Pairing Of Psalms

“And David said to Michal, ‘It was before the Lord, who chose me above your father and above all his house, to appoint me as prince over Israel, the people of the Lord—and I will celebrate before the Lord.” – 2 Samuel 6:21

“Your procession is seen, O God… Awesome is God from his sanctuary, the God of Israel—he is the one who gives power and strength to his people.” – Psalm 68:24, 35

Have you ever wished you could know what was in someone’s mind, particularly during a moment of crisis or celebration? The Psalms give us a glimpse into David’s inner life: when he fought Goliath, he wrote: “you, O Lord, have not forsaken those who seek you.” When Saul tried to kill him: “O my strength, I will watch for you, for you, O God, are my fortress.” When he ate the holy bread while on the run from Saul: “Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good!” When he was so afraid of the king of Gash that he pretended to be insane: “when I am afraid, I put my trust in you.” When eighty-five priests were cut down because of him: “But I am like a green olive tree in the house of God. I trust in the steadfast love of God forever and ever.” When spies revealed his location to Saul: “the Lord is the upholder of my life.” Pairing the Psalms with the passages they explicitly or implicitly refer to brings out deeper meanings for both texts. Here is a list of generally-accepted pairings:

1 Sam 17 – Psalm 9

1 Sam 19 – Psalms 11, 59

1 Sam 21 – Psalms 34, 56 

1 Sam 22 – Psalms 17, 35, 52, 64, 140, 142

1 Sam 23 – Psalms 31, 54 

1 Sam 24 – Psalms 57, 58, 63

1 Sam 27 – Psalm 16, 141

2 Sam 6 – Psalm 68

2 Sam 10 – Psalms 20, 21

2 Sam 12 – Psalms 32, 33, 51, 103

2 Sam 15 – Psalm 3

2 Sam 16 – Psalm 7

2 Sam 17 – Psalms 4, 42, 43, 55, 62, 70, 71, 143, 144

2 Sam 22 – Psalms 18, 109

Emptying

“Mary therefore took a pound of expensive ointment made from pure nard, and anointed the feet of Jesus and wiped his feet with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.” – John 12:3

Every time we see Mary, she’s at the feet of Jesus: learning (Luke 10:39), grieving (John 11:32), and here, worshipping. Mark tells us that the ointment of nard came in an alabaster flask, which Mary broke (Mark 14:3). Nard was exported from the Himalayans, and this amount would have been worth 300 days’ wages; it was likely their financial security. But the nature of the jar was all-or-nothing: she could not have given just part of it, even if she’d wanted to; she had to break it apart and give it all. 

One chapter later, we once again see someone tending to the feet of those gathered for a meal, under the shadow of Judas. This time, it’s Jesus, enacting Philippians 2 by taking off his robe (“did not consider equality with God a thing to be held on to”), tying a towel on (“taking on the form of a servant”), washing feet (“humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death”), putting his robe on and returning to his place (“God has highly exalted him”). This downward-shaped parabolic movement is often called the “kenosis,” from the Greek word for “emptied” found in Philippians 2:7. Emptied. Like the alabaster jar.

I read somewhere, “Judas is following Jesus because of what it gets him. Mary is following Jesus despite what it costs her.” I’ve always been struck by the radical beauty of Mary’s act, but really, it points to the beauty of what Jesus is about to do for her. He emptied himself, at great cost. Sometimes we forget that Jesus existed before he came into our world. While he was fully God on earth, there were things he gave up to take on human form. And every step on earth was a step towards the cross, where he emptied himself of life and poured out his blood for my sake. I think of the smell that must have filled the room when Mary broke open the jar, and I think of how Paul put it: “Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God” (Ephesians 5:2). 

Speaking The Glory

“Isaiah said these things because he saw his glory and spoke of him. Nevertheless, many even of the authorities believed in him, but for fear of the Pharisees they did not confess it, so that they would not be put out of the synagogue; for they loved the glory that comes from man more than the glory that comes from God.” – John 12:41-43

What is God’s glory? We bandy the phrase about as if it’s common knowledge, yet when you look it up, you get enigmatic phrases like “the infinite excellency of the Divine essence.” Herman Bavinck says: “The ‘glory of the Lord’ is the splendor and brilliance that is inseparably associated with all of God’s attributes and his self-revelation in nature and grace, the glorious form in which he everywhere appears to his creatures.” God’s glory is the infinite, indescribable perfection and glory of all of his attributes. He is not only loving, but glorious in his loving; not only just, but glorious in his justice. 

Just before this passage, John quotes Isaiah chapter 6, in which we read: “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of his—” holiness, surely? But no—“glory!” God’s glory is his inherently great and beautiful holiness, but it is also the going-public of his holiness, the way he makes it manifest, the way he puts it on display for us to comprehend. There is an interior-exterior dynamic at play, which Bavinck’s definition also gets at. And that interplay exists too in our true response to God’s glory: it is not enough to see it and believe it. We must confess and display it. As Jonathan Edwards wrote, “Sometimes [glory] is used to signify what is internal, inherent, or in the possession of the person: and sometimes for emanation, exhibition, or communication of this internal glory.”

John makes a contrast here. Both Isaiah and “many even of the authorities” saw God’s glory: Isaiah saw God on his throne, the seraphim, the smoke, the shaking (Isaiah 6). The “many” saw Jesus (“we have seen his glory,” John 1:14), who is literally “the glory that comes from God.” Yet while Isaiah “said” and “spoke,” the “many” did not confess. Why? The word for “glory,” doxa, means on the simplest level “opinion, view.” They cared more about the opinion of others than they did about the opinion of God. They cared more about how others viewed them than they did about Jesus himself.

The Pharisees were the largest, most important group of Jews at that time, who controlled the synagogue and the perceived way to God. How often do we silently believe in our hearts, but fail to confess, to live it outwardly in some way, because we don’t want to lose a certain kind of community or credibility? We may hesitate to admit a sin addiction to another person, or let people at work know what we believe, or live counter-culturally if we’re the only ones doing it. Confession, especially around here, can come at a cost. Love for the glory of man runs deep in us. It takes a heart-experience of the glory of God to transform us. It takes being touched with the burning coal, with Jesus who truly takes away our sins. May we be people who not only want to shine out the being of God but experience His delight in us when we do so. 

Ponders Or Pours

“The heart of the righteous ponders how to answer, but the mouth of the wicked pours out evil things.” – Proverbs 15:28

Why is it easy to speak to nearly everyone else in our lives with more kindness than to our spouse? We can reserve for our spouses not necessarily open disrespect, but a careless, curt, or snappy manner of speech that we would not use to address anyone else. It’s the kind of speech that leaks out in everyday, private moments, when we’re already drained from work, the kids fighting, or any number of other stressors.

The truth is, speaking with care and affection takes a certain level of emotional reserve and intentionality, which I habitually apply to my children, my patients, my friends and ministry partners, more than I do to my husband. I’m grateful he’s a steadfast and safe listener, but there’s a difference between honestly sharing my struggles with him, and displacing my frustrations upon him, and it’s alarmingly easy to forget that he is just as (if not more) deserving and in need of my affection as anyone else. Particularly if you are, like me, not a terribly sensitive person, these things can escape awareness, but they inevitably accrue to affect the atmosphere of the marriage in a way that has effects.

There are two words at play in this proverb, both evoking sounds. “Ponders” is Hebrew hagah and means literally “to murmur, to mutter, to growl”: it is used of the growl of a lion over his prey (discussed in the first post on this blog), of low thunder, of the muttering of an enchanter, of the sound of a harp when struck, of the cooing of doves. These are sounds that create atmosphere, that linger or herald. When we ponder our words, we pause and mull them over. We try them out first in our minds. We consider the tone and pitch they set; we consider how they will go down for the listener; what they portend. 

“Pours” is Hebrew naba and means “to gush out”: the sound of the word itself is meant to mimic that of boiling or bubbling water. When we pour out our words in this sense, we are not in real control; we are letting our words run the path of least resistance. We are deluging the listener. We are venting rather than sharing. We are not being thoughtful.

For some reason, when we pour out our words, they are more likely to be harmful, even evil. Pondering our words gives us the ability to be more intentional about the atmosphere we are creating in our marriage. It is the bent of a heart that cares about righteousness, ultimately not about pleasing our spouse, but being right with God. Our spouse, after all, is His son or daughter, entrusted to us while they are on this earth, as much as He has entrusted to us our children or ministries. God, help me understand the effect of my words on my husband, and to treat him with the care and genuine affection that he needs, that reflects his true worth to me and my true care for him.

The Medium Of Endor

“Therefore I have summoned you to tell me what I shall do.” – 1 Samuel 28:15

This is certainly a strange passage. Saul, afraid of the Philistines, reaches a new low: unable to hear from God by other means, he consults a medium, breaking a law that he himself had set (28:3) and which directly violated the law of God (Deuteronomy 18:9-11). He goes to the trouble of disguising himself and traveling past the Philistine camp to reach Endor, and stranger yet, Samuel appears from the dead. Most commentators believe this truly is Samuel; it is unclear whether he is summoned by God or by necromancy or how much the medium knows. 

But what is most striking to me about this episode is how clearly it fulfills words Samuel spoke to Saul the last day Saul saw him alive: “Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice, and to listen than the fat of rams. For rebellion is as the sin of divination, and presumption is as iniquity and idolatry. Because you have rejected the word of the Lord, he has also rejected you from being king” (1 Samuel 15:22-23). Divination is abhorrent to God because it is idolatry, a rejection of God’s word in seeking supernatural guidance elsewhere. The fact that Saul resorts to such means shows us something: he is desperate to know the future. He is desperate to know what will happen. He wants to be told what he should do, but he doesn’t really have a heart of obedience. He disobeys in the worst ways just to ask.

How many of us have said, “I just want to know God’s will! I just want to know what God wants me to do. If he would just tell me, that’s all it would take.” We ask because we want a God we can “summon” for information. We are not asking for wisdom, really: we are asking for knowledge, a specific kind of knowledge about the future. We want outward data, but God cares more about inward direction. We listen for future answers, but God desires the kind of listening that is lived out in present obedience. It is that kind of obedience that changes who we are, and God ultimately cares more about who we are than just what we do. What good is it knowing which job to pick if you’re still idolizing it? Which person to marry if you’re still selfish? If God told us what he wanted, would we really do it? Has not God already told us what his will is for us, all throughout the Bible, implicitly and in many places, explicitly? 

The irony is that Saul goes to desperate, criminal measures only to hear from Samuel the same thing he’s heard in the past. There’s little new information offered, and what is new is bad. “Sheol” means “the asking place,” and “Saul” means “the asked for one”: in a grim play on words, we learn the asking place will now receive the asked-for one. Knowledge without obedience has only led Saul to death. Chronologically, this story is out of order: it is sandwiched prematurely into the story of David as he lives with the Philistines (27:1-28:2 on one side, 28:3-25 on the other), which brings out interesting comparisons. Both David and Saul are outside of the Israelite camp, but while the medium at Endor asks Saul, “why have you deceived me?” the prince of Gath tells David, “I know that you are as blameless in my sight as an angel of God” (29:9). We see from these stories that true future life and victory comes when we are willing to search out any rebellion or presumption in our hearts, and to live out a listening obedience in the present. 

Puritan Prayer

From a puritan book of prayers:

Help me.

I am so slow to learn,

   so prone to forget,

   so weak to climb;

I am in the foothills when I should be

   on the heights;

I am pained by my graceless heart,

   my prayerless days,

   my poverty of love,

   my sloth in the heavenly race,

   my sullied conscience,

   my wasted hours,

   my unspent opportunities.

I am blind while light shines around me:

   take the scales from my eyes,

   grind to dust the evil heart of unbelief.

Make it my chiefest joy to study thee,

   meditate on thee,

   gaze on thee,

   sit like Mary at thy feet,

   lean like John on thy breast,

   appeal like Peter to thy love,

   count like Paul all things dung.

Give me increase and progress in grace so that there may be

   more decision in my character,

   more vigour in my purposes,

   more elevation in my life,

   more fervor in my devotion,

   more constancy in my zeal.

As I have a position in the world,

   keep me from making the world my position;

May I never seek in the creature

   what can be found only in the Creator;

Let not faith cease from seeking thee

   until it vanishes into sight.

Ride forth in me, thou King of kings and Lord of lords,

   that I may live victoriously,

   and in victory attain my end.

Ambulation

“A man of understanding walks straight ahead.” – Proverbs 15:21

“For you have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling; I will walk before the Lord in the land of the living.” – Psalm 116:8-9

The first time I saw a labyrinth, I didn’t see the point. It seemed like a lot of moving without going anywhere. But the point is the movement, which I felt again today when I had the chance to walk one. When you walk a labyrinth, you know where you will end up (the center, or back at the entrance point). You know where to place your next step on the path. But there is just enough complexity that you can’t completely trace all the points in between. And what you realize as you walk through it is that you don’t need to. Once you begin to let go of that, and just put one foot in front of the other, you become newly aware of things. Exterior things, like the breeze and the trees, the chirping of birds nearby, the expanse of sky above and the feel of the path below. Interior things, like longings and fears and questions. The steps become a metaphor for the spiritual journey, a way to physically walk out an intention or prayer.

It’s a bit disarming how faraway-clear the goals of my life were in early adulthood. I knew at the age of 14 where I would be when I was 18, and 22, and 26. In medicine, you start preparing for applications four years in advance, study for tests half a year in advance, all the little goals coalescing into bigger goals, never a question really of what you will be doing. Even after training is finished, the tendency is to keep living life from station to station: career advancement, home acquisition, family establishment. 

But this year has brought me to a place unexpectedly out of that mold. I feel like I did in the labyrinth: I know our values and mission and the ultimate end of things that matter, and the next few exploratory steps are concrete enough, but the middle is unclear. There’s no distinct timeline or goal. There’s no knowing what factors will come into play. There’s only one foot in front of the other. 

The kind of understanding that I tend to want is to see all the steps to the end, but sometimes understanding is simply to walk the next step ahead. Not run or skip, not sit or dawdle, but walk: a regular, rhythmic, intentional movement forward one step at a time. When we move like this, we are more able to be present to ourselves and those around us. We are more able to test our hopes and exercise our faith. We are more able to address the questions God really cares about: not, what specific outcome am I going to get? but, what direction is my heart and mind growing towards? “For we are his workmanship,” Paul tells us in Ephesians 2: “created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them.” Not work in them, but walk in them. He has delivered us and prepared us for this good purpose.

David And Jonathan

“And as soon as the boy had gone, David rose from beside the stone heap and fell on his face to the ground and bowed three times. And they kissed one another and wept with one another, David weeping the most. Then Jonathan said to David, ‘Go in peace, because we have sworn both of us in the name of the Lord.’” – 1 Samuel 20:41-42

It's hard not be struck by the physical and emotional expression in David and Jonathan’s friendship. Sarah Sumner writes, “No, they weren’t gay. It is not gay for a man to love another man.” We are so conditioned to think about sex that we have a hard time conceiving of genuine affection. She taught her third grade students, “Hardly, hardly ever is love meant to be romantic. Nearly, nearly always love is meant to be for family and friends.” It wasn’t sexual when John the apostle reclined his head on Jesus’ breast (John 13:23), when the Ephesian elders “wept aloud” and “embraced” and “repeatedly kissed” Paul as they saw him for the last time (Acts 20:37). It wasn’t sexual when David and Jonathan kissed and cried as they said goodbye.

Some of this can be cultural: when I first moved to the Bay Area, I was struck by how much less people hugged here compared with in southern Virginia. I missed the long, close hugs of my old girl friends. But culture aside, I wonder if there really is such a thing as “the affection of Christ Jesus” (Philippians 1:8): a pure, deep fondness felt for a spiritual friend, expressed in touch and tears, in a way that is not only healthy but reflects the affection that Jesus has for us. Children understand this best, I think. Children are always touching us. They cry because they miss us. They use the word love all the time.

We’ve lost something of this in our current-day conception of male friendship. Traditional ideas of masculinity do not tend to include being deeply relational or emotionally expressive. Yet when Lazarus died, Jesus cried so hard for him that his love for Lazarus was evident (“See how he loved him!” John 11:36). We see the weeping of David in Jesus himself. They were men who cried for their friends, loved their friends, changed plans for their friends, sacrificed for their friends. 

It can be hard to find friendships like this, man or woman. The older I get, the more I realize how much intentionality, commitment, and sacrifice it takes to be a true friend. But this story reminds me that it’s worth it. It encourages me to see and be thankful for the friends I have. It challenges me to keep praying for and being open to new and deepening friendships. It exhorts me to be willing to give things up for my friends. And in this story I see Jesus, who like David is my King, yet calls me his friend. He feels affection: he not only loves me, but likes me. He lay down his life for me, for the very reason that I am his friend (John 15).

Firm And Steady Hearts

“He is not afraid of bad news; his heart is firm, trusting in the Lord. His heart is steady; he will not be afraid.” – Psalm 112:7-8

The condition of the righteous man’s heart is described here with two similar words. The word translated “firm” is Hebrew kuwn, used over 200 times in the Old Testament, meaning literally “to stand upright,” establish, set up. The word translated “steady” is Hebrew camak, a rarer word, meaning “to place or lay upon something, so that it may rest upon or be supported by it.” If you trace the 49 times it occurs in the Bible, for a long time you read about the laying of hands, by a priest on an animal, by a leader to his successor. You read about Samson, leaning with all his weight onto pillars on either side. Finally, you read about how the psalmists lean on God, who sustains (3:5) and upholds (37:17, 51:12, 54:4, 145:14). And this gem in Isaiah 26:3: “You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed [camak] on you, because he trusts in you.”

It’s almost as if the second word is an elaboration of the first. This man’s heart is established, not by his own doing or strength, but because he is leaning on God. There is an implication here that we live in a world teeming with the threat of bad news, and the natural thing is to let fear seep in, to be unstable in the interior world of our thoughts, feelings, being. The fear of bad news is often at the root of our anxiety, our inability to wait, our withdrawal, our confusion. What would your life look like if you were never afraid of bad news?

That would be more than mere imperturbability: it would be a perfect peace. But look carefully: it is God who keeps us in perfect peace: our part is to keep our mind stayed on him. When you lean on something, you put all your hopes on it. It is the priest putting all his hopes on the animal sacrifice to atone for the sins of his people. It is Moses committing his hopes for his people onto Joshua. It is Samson placing one last hope at the end of his life onto two pillars. It is the living out of trust. What we lean on is what we actually trust.

Psalm 112 is an acrostic poem, each line beginning with the successive letters of the Hebrew alphabet. There is a kind of liturgy the author follows, in tracing through the familiar, unchanging pattern of the alphabet the truths he knows about God and how the man who fears him is blessed. I’ve been sorting through a lot of news lately, some of it bad. I feel the inner landscape of my thoughts and feelings shifting all the time. But into the change shines these verses, like an anchor of light dawning in the darkness (verse 4). There are a lot of things we can’t lean on, not really, in this world: our jobs, children, health, parents, possessions, minds, talent. But we can lean on God. And He can keep us in perfect peace.

From Thirst To Rivers

“On the last day of the feast, the great day, Jesus stood up and cried out, ‘If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, ‘Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.’ Now this he said about the Spirit, whom those who believed in him were to receive, for as yet the Spirit had not been given, because Jesus was not yet glorified.” – John 7:37-39

During the Festival of Booths (Deuteronomy 16:13, Numbers 29:12), there was a ceremony of water-pouring that, though never recorded in the Bible, is well-documented historically: at dawn on the first seven days of the festival, a priest would lead a procession down to the pool of Siloam, where a golden pitcher was filled with water. The procession returned to the temple as the morning sacrifice was being offered, and the water was poured out at the altar as the temple choir began to sing the Great Hallel (Psalms 113-118). The ceremony was not enacted on the eighth day. It is among a crowded throng of thirsty pilgrims, after enactment of God’s past provision and their continued need, that Jesus makes this proclamation, the same one he made to a solitary Gentile woman by a well (4:14).

Jesus gives us the living water of eternal life. But he doesn’t go on to say, “into” our hearts will flow living water. That would be the logical conclusion. The movement is in the opposite direction: “out of” our hearts flow rivers. No one knows for sure what Jesus is quoting here, but one possible reference is Ezekiel 47, where we see water flowing from the temple, first ankle-deep, then knee-deep, then waist-deep, then becoming a river that one cannot pass through. A river deep enough to swim in, that gives life wherever it goes, on whose banks are trees with leaves that do not wither and fruit for healing. We see similar imagery in Revelation 22, where the “river of the water of life, bright as crystal” flows from the throne of God through the city with the tree of life on its banks. 

And so, this is not just water-talk, but temple-talk. Jesus is God tabernacling on earth; the Spirit flows like the river, received after Jesus was “glorified.” “Throughout John’s gospel,” writes N.T. Wright, “there is a build-up towards the ‘glorification,’ the ‘lifting up,’ of Jesus—which turns out to be, with heavy paradox, the crucifixion of Jesus seen as the moment when his glory is fully and finally revealed, when the love of God which was always at work in him shines out most fully.” We are filled with the Spirit not for our own sake, but for the sake of spreading God’s glory and life into the wider world. This is a feast not only of celebration, but of vocation. After all, that was the ceremony: the filling in, the pouring out. We drink not to become lakes, but rivers, until “the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord as the waters cover the sea” (Habakkuk 2:14).

Prudent In Speech

“Behold, I have seen a son of Jesse the Bethlehemite, who is skillful in playing, a man of valor, a man of war, prudent in speech, and a man of good presence, and the Lord is with him.” – 1 Samuel 16:18

David will go on to become the most frequently mentioned man in the Bible aside from Jesus, but it’s interesting that here, the first time we really hear about him from someone, we learn that he is “prudent” in speech—Hebrew biyn, meaning discerning, eloquent. Perhaps the speaker was providing assurance that David was sufficiently politically correct for a royal court, but regardless, the statement is made. It stands in striking contrast to a story just two chapters earlier, in which Saul makes a rash vow that results not only in the fatigue and sin of his people, but in the near-death of his own son: “Cursed by the man who eats food until it is evening and I am avenged on my enemies” (14:24). Saul speaks in the heat of the hard-pressed day. His words are a curse. He is motivated by self-concern. We do not hear a word from David at all yet: but apparently he speaks with such prudence that he has acquired a reputation for it.

Our language matters: it is highlighted in both the downward trajectory of Saul, and David’s first rise to notice. What does it mean to be prudent in our speech? Prudence implies a kind of sagacity and judgment. To speak with prudence is to speak out of a right view of things. Jesus says in Matthew 5, “Do not take an oath at all, either by heaven, for it is the throne of God, or by the earth, for it is his footstool, or by Jerusalem, for it is the city of the great King. And do not take an oath by your head, for you cannot make one hair white or black.” We understand how to speak when we understand God’s place in this universe, and when we understand ours. We understand how to speak when we understand that our words carry weight: they refer to real things with real spiritual realities. They reflect the ordering of our hearts and minds. They shape the realities of the people and world around us.

Eugene Peterson writes, “Every time we open our mouths, whether in conversation with one another or in prayer to our Lord, Christian truth and community are on the line. And so, high on the agenda of the Christian community in every generation is that we diligently develop a voice that speaks in consonance with the God who speaks, that we speak in such a way that truth is told and community is formed.” Our language matters. May we cultivate through our speech a consonance with the God who is always speaking. May we be known for our prudence.

Looking On The Heart

“When they came, he looked on Eliab and thought, ‘Surely the Lord’s anointed is before him.’ But the Lord said to Samuel, ‘Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him. For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” – 1 Samuel 16:6-7

Samuel is a pretty perceptive guy by now. He hears directly from God; he knows God’s mind; he is steeped in God’s leading. He completely stands out for these reasons. And yet, he sees Eliab and thinks, this is it. In Hebrew, the word is emphatic: surely, without a shadow of a doubt. That is how powerful outward appearance is.

Our tendency to be biased by outward appearance is something so deeply part of our makeup that we have to step back very far to see it in ourselves. I was struck recently by how true this is when it comes to dating. Most Christian singles would say they prioritize the spiritual maturity of a potential date, but what they are really doing is first selecting the top handful of people who are most physically attractive. Then they look within that group and ask, okay, who has a good spiritual life? But they may have completely passed over men or women who would make fantastic life partners, ultimately on the basis of physical appearance.

This leads to a kind of spiritual myopia. Myopic people can’t see clearly not because the image isn’t being focused into a perfectly sharp point within their eye; their retinas are just a few millimeters too far back to receive it. Bringing what God sees into the focus of our own souls and minds takes intentionality. It takes practice listening for God’s voice: Samuel hears God speak continually here. It takes being willing to listen even when, or perhaps particularly when, it goes against our natural perceptions: Samuel obeys despite his own sure feelings. It may take letting more appealing options pass you by. It takes perseverance: Samuel continues through seven sons. It takes pressing into confusion with hard questions: Samuel asks, are all your sons here? It takes patience: Samuel is willing to wait there, standing.

When I look at people, I want to have sacred eyes. I want to look on their inward being as God does. I want to see both their true value and their true condition: because only then can I speak to who they are, in a way they can receive. Only then can I know how to respond, or when to respond. After all his journeying and listening and obeying and persisting and asking and waiting, the time came when Samuel emerged from his grief over one king to anoint another. God kept his promise to guide him, and it turned out to be a walk through this lesson: the Lord looks on the heart.

Discernment

From Henri Nouwen:

“Discernment is a spiritual understanding and an experiential knowledge of how God is active in daily life that is acquired through disciplined spiritual practice… The great movement of the spiritual life is from a deaf, non-hearing life to a life of listening… Living a spiritually mature life requires listening to God’s voice within and among us… When we are truly listening, we come to know that God is speaking to us, pointing the way, showing the direction… Discernment reveals new priorities, directions, and gifts from God. We come to realize that what previously seemed so important for our lives, loses its power over us… To our surprise, we even may experience a strange inner freedom to follow a new call or direction as previous concerns move into the background of our consciousness. We begin to see the beauty of the small and hidden life that Jesus lived in Nazareth. Most rewarding of all is the discovery that as we pray more each day, God’s will—that is, God’s concrete ways of loving us and our world—gradually is made known to us.”

Offering

“‘There is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish, but what are they for so many?’ Jesus said, ‘Have the people sit down.’… Jesus then took the loaves.”- John 6:9-11

For fun, we estimated that we packed 532 school lunches one year. Lately, I’ve been transitioning the kids into packing their own lunches, but it’s still quite a daily production. I like to think that the boy in this story brought a lunch packed by his mother, though of course we don’t know. But it probably was the result of some kind of ordinary, everyday labor. What’s remarkable is that the boy bothers offering it at all, given the size of the crowd. The disproportion is enormous. There’s no logic to it. One can’t blame Andrew for his question, the same question asked by Elijah’s servant when Elijah accepts an offering of twenty barley loaves in 2 Kings 4:42-44: “How can I set this before a hundred men?”

That’s the question I have sometimes, if I really examine myself. How can I set this before everyone? How can what I offer be enough? How can what I say, bring, or do meet the need that I see around me? But Jesus does not ask me to concern myself with that. He takes me just as I am: without criticism or appraisal. He does not say to Andrew, this is all you could scrounge up? He does not disregard the boy’s contribution. He takes it, receives it into his own hands, and gives thanks for it.

In the 2 Kings passage, the bread that is brought is “bread of the firstfruits, twenty loaves of barley.” The firstfruits were that first offering from the harvest once the Israelites came into the promised land (Leviticus 23): it was both a reminder of God’s provision and a product of their own labors. It was an act both of thanksgiving and of trust. N. T. Wright wrote when speaking of how Jesus’ resurrection is a sign of our own one day: “The point of the firstfruits is that there will be many, many more.” That is what Jesus does here in John. He takes the proffered loaves and makes many, many more. Imagine the boy’s wonder, seeing the loaves he had carried with him and given up, now being passed from hand to hand by the thousands.

Spurgeon preached of this passage: “I do not say that every man of common ability can rise to high ability by being associated with Christ through faith, but I do say this—that his ordinary ability, in association with Christ, will become sufficient for the occasion to which God in providence has called him.”

The Currency Of Attention

“Whoever is wise, let him attend to these things; let them consider the steadfast love of the Lord.” – Psalm 107:43

At a Stanford seminar Dave attended recently, someone asked, what is our currency nowadays? It is our attention. “In an information-rich world,” writes Herbert Simon, “the wealth of information means a dearth of something else: a scarcity of whatever it is that information consumes. What information consumes is rather obvious: the attention of its recipients.” Our problem nowadays is not “information scarcity” but “attention scarcity.” The focus has become not on filtering out data that distracts our attention, but on designing systems that constantly try to grab our attention: ads, spam, click-bait, emails, notifications, social network requests, sponsored posts, and more.

Our attention is a limited and valuable commodity for which we are solicited, currency we are trading in every day, whether we’re consciously aware of it or not. Our attention is powerful: it determines where we direct our energy in all its other forms—our time, thought, creativity, money. Our attention shapes our connections. We are so habituated to multi-tasking that it is virtually a gift to focus our attention solely on one person.

The other day, I saw Elijah as I was walking over to his classroom to pick him up after school. I stopped for a moment, stopped thinking about logistics and being distracted by all the people around me, and watched him. He was a lone island in an eddy of swirling children, standing still and perfectly prepared, jacket on and dutifully zipped all the way up to his chin, neon-orange backpack strapped on, hands in his pockets, gaze off in the distance, striking in his calm. He didn’t seem anxious or hurried. The same day, I stopped and watched Eric doing math problems at the dining table. He never stopped moving, at one point crawling onto the table in his intensity of focus, gesticulating in glee at solving the puzzles.

It’s so rare that I’m silent and undistracted in my focus on the children, and that day, I felt like I could see things about the boys that I sometimes forget: Elijah’s preternatural calm and need for solitude, Eric’s inner intensity and need to have that drawn into a place that challenges him. Our attention shapes our affections: those moments helped me not only learn about my kids, but feel more love for and joy in them. Sometimes I think, God, the way I can show you that I love you, the way I learn more about and have greater joy in you, is to give you the gift of my undistracted attention.

This takes practice. In a milieu where multi-tasking is the norm, it takes effort to be conscious of the directions of our attention, and practice to focus it. This is of course the basis of the meditation which people here place great stock in, but what the Psalmist showcases is not an emptying of all thought, or focus on those that generate calm or happy feelings. What he does is much more like my moments with the boys: an intentional connection with another being through undistracted observation. He gives his attention to the love of God towards the longing lost, the laboring imprisoned, the dying fool, those drowned by troubles, and he considers how steadfast that love is. What has your attention? This is a question worth considering because, as the psalmist reminds us, wisdom is found in how we spend that currency.

Ruth and the Concubine

“Behold, there was his concubine lying at the door of the house, with her hands on the threshold. He said to her, ‘Get up, let us be going.’ But there was no answer.” – Judges 19:27-28

“At midnight the man was startled and turned over, and behold, a woman lay at his feet! He said, ‘Who are you?’ And she answered, “I am Ruth, your servant. Spread your wings over your servant, for you are a redeemer.’” – Ruth 3:8-9

Reading through the Bible as we have been, I noticed for the first time the odd parallelism between the scenes in Judges 19 and Ruth 3. Both deal with an Israelite man (Levite, Boaz) and a woman of relatively low status (Ruth, a foreigner; the concubine, a secondary wife or slave). Both occur in the time of judges. Both occur not far from Jerusalem: in Gibeah, four miles north, and Bethlehem, five miles south. Both are detailed stories vividly told in the context of very little mention of God by the narrator. In both, a man wakes from sleep to find a woman lying prone near his feet. One occurs at the threshold of a door; the other on a threshing floor. Both are surprising situations. Both impact the course of an entire nation. 

The contrasts are even more striking. Consider simply what is spoken and what is not. Even before he knows who she is, Boaz asks for a name: the concubine has no name and is treated as chattel or worse. Ruth speaks her name; she asks for and receives protection. The Levite asks nothing. He expresses no sympathy or shock at what he finds, offers no protection. His words are chilling, and he receives no answer. We see the end of a so-called “marriage” in one scene; the beginning of a marriage in another. We see death and dismemberment in one; new life in the other—the restoration of name and property, the joining together of new limbs in the birth of a son who would be in the lineage of Christ. 

The Bible really goes to the darkest places, doesn’t it? But also into the brightest. Five chapters away from one of the most evil stories we’ve encountered up till now, there arrives its counterpart: a blazing beacon of protection, restoration, redemption, life. I don’t know why Ruth would have been given the chance to make the choices she did, to speak with the voice she did, and the concubine not. There is this tension throughout the time of judges between God’s covenantal grace and his judgment for disobedience. There are times we see sin in all its true horror—and perhaps we need to—and there are times when we see grace break out like the dawn. God will not leave us in the dark. The story of Ruth speaks really into the stories before it, to tell us this truth. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5).

Slow To Anger

“Whoever is slow to anger has great understanding, but he who has a hasty temper exalts folly.” – Proverbs 14:29

I heard someone say once that the more kids you have, either the messier or the tidier you become. For me, it’s definitely the latter. Some of this is simply the influence of authors like Don Aslett and Marie Kondo, and coming to value simplicity. But some of it is a response to the inherent chaos of having four kids, which seems mitigated to me somehow by having a decluttered physical space. Sometimes, though, this can lead to a kind of material idolatry, where the natural accidents and entropies of parenting become an insult to my ability to maintain a sense of self in my possessions and space.

The other day, I was teaching Elijah piano (he makes the cutest clicking noise with his teeth whenever he plays a note on the beat) when I noticed Ellie trying to rub something off our big, wooden dining table. Then Dave joined. I could feel my heart rate rise as he started getting out various cleaning solutions. I arrived to find that a paint pen the kids had left out had leaked. The paint had pooled all day, resulting in a spill that had eroded the superficial layers of the table, leaving a large discolored, indented stain. 

As we tried everything to ameliorate the damage, without success, I could feel my frustration rising. I liked this table. It cost a lot. It would take more energy than I felt I had to figure out how to refinish it. The kids should have cleaned up immediately like I’m always asking them to. What I wanted to do was start yelling. I could hear myself beginning to talk with a sharp tone of voice, beginning to think the worst of everyone. At that point I left and went to another room.

This proverb is about breathing. The word for anger, aph, literally means “nostril” and refers to an anger that manifests in hard breathing. The words for quick-tempered are qatser ruwach, “hasty in the breath.” This verse is not talking about the kind of anger that is a righteous, steady opposition to evil. It is talking about the kind marked by speed and tachypnea. The kind that accelerates your breathing. The kind you feel before you think about. This verse is not saying that anger is always unfounded. It is simply saying that the smart thing to do is to slow it down. To let it accelerate is to exalt, or literally lift up, folly. To make yourself one who worships foolishness.

I’m pretty bad at this. I generally find I have to physically remove myself from the situation, sometimes even distract myself with something else, and wait until I feel myself calming down. As I did that night, a thought came clearly to me: the table is not eternal. The soul of your child is. It seems obvious, but that’s how foolish anger is, how much it distorts my perspective. We ended up painting over the stain and having a good talk about all the lessons it would remind us of. I told the kids mine was the importance of slowing down my anger and remembering what really matters.

Beware Gifts Without Fruit

“And the Spirit of the Lord rushed upon him, and he went down to Ashkelon and struck down thirty men of the town and took their spoil and gave the garments to those who had told the riddle. In hot anger he went back to his father’s house.” – Judges 15:13

Michael Wilcock writes about Judges 8: “Gideon… has become, even on the testimony of his enemies, a man of majesty (8:18) and strength (8:21). But there is something less than admirable at the heart of him, for all the development of his great abilities. Beware the gifts of the Spirit without the fruit of the Spirit!”

Gideon became a great leader, but his heart was filled with pride, fear and anger. We see this in increasing degrees with subsequent judges, most of all with Samson, who though he had the gift of physical strength, had a heart filled with an anger and impulsiveness. The gifts of the Spirit are things like helping, giving, teaching, administration (1 Corinthians 12-14 and elsewhere). The fruit of the Spirit are love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control (Galatians 5). The gifts are about doing; the fruit are more about being.

We are generally much better at doing than being. We make being into doing. At school, our kids are taught how to be kind like they are taught math and reading—but while socio-emotional learning is important, these things cannot be fundamentally generated or willed into being. They come only as a result of our abiding in God: as David preached yesterday, loving in times of difficulty comes when we stay connected to God. As we grow in our gifts, we must grow in our fruit; as we expand our external ministry or service, we must attend even more deeply to our inner life. Gifts without fruit—exhortation without kindness, discernment without patience, hospitality without joy, anything without love—is something to be wary of. That at least is one of the lessons these judges leave us.

Samson's Death, Christ's Death

“And Samson said, ‘Let me die with the Philistines.’ Then he bowed with all his strength, and the house fell upon the lords and upon all the people who were in it. So the dead whom he killed at his death were more than those whom he had killed during his life.” – Judges 16:30

Samson’s death was not like Christ’s in a few major ways. His death was the result of disobedience, which we see throughout his life in patterns of impulsive recklessness, sexual addiction, vindictive violence and pride. He died to redeem himself. Christ’s death was a result of his obedience, and he died to redeem us.

But there are striking similarities as well. Both were betrayed by those they loved and handed over to Gentile oppressors. Both were mocked, chained, and became weak. Both acted alone.

This latter point is an interesting one. The cycles in Judges are really more of a downward spiral: judges become more and more flawed. Repentance becomes less and less genuine or even present. The last five chapters of the book break the chronological flow of the story to go back and demonstrate just how far the Israelites had strayed from covenantal faith. But as the cycles become darker and darker, there are elements that increasingly point to Christ, like this one. Othniel rallied all of Israel (3:7-11). Deborah rallied part of Israel (5:15-18). Gideon fought with 300. Samson fought alone. As Edmund P. Clowney writes, “God had shown that He could deliver Israel with an army of willing volunteers; He had also shown that He could save with as few as three hundred… But when the Spirit of God came upon Samson, the Lord showed that He had no need for even three hundred. He could deliver by one.”

Samson killed at least over one thousand men (15:16) through his one act of death, creating a permanent rift between the Philistines and Israelites. God used Samson to bring Israel out of a place of profound and complete capitulation to Canaanite culture, paving the way to restoring their identity as people of God. Like Christ, Samson’s death opened the way to new life—despite his unprecedented flaws. And so we see that, in the midst of the darkening spiral, there is also a movement towards God, towards the Christ who dies, the Spirit who counsels, the Father who rules with justice. As the Psalmist wrote, “Then shall all the trees of the forest sing for joy before the Lord, for he comes, for he comes to judge the earth. He will judge the world in righteousness, and the peoples in his faithfulness” (Psalm 96:13).

Sabbath Poem

By Wendell Berry:

What is the way to the woods, how do you go there?

By climbing up through the six days’ field,

kept in all the body’s years, the body’s

sorrow, weariness, and joy. By passing through

the narrow gate on the far side of that field

where the pasture grass of the body’s life gives way

to the high, original standing of the trees.

By coming into the shadow, the shadow

of the grace of the strait way’s ending,

the shadow of the mercy of light.

Why must the gate be narrow?

Because you cannot pass beyond it burdened.

To come in among these trees you must leave behind

the six days’ world, all of it, all of its plans and hopes.

You must come without weapon or tool, alone,

expecting nothing, remembering nothing,

into the ease of sight, the brotherhood [and sisterhood!] of eye and leaf.

Gideon's Ephod

“And Gideon made an ephod of it and put it in his city, in Ophrah. And all Israel whored after it there, and it became a snare to Gideon and to his family.” – Judges 8:27

I’m slowly reading through Watership Down with Ellie and Eric, and for a long time we were in suspense about what mysterious thing was wrong with the first warren Hazel and his friends encounter on their journey. All the rabbits there are sleek and well-fed, but there is an atmosphere of unspoken fear and secrecy. They finally discover the truth in one horror-filled moment: “What enemy was at work on the other side of the hedge? There were no cries—no spitting of a cat, no squealing of a rabbit—only the crackling of twigs and the tearing of the grass in violence. By an effort of courage against all instinct, Hazel forced himself forward into the gap, with Fiver following. A terrible sight lay before them… Bigwig was lying on his side, his back legs kicking and struggling. A length of twisted copper wire, gleaming dully in the first sunlight, was looped round his neck and ran taut across one forepaw… The projecting point of one strand had lacerated his neck and drops of blood, dark and red as yew berries, welled one by one down his shoulder. For a few moments he lay panting, his side heaving in exhaustion. Then again began the struggling and fighting, backward and forward, jerking and falling, until he choked and lay quiet.”

Snares are things that trap you unexpectedly. They appear simple, even harmless, but are purposely set for one reason: to immobilize and kill. Early on, God warns the Israelites that the Canaanite “gods shall be a snare to you” (Judges 2:3): idols, in other words, work like snares do. They insidiously trap and enslave, they ultimately control and immobilize, and their end is death. In this passage, Gideon refuses a golden crown only to turn around and make a golden ephod, melting down earrings in a way that eerily resembles how the golden calf was made (Exodus 32). The ephod was intended for glory and beauty, to bear the names of God’s people in remembrance before Him, to receive God’s guidance through the Urim and Thummim stones set upon it (Exodus 28). The actual ephod was worn at that time by the high priest in Shiloh (Judges 18:31), but by creating his own version of it, Gideon takes something that God intended to symbolize beauty, relationship, and guidance, and turns it into a snare for all the people. 

How can the vestures of our faith become idols? How can the very tools of worship become hindrances of that worship? How can we look towards our ministry to be our savior? How can the beauty of the created keep us from experiencing the beauty of the Creator? Perhaps we become ensnared by legalism; by power, visibility, or reputation in ministry; by a desire to control God on our own terms; by overemphasis on a particular style of worship; by the momentary at the cost of the eternal. The danger of these kinds of idols lies in their hiddenness, even to ourselves, cloaked as they are by the veneer of religion, by victory and rest as it was for Gideon (Judges 8:38). In the story, it took Hazel, Silver, Buckthorn, Pipkin and Fiver, working together and in turns, to dig out and bite through the peg to free Bigwig. It took seeing the copper wire for what it was to move them from a place of indolence and material comfort. May God open our eyes to the presence and workings of hidden idols in our lives.

Repentance Vs. Regret

“When the people of Israel cried out to the Lord on account of the Midianites, the Lord sent a prophet to the people of Israel. And he said to them, ‘Thus says the Lord, the God of Israel: I led you up from Egypt and brought you out of the house of slavery.” – Judges 6:7

Judges has a cycle of rebellion, retribution, repentance, and rescue, which is repeated six times throughout the course of the book. The fact that God sends an unnamed prophet here to speak to the Israelites suggests that there is something about their cry for help that may be regret, but falls short of true repentance. What is the difference between the two? Regret, or worldly sorrow (2 Corinthians 7), is sad over the consequences of sin rather than the sin itself. Once the consequences go away, the behavior returns. Repentance is sad at how the sin grieves God and results in the loss of a relationship with him. Repentance opens the door to grace and restoration, the ability to move on past the sin. 

Regret is about ourselves; repentance is about God. The prophet’s brief sermon is entirely God-centered: he wants them to see who God is and what He has done; he wants to drive home what their disobedience means to that God, rather than just what their disobedience means to them.  

How can we discern whether we respond to sin with regret or repentance? We can go to God’s word, just as the prophet quotes God to his people. We can observe patterns of sin in our lives. As one commentator wrote, “If you are continually falling into the same spiritual pit and your falls are not decreasing in number or intensity, you may be responding to sin in regret rather than repentance. In other words, you may regret the troubles your sin causes but be unwilling to reject the idol underlying the sin, which is still attractive to you.”

We can examine our patterns of confession. It is telling that we so often find it easier to confess alone or within a congregation than to one or two other people. Dietrich Bonhoeffer puts it well:

“Why is it that it is often easier for us to confess our sins to God than to a brother? God is holy and sinless, He is a just judge of evil and the enemy of all disobedience. But a brother is sinful as we are. He knows from his own experience the dark night of secret sin. Why should we not find it easier to go to a brother than to the holy God? But if we do, we must ask ourselves whether we have not often been deceiving ourselves with our confession of sin to God, whether we have not rather been confessing our sins to ourselves and also granting ourselves absolution... Who can give us the certainty that, in the confession and the forgiveness of our sins, we are not dealing with ourselves but with the living God? God gives us this certainty through our brother. Our brother breaks the circle of self-deception. A man who confesses his sins in the presence of a brother knows that he is no longer alone with himself; he experiences the presence of God in the reality of the other person.”

What We Consume

“I will ponder the way that is blameless. Oh when will you come to me? I will walk with integrity of heart within my house; I will not set before my eyes anything that is worthless.” – Psalm 101:2-3

Being healthy in what we read or watch in our spare time is challenging for many reasons. It’s easy to follow cultural cues and norms. It’s easy not to be accountable for it. It’s easy after a hard day to feel entitled to whatever provides momentary pleasure or escape. Because so much of what we consume is impure, not in a moral sense (though that may be true too), but in the sense of having degrees of good and bad mixed in together, it’s easy to be led along by the good bits and be careless of the bad bits. It’s easy to be blind to how thoroughly we are affected by what we consume, in our fantasies, moods, mindsets. It’s easy to ignore the evolving nature of it all, the fact that our very appetites are changed, our prohibitions numbed, along the way. 

The word for “worthless” here is Hebrew beliya’al, which is a combination of two words. Beliy means “consumption, wearing out.” This is a movement that is not cataclysmic, but erosive, gradual, insidious. Ya’al means “to ascend on high, to rise above” or “to excel, profit, benefit.” 

We see that the focus here is not on sin at all. The focus is on ya’al and what consumes it. This is not a list of rules but a love song: “I will sing of steadfast love… to you, I Lord, I will make music.” The precedence here is not legalism but longing: “oh, when will you come to me?” The psalmist has purposely put his mind to what is blameless; he attends to every step (“I will walk”); he desires transparent integrity in the most private spheres of life (“integrity of heart within my house”). The focus here is not moral code—it’s not where the line of sin is, and getting as close to that line as possible without crossing it—the focus here is longing and love that leads to a desire for integrity and blamelessness, that leads to a vow to avoid anything that would not be of benefit towards that. It is Paul saying, all things are lawful for me, but not all things are helpful. All things are lawful for me, but I will not be dominated by anything. I am meant for the Lord, and He is meant for me (1 Corinthians 6).

This is a particular area of struggle for me: maybe because of cravings for story, or an unusually vivid imagination and memory, I have found that I need to be more careful than most about what I read or watch, and the learning of that was a long and painful process, with some regrets along the way. It wasn’t until I changed that I realized the depth of this truth that what I set before my eyes is everything. It both reveals and transforms who I am, how I think, what I desire. Jesus put it best: “The eye is the lamp of the body. So if the eye is healthy, your whole body will be full of light, but if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!” (Matthew 6:22-23). May I walk with integrity of heart within my house. May I not set before my eyes anything that is worthless.

When God Is Not Obvious

“So they drew near to the village to which they were going. He acted as if he were going farther, but they urged him strongly, saying, ‘Stay with us, for it is toward evening and the day is now far spent.’ So he went in to stay with them. When he was at table with them, he took the bread and blessed and broke it and gave it to them. And their eyes were opened, and they recognized him. And he vanished from their sight.” – Luke 24:28-29

In his book Discernment, Nouwen writes that he spends at least an hour in prayer and meditation every morning—without it, “my life loses its coherence, and I start experiencing my days as a series of random incidents and accidents rather than divine appointments and encounters.” He may not have a particularly “close feeling” with God, and often it’s not pleasant to his senses, but “the way I become aware of God’s presence is in that remarkable desire to return to that quiet place and be there without any real satisfaction. And I notice, maybe only retrospectively, that my days and weeks are different when they are held together by these regular and ‘useless’ times. God is greater than my senses, greater than my thoughts, greater than my heart. I do believe that God touches me in places that are hidden even to myself.”

Jesus remains hidden during most of his encounter with two disciples on the road to Emmaus. And that’s part of what makes this story so poignant, isn’t it? He looks at these disciples as they “stood still, looking sad.” He listens to their experience. And rather than immediately revealing himself in person, which would have made both logical and emotional sense, he takes them through the Scriptures so that they can see him there instead. It was only in retrospect that they saw the significance of that time: “Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked to us on the road, while he opened to us the Scriptures?” 

It’s easy to have a consumeristic view of our daily times with God. It’s hard to keep reading the Bible or praying if we feel like we aren’t “getting anything out of it” or seeing results. But often, the effects of those times are only appreciated in hindsight. Often, God works in ways and areas within us that are hidden even to our own eyes. I don’t know why Jesus did not say to those two disciples, “it is I!” as he did to Mary. Instead, he walked them through the Word. He waited for their invitation. He took, blessed, broke, and gave the bread—the holy, in the mundane. Jesus takes an ordinary meal, that as his followers these disciples must have done with him many times in the past without anything at all remarkable happening, and reveals himself both during and through it. And then, he vanishes. Leaving them with the remains of dinner, perhaps. The dishes to do.

Sometimes, I have Mary-moments. More often, I have Emmaus-experiences: going along the road through the Word, carrying my confusion or sadness or weariness, wondering where Jesus went, moments of recognition mingled with periods of remembering. But he is no less working, whether I have a sense of it or not. He is no less present, whether I feel it or not. He is greater than my senses, and the decision I make to spend time with him matters.

Obedience In The Unseen

“And she said, ‘I will surely go with you. Nevertheless, the road on which you are going will not lead to your glory, for the Lord will sell Sisera into the hand of a woman.’” – Judges 4:9

“As we live our ordinary lives we are declaring all the time exactly what we are.” – Martyn Lloyd-Jones

At this time of transition from the bronze to the iron age, Sisera’s 900 iron chariots represented a huge technological advantage. In human terms, Barak was leading his 10,000 men into certain slaughter, but they stream down Mount Tabor anyway under Deborah’s command. We learn later in song (Judges 5:21) that God flooded the valley, creating mud that clogged the chariots’ wheels and giving the Israelites victory. 

Barak points to Christ, who like him is under authority (John 8:28), does not act apart from the one who sent him (John 5:19), and is victorious through obedience (Romans 5:19, Philippians 2:8; Hebrews 5:8). In all this, he demonstrates courage, humility, and a faith for which he is remembered in Hebrews 11. But most of all, he does it all unseen. He goes on a mission instigated by a woman and finished by a woman, knowing he will get little credit for it.

Sometimes it feels like my hardest battles are the ones I fight unseen, the hidden battles of ordinary life. Battles to control what I say or don’t say. Battles to not indulge in self-pity, complaint, judgment, or gossip. Battles to give up what I know God is calling me to turn away from. Battles to forgive someone, again. Battles to discipline well when I’m tired. Battles over my thoughts in the dark before sleep. I fight these battles against my own sinful nature, against the schemes of Satan, and for the most part there is no element of public recognition. The struggles are real, hard, and sometimes long; the victories when they happen can be unmistakable experiences of God’s power. But no one really sees them.

Barak had no less courage though he knew there would be no fame, and neither should I. Because the reality is, of course, that I am seen. Deborah’s words echo Jesus’: I will be with you. Mount Tabor is thought to be the place of Jesus’ transfiguration so many years later, the place where God declares his love to his Son as he does to us. The Holy Spirit lives inside me. I am not alone, in these most important battles in my life.

Left-Handed Salvation

“The Lord raised up for them a deliverer, Ehud, the song of Gera, the Benjamite, a left-handed man.” – Judges 3:15

After Othniel, none of the judges named in this book seem like who you’d expect to be a leader. Deborah is a woman, Gideon the least in a house of the weakest clan, and Ehud is left-handed. At that time, the right hand was a symbol of power and ability: God swears by his right hand, has pleasures at his right hand, and the Chosen One sits at his right hand (Isaiah 62:8-9; Psalm 16:11, 110:1). In Hebrew, Judges 3:15 literally says Ehud was “unable to use his right hand,” leading some scholars to speculate that he had some kind of paralysis or disability. No one would expect a left-handed man to be dangerous. They would assume that if he could not wield a weapon with his right hand, he couldn’t wield one at all—and that is why he was admitted to the king’s presence both publicly and privately. No one thought he could be a threat; he was completely beneath their notice.

Paul tells us in the first chapter of 1 Corinthians that God does not choose the worldly-wise or powerful. He does not choose those of privileged birth. God chooses the foolish, the weak, the low and despised. Why is this? 

The temptation for the Israelites at that time was not outright rejection of God so much as adding him to a pantheon of gods. The prevailing polytheistic culture objected not to the existence of God, but to his absolute sovereignty. When it came to various Canaanite gods, you generally did something to please a certain god so that they would give you something in response. But God is making it clear that he does not work as idols do. He chooses the unexpected, and works through them in strikingly different but undeniably powerful ways, to show that he is not a vending machine or formula. He is not one of many. He cannot be manipulated. And what he wants is not merely our tribute but our hearts, our total surrender to him alone. 

David Jackman writes: “Let us remember that Israel’s flirtation with other gods came from their over-domestication of the living Lord. It was because they thought they had God sewn up, in their pockets… [His] unbreakable promises led them to presume upon his mercy to the point of indulgence… they thought they had trained God. That is always the essence of idolatry… [Then] God teaches his rebellious people their total dependence on omnipotence by breaking out of their predictable boxes to use methods and men that no one could have imagined."

Jesus came like the left-handed Ehud: “he had no form or majesty that we should look at him, and no beauty that we should desire him… we esteemed him not” (Isaiah 53:2-3). He was beneath our notice. And through him God shows us that salvation comes left-handed. Not in the way we would think or the world would laud, but in a way that shows us he is a God like no other.