Higher Ground

If you pay attention to the cities of refuge, you'll notice something interesting about them: they're not really places you or I might go to hide. 

Remember, these are the cities that Israelites could run to for safety if they accidentally killed someone they had no ill will against. There, they would be protected from the vengeful relatives of the wrongly deceased. And since these cities of refuge belonged to the Levites (the priests), there was a way in each of these places for a man to come to God, and for God to come to man. 

But here's what is interesting. Three of the cities, those in the nine and half tribes of Israel, are in the mountains. One in the smaller Israel is on the "desert plateau." The other two, it's not specified what type of terrain they lie on, but we can make assumptions. 

So God sends His mistaken to the high and open places. At a time when they'd probably rather run to the low and closed spaces.

Mountains, by definition, are full of valleys. And there are plenty of valleys in the Bible. But these cities of refuge lie specifically in the mountains, in the high places. From here, you can see all of God's Creation from one horizon to the other. You can look out over the Promised Land and see God's chosen people.

The same is true of the plateau. The desert may not be the most scenic of all places, but here, the spaces are wide open. You can see from one end to the other, and while you don't get the same bird's-eye view that the mountains offer, what you do get is the sense that the world stretches before you in a way that doesn't seem possible when it feels like the world is closing in on you.

These are poignant reminders, in the midst of disgrace, that grace still reigns.

Yes, grace.

Grace is a funny thing to talk about in the context of the law. To a people whose every relationship was guided by covenant, grace steps outside the contract and loves anyway. The law, at its best, is a laundry list of blessings and curses. That's what it's for. You do right, and God will pour out His blessing upon you. You do wrong, and He will rain down His curse. It seems pretty straightforward, which is what we both love and hate about the law.

But then, there's this. Then, there's refuge. Then, there's the accidental murderer, who has done wrong but is not cursed. Who has not done right but is blessed. He is blessed by the mountains and the wide open spaces, by being called to higher ground when it would feel more natural to crawl into the depths.

It's not an accident. It's not like God picked these six cities and then went, hmmm...look at that. These all seem to be in the high and open places. No. He chose the high and open places because with God, every little detail is about grace. Every little detail matters. He could have chosen the valleys, but He didn't. He chose the mountains. He could have chosen the caves, but He didn't. He chose the plateaus. He chose the higher ground. He chose wide open spaces.

Because that's what grace does.

At just the moment when you're ready to run, grace calls you to bigger things.

Go for it.

Remember - these aren't just mountains, these aren't just plateaus, these aren't just the high and open places. These...are refuges. These are, as much as it may seem otherwise, the places to hide. Under God's wings. These are the places to shelter. In God's grace. 

Cities of Refuge

God asks Israel to do something interesting as they settle into the Promised Land. He asks them to set aside six cities of refuge to which persons who have accidentally done wrong can run and be safe. And as Israel settles the land, they do just this; they set aside six cities - three on the east side of the Jordan and three on the west side of the Jordan - for refuge. They do this after all the lots have been cast, all the land has been divided, all the tribes begin to spread out. 

And then, just as the business concludes, there's one more bit of business...the Levites. This priestly tribe, the sons of Levi, the descendants of Aaron, are to have no land or territory of their own; they are rather to live among the rest of Israel, dispersed throughout the nation to serve God both by bringing God to men and by bringing men to God. 

And wouldn't you know it? When the land is set aside for the Levites, they get all six cities of refuge. All six of them! 

It's such a God thing to do. For two reasons.

First, because the priests need to be reminded every now and then that there's room in the law for mercy. That sometimes, accidents happen and it's not always about judging and condemning. It's not always about right and wrong. Sometimes, there's this other thing. And in a place like this, that other thing is called refuge. 

And second, because if I accidentally kill someone, if I accidentally hurt someone, if I accidentally take life rather than give it, I'm not going to feel like much of a holy person. I'm not going to feel like God is very close to me. I'm not going to feel like there's anything I can do to re-establish that connection I once had. Sure, it was an accident, but.... 

Then God makes this place. He makes this place of refuge, where I can run and at least clear my head. And then in that way God does, He fills it with His people. Not just His nation, not just His chosen people, but the chosen among His chosen. He fills it with people who are the only ones qualified to come into His presence. They're the only ones allowed near anything that's sacred. It's like they're one breath away from holy at any given moment.

And in this place, in this refuge, I can't help but feel that it might be the same for me.

Of course, it could easily go the other way. All these persons who get to be close to God might make me feel even more distant from Him. But if I'm seeking refuge, if I'm looking for a way to come back, there's no better place to do it than among the chosen of the chosen. There's no better place to seek God than surrounded by the priests who know exactly what the weight of the tabernacle is. (More than 7 tons, FYI.) 

It's not even that I need the Levites to do anything specific. I don't need them to offer my sacrifices. I don't need them to approach the altar on my behalf. What I need them to do is keep living their lives. Just keep living. Let me see that there's still a way that man lives with God, and if it's possible, let me be a part of it sometimes. Let me live with God because He's all over this priestly camp in a way that I just can't find Him in a non-Levite city. 

What's great about this, though, is that they aren't really Levite cities. They weren't, anyway. They were regular cities. They were Reubenite, Gadite, Israelite cities that God chose to fill with sinners and priests. So that maybe the two could learn something from each other...

Like mercy...

...and grace.

I Shall Not Want

I've been thinking about the idea of want lately, and the conclusion I've come to is that there's really not anything in this world that I want. 

You might, at this point, be strongly disagreeing with me, thinking about all the things you would have if life would afford them to you. And I'm not saying that I don't have such a list myself. I do. Sort of.

But here's what I find is most true about want: it always leads me back to the abundance that I already have, and I inevitably discover that whatever I thought I wanted, I don't. Not really, anyway.

Here's how all this works:

Maybe there's something in this world you have your eye on. Maybe there's something you think you really want. Picture it. Dream about it. Ok, you got it? Now, imagine that someone gives you just enough money - down to the penny - to go out and get this thing. Let's say it costs $42.47, tax included, and someone drops $42.47 in your lap.

Do you go get it?

There are really two answers to this question. Some of us say yes, absolutely. Let's go get it. And then the answer becomes a question - now what? Is it as fulfilling as you hoped it would be? Or does it kind of feel like a waste? If you're anything like me, the more you get the things you think you want out of this world, the more they feel like a waste when you have them. 

Which leads to the second possible outcome of this little scenario, which is...no. You don't go out and get whatever it is you thought you wanted. See, when you get enough of the things you think you want in this life and they keep turning out to feel like waste, (maybe that's my problem: I've just been too spoiled) you start to consider that possibility before you even get them and then, just when it's possible, you realize it's not necessary. So, given every opportunity to go out and get it, you pass. 

Turns out, you don't really want it after all. 

For me, this want always ends up then as an exercise in gratitude. I think I want something, and then by the grace of God, I come into the means to have it only to realize that all I ever really wanted...was the grace of God. And I've got that. So this other stuff, these other things, what are they? Rubbish. And I don't need any more trash in my life. Nor do I particularly want it. 

So the more I want things, the more I am overwhelmed by all that I already have, all that already means something, all that is something, and I find that there's really nothing in this world that I want. And I say that with 100% honesty. There is nothing in this world that I want. 

How can that possibly be?

Simple, I guess....

The Lord is my shepherd.

Know My Voice

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. 

This week, we're talking about Psalm 23 a little bit and just what it means for the Lord to be a shepherd, which is an occupation we're less familiar with in the technological age. Yesterday, we looked through the rest of the psalm to see just what it is that the shepherd provides, to get a sense of the important role he plays in the life of the sheep.

But Jesus Himself says something about His shepherdship, and this, to me, may be more important than all the rest, living water, guidance, home, provision, etc. that the shepherd provides. What He says is this:

The sheep know my voice.

It's important because, for me, that's really all I want most of the time. You give me rest, and I'm going to be seeking more rest. You give me living water, and I'll be thirsting for living water. You give me guidance, and I'm always going to be asking you where to go, what to do, how to live. You give me protection, I will always be looking to you for protection. In other words, even though what the shepherd provides for the sheep is sufficient, it doesn't necessarily feel sufficient. It leaves me always looking for more of it. Particularly when the still waters start to rage and the good paths get grown over and the rod breaks and the staff withers and it doesn't feel like things are going as well as the shepherd might try to convince me that they are.

But talk to me...let me hear your voice...and you've got me. 

So often, I think that's all I really need from God in this world. Don't get me wrong - the rest of it is nice and all. But I feel like I spend so much of my life just begging, God, keep talking to me. Just a few words. Just here and there, if that's all it takes. Just let me hear Your voice. Remind me that You're there. Tell me You're here.

If God would just keep talking to me, I would have everything I need; I shall not want. 

Because really, it's God's voice that answers my most pressing questions. It's God's voice that fills my most pressing needs. Rest is nice, but what's nicer is knowing there is a place to rest. That there is a place so safe, so comfortable, so reassuring that rest is even possible. Living water is great, but it is in His voice that I hear the never-ending stream. It is in His voice that I hear what constant grace sounds like. Guidance is good, but when He speaks, I hear His confidence in the path we're taking. Protection is comforting, but in the low growl of a Father's voice, I hear how fierce His protection really is. All these things God, the Good Shepherd, gives to His flock, and it is His voice that makes them meaningful. 

For, I guess, it is in His voice that I hear love.

We've got this a little backward in our world. Or, really backward. We think it's the provision that's love. We think it's what someone gives us that shows love. I know a lot of families that show love not by presence but by presents, and so many of us have come to expect the same of our God. But not me. I guess that's why it's easy for me to appreciate Psalm 23 - The Lord is my shepherd - but to cherish the words of Jesus - My sheep know my voice.

Oh, how I long to hear that voice. Again and again and again and again...

I have everything I need.

The Lord is My Shepherd

Psalm 23 is one of the most quoted Bible passages ever. What's striking about this psalm is that it's written in such a way that a people like us, who have so little understanding of the idea of a shepherd, can still appreciate the message it speaks about our God. 

When this psalm was written, everyone knew at least one shepherd. Not only that, but everyone knew the importance of having a good shepherd. Livestock was an important commodity; you needed a shepherd that understood that and took good care of the flock. So when the psalm begins, The Lord is my shepherd, the original audience had a strong understanding of what that meant. And when it continues, I shall not want, they knew that the psalmist was not talking about just any old shepherd; he was talking about a good shepherd. The flocks had everything they needed.

But it's a verbage that doesn't mean a lot to us in a technological society. Is this good shepherd, this provider of all things, something like a Siri or a Cortana? At the push of a button, we can have all our questions answered. At the sound of our voice, we can have whatever we want. Is that anything like the shepherd?

Uhm...no. Just...no.

See, we've lost our frame of reference for the kind of provision the psalmist is talking about here in the image of the shepherd. In our digital world, provision means something else entirely. In ancient Israel, provision wasn't virtual; it was real. It wasn't connected to the Amazons and the Walmarts and the three coffeeshops that are fairly close to you. It came from the one man, the one shepherd, the one central figure that was responsible for it all. And the psalm goes on to tell us what that looks like. From the NLT:

He lets me rest in green meadows. The shepherd was responsible for rest. It was his job to make a place for the flocks and the herds to safely lie down without fear of what dangers might lurk around them and without expectation that they would have to move somewhere immediately. He took away the threats and the pressures of the world to create this sacred space for rest. 

He leads me beside peaceful streams. The shepherd was responsible for water, for real water. It was the kind of water you could leisurely drink. It wasn't rushing by too fast, wasn't going to splash up all over you or carry you away. It wasn't stagnant; it was still a stream, which meant the water was drinkable. It wasn't full of algae the way a pond might be. And the shepherd showed the way to this place that was designed for the drinking. He knew just where to go.

He guides me along right paths. Flocks move. It's what they do. They go from place to place, either to get to a new place where the family is moving or to keep the vegetation fresh as they circle back home. Either way, there's an end in mind. There's a place to which they're going, and the shepherd knows the way. He's leading them to a place called home, and they could trust that if they just kept following him, they'd get there. They'd end up where they were going, and it would be good. 

Even when I walk through the dark valley of death, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me. The shepherd stays near his flock. No matter what. Even in the darkness. Even in the shadows. Even in the face of death, he is there. And they know it. He is their constant presence; they will never be alone.

Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me. The shepherd is responsible for protection and for comfort. The rod protects the flock because the shepherd is not afraid to use it to beat away the wolves. The staff comforts the flock because the shepherd will hook it gently around a stray neck and pull them back near himself. It's this beautiful interplay of pushing away the dangers and pulling close the cherished. 

You prepare a feast for me in the presence of my enemies. The shepherd is not afraid to lay out the good food, knowing there are wolves around. His rod at the ready to defend the flock, he takes them to the best fields, the best grasses, the best meadows to graze in and does not withhold from them the best the land has to offer. 

You welcome me as a guest. Every now and then, I can imagine, a stray sheep might wander into another flock somewhere. And there are laws in Israel for what you can and can't do to a stray animal that you find. And I imagine that the good shepherd, who takes such great interest in his flock, would welcome this stray into the fold until such a time as its own shepherd comes looking for it. He lets it simply wander in, gives it a share and a safe place until it can find its way home. 

See, this is what the shepherd does - rest, nourishing water, guidance, home, presence, protection, comfort, a feast, welcome. This is what the good shepherd does, and the psalmist has written it all here for us so that even in times like these, where I have to admit that I don't even know one shepherd (and I'm probably not alone in that), we can still understand what it means to be in God's flocks. What it means to be one of God's sheep. It means rest. And living water. And guidance. And a place called home. And a constant presence. And fearless protection. And tender comfort. And an elaborate feast. And a gracious welcome. 

What more could we possibly want? 

Nothing. 

The Lord is my shepherd. I have everything I need.