The Dropped Call

He tweeted, or should I say, X'd a hot take, and he didn't know the Lord had left him. He took a little too much pleasure in the failure of someone else, and he didn't know the Lord had left him. He longed for admiration of others, and he didn't know the Lord had left him. He spent so long criticizing a colleague that he didn't know the Lord had left him. He quietly resented his wife over a comment, a disappointment, a failure, and he didn't know the Lord had left him. These are uncomfortable sentences, especially because I can put my own name in more than one of them. There's a haunting sentence in the story of Samson. But he didn't know that the Lord had left him. He didn't know. Years ago something happened to me that gave me a rather embarrassing picture of what it might look like. I had an important conversation I needed to have with one of my supervisors. I seemed to collect quite a few of them. For several weeks I had been struggling with an issue, and I knew I needed to talk about it with him. Unfortunately, I can spend an enormous amount of time preparing for uncomfortable conversations. How will he react? Will he push back? Will he say what really needs to be said? Will he think poorly of me? Is this really worth bringing up? I can do this for extended periods of time. My obsessive tendencies can switch into third gear pretty quickly. I've always had a reputation for being somewhat non confrontational, so this was a big deal for me. Finally, on a long trip, I summoned the courage to make the call. Even then I wondered if it was the right thing. Maybe this needed to be face to face. Maybe I should wait. But I called. We began pleasantly enough, everything was cordial and upbeat, and then I broached the subject, the uncomfortable subject. As an introvert, I'd apparently been saving up words for several weeks because my opening monologue went on for about five minutes. Finally I asked him a question. Silence. Well, silence makes me nervous. So I explained myself a little more, still silence. I clarified a couple of things I thought might have been misunderstood. Nothing. I asked another question, silence. So naturally, I kept talking. Finally, I looked at my phone and discovered something rather important. The call had dropped. In fact, my supervisor had been trying to call me back, but I hadn't noticed who was calling. I just kept rambling. For several minutes I had been pouring my heart out, explaining my concerns, defending my reasoning, and asking questions to absolutely no one. I thought he was listening intently, he wasn't even on the phone. And somewhere in that slightly embarrassing memory is a parable. Because I wonder how often I go through life doing the same remarkably similar thing with God, still talking, still posting, still arguing, still planning, still criticizing, still defending myself, still preaching, still working, still explaining, and never stopping long enough to ask, Am I actually listening to God anymore? That's what makes the story of Samson so frightening. Samson had known the power of God, he had experienced the strength of God, he had faced impossible circumstances and he'd prevailed. And eventually he began to assume that what had always happened before would simply happen again. When Delilah called out that the Philistines were upon him, Samson woke up and said, I'll go out as I did before and shake myself free, as before. Those may be the most revealing words in the story. As before. I'll do what I've always done. I'll handle this the same way I handled it before. I'll summon yesterday's strength. I'll rely on yesterday's experience. I'll use yesterday's gifts. I'll go out as I have before. And then the scripture gives us that devastating sentence. But he did not know that the Lord had left him. Samson mistook familiarity with faithfulness. He mistook gifting for godliness. He mistook yesterday's power for today's presence. For those of us who live on this side of Pentecost, which is basically everybody, there is an important distinction. The New Testament describes believers as people who are sealed by the Holy Spirit. But in that same passage in Ephesians, it gives us another sobering command. Do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God with whom you were sealed for the day of redemption. The Spirit who seals us can also be grieved by us. And what grieves him? Paul doesn't leave any mysteries. It's bitterness, rage, anger, slander, malice. And then he tells us what the spirit-shaped life looks like. Kindness, compassion, forgiveness. Maybe the evidence that something has gone wrong spiritually isn't that I've stopped doing religious things. Maybe it's what I've become while I'm doing them. I can preach and I can be bitter. I can pray and I can hold a grudge. I can quote scripture and enjoy someone's failure. I can defend truth and secretly crave applause. I can criticize someone else's pride while remaining completely unaware of my own. I can even do some of these things good while relying entirely on myself to do it. Churches can do this. We can become so consumed with our own problems, our own glory, our own budgets, our own activities, our buildings, our structures, our traditions and our strategies and our opinions. The machinery keeps moving on, the meetings continue, the calendar stays full, the microphones still work, the sermons still get preached, the songs are still sung. And because we're still talking, we assume the conversation must still be happening. That's presumption. And perhaps one of the most dangerous spiritual conditions isn't outright rebellion. It's presumption. It's assuming that because God used me yesterday, he must approve of everything I'm doing today. The assumption that I because I'm gifted, I'm godly. The assumption that because I'm busy for God, that I'm walking with God. The assumption that because I'm still talking, God must be listening. Years ago I discovered that you can talk for quite a while before realizing that the phone call had dropped. Maybe spiritually we need to stop talking long enough to listen. The ancient poet Remy wrote. That's pretty good advice for a noisy soul. Step away. Be still. Listen. Stop talking. Make space. Confess. Forgive. Let go. Listen for the voice of God. And before you take another step, perhaps ask the question that Samson never thought to ask. Am I walking today in the strength of God's presence? Or am I simply assuming that I am?