LISTEN

LISTEN

by Brenda L. Agee
 

            I believe we all want to belong.  No matter how young or old, we want to feel a kinship of some kind with another person.  My five year old granddaughter flounced into my apartment the other day and plopped down beside me without a word.  She very deliberately crossed her arms and looked around the room at nothing in particular but definitely not at me.  Her old brother followed and casually said his little sister had cut her hair, her beautiful long blond hair with natural ringlets and curls.  When I looked to see where she cut it, she promptly, and quite seriously, said her mother hid the shorter hair in the pony tail.  I asked why she cut it and she said she wanted her hair to look like her best friend's hair.  The two little girls have known each other since infancy and they couldn't be closer but there was my granddaughter trying to find another way to show their closeness.  When I started to ask another question about it my granddaughter sharply retorted, "I believe we've discussed it enough and I don't have anything else to say about it."

            That sums it up, doesn't it?  We all want to belong; we find similarities to show our belongingness; and we don't have to say anything else about it.

            Years ago my children's father and I were looking for a new church home.  We wanted a smaller church where we could feel more like family since our own families lived hundreds of miles away.  We wanted to feel like we belonged. 

            We went to one church, quite small, but were surprised when the pastor announced that he didn't want the men in his church to have beards because, according to him, beards were not masculine.  Hmmm . . .  I was too surprised to say anything but I wanted to tell him that my husband could grow a beard that would be much more impressive than anything I could grow.  I said nothing, of course, but I sure thought it!.  We gave him the benefit of doubt since he had been raised when men were clean shaven and yet the hippie era brought back a lot of beards.  He didn't like bearded men.  That declaration plus a few others made us realize we didn't believe we belonged in that church.

            The following Sunday we tried another church.  And no, we weren't church hoppers, if you know the term.  Anyway, we were slightly late in arriving and I hated being late so I was uncomfortable from the outset: Strike one.  We had to sit on the back pew even though we always preferred sitting close to the front: Strike two.  Now, getting to strike three is going to take a bit of explaining.  The preacher got up to preach.  He was a quiet spoken man and obviously of a gentle nature.  Not bad, I thought.  He read from the Bible and I thought, "Well, that's a good passage."  Then he began to preach.  He words were monotone - no emotion - but worse yet were his gestures.  Actually, there was only one gesture and it seemed out of place.  He would announce ahead of time that he was going to make a point and proceed to say what it was he wanted to emphasize.  However, about five seconds later, he would hold up the index finger on his right hand and slowly move it back and forth, horizontally.  What?!  Strike three!!  I'm out of here.

            I was bored.  I'm telling you I was BORED!  I fretted, I fidgeted, I looked around, I'd had enough.  I finally decided to tell my husband that I would wait outside.  Just as I leaned toward him, the Holy Spirit had something else in mind for me.  And in God's still small voice, He whispered to my heart, "Are you listening to the sound of his voice, or are you listening to the words I gave him to say?"

            "But God, he is so boring!"

            "Listen.  Just listen

            So I listened to the words and this preacher spoke the truth.  He spoke of the absolute glory, love, mercy, righteousness of Jesus Christ.  He spoke of God's salvation and our place with Jesus forever.   As I listened, I began to cry and the tears flowed in awe of God, and I was ashamed at how I had judged the tone of voice and misplaced gesture of this humble man of God.

            Yes, we allowed God to show us where we belonged and we stayed in that church for the rest of the years we lived in that area.  And I still say that I've still never known a more humble man.

            Listen.  Just listen.

            As far as listening, how do we decide which minister we will listen to?  There are plenty of preachers out there.  One might have a smile plastered on his face that shows perfect dental veneers that would make any orthodontist proud.  He might go on to preach about all the wealth God wants for us but says nothing about sin and our need for salvation.  He might tickle our ears with his words but adeptly skirt around the Word of God.  Another might be what we think is too old.  How can he keep up with a younger generation?  And what about the one who instructs the music leader to play nothing but extremely loud contemporary songs.  Yet, his church may be next door to the preacher whose instructions are for quiet hymns from the hymnal only.  It goes on and on doesn't it?  We like this and we don't like that.  We make up our minds according to our likes.

            I wonder even now if I listen enough.  If you read my blog last week, you know I don't always listen to my body when it tells me to slow down.  I don't always listen to the doctors telling me to slow down.  I'm in a rush to do what I can because I'm afraid my heart will give out and what if I haven't done enough?

            And, do I really listen to the people around me?  We may sit and talk, or exchange pleasant chit-chat now and then.  Do I listen to the sadness or hurt behind the smile?  Do I listen to God as He shows me that person's broken spirit?  When someone asks for prayer, do I pray right then?  Or did I say I will pray and then go on my merry way, only to forget praying?  Did I listen to their plea?

            I want to tell you about a time, an actual event, when I didn't listen to God.  It changed my life!  I was 21 years old and newly married.  I'd had surgery and couldn't work so a girlfriend used to come over every day during the week and we played Canasta, a card game.  We laughed, talked, carried on over nothing for hours and had a wonderful time.  One day, she showed me a rash on her arms, back, legs.  It had broken open, was raw and bleeding in places.  It was everywhere.   She had an appointment with the doctor the next day so I didn't expect her to come over.  However, two and a half weeks went by and I hadn't heard from her and couldn't reach her by telephone.  Then, her husband came by.  My friend was dead.  She had died of cancer.  The rash was only part of the cancer she had and her death was horrible.  The cancer was more progressive than any of which I've ever heard.  He detailed the nightmare she endured while awaiting death.  It was so horrendous that I won't go into detail to explain

            However, her death was just the beginning of my nightmare.  I had never once talked to her about God, about Jesus Christ, about salvation.  I had never asked her if she had a personal faith relationship with Jesus Christ.  I didn't know.  I thought of the horrors she endured her last two weeks of life and yet, I knew that if she were not saved, the horrors of Hell would be oh, so much worse.  I had failed her and I had failed God.  Her blood would be on my hands. 

            I was in agony and I prayed over and over again.  I promised God that from that point on I would tell others about Him.  I promised to tell of what He had done and was doing for me.  I promised I would never again be shallow and calloused toward the salvation of others.  I prayed, I begged, that He give me wisdom, knowledge, strength, and courage.

            Years later, I met someone who knew my friend and I was assured that she definitely knew Jesus Christ as her Savior.  Thank you, Jesus!  But I also thank God that I didn't know about her salvation at the time of her death.  If I had known, I might have stayed complacent.

            I get accused of talking about God too much, but that is okay.  My grandson, not in accusation, but in simple curiosity asked me if I had to bring God into everything.  Well, yes, I told him.  God IS in everything.

            So I'm back to listen.

            In the books of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, the account of God speaking after the baptism of Jesus has God saying (about Jesus), "Listen to him!"  Jesus then took it even further when He said in John 10:27, "My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me." (NIV)

            What does listening to God have to do with wanting to belong?  I know for myself, when I don't listen, I feel an emptiness no matter who I am with.  But, when I listen to God and do as He asks or wants, I feel complete and humbled.  I know I belong to Him all of the time.  But when I listen, that belonging is stronger and more wonderful. 

            Just think about this when you next have opportunity to tell someone - a neighbor, someone in the grocery store line, an elderly person who is bent over and ill - when you have that opportunity, God has chosen YOU out of billions of people in the world, to talk to that person at that very moment.  Isn't that fabulous?  It is beyond our own comprehension!  Yes, I talk a lot about Jesus but when I listen, I am humbled and in awe that He would ask me to do something for Him!  Nothing says it more clearly to me than the following chorus to the song, "Who Am I" by Jason Crabb:

"Who am I that the King would bleed and die for?
Who am I that He would pray not my will, Thy Lord?
The answer I may never know, why He ever loved me so
But to an old rugged cross He'd go for, who am I?"

*************************************

            Oh, God, may I be still to listen.  May I put aside all of the things I think I should be doing so that I might hear Your voice.  Please, quiet my heart, silence my mind, still the circumstances of my life, and speak to me that I might hear You.