I STEPPED INTO THE COOL, humid October night. The air was frosty and breath condensed like exhaled smoke. It was one of those nights when car defrosters labor to keep condensation off the glass. Eight children clamored into my car, and I led a six-car procession of church members away from the Hillsboro skating rink and down the highway toward Penelope—population: 226—and the small country church I pastored during my college years. Three or four blocks later, I noticed dimly flashing lights through my fogged-over rear windshield.
Instinctively I checked the speedometer. “I’m not speeding; what could be wrong?” The entire procession pulled over with me and waited while the police officer approached my car. I got out and innocently asked, “What’s wrong, officer?”
“Didn’t you see that stop sign?”
“Stop sign? What stop sign?” I looked back into the gloom. There it was. “I’m sorry; I didn’t see it.”
“Maybe the reason you didn’t see it was because you were driving with your lights off.”
“Driving with my lights off?”
I reached into the car, pulled the knob, and on came the lights. I was incredulous!
Then the officer said, “Maybe the reason you didn’t notice your lights were off was because your windows were fogged over.”
He continued, “Maybe that was because the children were making quite a commotion. Do you know that the legal limit for occupants in a car in the state of Texas is eight? I count nine in there including you.”
The police officer stepped out on the road and motioned the waiting church members to get on with their journey. I avoided eye contact as my passing flock strained for a better look at their shepherd. When they were gone, the officer said sternly, “Son, I have enough to run you into the Hillsboro county jail. But I am going to give you a break. You get in your car, clean off those windows, silence those children, and drive straight out of town. If I catch you in Hillsboro again tonight, I’ll throw you in jail. Now go.”
I got in the car, dried off the windshield, told the children to be quiet, and drove in humiliation back to Penelope to face my waiting parishioners. How could I have been so careless? It did not take much reflection to answer that question. There was so much confusion in my car—children yelling, windows fogging—I didn’t notice that I was driving in the dark.
Several years later, as I was reading the sixth Beatitude—”Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God”—I finally understood the spiritual implication of the police stop. A dirty, clogged-up heart impairs my ability to see and hear God just as much as a commotion-filled car with fogged-over windows and no lights makes it impossible to see a stop sign in the night.
There are times in my life when it seems God is silent. I know that God sometimes hides himself for spiritual reasons, remaining quiet for a season. But more often than not, the reason I do not hear from God has less to do with his inscrutable purposes than with the fact that I live with a fogged-over, dirtied-up spirit. Only the pure in heart see God. He loves to prompt, communicate with, and lead us, but sin impairs our ability to hear him.
Sins of the spirit
Pick a sin, any sin. I’ll start with pride, which is one of the hidden sins of ministry. I can talk with feeling about how I desire to reach people and grow a church for the glory of God, never realizing I have mixed self-image needs and personal ambitions into the equation. Pride is deceptive and easy to miss, and since God does not share his glory, pride can bring unimagined hindrances to a ministry.
I knew a pastor who initiated a church plant in the suburbs of a major city. The cover of his slick, four-color brochure, designed to arouse community awareness, was adorned with the penetrating announcement: “He is coming.” The arrangement of the cover art and wording implied that no less a personage than Jesus Christ himself was on the way. As I held the brochure I pondered the improbable. Surely, I would turn the page and see a picture of the Lord Jesus. I opened the brochure, and there he was—only he didn’t look much like Jesus. That may seem innocent enough, except that this man was known for his penchant for publicity.
Overt manifestations of pride—when I want to be seen out in front, or when I love to have my name mentioned in public—are easy to identify. But pride can be more subtle. For years I struggled with shyness. I was afraid to be myself because I feared what people might think. I never considered my shyness to be a manifestation of pride until a wise saint pointed out that pride is simply an overconcern with self. Suddenly I realized my shyness and fear of displeasing people were not unfortunate personality traits; they were evidence of pride—an overconcerned focus on myself. I discuss this sin more fully in a later chapter.
Another sin is bitterness. The apostle Paul indicates that a spirit of bitterness gives Satan a foothold. As a pastor, I have enough battles to fight without opening a door to Satan. Yet the opportunities to be slighted, criticized, and hurt arise in ministry all too often. When I get hurt, I tend to get angry. When I fail to properly handle the anger, I soon nurse a spirit of bitterness. Eventually, my bitterness sours relationships, generates cynicism, and dirties my inner spirit.
Several years ago I welcomed into our fellowship a man who had been twice-burned in ministry. We helped him heal and entrusted him with a Sunday morning adult Bible class. About a year later several church members warned me that he was quietly discussing the possibility of leading a group out of our church and starting his own church. Since I had invested many hours in him, I put little stock in the warnings. However, weeks later, in a gesture of grace and compassion, I stood before more than one hundred of my parishioners and gave my blessing to their departure.
“Are you angry?” people asked.
“Oh no,” I replied, as I inwardly seethed. The newly self-proclaimed pastor wrote me nice letters of gratitude and encouragement. He told me God often laid it on his heart to pray for me. I never responded to his letters.
Several years later my wife and I were evaluating our spiritual lives. Julie said, “You and God are not very close right now, are you.”
“No, everything’s fine. Our relationship has never been better.”
“That’s not what I see. While praying recently, I sensed God telling me that you are harboring a spirit of bitterness against ______ (she named the man who had started the new church). Your spiritual life will go nowhere until you restore that relationship. You need to respond—and forgive him.”
My defenses melted.
Another sin is envy, which is a constant temptation for pastors. I often see people in our church buying things and doing things that I wish I could buy or do. Our high school minister grieved over the traditionally low pay in the ministry. “I know our church tries hard to be competitive,” he said, “but I could make more in the secular world.” Another time he said, “I accept lower pay as part of the ministry, but it hurts when I see our church youth with new clothes and new cars, and I can’t afford to buy all that stuff for my kids.” He paused thoughtfully, then said angrily, “And you know what really ticks me off? Most of those things were bought with money that should have been their tithe—I can just feel it!” Many pastors can identify with his frustration.
Still another sin is the spirit of selfish competition. I find myself comparing my church with other churches, forgetting that we are all on the same team and working for the same God. I occasionally find myself wanting to outdo the churches down the street or in another city. But the spirit of competition saps joy from ministry and hinders my effectiveness before God.
One Sunday I opened the door to the choir room and found a yellow poster taped to the glass: “Musicians needed for a new church start! Come be a part of our new church family.” I could not believe it—the nerve of proselytizing brazenly right in our choir room! Angrily, I pulled the poster from the door but had second thoughts as I walked down the hallway. We have plenty of musicians, I thought. Surely we would not miss a few who wanted to help out another church. They would have more opportunities to use their gifts regularly there than in our church, anyway.
When I passed another yellow poster at the end of the hall, I left it there.
Not only can sin fog-over our spirit, so can good things. During the week I prepare sermons, read my Bible, counsel the troubled, perform weddings, officiate at funerals, raise my children, love my wife, play golf, read for pleasure, develop relationships, lead the church, balance the checkbook, phone my parents, spend time with my in-laws, mow the grass, participate in a small group, ride my bike, and shop at the mall. Pastors lead busy lives. Near the end of the week it dawns on me that I have not heard from God. When I look inside my spirit where the Holy Spirit resides, I find sermons, Bible studies, needy people, weddings, funerals, children, my wife, golf, novels, friends, the church, my finances, my mom and dad, my in-laws, the lawn, my small group, my bike, and the mall.
Where’s God?
Then once again I remind myself to take time for God, reduce the number of my activities, and cultivate the art of hearing from God.
Restoring the fellowship
Late one evening, after my third-born had gotten out of bed for what seemed like the hundredth time, I lost my temper. I yelled at Bronwyn to get back into bed, and she wept as she scampered away. About 10:00 p.m. my wife finally came home from choir practice.
Bronwyn called from the back of the house, “Is that Mom? I want to see Mom!” Mom was home all right, but it was late, and Bronwyn should have been asleep hours ago; and besides, I wanted some time with Mom. So I yelled back, “No. Mom’s not home yet. Go to sleep.”
Moments later, her little face peered into the room: “Dad, why did you lie to me?”
I did what any good parent would do—I sent her straight to bed.
Our fellowship was broken that night—but not our relationship. The father-daughter relationship hadn’t changed, but the father-daughter fellowship was impaired. I was miserable, and I knew she was miserable. Early the next morning, I sat on her bed and apologized: “I am sorry. I was wrong. I don’t lie to you often, but I did last night, and I apologize. Please forgive me.”
She put her arms around my neck and said, “Okay, I forgive you. You’re the best dad in the whole world.”
Confession is the God-given tool for restoring fellowship. Most of us know how to restore fellowship with God—we preach about it often. But the actual restoration can be difficult. I find I must make a concentrated effort to restore broken fellowship or I can muddle on in my interactions with God for weeks, even years. John writes, “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9).
I’ve discovered that my fellowship with God is restored when my confession is specific. When I was a boy, I had numerous chores such as mowing the grass and taking out the trash. I occasionally made my bed and washed the dishes, but my mother always did the laundry. When I left for college, she sewed a canvas duffel bag for me and said, “Put your dirty clothes in the bag every night. At the end of the week, go to the Laundromat and wash your clothes.”
Seven days later I took the duffel bag filled with my dirty clothes to the coin-operated Laundromat down the street. I thought I’d save a little time, so I threw the bag in the washer, put in some laundry powder, inserted the proper change, and turned on the machine. Moments later a loud “thump, thump, thump, thump, thump” echoed through the Laundromat. A pretty Baylor to-ed approached with a grin: “I watched you load your washer. I think the clothes would get cleaner if you took them out of the bag.”
One day, when my relationship with God was hurting, I remembered my experience in the Laundromat. My usual prayer of confession went something like “Dear God, please forgive me for all the sins I have committed today.” Suddenly I realized that my confession model was about as effective in cleansing my sins as my first laundry experience was at cleaning my clothes. No wonder my relationship with God was struggling. Each sin needs individual attention.
Today my confession model is simple. When I realize I have sinned, I detail to God what I have done and then say, “I agree with you that what I did was wrong.” I ask God to forgive me, and then affirm my intention never to commit that sin again. I pray on a regular basis the prayer in Psalm 139: “Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting” (vv. 23-24).
I wait quietly for God to bring unconfessed sin to my attention. The Holy Spirit is very specific: “At four p.m. last Tuesday, Roger, you did this and this and this.”
I was near the end of a morning jog, when God brought to mind a sin I committed when I was a teenager. Immediately my face flushed red and felt hot. I felt foolish as I looked around and realized no one was near to observe my reaction. I confessed that sin and asked God for forgiveness. About a half hour later I was in the shower debriefing the experience when I realized I could not remember the sin that brought on the embarrassed blush—so completely had God removed it. If God brings nothing to mind when I pray Psalm 139, I don’t worry about what I cannot remember. However, when he does, I deal with it immediately.
Every day I live with unconfessed sin is a day my ability to hear God is impaired. Occasionally I ask myself, When was the last time I heard God speak? Then I consider, When was the last time I carefully confessed my sins? The two answers are closely related.
Confession is essential to maintaining the intimate fellowship conducive to hearing the inner voice of God.
Blinded by the glory
The sun was peeking over the horizon as I jogged along a deserted Arizona road. Somewhere out in the desert, with not a car in sight and several miles from my house, I offered up a prayer, “Just once, God, I’d like to see your glory. I want to be like Moses the day you let him see your glory!”
Immediately I apologized to God for my arrogance.
Then I thought, I’m no Moses, but I’d like to see God. Why can’t I pray to see God’s glory? I lifted my hands and prayed, “Dear God, I want to see your glory before I die. In fact, I want to see you like Isaiah saw you in the temple—high and mighty and lifted up.” I turned for home and considered how God often manifested his glory as light.
Six months later I was preaching in our sanctuary when a teenage boy, fifteen rows back on the left, pulled out a flashlight and held it near his belt buckle. I recognized it as a long, round, cylindrical model that held eight or ten D-size batteries. Moments later he aimed it at my face and switched it on. I paused in my sermon, and said, “Please turn off the flashlight.” He turned it off.
Ten minutes later he did it again. I was surprised by the power of the light. My irises closed down. I had trouble adjusting to the darkened page of my sermon notes. I blinked my eyes, lifted my hand, and pointed my finger directly at him: “Son, I can’t see! Would you please stop shining that flashlight in my face?” He switched it off again.
I was hot with anger.
Worship services at Casas dismiss with the congregation singing a song after the sermon—but not this Sunday! I asked one of our elders to pray a dismissal prayer, and while every head was bowed, I walked quickly down the aisle. When the elder said, “Amen,” I was standing face-to-face with my adversary. I accosted him immediately: “I didn’t appreciate your shining that flashlight in my face.”
He looked at me quizzically: “What flashlight?”
“You know what I’m talking about! The one you held at your belt buckle and kept shining in my face during the sermon.”
“I don’t have a flashlight.”
I was incredulous. “Of course you do. I saw you holding it at your belt buckle.”
“I don’t have a flashlight!”
I knew he was lying, so I did the only thing that made sense. “May I frisk you?” I asked.
He was so startled that he lifted his arms. By now a crowd had gathered. It is not often that a pastor confronts a teenager in the pew after church—especially an eighteen-year-old high school football lineman. He was an imposing sight as he stood with arms outstretched.
His mother and father were incensed. Their son was not a Christian; his parents had brought him to church for years hoping he would come to know Christ. All their prayers and long talks were in jeopardy as I accused their son while church people gathered round. Now they were hot with anger.
But I didn’t care about any of that. I wanted to see the flashlight. All I knew about frisking I’d learned on television—I patted around his chest, under his armpits, and down his back. There was no need to go further. I had made a serious mistake. I furtively glanced under the pew. But there was no flashlight there either. I was dumbfounded.
I could not apologize enough. The young man smiled and told me to forget it. “No big deal,” he said.
My relationship with his mom and dad was estranged until a year later when his dad called to relate a remarkable experience.
“I have something you need to hear,” he said. “Last night I got the one-thirty a.m. phone call all parents dread—’Dad, I’m over at my girlfriend’s apartment. Can you come over right now and talk with us?’
“My imagination ran wild: Was she pregnant? Were they going to get married?
“I was totally unprepared for what happened when I arrived at the apartment. My son opened the door and said, ‘Dad, my girlfriend and I want you to explain how we can become Christians.’ I gathered my composure and knelt with them by the living room couch and led them both to a saving knowledge of Jesus Christ.
“Later I asked him what had changed his mind about Christ. He replied, ‘Well, I’d been talking with my cousin, and he encouraged me to give my life to Christ. I’d been thinking about it. But what really got my attention was last year when Roger accused me of shining that flashlight in his face. You didn’t know it, Dad, but I lay in bed the night before and made a bargain with God. I told him I would follow Christ if he proved to me that he was real. I proposed a test. I told God I would listen carefully to Roger’s sermon the next morning, and if I could find three things that directly applied to me, I would know he was real and would surrender my life to him. On the other hand, if I could not find three things, I would never go to church again. I listened carefully to the sermon and found two points that sort of applied to me. When the sermon was over, I was disappointed, Have you noticed, Dad, I have not been to church since that day?
” ‘Tonight it dawned on me: God did answer my prayer. Remember about ten minutes into the sermon, when Roger looked at me and told me to turn off the flashlight? Then, about ten minutes later, he pointed his finger directly at me and said, “Son, would you please stop shining that flashlight in my face? I can’t see!” Finally, at the close of the service, Roger accused me face-to-face. Three times he spoke directly to me. Dad, Roger hasn’t spoken ten words to me in the nine years we’ve gone to that church. God passed the test. He is real.’ “
After I hung up the phone, I paused to debrief: I’d asked to see God’s glory, and, when he answered, I mistook the light of his glory for a flashlight. At choir practice later that week, I asked if anyone in the choir loft had seen “the light.” They all remembered my pointing to the boy and talking about the flashlight, but no one actually saw what I saw.
Then again, I was the only one who had prayed to see God’s glory.
My faith strengthened and my resolve to listen to God increased. I want to keep my spirit clean at all costs; not only do I want to be able to hear God’s voice, I never want to miss seeing his glory. The best reason not to sin—and to confess it when I do—is because only the pure in heart will hear and see God.
Copyright © 1998 Roger Barrier
