Feasting in the Valley

There is a new(-ish) obsession with understanding ancestry and DNA.  I’m a typical white American - a total mut of European decent. But there is a clear as day part of my family tree...I’m a descendant of the Israelites.

The Israelites loved God.  They obeyed God, even in slavery.  They trusted God to deliver them. And He did.  Then...they wandered. For

forty years

.  They finally reach the Promised Land.  Years later, they find themselves on the break of slavery again.  A giant has been taunting them for forty days.

God has conquered again and again in their lives.  But I’d imagine forty days of hearing someone much bigger and scarier than you saying, “Your God is nothing, your God is a loser, and if you (puny little man) can’t beat me, you will be my slave,” would make you doubt and have flashbacks.

I can relate.

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There is a passage that most of us know - either you’ve heard it at a funeral or memorized it as a good, little confirmand (raises both hands).  But today let’s look at it with fresh eyes.  Let’s put away the mudain feeling about the passage.  Let’s read it...really read it:

The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing.

He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul.

He guides me along the right paths for his name’s sake.

Even though I walk through the darkest valley I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.

You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.

Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

--Psalm 23 [emphasis mine]

Did you catch that?

You’re in your Valley of Elah, there is a giant in front of you - taunting you.  He won’t let up until you give up. And right in front of him, God shows up. He shows up with a table, tablecloth, cloth napkins, placemats, plates, silverware, glasses, and a feast. Instead of showing up with Mjolnir (Thor’s hammer) and Captain America’s vibranium proto-adamantium alloy shield, He shows up with fine China and food.

Let me repeat that….

God shows up in the valley and in front of your enemy and prepares a feast.

As a teenager, I had a giant in my life.  His name was Abuse...we’ll just call him Abe.  Abe taunted me with words and actions. Contrary to the Armor of God, he wore the belt of lies, the breastplate of anger, the boots of unworthiness.  He shielded himself with isolation. He placed the helmet of self-hatred on his head and carried the sword of shame.

I thought I was a slave to Abe.  I thought Abe won. Just like the Israelites.

Then God showed up in my Valley of Elah - my valley of darkness.  As Abe taunted, as Abe took shots at me, God pulled up a table with chairs. He set the table. He made a feast….and He invited me to sit, right there...in the valley.

Feast - a large meal, typically one in celebration of something

Why a feast?  Why here in the valley? Why not wait to celebrate victory on the mountain top? Why aren’t we fighting Abe?

A feast represents wealth. A feast represents celebration.  It doesn’t make sense. And then, He whispers a simple word, “Instead.”

Instead of this darkness, instead of wondering this valley, instead of guilt, instead of shame...INSTEAD, I give you a double portion [see Isaiah 61:7].

Abe told me that I had nothing - nothing to live for, no worth, no purpose.  Instead, God gives me a double portion. Instead, in the valley, God gives me provision.  He equips me. He teaches me.  He provides for me. He doesn’t wait for the mountaintop - He shows up in the valley.

Then God throws another “instead.”  Instead of moping in the valley, He uses this feast to celebrate in the valley.

When we go through a valley, we typically wait to celebrate on the mountaintop.  We wait to go all the way through the valley. Instead, God writes the Valley of Elah on the invitation.

He pours the oil and anoints the place - holy.  It doesn’t make sense at first.

Abe lives in the Valley and God anoints it...anoints me.  It’s now Holy Ground. He invites me to dance. He invites me to eat.  He invites me to celebrate. Celebrate what?

At the table, He tells me this:  “You’ve won. I know it doesn’t look like it, but you’ve won.  You’ve won because I hold the victory...I am the Victory. You don’t have to pick up the things I’ve already nailed to the cross.  They died with me. Abe died with me. The guilt, shame, and unworthiness died with me. When I rose, I stamped you with a giant ‘instead.’ And this Victory...is what we are celebrating.  We are taunting Abe with this Victory in the same way he has taunted you. We’ll taunt him with this feast, here at this table.”

And then He follows with, “There’s more.”

He pulls the table out and adds leaves to it.  The table gets longer and longer. He puts out more chairs, more placemats, plates, glasses, and silverware.  He gives me invitations stuck in the envelopes and a pen, followed by an opportunity...to invite others to my valley.

Welp...I’m done.  I’m supposed to have it all together.  I’m supposed to be strong and responsible.  Instead (pun intended), I’m a mess. I’m weak.  I’m lost and disorganized. And God wants me to invite others into that!

Can’t we wait to invite them to a picnic on the mountain top overlooking a beautiful scene?  Do we really need to invite them here...with Abe and his army towering over this table in the darkness? Do they really need to see the destruction?  The tears? The wounds?

He places the pen in my hand and nods.  

He invites me to invite others to this table.

And in this moment, I have a choice.  I can choose the easy guests - toxic friendships, guys I dated in college, [bad] influential relationships.  Or I can choose the other guests - the guests that will challenge me, push me, change me. It’s all for the better.  But it’s hard. It’s hard to have community, when the perfect facade is what I want others to see. It’s hard to have communion, when it’s difficult to celebrate brokenness.  It’s hard to share my story, when I don’t know what others will think.

Yet, I pen some names.  I invite them to the table.  Well, some of them invited themselves to my table.

And so here I am today.  They’ve accepted my invitation or I’ve accepted theirs. Some took time to reach the table. Others rushed to get there sooner. Some I pushed away for awhile before letting them sit down with me. Some of them brought others with them - people they know I need (some that even need me and my story).  They brought more food, more advise, more prayers. They sit in the valley with me...not to mope, but to celebrate.

We celebrate victory. We celebrate the fall of Abe. We celebrate “insteads.”  We celebrate provision. We celebrate healing that has already come...and healing yet to come.

We - simply - celebrate.