destinations
“Elisha answered, “Go and tell him, “Don’t worry; you’ll live.” The fact is, though - God showed me - that he’s doomed to die.” Elisha then stared hard at Hazrael, reading his heart. Hazrael felt exposed and dropped his eyes. Then the Holy man wept. Hazrael said, “Why does my master weep?” “Because,” said Elisha, “I know what you’re going to do to the children of Israel; burn down their forts, murder their youth, smash their babies, rip open their pregnant woman.”
“He copied the way of life of the kings of Israel, marrying into the Ahab family and continuing the Ahab line of sin - from God’s point of view, an evil man living an evil life.” (2 Kings 8:11-12,18)
This is an ominous tale. A mere servant comes to Elisha for a message. Instead, he received a prophecy of tragic proportions. Hazrael was told that he would be king, and an evil one. He would murder children, rip open pregnant women. Hazrael couldn’t believe it, but it happened as Elisha said.
This is a tale of destiny. The idea that a man’s destination has been charted. All it took for Elisha to determine Hazrael’s destination was to stare deep into his heart, to read every agenda, observe every motivation. The result caused Elisha to weep.
We fear this kind of judgement. By man, yes. But mostly from the One who knows us deeply. By the One whom all things are laid bare, whom nothing is hidden. The One who reads our hearts, knows our innermost thoughts, sees every secret. The One who made us.
What does He see when He stares me in the eyes, reads my heart? Does he see the selfishness, the apathy, the loss? Does he stare inside, and see a destination of independence, short-sightedness and a life with no understanding of love? Do I bow my head in shame, tremble in fear, cause my master to weep? Is there a path I’ve chosen, a path of meaninglessness, that even I’m not aware of?
I’m always caught in this tension of what I am now, and what I am in the future. I think I’ll be a better person 10 years from now. Other times, I think I will be worse. I can feel so powerless before my own faults, that it’s no use to do anything about it in the now. On the face of all my doubts, my trespasses, the weight of the world’s pressures, what can I really do to change my destination?
This is the fight of faith. To believe in a God of Intervention. To hold on to a God who redirects, replots, redetermines our journey. A God who doesn’t just set a final destination, but asks us to be active participators in it.
It takes every ounce of energy, of hope, of belief, to look God straight in the eyes, and say, “I’ll fight.” To not let our shame guide us, but to lift our heads high, and say not sin, not our mistakes, not our iniquities, not our frailty, not our weaknesses, will separate us from Him. That faith in a father of love will be worth it.
It’s so hard to believe this. So much easier to give up. So much easier to walk to our supposed tragic destination because, well, can anyone really blame us for it? But to continually, persistently look Him in the eye, and believe in His goodness, His mercy, His heart - this is what changes us. It’s what makes us whole.
Oh Lord, if I look at myself, I weep. I’m so un-Christlike, so riddled with evil. But you are bigger than my weaknesses. So much bigger.
Father, I want to believe that. Guide me Father. Change my way of thinking. Teach me to fight the good fight, to keep the faith, to finish the race.
Amen.
