My housemate said that this particular bag contained monosodium glutamate, otherwise known as "MSG." He informed me that ingesting regular amounts of MSG kills you. Huh. I knew my mom always asked to not get MSG from Chinese restaurants, but now I can see why. She wanted to ruin my life. MSG is one of the best flavors of anything that I have ever tasted.

With that being said, I continued to help my friend with his Cheese Puffs. Bite after bite, grease mark on my fingers after grease mark on my fingers, I almost ate the rest of that bag. Then it happened. 

The Grease Ball.

When Wal-Mart manufactures Cheese Puffs, or anything else for that matter, I highly doubt that they care very much about their ratio of grease:puff. This one particular cheese finger disintegrated in my mouth almost immediately, leaving me with the unsavory experience of being forced to cope with a sickening concentration of Puff oil lazily making its home in my mouth. Immediately, my love and infatuation with the Great Value Cheese Puffs came to a grinding halt, and I gave the rest of the bag to my housemate, despairingly and disgustedly spewing out the remains into the garbage.

What does this have to do with the deceitfulness of sin? Here was my connection:

So often, we get caught up in doing something that seems so right. In this parable, MSG is the deceitfulness of sin, eating the Cheese Puff as whatever sin you are partial to, and the frying oil as being the pain, hurt, and destruction that is left when sin has its way. We become so content eating, enjoying, and ignoring the serious danger of sin [x], that we lose our ability to become the objective onlookers who see the consequences and implications of the reality of that sin. Because our hearts our hard and we are so often closed to wise counsel, sin's MSG factor creates the open door for sinful and painful attitudes and practices to live, move, and breathe. Our lives can transmogrify into demolition trucks of death because of our insensitivity to the real, hardened craters of our hearts that go either undetected or the warnings to those things go unheeded. 

I ate those Cheese Puffs knowing that they weren't probably the best for me, but I couldn't see what could possibly go wrong with something that was so good. Needless to say, I was wrong. 

Here is my exhortation: If some person or some people approach you with reasons why your life is not heading in the right direction, don't be fooled by the tastiness of MSG. You know that we are sinners. You know that we are prone to mistakes. You know that our hearts are deceitfully wicked and desperately sick, so don't continue being fooled by sin's seemingly Great Value! Be thankful for those who are willing to say the hard thing and put strain on their relationship with you because they love you. 

We will make God look best when we demonstrate the fact that we value Him more than the things in our lives that look, feel, and taste good. If there is a better, wiser path to be taken, we must look to our Heavenly Father for that path, even if we miss out on the MSG. 

We get Him.

He is our hope.

.DSN.

Above the Heavens, Below the Earth

If I ascend to heaven, you are there! If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there! (Psalm 139:8 ESV)

When God thought of how to formulate the lives of His crowning achievements in creation (humanity), He did not see it fit to create a pain-free, struggle-emptied, or heart-safe place. The place that our God created is called Earth. It is dry. It is barren. It is filled with emptiness. It is not safe. It does not bring life. It will not bring life. It cannot bring life.

God's formulation of earth was not originally like this. God's creation flowed from who He is. He is good.

Do your best to picture the second most unbelievable act of God in all of time:

First, there was blackness.

Then there was light.

Then there was sky.

Then there was water.

Then there was earth.

When there was nothing.

And God said, “Let the waters under the heavens be gathered together into one place, and let the dry land appear.” And it was so. God called the dry land Earth, and the waters that were gathered together he called Seas. And God saw that it was good. (Genesis 1:9-10 ESV)

It was good.

Our God created good. Because our human representative, Adam, shook his fist in the face of his God, our earth is fallen. It is corrupt. It aches. It coughs. It bleeds. Our earth dies.

We feel this. We can't get through a month, week, or even many days without being shaken by the shockwaves of a world whose desire is to be reconciled to its King. Its Maker. Its God.

We long for Him. We want to be made whole. We're tired of not having the answers. That day is coming.

One thing I know: when I ascend to the heavens in times of ecstatic worship and enjoyment in God who loves and saves me, He is there. He inhabits the praises of His people. Those times are precious and quite worthy of appreciation.

But there is one other thing I know: when I descend into the depths, when I make my bed in Sheol, when I traverse what feels like the Valley of Death, He is with me. He reminds me that it is the Valley of the Shadow of Death. He scrapes the mud to which I so tightly hold as I search for joy apart from Him, and He replaces it with His hand. He doesn't mind that He gets dirty. He's died for me. What's a dirty hand to Him?

He loves me.

He walks with me. He leads me through the darkest of times. I know that there will be times when I feel further from Him than could be possible. But He is there. He is near.

When I die, when I permanently make my bed in Sheol, I will be with Him. There will be nothing to hide. Nothing to fear. I will be fully known.

Even in death, He is my only hope.

.DSN.

The Father, The Boy, and Me

God is my Father. He loves me.

He doesn't merely treat me like a son. I am His son. One of them, anyways. I'm a little child. Not a smart one, either. When He tells me to keep my hand away from the stove and slaps it a few times before I try it, I wait until I think He isn't looking, then give the scalding hotplate a high five. He then, standing over my shoulder, hugs me as I'm crying because it hurts. It really hurts. He brings me a cup of cold water. Not cool. Cold. There is almost as much pain in the healing as in the hurt, but not as much. I'm still crying, and he wraps me up in his chest, telling me that He will never leave me or forsake me. He tells me that I am His. He's never, never going anywhere.

Months pass by, and in different ways, these scenarios replay themselves over and over again, all in differing degrees of severity. He held me and loved me when I needed a cast on my arm when I rode down the hill on my bike too fast after He told me to slow down. He held me and loved me and cleaned me up after a night of throwing up because I ate all the cake and orange juice after He said to go to bed and drink water. He held me and loved me when I came home from school in tears because the kids called me "four-eyes."

God is my Father. He loves me.

One day, another boy moved into the neighborhood. By this time, I was old enough to make my own decisions, and I spent most of my time away from home. This new boy was different. There were cool kids at school, sure, but not like this one. He was indestructible. He was more athletic than anyone I had ever met. He was the best singer I had ever heard. Some said that he was about to sign a major record deal. He would debate with teachers in class and regularly make them look foolish. Strange, but nobody knew who his parents were. This boy had his own car. He had a lot of money. To top it all off, he started dating the most beautiful girl in the school and then shortly thereafter broke up with her. I heard somebody say that she was too boring for him. He was so good looking that even the guys in the school felt uncomfortable around him because they were all afraid he would steal their girlfriends.

For some reason, this boy started talking to me. He was really interesting. He always did exciting things. He would always push the envelope and would never get caught. Like I said, he was indestructible. He and I would go to the sports games at school, and almost immediately, I leapt to the top of the social ladder. Girls who I had crushes on paid attention to me, and I even got one to go out with me. This boy would coach me and tell me how to get exactly what I wanted. Funny thing was, I usually did. Of course I couldn't always get what I wanted, but that was because I hadn't listened to him well enough.

My father saw this boy after the boy dropped me off at home after a late night at the football game. He said, "Son, I am your father. I love you. I don't want you spending time with that boy. He's toxic." For the first time, I yelled at him. I yelled at my daddy. I told him that he had no idea what was right for me. All his advice left me a prudish geek who was the butt of every joke imaginable. I had finally found my ticket to the fast life. Then my father did something strange. He began to cry. He throat tightened and his voice cracked a little bit. He told me that I had hurt him. He told me that he is my father and he loves me. He never wants to see me in pain, but he thinks that this boy is not the kind of boy that will help his son. Not sure what to do, I walked out of the room without a word, leaving my father in the kitchen. Mom told me that he cried for awhile that night.

As time passed, I started spending less time at home and more time with the boy. It wasn't because I loved my father any less, it's just that I didn't want any repeats of that night. Along with the boy came the people that he attracted. I had a string of girlfriends, having more fun with them than I'd care to describe. It's not that I hated church, but when you're out until 5AM every Saturday night, the last thing you want to do is get up on three hours and go anywhere. Then we started clubbing. I wasn't 21, but the boy had the hookups. What an amazing place. Most of the things that I had wondered if you could find anywhere, I found them. For free. The boy would often refer to me as his main man. We were pretty tight.

One day I found a letter on my bed. It was from my mom. It was simple. All it said was that they miss me, they love me, and they want to see my heart get soft.

By that point, I was indifferent to them. I didn't need them. In fact, I was about ready to move out. The boy said that he needed a new roommate. His last one hadn't paid rent for like three months, and all in all, it was time for him to leave.

I was scheduled to move out on Monday, right after the weekend's festivities. It was going to be a banger too. The DJ for one of the parties we were going to on Friday had three #1 hits on the Billboard Top 100, and the boy told me that his old crew from back in the day was going to make the trip up, and it was going to be just like old times. He also told me that the cars were going to be full of shorties and the 'stuff'.

It was dark when the crew arrived that Friday afternoon. Strangely dark. Uncomfortably dark. When the boy went over to the first car and his old 'main man' stepped out of the car with the hottest women I had ever seen, I felt something change. There was a power that I had never felt before. I wasn't sure if I liked it or not. It was strong. The cars got emptied, and I got introduced to the whole crew. I was really glad I hadn't brought my girl. She would have had a panic attack at the way that one of the brunettes was taking a liking to me. Of course, I was having the time of my life.

As expected, the party was off the chain--the most ridiculous party I'd ever been to in my whole life. The boy and his man were in the front seat, on the way home, somehow still completely sober. I wasn't drunk, but I was pretty buzzed.

Something entered the car. I felt it. It was icy and cold. This breath of damp, dark, rancid air blew past me and the mood changed instantly. The girl I was sitting next to me stopped talking got incredibly focused. I had no idea on what. The boy took a side street that I had no idea existed. Then they all started to laugh. It wasn't fun laughter. It was an ominous, filthy laughter. You know, the kind in the movies that everyone makes fun of? But it was for real. 

I tried to get out of the car. The doors were locked. The windows were locked. The laughter didn't stop. Until the car stopped. Then everything went silent. We were in the outskirts of the town. Nobody lived anywhere close to here. The boy's man opened my door. Then he yanked me out of my seat. He slammed me on the ground. I was trying to see straight after having my head slammed on the asphalt. He handcuffed me. He opened the trunk. It was full of chains. I struggled and writhed on the ground, trying to get free. I couldn't. I couldn't do it. The more I yelled, the more chains they put around my legs and arms so I couldn't move at all.

I wasn't able to hear everything, but as they were kicking my stomach and stomping on my hands and face, I heard the boy say things like, "I can't believe that fool ever thought I cared about him" and "He deserves every last part of this."

I started to cry. Not because of the pain. My body went numb long ago. I cried because I remembered my father. I remembered his hugs. I remembered his gentle words. I remembered when he taught me how to read. I remembered when he taught me how to play baseball. I remembered that he loved me. I had hated him. But he loved me. I hurt his heart. I hadn't cared. But he loved me.

By this time, I was bleeding profusely, and the kicking hadn't stopped. But something took me out of my stupor. I heard a voice. A man was running towards us. Who could be here at 5 in the morning? I thought it was another one of their friends here to kill me. I didn't expect to live the night. I had blood all over my head, streaming down my clothes.

I couldn't make out what this man was yelling. But the voice sounded strangely familiar. Then I placed it. It was the voice that said, "I'm your Father, and I love you." My daddy was here! He still loved me! Then the boy pulled a gun out of his jacket. The beating stopped, and they all focused their intense hatred towards my Father. There was a short exchange, and the gun fired. My head was reeling. The bullet hit his chest and he crumpled to the ground. They laughed and began thrashing me again. But my father was not finished. Though my eyes were almost swollen shut, I was able to manage one more glance up towards where my father had been shot.

God is my Father. He loves me. 

He walked behind the boy and whispered into his ear, "He is mine. Nobody touches my son." And with that he snapped the boy's neck, killing him instantly. The minions were foolish enough to think they could do anything at all to him. He disarmed them, and with his bare hands killed all of my attackers. He had enough energy to loosen my chains, then he collapsed.

I yelled for help, though I knew nobody could hear. Somehow, somewhere, someone must have heard the gunshot and called the ambulance; because one showed up, quickly took my father, and left me in the middle of the carnage, pondering what had just happened.

Days later, three, to be exact, he was still in the ICU. They said that the bullet had hit him right in the middle of his heart, forcing a quick surge of adrenaline, then excessive bleeding.

His heart was bleeding because of me.

They all left the room, but I, wrapped in my own casts and bandages, just wanted to be with him. He was sleeping for most of that afternoon. Then he woke up. He said, "Son, I'm your father, and I will always love you. You are more precious to me than my own life. I will never leave you, and I will never forsake you. There is nothing you will be able to do that will change that in the slightest of ways."

I wept for hours.

My father was officially declared as dead later that day, which lasted about 15 minutes. They gave him a shot of some experimental element that doesn't exist in nature, and was resuscitated minutes later.

God is my Father. He loves me. 

I'd love to say that it was all pretty and beautiful after that. It wasn't.

But I can tell you that seeing my dad give up his life for mine in that parking lot that dark morning has made it very difficult to doubt his love for me. If he would give up his life for me, how could I ever think that he wouldn't always want the very best for me? Even in the dark times.

God is my Father. He loves me. 

He's my only hope.

.DSN.

God's Favorite is the Kick Drum

I feel like I start a lot of posts this way, but it's been a rough stretch. Maybe it's because whenever I feel like I have something to write is when I've been walking through a valley. Who knows. Here we go.

I was just listening to Beautiful Eulogy's new free CD and the first track is an instrumental. It's super chill, starting out with rain sound effects and real consistent bass-line beat. 

Today has been especially difficult, and so I've been having strange thoughts, as I usually do on difficult days. I started to analyze the pattern of the kick drum beat. The kick drum is that big drum on the drum set that the drummer kicks with his or her foot.

This is the drum that anchors in every instrument, every voice, and every rhythm to each other. Without the kick drum, the music would have no backbone, and many auxiliary measures would need to be taken to mimic its mentronomic effect, such as adding a guitar, or something else.

That's what God does. God isn't interested in the trappings. If He is, it's certainly not all the time. He doesn't live for a nice drum fill, though He can play them. He isn't trademarked by a tricky interplay between the high-hat and ride cymbals, though when He does it, it sounds majestic. He doesn't even employ the drumroll on the snare very regularly at all. God's style is a simple kick. 

1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4...

He anchors every ancillary instrument by His constancy. He might be so pleased to give us a lead instrument, like an electric guitar, or a violin, or a cello (heh), but sometimes we just run out of notes. We get to the 1 and 2 and 3 and ... we can't feel the 4. We don't know where it is. We're anxiously waiting to get to the next measure, but we get lost. We lose our place. 

That's why God is a drummer, and His kick drum never, never, ever fails. 

Next time you hear a song with a noticeable bass line and/or a prominent kick drum in your favorite song, think about God. Remember that His rhythm might feel off. You might think that He's off time. 

He just might have just switched it up to a mixed meter and He didn't tell you right away. 

:)

DSN