It has been a fascinating argument raging across America concerning the inexperience of certain political candidates. The discussion began with Barak Obama several months ago and is now squarely centered on Sarah Palin. The great question is “How much experience is required to lead?”
Psalm 145:4 says, “One generation will commend your works to another.” David, the writer of this Psalm, understood that it is imperative for one generation to pass on the stories of God’s miraculous works among them so that the next generation will not forget how they have arrived on the scene. But I believe David had a unique perspective on the reverse effect of generational impact when he, as a young man, made a profound impact on an old war.
After a night of rehearsing with our praise and worship team, I stayed late talking and enjoying some friends; discussing the wonderful direction of the Holy Spirit we were experiencing in worship. As people left one by one, I found myself there in the church auditorium alone. I turned off the lights and sensed that the Lord was in the room—and He was calling me. There, alone in the dark, I began to worship Him, simply, honestly, with no music, no trappings. I knelt on the steps, I walked down the aisles, and I laid down on the floor, seeking Him. As waves of the Holy Spirit came over me, I cried, I sang, I poured my heart out and He listened. At one point I realized I didn’t want to say anything because I knew that somehow, whatever I would say, would not be worthy of Him. It was a holy moment. I was full of awe and yet I felt as if I was home. I was overcome with wonder and yet wanted more. I was consumed with Him, His pleasure, His holiness and His purpose. It was a defining worship moment in my life.
Have you ever gone on an extended mission’s trip to a third world country? How long before you start to miss American food, the smell of a well-marinated hamburger on the grill, the taste of a creamy milkshake to wash it down? It’s strange, but after awhile, even the lowest of all American culinary delights—fast food—starts to sound appealing. Or what if you were the next contestant on Survivor, forced to eat only coconut parts and whatever sea creature you could spear with a carefully whittled stick? How long would be too long? How much would be too much? Losing comforts and conveniences is one thing; losing a vital part of your life, purpose, or identity is quite another. But even that is still not quite the picture. Our subject isn’t loss; it’s the voluntary laying down of things that have become central to our existence.