Why Doesn't God Consult Me?
Written by Larry Clooney
I’ve often repeated the phrase, “God cares more about our eternal destination than he does our present situation,” and I still believe that.
I wouldn’t necessarily write it in the text of my sermons; it would appear in my mind while making a point, and I’d make the declaration. I don’t have any one verse to back it up; it’s a theme running throughout all of Scripture.
Two stories come to mind now that help to make my case. The first was from nearly thirty years ago when I was the pastor of the church Sandy and I planted. We were still meeting in a rented bingo hall when a lovely couple joined us; Bob and Voneda from Egg and I Road in Chimacum, WA. They were delightful, but Bob was sick with cancer when they first arrived. I recall one rainy Northwest morning; Bob had a strained look, and the hall’s cold concrete floor seemed to be chilling him terribly as I delivered my sermon. He sat in one of the metal folding chairs, looking like he was barely enduring.
His cancer worsened, and trips to a hospital in Seattle became necessary. These were monumental feats through two counties, across two bodies of water, and ending at a ferry dock to wait for the ride across the Puget Sound. Once they arrived, they’d drive across busy downtown Seattle, park their car, and walk into the hospital. Voneda would do the driving as Bob was quite ill by then; the trip was a marathon that they had to repeat too many times, yet the disease didn’t let go of Bob.
These were hard days for Voneda, caring for Bob, watching him deteriorate, driving back and forth to Seattle, and facing the prospect of losing him. Bob had shared with me that regret often harassed him, mainly that he hadn’t been a better father. I don’t recall any other specifics, but the regrets weighed heavily on him in those final weeks. His son was on his mind as he prepared to leave earth.
I visited them in the hospital, and it was grim, but Bob was still coherent and could converse, so we sang hymns and prayed together. Once, before I arrived at Bob’s bed, I prayed for guidance, and because I knew how hard this was on Voneda, I prayed for God to take Bob to heaven, where there’d be no more hospitals, let alone cancer.
If God wasn’t planning to heal Bob of cancer, I thought, wouldn’t it be better for him to end Bob’s days now? There didn’t seem to be much point for him to continue living. That prayer remained as I sat with Bob, singing, “Great is Thy Faithfulness.” But, as I sang, another thought passed through my mind; God was maximizing something for Bob in heaven even as we sang and prayed. It seemed to me that God was restoring something lost and addressing Bob’s regrets, even though dear Bob could barely keep awake.
God has his economy and doesn’t consult with us on eternal matters. If God wanted to expand Bob’s heavenly benefits and repair his son’s life as he lay there listening to me sing, that’s his prerogative, and who am I to interfere? What wisdom do I have in the matter? I was already considering how much time I had left on the parking meter and when the next ferry left the terminal. My thought was to end the present pain; God’s was to prepare more beauty for Bob in heaven.
A second story comes from my Bread of Life Mission days on Skid Row in Seattle. Johnny was in his seventies when he came to the mission, and he was very handsome and very addicted to crack cocaine. When he was with us, he was brilliant, funny, charming, never complained, and always worked hard. We’d see grandchildren visit Johnny; they were beautiful, taking him for Sunday church and dinner occasionally. But, relapse came, and his departure was a hard hit for all of us. I remember asking a fellow employee then, “Why? Why wouldn’t Johnny want to remain clean and sober like we are? Why can’t he manage his life as we do?”
Quickly, a thought passed through my head, and it was a verse of Scripture, “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You travel over land and sea to win a single convert, and when you have succeeded, you make them twice as much a child of hell as you are (Matthew 25:13, NIV).” I had imposed my earthly perspective on Johnny – don’t be an addict living in a homeless shelter, be like me with a home, job, and two cars in the garage – but, thankfully, only God’s perspective matters.
Johnny started drinking hard liquor with his uncles when he was twelve living in the South. His uncles were his family and drinking their business. He told me about them drinking on the porch of their home, working in the fields, and not attending school. Johnny's building blocks to achieve the American dream were little or no education, poverty, a broken family, another broken family of his own, and life on the wrong side of a national racial gulf.
His addiction to crack robbed Johnny of whatever he had to his name. People walked to football, soccer, and baseball games; artists visited galleries, couples drank coffee in the shop across the street (we saw President Clinton visit there once), and workers walked with lunches in their hands, returning to their offices. I’d see him staring out onto Skid Row from the mission’s front window. What were Johnny’s thoughts, and how could he handle his regret, shame, and resentfulness? What difference did his raised hand make to God that night in the chapel?
My hope for Johnny’s sobriety is one man’s judgment on another, but only God’s judgment counts. My judgments are binary, clean or dirty, winner or loser, success or failure; God considers the heart and its depths. I judged from my “manage life” perspective, but I was meager in spirit, only hoping for God to approve of me; God judges from the Cross, accepting broken and beaten lives. I wanted Johnny to be like me; God didn’t want him to be a child of hell like me. God’s thoughts are not mine. He is God; I’m not.
What is your present situation? What is your eternal destination? About which of those two do you spend more of your thoughts? I’m grateful God thinks more about the latter than I do.
I wouldn’t necessarily write it in the text of my sermons; it would appear in my mind while making a point, and I’d make the declaration. I don’t have any one verse to back it up; it’s a theme running throughout all of Scripture.
Two stories come to mind now that help to make my case. The first was from nearly thirty years ago when I was the pastor of the church Sandy and I planted. We were still meeting in a rented bingo hall when a lovely couple joined us; Bob and Voneda from Egg and I Road in Chimacum, WA. They were delightful, but Bob was sick with cancer when they first arrived. I recall one rainy Northwest morning; Bob had a strained look, and the hall’s cold concrete floor seemed to be chilling him terribly as I delivered my sermon. He sat in one of the metal folding chairs, looking like he was barely enduring.
His cancer worsened, and trips to a hospital in Seattle became necessary. These were monumental feats through two counties, across two bodies of water, and ending at a ferry dock to wait for the ride across the Puget Sound. Once they arrived, they’d drive across busy downtown Seattle, park their car, and walk into the hospital. Voneda would do the driving as Bob was quite ill by then; the trip was a marathon that they had to repeat too many times, yet the disease didn’t let go of Bob.
These were hard days for Voneda, caring for Bob, watching him deteriorate, driving back and forth to Seattle, and facing the prospect of losing him. Bob had shared with me that regret often harassed him, mainly that he hadn’t been a better father. I don’t recall any other specifics, but the regrets weighed heavily on him in those final weeks. His son was on his mind as he prepared to leave earth.
I visited them in the hospital, and it was grim, but Bob was still coherent and could converse, so we sang hymns and prayed together. Once, before I arrived at Bob’s bed, I prayed for guidance, and because I knew how hard this was on Voneda, I prayed for God to take Bob to heaven, where there’d be no more hospitals, let alone cancer.
If God wasn’t planning to heal Bob of cancer, I thought, wouldn’t it be better for him to end Bob’s days now? There didn’t seem to be much point for him to continue living. That prayer remained as I sat with Bob, singing, “Great is Thy Faithfulness.” But, as I sang, another thought passed through my mind; God was maximizing something for Bob in heaven even as we sang and prayed. It seemed to me that God was restoring something lost and addressing Bob’s regrets, even though dear Bob could barely keep awake.
God has his economy and doesn’t consult with us on eternal matters. If God wanted to expand Bob’s heavenly benefits and repair his son’s life as he lay there listening to me sing, that’s his prerogative, and who am I to interfere? What wisdom do I have in the matter? I was already considering how much time I had left on the parking meter and when the next ferry left the terminal. My thought was to end the present pain; God’s was to prepare more beauty for Bob in heaven.
A second story comes from my Bread of Life Mission days on Skid Row in Seattle. Johnny was in his seventies when he came to the mission, and he was very handsome and very addicted to crack cocaine. When he was with us, he was brilliant, funny, charming, never complained, and always worked hard. We’d see grandchildren visit Johnny; they were beautiful, taking him for Sunday church and dinner occasionally. But, relapse came, and his departure was a hard hit for all of us. I remember asking a fellow employee then, “Why? Why wouldn’t Johnny want to remain clean and sober like we are? Why can’t he manage his life as we do?”
Quickly, a thought passed through my head, and it was a verse of Scripture, “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You travel over land and sea to win a single convert, and when you have succeeded, you make them twice as much a child of hell as you are (Matthew 25:13, NIV).” I had imposed my earthly perspective on Johnny – don’t be an addict living in a homeless shelter, be like me with a home, job, and two cars in the garage – but, thankfully, only God’s perspective matters.
Johnny started drinking hard liquor with his uncles when he was twelve living in the South. His uncles were his family and drinking their business. He told me about them drinking on the porch of their home, working in the fields, and not attending school. Johnny's building blocks to achieve the American dream were little or no education, poverty, a broken family, another broken family of his own, and life on the wrong side of a national racial gulf.
His addiction to crack robbed Johnny of whatever he had to his name. People walked to football, soccer, and baseball games; artists visited galleries, couples drank coffee in the shop across the street (we saw President Clinton visit there once), and workers walked with lunches in their hands, returning to their offices. I’d see him staring out onto Skid Row from the mission’s front window. What were Johnny’s thoughts, and how could he handle his regret, shame, and resentfulness? What difference did his raised hand make to God that night in the chapel?
My hope for Johnny’s sobriety is one man’s judgment on another, but only God’s judgment counts. My judgments are binary, clean or dirty, winner or loser, success or failure; God considers the heart and its depths. I judged from my “manage life” perspective, but I was meager in spirit, only hoping for God to approve of me; God judges from the Cross, accepting broken and beaten lives. I wanted Johnny to be like me; God didn’t want him to be a child of hell like me. God’s thoughts are not mine. He is God; I’m not.
What is your present situation? What is your eternal destination? About which of those two do you spend more of your thoughts? I’m grateful God thinks more about the latter than I do.
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