Where was Moses when the light went out?

(In his shirttail trying to find a match.)

The statement that George MacDonald reiterated perhaps most often in his writings was John 7:17: “If anyone wills to do His will, he shall know concerning the doctrine, whether it is from God or whether I speak on My own authority.”

In a selection from My Utmost for His Highest, Oswald Chambers writes:

The golden rule for understanding spiritually is not intellect, but obedience. If a man wants scientific knowledge, intellectual curiosity is his guide; but if he wants insight into what Jesus Christ teaches, he can only get it by obedience. If things are dark to me, then I may be sure there is something I will not do. Intellectual darkness comes through ignorance; spiritual darkness comes because of something I do not intend to obey.

I once obeyed God in something that was terrifying to me. Don’t misunderstand. I’m not talking about running through machinegun fire or into a burning building or handling snakes or even getting on a rollercoaster that goes upside-down. I’m talking about doing something that could have made me look like a fool. No doubt, in the eyes of some, I did look like a fool. The loss of pride and my cultivated coolness was worse than death to me at that time. I still wonder that I managed to get through it. Yet just as Chambers indicates, my obedience led to a new degree of spiritual insight. I recognize now that it wasn’t much insight – just a crack of the door really, but compared to my prior darkness it was a veritable floodlight.

There was in a certain city two preachers of the same denomination. One was tall, distinguished, clever, and glib. He had been a professor at Bible colleges and had authored a book on the subject of church growth. The tall preacher was sincere, and his messages were well-timed, rich, and memorable. With his gifts, he gathered to himself the cream of society: the governor, doctors, lawyers, and various others in positions of authority. He built a new building and greatly expanded the church’s membership.

Across town the second pastor was short and dark. He was not glib, mispronounced words, and said things backwards. His messages were pointed, sharp and fiery. He lost track of the time when he preached. On occasion he would pause, look over the congregation as they were momentarily stunned into silence, and say, almost with a sneer, “Now shout!” Church growth was meaningless to him. “I would rather,” he once said, “have a hundred who all go to heaven with me, than a thousand, and nine hundred go to hell.”

After he built the new, impressive building and filled it with dignitaries, the tall preacher fell – not for the first time. His friends and political connections saved him once more. He moved away, got another church, began to build again, and fell again. The tall preacher was not a bad man. This is not a parable. I knew him personally and once counted him as a friend. He was brilliant, but he lacked spiritual insight simply because he refused to obey. Like most people, I thought he was disobeying with regard to his sexual conduct, but I learned that I was wrong. Adultery was for the tall preacher a consequence, not a cause. His disobedience was in regard to his positions. He would not go where the Lord wanted to send him, but where he had the best opportunity to advance his career, have a nice house, and gain prestige. This left him in the dark, empty and vulnerable to the cravings of the flesh. I eventually lost track of him, so I don’t know if he ever figured out what was wrong.

When I first met the short preacher we were both young men, but he had already been through half a dozen churches. He had never built a building. Until he arrived in the town with the tall preacher, he had never owned a house. His churches had all been small and never got much bigger. The church in which I made his acquaintance was easily the best he had been in to that point. After a couple of years he left it for probably the worst one he ever led. The short preacher was far from perfect. He had his faults and failings like most of us do, but he was generally willing to go where the Lord sent him. His prayer was always, “Lord, choose our changes.” The light in his life came from this obedience. It’s probably the most important lesson I have learned from him. He is still my friend, and he turned sixty a few months back after moving to what will be, most likely, his final pastorate. It is by far the best facility and the best congregation he has been given.

I guess my thought for the day is this: If I find myself having trouble, trials and temptations, I should perhaps ask God if I am where I am supposed to be. It’s a risky business – not too unlike Bilbo going out his front door – but I might even consider praying, “Lord, choose my changes.”

Don’t pray that one unless you want an answer.