Max Lucado (12 page)

Uzzah should have known this. He was a priest, a Koathite priest, a descendant of Aaron himself. The ark had been kept in the house of his father, Abinadab. He had grown up with it. Which may be the best explanation for his actions.

He gets word that the king wants the chest and says, “Sure, I can get it. We keep it out back in the barn. Let's load it up.” The holy has become humdrum. The sacred, second-rate. So he exchanges commands for convenience, using a wagon instead of poles and bulls instead of priests. We see no obedience or sacrifice; we see expediency.

God is angered.

But did he have to kill Uzzah? Did he have to take his life?

We posed the question to Joe Shulam. Joe grew up Jerusalem, studied at the Orthodox Jewish Rabbinical Seminary, and still lives in Israel. He deeply understands the Old Testament. He met a group of us at the airport and drove us to Jerusalem, passing near the place where Uzzah was slain. “The question,” Joe opined in response, “is not why did God kill Uzzah but rather why does he let us live?”

Judging from the number of dead churches and cold hearts, I'm not so sure he does.

The image of a dead Uzzah sends a sobering and shuddering reminder to those of us who can attend church as often as we wish, take communion anytime we desire. The message: don't grow lax

Don't grow lax before the holy.

before the holy. God won't be loaded on convenient wagons or toted about by dumb animals. Don't confuse him with a genie who pops out at the rub of a lamp or a butler who appears at the ring of a bell.

God comes, mind you. But he comes on his own terms. He comes when commands are revered, hearts are clean, and confession is made.

But what of the second figure? What is the message of one man dancing?

David's initial response to the slaying of Uzzah is anything but joyful. He retreats to Jerusalem, confused and hurt, “angry because the Lord had punished Uzzah in his anger” (1 Chron. 13:11 NCV). Three months pass before David returns for the ark. He does so with a different protocol. Priests replace bulls. Sacrifice replaces convenience. Levites prepare “themselves for service to the Lord.” They use “special poles to carry the Ark of God on their shoulders, as Moses had commanded, just as the Lord had said they should” (1 Chron. 15:14–15 NCV).

No one hurries. “And so it was, when those bearing the ark of the Lord had gone six paces, that he [David] sacrificed oxen and fatted sheep” (2 Sam. 6:13). When David realizes that God is not angry, he offers a sacrifice and _____________________. Select the correct answer from the following:

a. kneels before the Lord

b. falls prostrate before the Lord

c. bows his head before the Lord

d. dances with all his might before the Lord

If you answered
d,
you win a pass to the church square dance. David dances mightily before the Lord (6:14). Somersaults, high kicks. Spinning, jumping. This is no tapping of the feet or swaying of

God comes when commands are revered,
hearts are clean, and confession is made.

the head. The Hebrew term portrays David rotating in circles, hop-ping and springing. Forget token shuffle or obligatory waltz. David-the-giant-killer becomes David-the-two-stepper. He's the mayor of Dublin on Saint Patrick's Day, hopping and bopping at the head of the parade.

And, if that's not enough, he strips down to the ephod, the linen prayer vest. It covers the same amount of territory as a long T-shirt. Right there in front of God and the altar and everyone else, David removes all but his holy skivvies. (Envision the president escaping the Oval Office and cartwheeling down Pennsylvania Avenue in his Fruit of the Looms.)

David dances and we duck. We hold our breath. We know what's coming. We read about Uzzah. We know what God does to the irreverent and cocky. Apparently, David wasn't paying attention. For here he is, in the full presence of God and God's children, doing a jig in his undergarment. Hold your breath and call the undertaker. So long, King David. Prepare to be fried, flambéed, and fricasseed.

But nothing happens. The sky is silent, and David keeps twirling, and we are left wondering. Doesn't the dance bother God? What does David have that Uzzah didn't? Why isn't the heavenly Father angered?

For the same reason I wasn't. They don't do it now, but when my daughters were toddlers, they would dance when I came home. My car in the driveway was their signal to strike up the band. “Daddy's here!” they'd declare, bursting through the door. Right there in the front lawn they would dance. Flamboyantly. With chocolate on their faces and diapers on their bottoms, they would promenade about for all the neighbors to see.

Did it bother me? Was I angered? Was I concerned what people would think? Did I tell them to straighten up and act mature? Absolutely not.

Did God tell David to behave? No. He let him dance.

Scripture doesn't portray David dancing at any other time. He did no death dance over Goliath. He never scooted the boot among the Philistines. He didn't inaugurate his term as king with a waltz or dedicate Jerusalem with a ballroom swirl. But when God came to town, he couldn't sit still.

Maybe God wonders how we do. Do we not enjoy what David wanted? The presence of God. Jesus promised, “I am with you always, even to the end of the age” (Matt. 28:20). Yet, how long since we rolled back the rug and celebrated the night away because of it?

What did David know that we don't? What did he remember that we forget? In a sentence, it might be this:

God's present is his presence.

His greatest gift is himself. Sunsets steal our breath. Caribbean blue stills our hearts. Newborn babies stir our tears. Lifelong love bejewels our lives. But take all these away—strip away the sunsets,

God's present is his presence. His greatest gift is himself.

oceans, cooing babies, and tender hearts—and leave us in the Sahara, and we still have reason to dance in the sand. Why? Because God is with us.

This must be what David knew. And this must be what God wants us to know. We are never alone. Ever.

God loves you too much to leave you alone, so he hasn't. He hasn't left you alone with your fears, your worries, your disease, or your death. So kick up your heels for joy.

And party! David “blessed the people in the name of the Lord Almighty. Then he gave a gift of food to every man and woman in Israel: a loaf of bread, a cake of dates, and a cake of raisins” (2 Sam. 6:18–19 NLT). God is with us. That's reason to celebrate.

Uzzah, it seems, missed this. Uzzah had a view of a small god, a god who fit in a box and needed help with his balance. So Uzzah didn't prepare for him. He didn't purify himself to encounter the holy: no sacrifice offered, no commandments observed. Forget the repentance and obedience; load God in the back of the wagon, and let's get going.

Or, in our case, live like hell for six days and cash in on Sunday grace. Or, who cares what you believe; just wear a cross around your neck for good luck. Or, light a few candles and say a few prayers and get God on your side.

Uzzah's lifeless body cautions against such irreverence. No awe

A reverent heart and a dancing foot can belong to the same person.

of God leads to the death of man. God won't be cajoled, commanded, conjured up, or called down. He is a personal God who loves and heals and helps and intervenes. He doesn't respond to magic potions or clever slogans. He looks for more. He looks for reverence, obedience, and God-hungry hearts.

And when he sees them, he comes! And when he comes, let the band begin. And, yes, a reverent heart and a dancing foot can belong to the same person.

David had both.

May we have the same.

By the way, remember what I said about my daughters dancing with diapers and big smiles? I used to dance with them. You think I'd sit on the side and miss the fun? No sirree, Bob. I'd sweep them up—two, even three at a time—and around we'd twirl. No father misses the chance to dance with his child.

(Which makes me wonder if David might have had a dancing partner.)

14

TOUGH PROMISES

K
ING DAVID's life couldn't be better. Just crowned. His throne room smells like fresh paint, and his city architect is laying out K new neighborhoods. God's ark indwells the tabernacle; gold and silver overflow the king's coffers; Israel's enemies maintain their distance. The days of ducking Saul are a distant memory.

But something stirs one of them. A comment, perhaps, resurrects an old conversation. Maybe a familiar face jars a dated decision. In the midst of his new life, David remembers a promise from his old one: “Is there still anyone who is left of the house of Saul, that I may show him kindness for Jonathan's sake?” (2 Sam. 9:1).

Confusion furrows the faces of David's court. Why bother with the children of Saul? This is a new era, a new administration. Who cares about the old guard? David does. He does because he remembers the covenant he made with Jonathan. When Saul threatened to kill David, Jonathan sought to save him. Jonathan succeeded and then made this request: “If I make it through this alive, continue to be my covenant friend. And if I die, keep the covenant friendship with my family—for-ever” (1 Sam. 20:14–15 MSG).

Jonathan does die. But David's covenant does not. No one would have thought twice had he let it. David has many reasons to forget the vow he made with Jonathan.

The two were young and idealistic. Who keeps the promises of youth?

Saul was cruel and relentless. Who honors the children of a nemesis?

David has a nation to rule and an army to lead. What king has time for small matters?

But, to David, a covenant is no small matter. When you catalog the giants David faced, be sure the word
promise
survives the cut and makes the short list. It certainly appears on most lists of Everestish challenges.

The husband of a depressed wife knows the challenge of a promise. As she daily stumbles through a gloomy fog, he wonders what happened to the girl he married. Can you keep a promise in a time like this?

The wife of a cheating husband asks the same. He's back. He's sorry. She's hurt. She wonders,
He broke his promise. . . . Do I keep
mine?

Parents have asked such a question. Parents of prodigals. Parents of runaways. Parents of the handicapped and disabled.

Even parents of healthy toddlers have wondered how to keep a promise. Honeymoon moments and quiet evenings are buried be-neath the mountain of dirty diapers and short nights.

Promises. Pledged amidst spring flowers. Cashed in February grayness. They loom Gulliver-size over our Lilliputian lives. We never escape their shadow. David, it seems, didn't attempt to.

Promises. Pledged amidst spring flowers.
Cashed in February grayness.

Finding a descendant of Jonathan wasn't easy. No one in David's circle knew one. Advisers summoned Ziba, a former servant of Saul. Did he know of a surviving member of Saul's household? Take a good look at Ziba's answer: “Yes, one of Jonathan's sons is still alive, but he is crippled” (2 Sam. 9:3 NLT).

Ziba mentions no name, just points out that the boy is lame. We sense a thinly veiled disclaimer in his words. “Be careful, David. He isn't—how would you say it?—suited for the palace. You might think twice about keeping this promise.”

Ziba gives no details about the boy, but the fourth chapter of 2 Samuel does. The person in question is the son of Jonathan, Mephibosheth. (What great names! Needing ideas on what to name your newborns? Try Ziba and Mephibosheth. They'll stand out in their class.)

When Mephibosheth was five years old, his father and grandfather died at the hands of the Philistines. Knowing their brutality, the family of Saul headed for the hills. Mephibosheth's nurse snatched him up and ran, then tripped and dropped the boy, breaking both his ankles, leaving him incurably lame. Escaping servants carried him across the Jordan River to an inhospitable village called Lo Debar. The name means “without pasture.” Picture a tumbleweed-tossed, low-rent trailer town in an Arizona desert. Mephibosheth hid there, first for fear of the Philistines, then for fear of David.

Collect the sad details of Mephibosheth's life:

• born rightful heir to the throne

• victimized by a fall

• left with halting feet in a foreign land

• where he lived under the threat of death.

Victimized. Ostracized. Disabled. Uncultured.

“Are you sure?” Ziba's reply insinuates, “Are you sure you want the likes of this boy in your palace?”

David is sure.

Servants drive a stretch limousine across the Jordan River and knock on the door of the shack. They explain their business, load Mephibosheth into the car, and carry him into the palace. The boy assumes the worst. He enters the presence of David with the enthusiasm of a death-row inmate entering the lethal injection room.

The boy bows low and asks,

“Who am I that you pay attention to a stray dog like me?”

David then called in Ziba, Saul's right-hand man, and told him, “Everything that belonged to Saul and his family, I've handed over to your master's grandson. . . . from now on [he] will take all his meals at my table.” (9:8–10 MSG)

Faster than you can say Mephibosheth twice, he gets promoted from Lo Debar to the king's table. Good-bye, obscurity. Hello, royalty and realty. Note: David could have sent money to Lo Debar. A lifelong annuity would have generously fulfilled his promise. But David gave Mephibosheth more than a pension; he gave him a place—a place at the royal table.

Look closely at the family portrait hanging over David's fire-place; you'll see the grinning graduate of Lo Debar High School. David sits enthroned in the center, flanked by far too many wives. Just in front of tanned and handsome Absalom, right next to the drop-dead beauty of Tamar, down the row from bookish Solomon, you'll see Mephibosheth, the grandson of Saul, the son of Jonathan, leaning on his crutches and smiling as if he's just won the Jerusalem lottery.