I love you, God— you make me strong.God is bedrock under my feet, the castle in which I live, my rescuing knight.My God—the high crag where I run for dear life, hiding behind the boulders, safe in the granite hideout. I sing to God, the Praise-Lofty, and find myself safe and saved. The hangman’s noose was tight at my throat; devil waters rushed over me.Hell’s ropes cinched me tight; death traps barred every exit. A hostile world! I call to God, I cry to God to help me.From his palace he hears my call; my cry brings me right into his presence— a private audience! Earth wobbles and lurches; huge mountains shake like leaves,Quake like aspen leaves because of his rage.His nostrils flare, bellowing smoke; his mouth spits fire.Tongues of fire dart in and out; he lowers the sky.He steps down; under his feet an abyss opens up.He’s riding a winged creature, swift on wind-wings.Now he’s wrapped himself in a trenchcoat of black-cloud darkness.But his cloud-brightness bursts through, spraying hailstones and fireballs.Then God thundered out of heaven; the High God gave a great shout, spraying hailstones and fireballs.God shoots his arrows—pandemonium! He hurls his lightnings—a rout!The secret sources of ocean are exposed, the hidden depths of earth lie uncoveredThe moment you roar in protest, let loose your hurricane anger.
-Psalm 18 (the Message)
Whenever I’m feeling like God is unconcerned about my
well-being or unresponsive to my cries, it’s good to read Psalm 18. There’s an awesome violence in God’s response
to prayer. David is in this hellish, near
death state with enemies at every turn. It
sounds dramatically awful. In the midst
of all the torment and attack, David cries to God for help.
When I pray, I imagine God sitting on the couch next to
me like a gentle friend, nodding, maybe placing a hand over mind and squeezing
reassuringly. Other times, it feels like
He’s busy with other things and has left me to fend for myself. Maybe my problems would end if I could do a
better job of fighting the enemy.
Not true though. This
Psalm 18 God is a different story. His
mouth spits fire, the earth opens up beneath Him, and the arrows start
flying. He is hurling lightning, coming
at our enemies with a crazy vengeance! Nobody
messes with God’s child and gets away with it!
I once had a similar experience with my Dad. I was in college, working nights as a
waitress at a local Italian restaurant.
My parents had gone to our family cabin for the weekend and I would join
them after my work shift ended. I caught
the last ferry of the evening, a little after midnight. I found a seat, dropped my backpack in the
seat next to me, and settled into reading a book. A drunk young guy came over and sat in the
empty seat on the other side of me. He
tried to make conversation about my book.
I was uncomfortable and kept my responses short, as he draped himself
over the chair arm close to me. Finally,
his buddy came over, apologized to me, and pulled the guy away. I was relieved.
A half hour later, the ferry slowly pulled into the dock
and I waited on the outside upper deck with the other walk-on passengers. The drunk guy returned and leaned on me,
asking me my name. “I don’t want to tell
you,” I said. At this, he threw himself
on the wet deck, moaning, “Oh, she’s killing me. Can’t you see how cruel this girl is to me?” He rolled around in a puddle, holding his
heart. “Why won’t you tell me your name?” He got up, straightened his shirt and came
eye to eye with me. “Fine. Guess what?
I won’t tell you my name either!
See how you like that!”
This whole time, I was looking at others in the crowd,
begging with my eyes for help. Why wasn’t
anyone sticking up for me or telling him to get away from me? I was terrified and paralyzed. My hands started to shake.
The ferry finally bumped the wooden pilings and came to a
stop. The metal gate slid open and I
walked with the crush of people down the ramp.
I frantically searched the crowd for my Dad. He was supposed to meet me. Maybe he was late. I didn’t see him. My heart raced.
Then, I saw him, standing right in front of me. I hugged him and released a huge gush of
sobs, soaking the front of his jacket.
My Dad is tough, but not what I would call confrontational. His response surprised me. He didn’t say hello, he didn’t ask what was wrong. The first words out of
my Dad’s mouth were filled with fire: “Who am I going to beat up?”
He meant it.
When
daughters cry, fathers act.
The drunk guy was lost in the crowd by then, and we went home to the cabin. Recently,
I dealing with some fears and I thought, ‘What is the safest I have ever
felt? What image embodies safety for me?’ This story is my definition.
In an unsafe situation where fear impeded my actions, and
others remained passive, my Dad was there.
He wasn’t absent, he wasn’t late.
He wasn’t even gentle, as I might have expected. He was bad ass, ready to take down whoever
had messed with me.
My Dad isn’t perfect, and he’s certainly not God. But my heavenly Father used my earthly Dad to
give me a powerful picture of the fierceness of His love. Our God is not indifferent, He is not feeble,
He is not deaf. He not only hears us,
but He cares with a vengeance.
Keep praying, keep going to your Abba’s arms, but don’t
expect a gentle answer all the time.
Maybe this time, God is holding you and asking, “Who am I going to beat
up?”
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Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
I love you.
