I WAS TEACHING PRINCIPLES of spiritual growth in a rented Communist factory auditorium to about one hundred and twenty-five Ukrainian pastors soon after the end of the cold war. The only hotel in the city rented rooms to Ukrainians for $4 per night; it charged Americans $42. The factory cooks prepared our meals for pennies. The daily menu included red borscht, green borscht, and plain borscht.
Each night we all gathered after dinner in a small hotel conference room for impromptu discussions. I was surprised to discover that Ukrainian pastors struggled with many of the same issues pastors encounter in America: “What about spiritual warfare? Can Christians be demon-possessed? How can we organize our people into small groups? How can I find time to prepare good sermons when I already have a full-time job? What is the best way to disciple our people? How can I have a more vibrant prayer life? What about speaking in tongues? Why do Pentecostals and non-Pentecostals fight so much? What about the role of women in the church?”
One night an elderly gentleman, visibly agitated, said, “We’ve had more experiences with God and suffering than he has [referring to me]. We have been tested by fire. What does he know that we don’t know? Why should we listen to him?”
Some were embarrassed by his outburst. Some thought he was right. Every eye was on me.
I turned to the white-haired Ukrainian pastor, who had suffered much during the Communist persecution, and said, “You don’t understand how humbling it is for me to presume to teach anything to you. I’ve walked through your cemeteries and seen thousands of tree-stump-shaped tombstones (which symbolize lives cue off before their time) with death dates all ending in 1931. I know Stalin sold your grain to Germany that year to raise cash and that five million Ukrainians starved. I saw thousands of grave markers dated 1941 and 1942.1 know the German invasion and harsh winter killed millions in those two years. I can’t comprehend your suffering.
“Twenty years ago I read The Gulag Archipelago and One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, and God put it in my heart then to pray for you.”
When I mentioned those books, the atmosphere in the room changed. I slowly proceeded, “I am overwhelmed, after years of praying for your strength, protection, safety, and courage, to be here as your teacher. May I sit quietly at your feet and learn from you for a while? You tell me your stories.”
So they did. Some had torture scars. Several told of the sufferings and deaths of loved ones. One young air force lieutenant told of a recent confrontation with soldiers in his squadron who demanded either his renunciation of Christ or his death by their hands. These people had experienced the fellowship of sharing in Christ’s sufferings. They knew the cost of following Jesus. That night I decided to begin my next morning’s session with a question about what it might cost to hear God speak.
The next day I said, “How many of you want to hear God speak?” Every hand was raised. I asked them a second question: “Have you ever wondered why there are so few prophets in the Bible?” I paused to let the query sink in; then I paraphrased several biblical scenarios:
God said to Hosea, “Do you want to hear me speak?”
“I would love to be your prophet.”
“Then go marry a prostitute.”
“But God, I am a preacher. I can’t marry her. She will ruin my ministry.”
The truth is, she made his ministry, but hearing God speak cost him a lot. She broke his heart.
Then one day God asked Jeremiah, “Do you want to hear me speak?”
“God, I’m too young to be a prophet, but the truth is, I’d love to hear you speak.”
So God spoke to Jeremiah. People cursed him, mocked him, tossed him in jail, and bound him in chains. They threw him in cisterns and beat him senseless. They humiliated him in stocks in the marketplaces. Was hearing God speak worth it? The people never believed a word Jeremiah said.
One day God commanded Isaiah, “Take off your clothes.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask me why. Just take them off.”
“Well, for how long?”
“Until I tell you to put them on again.”
So Isaiah took off his clothes. Imagine the scene as he walked naked down the streets of Jerusalem.
“Hey, Isaiah,” asked the people, “where are your clothes?”
“I took them off.”
“Why?”
Imagine the looks when he said, “Well, I heard this little voice …”
Finally, three years later. God again spoke. “Isaiah, put on your clothes and pronounce this word from the Lord to the people: ‘As I have bared your buttocks, so I will bare the buttocks of Egypt and spank them.’
At this point I looked into the faces of men and women who knew how to suffer for Christ. I asked again: “Now, how many of you want to hear God speak?” Not a hand went up. I waited quietly. Then one hand raised uncertainly—and then another—but no more.
I continued, “I intend to teach on how to hear God speak. Shall we proceed?” Every hand in the room went up. Even those who knew suffering had hesitated at the cost of hearing God speak.
Listening price
In Exodus 20, the Israelites refused Moses’ invitation to come to the base of the mountain and hear God speak. Their excuse sounds remarkably up-to-date.
“No,” they said. “We are afraid that if we hear the voice of God, it will cost us our lives.”
Hearing from God precludes the possibility that we can remain the same. The want to issue of hearing God speak must be settled before the how to part can draw us close to God.
After pastoring the same church for more than twenty years, I was worn out, exhausted. Our church faced relocation to a new site and reorganization of the entire staff as growth and cultural changes brought increasing demands. I pleaded with God to move me to another place. I told God I would go anywhere—I just wanted a fresh start in a place where I could recycle my sermons and preach twenty-plus-years’ worth of church-member stories that I dared not use in the church where they occurred. In short, I wanted out.
I went to bed one night knowing there would be little sleep as I wrestled with the problems at hand. Sure enough, at 3:00 a.m. I was wide-awake. As I walked down the hall to the bathroom, I sensed God draw near: Roger, I’m not going to move you. I have plans for you, here. Your work is not finished. Let’s meet on the couch now and talk this over.
I wanted to hear God but had no intention of meeting with God on the couch to hear his reasons for keeping me in the pressure cooker. Disappointed, I went back to bed.
In the morning I apologized to God for my behavior. If he wanted me at Casas Adobes Baptist Church until retirement, I would fulfill his will. I asked God to strengthen me with the power of Jesus Christ, based on Philippians 4:10-13, and to help me be content and victorious in my present situation.
It is hard to want to listen to God when I sense he intends to say things I don’t want to hear.
Hesitating instincts
Through the years other reasons have caused me to hesitate to come to the foot of the mountain and listen to the voice of God. One reason was because I had been burned in the past. One evening I was sitting beside my fiancée in a little church we occasionally attended during college. Shortly before the service began, a woman spoke quietly to Julie.
“I have a word from the Lord for you,” she said. “You will be like the prophetess Anna in Luke 2. You will be widowed after seven years and spend the rest of your life ministering in sweet service to God.”
My first instinct was to tell the intruder I doubted God told her anything—that she had imagined it. If God had something to tell Julie, he was perfectly capable of telling her himself, but I held my tongue and looked at the young girl who would soon be my wife.
I hate to admit that I worried occasionally during the first seven years of our marriage. On the evening of our eighth anniversary, I intentionally stayed awake until midnight. As I stood in the bathroom, I finally knew that woman’s dismal forebodings were nothing more than a figment of her misguided imagination.
Another reason why I hesitated to listen to God’s voice was that, frankly, I didn’t know how. The seminary I attended required approximately thirty classes for a Master of Divinity degree. As I recall, not a single class explained how to hear God speak. Looking back, I see that my seminary experience was focused on becoming biblically smart and ministerially efficient. Cultivating the spiritual life was an afterthought.
Plus, there are many competing voices about how or if God speaks: Some Roman Catholics say, “Do it like this.” Some Pentecostals say, “No, do it like this.” Some northern Reformed evangelicals say, “This is how you do it.” Some dispensationalists say, “God does not do it.”
And how can I be certain whether I heard from God, from Satan, or from myself?
Most pastors admit to times when God spoke uniquely to them. When I ask them to explain how they knew it was God, they respond something like this: “I had this impression deep down inside.”
“But how do you know it was God?”
“I just know.”
Where God speaks and how God speaks may be hard to quantify and hard to explain. Sometimes, confirming the voice of God is easy. The first time I knew God spoke to me was when I was seven years old. During a Wednesday evening prayer meeting, I heard the laypreacher say something about shepherds and sheep. As I put down my coloring book to pull another crayon out of the box, I sensed a quiet voice deep within: Roger, you are a lost sheep. At home later that evening, I asked my parents, “I am a lost sheep, aren’t I?” I did not know what a “sheep” was or what “lost” meant. By Saturday morning my conversion was solidly in place.
Two weeks later I again heard God speak. I was sitting in church on Sunday night, and while our pastor preached, I had an overwhelming impression God was near: When you grow up, I want you to be a preacher. I remember turning to see who was speaking. No one was there. I believe God was communicating deep in my “knower,” giving direction to my life. (I call the place where God speaks to me my “knower.” In chapter 3, I identify this descriptive term with the biblical concept of the human spirit. My clarification goes something like this: “I’m not certain I can put this into words, but there’s this place deep inside where I know God speaks. I call it my ‘knower,’ and it is there that I have heard the voice of God.” When I explain this to pastors, I often see a knowing grin and a nodding agreement.)
Satan speaks, self speaks, and God speaks—and sometimes I cannot distinguish among the three. Because of this, I feared losing credibility. If I announced what I thought God told me, only to discover later that I was wrong, I would only embarrass myself. Occasionally older Christians have told me that God promised them they would live to see the glorious return of Christ. I have conducted the funerals of most of those folks. Obviously, they mistook something else for the voice of God.
Several years ago we considered relocating our church operations. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror one Saturday, I almost dropped my razor at the thought that flashed into my mind. Instead of going through all the trouble and expense of relocating, why not purchase the eight houses surrounding our property? We could build a new worship center and expand our parking lots, making room for growth. I thanked God for revealing this new course of action.
I told our church leaders what God told me, and we made plans to purchase the adjoining houses. Selling prices were negotiated and contracts signed. The subdivision deed restrictions required that a majority of the 156 nearby homeowners agree with the sale and rezoning. Six months, numerous unpleasant neighborhood association meetings, and more than one hundred irate neighbors later, we called off the deal. I was still licking my wounds when a wise saint put everything in perspective.
“God spoke about this issue long ago,” she said, “in one of the Ten Commandments. Remember? ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house.’ “
My credibility—not God’s—is on the line when I boldly announce what I think he might have said. No wonder I hesitate to listen for God’s voice.
Where God leads
As my relationship with God matured, I decided it was better to risk a few mistakes than to give up. I decided I wanted to hear God speak—at any price! Any other conclusion seemed incongruous with pastoral ministry.
One Friday night the phone rang in my bedroom less than an hour before I was to conduct a wedding rehearsal.
“I just heard that Dick and Jane are getting married tomorrow in your church,” said a close pastor friend from across town. “Are you performing the service?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know that they are under discipline from our church for issues regarding their previous marriages? We refused to marry them until they sorted out the issues they raised in our church. So they went over to your church to get married. I appeal to you as a Christian brother not to perform a wedding we refused to perform. Please respect our church’s position. We Christians in this community must be unified in our actions and support one another.”
I was stunned. But God had already told me what to do. While my friend was on the phone, I had a deep impression from God to do whatever my friend requested.
“Give me a few minutes to pray,” I said, “and I will call you right back.”
I got on my knees in the bedroom and asked God to confirm what I thought he had said. Deep in my “knower,” I knew God was telling me not to perform the wedding. However, this was not at all what I wanted to hear. The wedding was scheduled; the guests were invited; the musicians and vocalists were arranged; the flowers were purchased; the cakes were baked; and the honeymoon was set.
How could I not conduct the wedding? They would be embarrassed; I would be embarrassed. I called back my friend.
“I’ll honor your request.” I said, “However, I have one of my own. Would you approve of the wedding if the couple can meet with you and your church leaders before tomorrow afternoon and settle out the discipline issues?”
“There is no way we can settle the issues so quickly,” he said. “But if they want to, I will get our people together in the morning and meet with them. We’ll see what happens.”
I conducted the rehearsal as planned. Before the rehearsal dinner, I spent a moment in private with the bride and groom, relaying the content of the call. I was the one surprised; they had expected my pastor friend would call.
“If you are willing, we will meet here at the church with their leaders and try to iron this out in the morning,” I said. “If you settle with them, I will be glad to marry you at 1:00 p.m., as scheduled. Otherwise, I cannot.”
For more than four hours, the couple met with their pastor and church leaders. By noon it finally dawned on me there would be no wedding. By 1:15 the guests had arrived, the music was playing, and everyone was discussing the whereabouts of the pastor and the bride and groom. I was sitting in a chair in my jeans and sport shirt, observing the drawn-out discussion. The bride and groom were not happy.
“I suppose I had better tell folks there will be no wedding today,” I said. I made my way to the sanctuary and stood at the altar.
“Dick and Jane have discovered some issues they need to work on before they proceed with their wedding,” I began. “So we have agreed to call off the wedding to sort out the issues. The food is prepared for the reception, and the bride and groom have decided that since we are all here, we might as well enjoy the fellowship. Let me pray for Dick and Jane, and then we will dismiss to the fellowship hall.”
Dick and Jane I hardly knew, their friends not at all. But friend after friend approached me quietly at the reception to commend what I had done. Again and again people said, “This needed to happen.”
That weekend took a lot out of me. I took no pleasure in my actions, or from the plight of the bridal pair, but only from knowing I had obeyed God.
Copyright © 1998 Roger Barrier
