The story goes that some 5000 years ago, while the rest of Babel was running around speaking gibberish, there was one man who went to God and brokered a deal on behalf of his neighborhood. We will follow you—wherever you want—if you’ll just let our language alone. Don’t confound us.
And God agreed.
The man packed up his family and friends—whoever wanted in on the divine bargain—and hightailed it out of Babel. The trip was going pretty well until they got to some water. A lot of water. “A raging deep,” he called it. But God said “that way,” and he wasn’t pointing back the way they’d come, so the man built ships. Small, watertight, sea worthy crafts, but he didn’t know how to illuminate them. It was dark in there. Dark, dark. And they had little kids with them.
Imagine trying to get a wink of sleep in that ship with your little sister in the next bunk. You’d start wishing for Someone had seen fit to confound her.
So the man goes to God and lets Him know they aren't comfortable with the situation. And what do you know, God didn’t fix it for him. Didn't sympathize or make suggestions even.
Just said, Get thinking, man. Figure out a way to bring some light into the lives of the people you love.
So the man goes up into a mountain and makes sixteen molten stones. Small and round and clear, and he takes them to God and says here, touch these. Lay it right here Lord—make them glow. And God does. He stretches out his finger, and they cross the raging deep snug and enlightened.
Here's the thing.
If it were me up on that mountain, I don't know if I could lay out my handiwork and say, there. I've done all I can. Now it's your turn.
I'm afraid the Lord wouldn't ever get an opening because I'd be so worried about–me. Before his finger ever got near my pitiful little stones, I'd be picking them back up for one last buffing. Maybe arranging them just so.
I'd be so worried about my own performance, I'd forget that there is no limit to what God can do. Like somehow if I could impress God enough maybe I could earn the light in my life.
It's a struggle, isn't it? To know when to stop struggling–to say, there, I've done all I can. Now it's up to you. And to wait for the miracle, the finger of God. Even when we've seen it at work in our lives so many times before.
Read and post comments | Send to a friend