When God Whispers Your Name
By MAX LUCADOThomas Nelson
Copyright © 1999 Max Lucado
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8499-2143-8
Contents
Acknowledgments.............................................xiIntroduction................................................1PART ONE THE SONG OF THE MINSTREL1 The Voice from the Mop Bucket.............................112 Why Jesus Went to Parties.................................193 Hidden Heroes.............................................274 You Might've Been in the Bible............................355 Maxims....................................................416 God's Christmas Cards.....................................457 Behind the Shower Curtain.................................518 Gabriel's Questions.......................................559 What Is Your Price?.......................................5910 Groceries and Grace......................................6911 The Choice...............................................7112 The Prophet..............................................75PART TWO THE TOUCH OF THE MASTER13 When Crickets Make You Cranky............................8314 Seeing What Eyes Can't...................................9115 Overcoming Your Heritage.................................9716 The Sweet Sound of the Second Fiddle.....................10517 Your Sack of Stones......................................11118 Of Oz and God............................................11719 An Inside Job............................................12320 Late-Night Good News.....................................12921 Healthy Habits...........................................13522 DFW and the Holy Spirit..................................14123 The God Who Fights for You...............................147PART THREE THE GUEST OF THE MAESTRO24 The Gift of Unhappiness..................................16525 On Seeing God............................................17126 Orphans at the Gate......................................17927 View of the High Country.................................18328 The Name Only God Knows..................................189Notes.......................................................193Discussion Guide............................................197
Chapter One
The Voice from the Mop Bucket The hallway is silent except for the wheels of the mop bucket and the shuffle of the old man's feet. Both sound tired.
Both know these floors. How many nights has Hank cleaned them? Always careful to get in the corners. Always careful to set up his yellow caution sign warning of wet floors. Always chuckling as he does. "Be careful everyone," he laughs to himself, knowing no one is near.
Not at 3:00 AM.
Hank's health isn't what it used to be. Gout keeps him awake. Arthritis makes him limp. His glasses are so thick his eyeballs look twice their size. Shoulders stoop. But he does his work. Slopping soapy water on linoleum. Scrubbing the heel marks left by the well-heeled lawyers. He'll be finished an hour before quitting time. Always finishes early. Has for twenty years.
When finished he'll put away his bucket and take a seat outside the office of the senior partner and wait. Never leaves early. Could. No one would know. But he doesn't.
He broke the rules once. Never again.
Sometimes, if the door is open, he'll enter the office. Not for long. Just to look. The suite is larger than his apartment. He'll run his finger over the desk. He'll stroke the soft leather couch. He'll stand at the window and watch the gray sky turn gold. And he'll remember.
He once had such an office.
Back when Hank was Henry. Back when the custodian was an executive. Long ago. Before the night shift. Before the mop bucket. Before the maintenance uniform. Before the scandal.
Hank doesn't think about it much now. No reason to. Got in trouble, got fired, and got out. That's it. Not many people know about it. Better that way. No need to tell them.
It's his secret.
Hank's story, by the way, is true. I changed the name and a detail or two. I gave him a different job and put him in a different century. But the story is factual. You've heard it. You know it. When I give you his real name, you'll remember.
But more than a true story, it's a common story. It's a story of a derailed dream. It's a story of high hopes colliding with harsh realities.
Happens to all dreamers. And since all have dreamed, it happens to us all.
In Hank's case, it was a mistake he could never forget. A grave mistake. Hank killed someone. He came upon a thug beating up an innocent man, and Hank lost control. He killed the mugger. When word got out, Hank got out.
Hank would rather hide than go to jail. So he ran. The executive became a fugitive.
True story. Common story. Most stories aren't as extreme as Hank's. Few spend their lives running from the law. Many, however, live with regrets.
"I could have gone to college on a golf scholarship," a fellow told me just last week on the fourth tee box. "Had an offer right out of school. But I joined a rock-and-roll band. Ended up never going. Now I'm stuck fixing garage doors."
"Now I'm stuck." Epitaph of a derailed dream.
Pick up a high school yearbook and read the "What I want to do" sentence under each picture. You'll get dizzy breathing the thin air of mountaintop visions:
"Ivy League school."
"Write books and live in Switzerland."
"Physician in a third world country."
"Teach inner-city kids."
Yet, take the yearbook to a twentieth-year reunion and read the next chapter. Some dreams have come true, but many haven't. Not that all should, mind you. I hope the little guy who dreamed of being a sumo wrestler came to his senses. And I hope he didn't lose his passion in the process. Changing direction in life is not tragic. Losing passion in life is.
Something happens to us along the way. Convictions to change the world downgrade to commitments to pay the bills. Rather than make a difference, we make a salary. Rather than look forward, we look back. Rather than look outward, we look inward.
And we don't like what we see.
Hank didn't. Hank saw a man who'd settled for the mediocre. Trained in the finest institutions of the world, yet working the night shift in a minimum-wage job so he wouldn't be seen in the day.
But all that changed when he heard the voice from the mop bucket. (Did I mention that his story is true?)
At first he thought the voice was a joke. Some of the fellows on the third floor play these kinds of tricks.
"Henry, Henry," the voice called.
Hank turned. No one called him Henry anymore.
"Henry, Henry."
He turned toward the pail. It was glowing. Bright red. Hot red. He could feel the heat ten feet away. He stepped closer and looked in. The water wasn't boiling.
"This is strange," Hank mumbled to himself as he took another step to get a closer look. But the voice stopped him.
"Don't come any closer. Take off your shoes. You are on holy tile."
Suddenly Hank knew who was speaking. "God?"
I'm not making this up. I know you think I am. Sounds crazy. Almost irreverent. God speaking from a hot mop bucket to a janitor named Hank? Would it be believable if I said God was speaking from a burning bush to a shepherd named Moses?
Maybe that one's easier to handle-because you've heard it before. But just because it's Moses and a bush rather than Hank and a bucket, it's no less spectacular.
It sure shocked the sandals off Moses. We wonder what amazed the old fellow more: that God spoke in a bush or that God spoke at all.
Moses, like Hank, had made a mistake.
You remember his story. Adopted nobility. An Israelite reared in an Egyptian palace. His countrymen were slaves, but Moses was privileged. Ate at the royal table. Educated in the finest schools.
But his most influential teacher had no degree. She was his mother. A Jewess who was hired to be his nanny. "Moses," you can almost hear her whisper to her young son, "God has put you here on purpose. Someday you will set your people free. Never forget, Moses. Never forget."
Moses didn't. The flame of justice grew hotter until it blazed. Moses saw an Egyptian beating a Hebrew slave. Just like Hank killed the mugger, Moses killed the Egyptian.
The next day Moses saw the Hebrew. You'd think the slave would say thanks. He didn't. Rather than express gratitude, he expressed anger. "Will you kill me too?" he asked (see Exod. 2:14).
Moses knew he was in trouble. He fled Egypt and hid in the wilderness. Call it a career shift. He went from dining with the heads of state to counting heads of sheep.
Hardly an upward move.
And so it happened that a bright, promising Hebrew began herding sheep in the hills. From the Ivy League to the cotton patch. From the Oval Office to a taxicab. From swinging a golf club to digging a ditch.
Moses thought the move was permanent. There is no indication he ever intended to go back to Egypt. In fact, there is every indication he wanted to stay with his sheep. Standing barefoot before the bush, he confessed, "I am not a great man! How can I go to the king and lead the Israelites out of Egypt?" (Exod. 3:11).
I'm glad Moses asked that question. It's a good one. Why Moses? Or, more specifically, why eighty-year-old Moses?
The forty-year-old version was more appealing. The Moses we saw in Egypt was brash and confident. But the Moses we find four decades later is reluctant and weather-beaten.
Had you or I looked at Moses back in Egypt, we would have said, "This man is ready for battle." Educated in the finest system in the world. Trained by the ablest soldiers. Instant access to the inner circle of the Pharaoh. Moses spoke their language and knew their habits. He was the perfect man for the job.
Moses at forty we like. But Moses at eighty? No way. Too old. Too tired. Smells like a shepherd. Speaks like a foreigner. What impact would he have on Pharaoh? He's the wrong man for the job.
And Moses would have agreed. "Tried that once before," he would say. "Those people don't want to be helped. Just leave me here to tend my sheep. They're easier to lead."
Moses wouldn't have gone. You wouldn't have sent him. I wouldn't have sent him.
But God did. How do you figure? Benched at forty and suited up at eighty. Why? What does he know now that he didn't know then? What did he learn in the desert that he didn't learn in Egypt?
The ways of the desert, for one. Forty-year-old Moses was a city boy. Octogenarian Moses knows the name of every snake and the location of every watering hole. If he's going to lead thousands of Hebrews into the wilderness, he better know the basics of desert life 101.
Family dynamics, for another. If he's going to be traveling with families for forty years, it might help to understand how they work. He marries a woman of faith, the daughter of a Midianite priest, and establishes his own family.
But more than the ways of the desert and the people, Moses needed to learn something about himself.
Apparently he has learned it. God says Moses is ready.
And to convince him, God speaks through a bush. (Had to do something dramatic to get Moses' attention.)
"School's out," God tells him. "Now it's time to get to work." Poor Moses. He didn't even know he was enrolled.
But he was. And, guess what. So are you. The voice from the bush is the voice that whispers to you. It reminds you that God is not finished with you yet. Oh, you may think he is. You may think you've peaked. You may think he's got someone else to do the job.
If so, think again.
"God began doing a good work in you, and I am sure he will continue it until it is finished when Jesus Christ comes again."
Did you see what God is doing? A good work in you.
Did you see when he will be finished? When Jesus comes again.
May I spell out the message? God ain't finished with you yet.
Your Father wants you to know that. And to convince you, he may surprise you. He may speak through a bush or a mop bucket, or stranger still, he may speak through this book.
Chapter Two
Why Jesus Went to Parties I was planning to write a chapter on twelve verses this week, but I never got past the second verse. Not supposed to do that. Supposed to present the entire story. I meant to, I really did. But I got stuck. The second verse wouldn't release me-it took me hostage-so I spent the whole lesson on one verse. Captivating little phrase, it was.
I'll tell you about it, after I set the stage.
Picture six men walking on a narrow road. The gold dawn explodes behind them, stretching shadows ahead. Early-morning chill has robes snugly sashed. Grass sparkles with diamonds of dew.
The men's faces are eager, but common. Their leader is confident, but unknown. They call him Rabbi; he looks more like a laborer. And well he should, for he's spent far more time building than teaching. But this week the teaching has begun.
Where are they going? To the temple to worship? To the synagogue to teach? To the hills to pray? They haven't been told, but they each have their own idea.
John and Andrew expect to be led into the desert. That's where their previous teacher had taken them. John the Baptist would guide them into the barren hills, and for hours they would pray. For days they would fast. For the Messiah they would yearn. And now, the Messiah is here.
Surely he will do the same.
Everybody knows that a Messiah is a holy man. Everybody knows that self-denial is the first step to holiness. Surely God's voice is first heard by hermits. Jesus is leading us into solitude. At least that's what John and Andrew think.
Peter has another opinion. Peter is a man of action. A roll-up-your-sleeves kind of guy. A stand-up-and-say-it sort of fellow. He likes the idea of going somewhere. God's people need to be on the move. Probably taking us somewhere to preach, he is thinking to himself. And as they walk, Peter is outlining his own sermon, should Jesus need a breather.
Nathanael would disagree. Come and see, his friend Philip had invited. So he came. And Nathanael liked what he saw. In Jesus he saw a man of deep thought. A man of meditation. A heart of contemplation. A man who, like Nathanael, had spent hours under the fig tree reflecting on the mysteries of life. Nathanael was convinced that Jesus was taking them to a place to ponder. A quiet house on a distant mountain, that's where we are going.
And what about Philip? What was he thinking? He was the only apostle with a Gentile name. When the Greeks came looking for Jesus, it was Philip they approached. Perhaps he had Greek connections. Maybe Philip had a heart for Gentiles. If so, he was hoping this journey was a missionary one-out of Galilee. Out of Judea. Into a distant land.
Did such speculation occur? Who knows? I know it does today.
I know Jesus' followers often enlist with high aspirations and expectations. Disciples step in line with unspoken yet heartfelt agendas. Lips poised to preach to thousands. Eyes fixed on foreign shores. I know where Jesus will take me, the young disciples claim, and so they, like the first five, follow.
And they, like the first five, are surprised.
Maybe it was Andrew who asked it. Perhaps Peter. Could be that all approached Jesus. But I wager that at some point in the journey, the disciples expressed their assumptions.
"So Rabbi, where are you taking us? To the desert?"
"No," opines another, "he's taking us to the temple."
"To the temple?" challenges a third. "We're on our way to the Gentiles!"
Then a chorus of confusion breaks out and ends only when Jesus lifts his hand and says softly, "We're on our way to a wedding."
Silence. John and Andrew look at each other. "A wedding?" they say. "John the Baptist would have never gone to a wedding. Why, there is drinking and laughter and dancing ..."
"And noise!" Philip chimes in. "How can you meditate in a noisy wedding?"
"Or preach in a wedding?" Peter adds.
"Why would we go to a wedding?"
Good question. Why would Jesus, on his first journey, take his followers to a party? Didn't they have work to do? Didn't he have principles to teach? Wasn't his time limited? How could a wedding fit with his purpose on earth?
Why did Jesus go to the wedding?
The answer? It's found in the second verse of John 2 (the verse I could not pass). "Jesus and his followers were also invited to the wedding."
When the bride and groom were putting the guest list together, Jesus' name was included. And when Jesus showed up with a half-dozen friends, the invitation wasn't rescinded. Whoever was hosting this party was happy to have Jesus present.
"Be sure and put Jesus' name on the list," he might have said. "He really lightens up a party."
Jesus wasn't invited because he was a celebrity. He wasn't one yet. The invitation wasn't motivated by his miracles. He'd yet to perform any. Why did they invite him?
I suppose they liked him.
Big deal? I think so. I think it's significant that common folk in a little town enjoyed being with Jesus. I think it's noteworthy that the Almighty didn't act high and mighty. The Holy One wasn't holier-than-thou. The One who knew it all wasn't a know-it-all. The One who made the stars didn't keep his head in them. The One who owns all the stuff of earth never strutted it.
Never. He could have. Oh, how he could have!
He could have been a name dropper: Did I ever tell you of the time Moses and I went up on the mountain?"
He could have been a showoff: Hey, want me to beam you into the twentieth century?"
He could have been a smart aleck: I know what you're thinking. Want me to prove it?"
He could have been highbrow and uppity: I've got some property on Jupiter ...
Jesus could have been all of these, but he wasn't. His purpose was not to show off but to show up. He went to great pains to be as human as the guy down the street. He didn't need to study, but he still went to the synagogue. He had no need for income, but he still worked in the workshop. He had known the fellowship of angels and heard the harps of heaven, yet he still went to parties thrown by tax collectors. And upon his shoulders rested the challenge of redeeming creation, but he still took time to walk ninety miles from Jericho to Cana to go to a wedding.
As a result, people liked him. Oh, there were those who chaffed at his claims. They called him a blasphemer, but they never called him a braggart. They accused him of heresy, but never arrogance. He was branded as a radical, but never called unapproachable.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from When God Whispers Your Nameby MAX LUCADO Copyright © 1999 by Max Lucado. Excerpted by permission.
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