It's been twenty-two years since I have heard the voice of God. But this morning, at 4:23 a.m., it woke me up. I have no idea what was said. Completely unintelligible. And no, I did not eat Mexican food last night.
When I was 17, I laid down on the backseat of a church van late at night as we drove back from Abilene. Interstate 20 in central-west Texas is a lonely, quiet place. (I think I have told you that story before.) Three people in the van. A young couple who volunteered to drive me and another teen who wound up not going to ACU rounded out the group of four in the van that night. No radio playing. No conversation. Just quiet. That, and the voice of God.
And then there was this morning.
Twenty-two years ago, the voice did not speak in conversational words. It was not like that. It was more of a feeling, a sense of confidence. That was when I knew God wanted me to go into the ministry, to preach, to speak, to be a servant of the Lord. Some people dismiss that as nonsense. Whatever instinct makes people want to be dismissive is a common one unfortunately. Maybe it comes from scores of people speaking on behalf of God to say mean and hurtful things. I understand. If anything, I am probably more judgmental than most when it comes to that sort of thing. And that's why I am writing this particular entry with fear and trembling.
It is now an hour later, about 5:30 on a quiet Friday morning. The distant, gentle drone of traffic from Southwest Freeway is in the near distance. The humming of the refrigerator next to me just finished its faithful cycle. The emotionally needy cat at my feet meows to remind me that he is keeping watch over God knows what. Those are the only sounds in the house.
But the sound of God is still ringing in a place I do not know how to describe.
I wish I could tell you, O bloggerland brothers and sisters, a word or a sentence that sums up the voice. But I cannot. Perhaps my soul is too hardened from years of church work. Perhaps I need a Q-Tip for the ears of my soul.
If I had to guess, based on a single experience, I might say (albeit very carefully) that God was simply saying to remember why I do what I do.
Four or five years ago, when I went to the Middle East for the first time, I stood on the shoreline of the Sea of Galilee and realized that I was a Christian because I was a preacher. (I think I told you this one, too.) I realized that I went into ministry for all the right reasons, and stayed in ministry for all the wrong ones. At that pinpoint-accurate-easily-discerned moment, it was as though God wiped the hard drive clean.
But there was no voice.
This morning, there was. And it was gentle.
At 4:22, I have no idea what I was doing, because I was deep sound asleep. Dreaming in some far off "Inception" world where I can ski and sing. At 4:23, the eyes opened, and that was it. Nothing else to report other than a feeling of presence. Wide awake.
People claim the voice of God all the time. But Moses only had one burning bush over a lifetime of silence. Prayer for most of us is a process of looking to the heavens and asking, "Well?"
Then there's Elijah. God told him in 1 Kings 19 to go shove himself into a crevice, literally between a rock and a hard place. God was about to "pass by." Sometimes the voice of God is a move, a presence. It's not a Cecil B. Demille movie. It's what comes after.
I think that powerfully gentle moment in 1 Kings 19 is particularly close to home today.
Listen.
"Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper."
God was not in the wind.
God was not in the earthquake.
God was not in the fire.
Just a whisper.
It is now 5:59 a.m., and it is good to be awake.
