O God, Our Help in Ages Past (Friday Devotional)

“I will call to mind the deeds of the Lord; I will remember your wonders of old. I will meditate on all your work, and muse on your mighty deeds.”

- Psalm 77:11-12

Mark Twain is reputed to have once said, “History doesn’t repeat itself, but it rhymes.” By knowing our history, in other words, we are better able to interpret our present—patterns that would otherwise seem inexplicable instead become familiar, events that might otherwise take us by surprise are instead predictable. Knowing what has happened makes it easier to understand what is happening…and can even help us forecast what will happen.

That is the principle that prompts the writer of Psalm 77 to look back on God’s mighty deeds, from the creation of the world to the exodus of God’s people from Egypt. In a time of trial, these memories serve as comfort and encouragement, proof that there is no challenge bigger than God. “If God could do that,” the psalmist seems to be saying, “Then he can do this.”

Just as they did for the psalmist, our memories of God’s powerful deeds in the past can compel us to trust him in the present. The problem, of course, is that we tend to have pretty bad memories. Whether it is a catastrophe knocking you off your feet or the day-to-day grinding you down to a nub, present trials have a way of making history feel like myth and memory like illusion.

But as Psalm 77 shows us, there is power and purpose in remembering. The biblical stories of God’s faithfulness may be ancient history, but His faithfulness itself is a present reality. His vows to never leave nor forsake His people may have been penned hundreds of years ago, but time has not fossilized those promises, it has validated them for generation after generation. For all the ways we change, God remains steadfast.

So when you need a word of hope, worry less about forecasting what God will do and more about learning from what He has done. History may not repeat itself—but who knows, maybe it’ll rhyme.  

Real Security (Friday Devotional)

“Your steadfast love, O Lord, extends to the heavens, your faithfulness to the clouds. Your righteousness is like the mountains of God; your judgments are like the great deep; man and beast you save, O Lord. How precious is your steadfast love, O God! The children of mankind take refuge in the shadow of your wings.”

- Psalm 36:5-7

Mall cops don’t make me feel much safer. I’m sure stores appreciate their presence as a deterrent against shoplifting, and perhaps they’ve managed to break up a few fights that were getting out of hand, but at the end of the day, they don’t inspire a lot of confidence. If you saw someone pull out a gun at the mall, you wouldn’t go running for the mall cop, you’d call 911 for the “real” police. After all, your security isn’t something you want to place in any hands but the most capable.

And yet, in a larger sense, we do so every day. The God of the universe offers us refuge in the shadow of His wings, and yet when we feel afraid, we turn to walls and weapons to feel safer. God’s precious, steadfast love extends to the heavens, yet in our hour of need, we settle for human strength.

The Lord God is mighty to save, but the unfortunate truth is, we don’t always care for the way He saves. When we are frightened, we prefer vengeance to justice, wrath to mercy, destruction to reconciliation. In our fear, morality becomes a zero-sum game: in order for me to be protected, my enemies must be destroyed. We can’t imagine ourselves feeling better without someone else feeling worse.

The cross of Jesus Christ lays waste to that mentality, inviting all to come to him, commanding that we love even our enemies, that we pray even for those who persecute us. He shows us that life comes not by conquering those you fear, but by serving them. He calls us to find our security not in crowns of gold, but a crown of thorns.

In a fearful time, the psalmist reminds us that God is big enough to provide refuge for “the children of mankind.” His faithfulness, righteousness, judgments, and steadfast love can do what earthly means cannot: if we will trust Him, they can make us truly secure. Your security is something you want to entrust only the most capable with—so instead of settling for strong arms, perhaps the time has come to place our faith in nail-scarred hands.

Separation Anxiety: A Parable

I was playing with my 18-month old son in Waco’s sprawling Cameron Park on a sweltering, windless afternoon. We were doing the best we could to make it a good day, but things were far from perfect. He was hungry, but I didn’t have any food for him; he was thirsty, but I didn’t have any water for him.

As we played, I looked a hundred yards north to a cabin-like building often used for receptions. Curious, I scooped up my son and walked over to it. Peering through its front window, my eyes widened at what I saw: in the center of the room was a cooler full of cold water bottles and a box full of snacks. What’s more, I could see the curtain across the room lazily blowing back and forth, a sure sign that the room was air-conditioned.

Eagerly, I walked up to the door, and there I saw the sign: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. I paused for a moment, and it was at exactly that moment that my son squeezed his hand demonstratively, sign language for “milk.” He was thirsty and the room had water…the sign seemed irrelevant. I checked the door to see if it was even unlocked. It was. I took my chances and walked in.

The moment I walked through the doorway, a hand roughly grabbed my arm and whirled me around.

“This room is for authorized use only,” said a uniformed man, his hand tightly gripping my arm. “You’re going to have to come with me.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I saw the sign, but my son was hungry and thirsty and—look, I’m sorry, we’ll leave.”

Stone-faced, the man said, “Not an option. We’ve been having problems with people coming in here without permission for too long now. You’re going to have to come with me.”

Seeing he meant business, I didn’t argue. “Come on, Buddy,” I said to my son. “We’re going to go with this man.”

“Actually,” said the man, “your boy is going to have to go with my partner.” Another man in uniform, nearly twice my size, stepped from around the corner and approached me.

“What?” I exclaimed. “Why?”

“Sir, please don’t argue. We’ll take care of your son while you are prosecuted.”

My face was getting red. “Hold on, let me call somebody—my wife, a friend. They’ll come get him while I go with you.”

“No, sir. You’re coming with me; he’s going with my partner. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of him.”

“Absolutely not!” I exclaimed, stepping backwards. “Look, I’ll pay the fine or whatever you need me to do, but my son stays with me!”

The larger man moved forward and roughly grabbed my son out of my arms before I could object. My son started to cry.

“Hey, stop!” I yelled, and the first man gripped my arm even tighter to restrain me. “Can we talk about this? This is crazy!”

Without another word from the uniformed men, handcuffs were slapped on my wrists as I was pushed in one direction and my son was carried the opposite direction. I was shoved into a car, and the last thing I heard before the door was slammed was the sound of my son weeping as he was taken away from me.

Some would call this story unbelievable. Unfair. Cruel.

My government calls it justice.

What do you call it?

Using Time Wisely (Friday Devotional)

“Remember the sabbath day, and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work. But the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God; you shall not do any work—you, your son or your daughter, your male or female slave, your livestock, or the alien resident in your towns. For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them, but rested the seventh day; therefore the Lord blessed the sabbath day and consecrated it.”

- Exodus 20:8-11

To be frank, I was a little peeved. Having left behind an unfinished sermon, a messy apartment, and a list of errands still needing to be taken care of, I had driven 25 minutes to the nursing home in McGregor to visit one of our elderly church members, only to find out upon arrival that he was leaving for the day to spend time with his son. Now it would take another 25 minutes just to get back to square one, and then it surely wouldn’t be long before my son was hungry for a snack and my work was derailed once again. The morning was barely underway and it already felt like a waste.

Walking outside the nursing home, I noticed a porch swing to my left and decided to sit for a second and recalibrate my plans for the day. Setting my son down, I sighed with exasperation and started running through the things I still needed to do. I thought about the points of my sermon for Sunday and how I might connect them, about the fastest route for getting all my errands done, about what time I might eat lunch—and since thinking rarely happens in a linear, orderly fashion, I thought all of this at once, and didn’t really come up with much of anything.

As I stewed, I checked on my son. With a look of intense concentration, he was picking up rocks from the dirt and placing them on the sidewalk, one by one. Looking up at me, his face burst into a grin and he held up one of the rocks to show me what he was up to, then went back to his task. Watching him play, I suddenly noticed how pleasant the temperature was—something you don’t get to say much during a Texas summer. The wind was blowing lazily, enough to be refreshing without kicking up dust, and the sun was shining but not yet baking. Looking up, I noticed for the first time the view in front of me, acres of green pasture as far as the eye could see. As many days as I’d been to that nursing home, I’d somehow missed its backdrop every time.

I looked back down at my son, smiled, and then joined him on the sidewalk. And for 20 minutes or so, we played in the dirt. Work would wait—nothing could have been more productive in that moment than enjoying the beauty God had put right in front of me.

It took me a while to realize that, because I was so fixated on getting work done. After all, in our 21^st century, social media-driven, technology-reliant society, you never have to stop working. There’s always an e-mail to compose or a news story to read or an assignment to complete. There’s no true end to the to-do list, no finish line that allows you a breath of rest.

It’s in such a time that we need the concept of Sabbath, a God-ordained time of rest, more than ever. When God gave His people the Ten Commandments, He knew we would face numerous temptations which, if acted upon, would hurt us and the people around us. He knew we were better off not stealing, not committing adultery, not coveting one another’s possessions…and not working ourselves to death. The Sabbath, with roots in the creation of the world, demanded that time be taken away from the pursuits that would otherwise occupy our minds constantly. We needed to be reminded that the world keeps spinning even when we rest.

It’s easy to live like a blur, always striving and pushing and working, convinced that stopping for even a moment is a waste of time. But God calls us to not only use the resources and talents He’s given us, but to enjoy and appreciate them, to rest in His mercy instead of relying upon our works. This weekend, take some time to set the lists and the news and the social media aside and notice the blessings God has given you. Trust me—it’s far from a waste of time.

Redeeming the Ugliness (Friday Devotional)

“So we do not lose heart. Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day. For this slight momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure, because we look not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal.”

- 2 Corinthians 4:16-18

When I moved to Waco in 2008, one of the more distinctive landmarks in downtown Waco was the pair of large, rusting grain silos near the “grease pit” road of fast food chains off I-35. The silos, which had sat unused for years, stood as unfortunate metaphors for a once-proud city whose best days were seemingly behind it.

But then in 2014, Chip and Joanna Gaines, stars of what had already become a hit show on HGTV, Fixer Upper, announced their plans to buy both the silos and their surrounding land in order to build a marketplace for home improvement, interior decorating, and Fixer Upper merchandise. With the backing of the city government, the local community, and Fixer Upper fans everywhere, the Gaineses spent the better part of a year turning that patch of abandoned land into a decorator’s Disneyland, complete with food trucks, a children’s play area, and a bakery serving some of the best cupcakes in central Texas. Magnolia Marketplace, a.k.a. “The Silos,” is now one of the biggest tourist attractions in the nation, drawing upwards of 1.5 million guests per year.

Yet when you drive through Waco, you wouldn’t be able to see any of that from I-35, just the same old silos. There’s been no update to the silos themselves, no modernization or fresh coat of paint—despite the city government’s urging, the Gaineses insisted they remain as is. The silos still look exactly the same today as they did in 2008, the original paint job continuing to chip away, the exposed metal getting a little rustier with every rainstorm. Only by stepping inside Magnolia’s sprawling complex can you see the renewal that’s occurred.

At some point, everyone starts to feel like the way those silos look—beaten down by circumstances, abandoned by better times. When the world is cruel and life is unfair, it becomes tempting to think that there is no hope for the future, that you are condemned to keep taking life’s punches until they knock you out once and for all.

But for believers in Christ, God promises inward renewal even in the face of outward turmoil. His mercies are new every morning, which means even when your struggles feel meaningless and your sorrows seem unnoticed, the truth is that God is ministering to you in your pain—and may even be giving you the opportunity to minister to others through it.

Jesus’s empty tomb serves as a promise to every Christian that there is no degree of suffering which cannot be redeemed by God. So when all you can see is the visible ugliness, may God give you eyes to see the glorious work He’s doing within.

Learning from Children (Friday Devotional)

‘At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, “Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” He called a child, whom he put among them, and said, “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.”’

- Matthew 18:1-4

Members of my church and/or regular readers of these devotionals have undoubtedly noticed that I’ve become one of those pastors who can’t let a “my kid did a cute thing the other day” story go by without using it as illustrative material in a biblical message. My sermons and devotionals probably seem at times like the equivalent of pulling out my billfold and showing his latest pictures.

There are a few reasons for that. First, since I take care of my son during the workday, most of my personal illustrations are going to involve him by default—after all, unless he’s asleep, he’s with me for basically anything I experience. Second, well, he is pretty cute, and I am awfully proud of him. But third and most importantly, I’m finding every day that constantly being with a small child is changing my faith for the better.

Where I sometimes approach newness—new experiences, new ideas, new people—with suspicion, my son comes to newness with joyful curiosity. Where I sometimes feel obligated to hide what I’m feeling for the sake of maintaining appearances, my son is an open book of smiles and tears. Perhaps most valuably, where I can walk through a crowd of people utterly absorbed in myself—my thoughts, my responsibilities, my plans—he seems to see every person as a friend-in-waiting, extending his hand for a high five any time someone gets close enough. In ways big and small, he walks through life differently than I do.

Of course, we can’t live like children in every way—part of being an adult is putting away childish things and replacing them with the responsibilities of adulthood. But unfortunately, we tend to make the mistake of conflating maturity with cynicism, acting as though the virtues of faith, hope, and love are kid’s stuff. Somewhere along the line, we start to grow out of the curiosity, sincerity, and joyfulness of childhood.

Jesus said that those who wish to enter the kingdom of God must change and become like children. In order to follow God faithfully, we must be willing to lift the scales from our eyes and let some light in. Instead of fearing our neighbors, we must be willing to take the risk of loving them. Instead of falling into world-weariness, we must choose hope.

In an insincere world, adopting the innocent sincerity of a child is a conscious choice, one that Christ calls us to make. But it is by doing so, by seeing the world through new eyes, that we are able to believe in the possibility of redemption. If our job as adults is to teach children the basics, from how to eat to their A-B-C’s, maybe they can teach us something even more fundamental.