The Lame Prince
I finally found out who I am.
Maybe I always knew...I just hadn't seen it in black and white before.
I already had my message ready for the youth service in Oklahoma
City...sort of...as much as I'm ever ready. Okay, I had a scrap of paper
with a few notes. My message was going to be about Jonathan's
crippled son, Mephibosheth.
And you think YOU have a funny name.
It could've been worse. In fact I could almost write a book about
parents who name their kids unkind things. Example: Governor Hogg of
Texas who named his daughters Ima and Ura. Example: My mother's
friends in Salt Lake City growing up: Iona and Harry Legg. I was told
(but I cannot prove) that the man who created the Lear Jet named his
daughter Crystal Shanda. I even knew a hippie kid in California growing
up whose two brothers were named (I'm not making this up)
WinterSpring SummerFall and Sunshine Siddartha. The obvious nicks
being Winnie and Sunnie. I think criminal negligence charges would
not be unreasonable so these kids could have free therapy for life.
I really like name books, and I think it's neat, especially for kids, to
know that their name means something, and what it is. Unless of
course their name means "Swampy bog" or something. I kind of like the
Native American idea of naming kids after things they do or represent,
like "Dances with Wolves." At this stage of my work I'd like to be called
"wrestles with ostriches." But in fact I love my name and thank God my
parents chose it for me: Gregory Robert. It means "Faithful Watchman",
and I pray I will always live up to that name.
My last name is another matter. I don't care for being named after a
piece of marsh bamboo, but believe me it could have been much much
worse. My dad's real name was Foote. There are different stories as to
why Pop changed it. Neither my grandma nor my step grandma liked
my Pop much, so I'm not sure either is a reliable story. But one said
that back in the forties they called police officers "flat foot" and Mother
wouldn't put up with that if they were to marry so he changed it. The
other is that mother refused to marry, have kids, and have people
saying, "Why, here comes Mrs. Foote and all her little Feet!" Who
knows, really. I'm just sooooo thankful he changed it regardless of why.
Names identify us, they differentiate us from others. They tell us we are
unique. Biblical Hebrew names, especially, were full of meaning.
Which is why I love the story of Mephibosheth. His name meant
"Dispeller of Shame."
The fact is he was an object of shame - at least to himself - to his
family and friends. You see, Mephibosheth's father was David's
lifelong friend - Jonathan. And his father's father was King Saul.
Mephibosheth's dad was supposed to be king after his grampa died.
Instead, his father Jonathan and his grampa Saul were both killed on
the same day. While running from the coming battle, Mephibosheth's
nurse accidentally dropped him and he became permanently "lame in
his feet." (2 Samuel 4:4).
He was the Lame Prince.
I didn't make up that name. When I was in Oklahoma for the youth
service, I sat in the pastor's office praying, asking God if He was sure I
was supposed to talk about this story - when I saw a book the pastor had
written lying on the table - "The Lame Prince." The story of
Mephibosheth. I knew I had heard God right. I also was strangely filled
with an understanding that I, too, am God's Lame Prince. I will explain
that more in a moment.
Mephibosheth must have felt a thousand things growing up. He was an
orphan. David had become King, a place his grampa had, that his
father should have had, and eventually he himself. Instead he was
probably in hiding for his life, because new kings tended to kill off all
the remaining family members of the outgoing King.
He must have thought his name was a joke. "Dispeller of Shame." And
here he was - lame, exiled, abandoned. Nothing BUT shame had been
his life. Don't you think he was bitter? Angry? Wounded? I think he was.
There David was, King - while he sat alone and shamed. The Lame
Prince.
David was now King. All was at peace. All his enemies were subdued.
He must have been thinking about Jonathan, his dearest friend. He
must have ached to think of him gone. Once in a lifetime does a
friendship like that happen. No one could ever replace Jonathan.
"Is there still anyone left of the house of Saul, that I may show him
kindness for Jonathan's sake?", David asked. (2 Samuel 9:1) There
was. His name was Mephibosheth. He was brought to David. What must
he have thought? That this was it, the end? Had David brought him to
finish the job? But instead of death, David said, "Don't be afraid son. I
brought you here to give you back what your grandfather lost. I want you
to live here. I want you to eat at my table all your life. I want to take
care of you."
"What is your servant, that you should look upon such a dead dog as I?"
Mephibosheth replied. He could not believe - lame and rejected as he
had been all his life - that instead of death - he was asked to come and
live in the King's House forever.
You bet I understand that story.
A little later in the story, Mephibosheth tells David, "You are like the
angel of God."
You know, I wish we could really grasp all this. You and I were
wounded, rejected, angry, bitter, lame sinners who knew somehow we
were born for something but we didn't know what. And the King said, "I
want them to come and live in My House." What wonderful,
undeserving grace that would bring us to His very own House and give
us His royal Name!
Mephibosheth, in the end, really WAS the "dispeller of shame." It
happened because someone sought him out and brought him Home.
I have always believed that the message of God's love was "for the
one." I'm not into crowds. I want to find the one.
I went to church camp this summer, and it was my first time since
1974. It was at Mountain Aire, New Mexico. Doesn't that sound exotic,
refreshing, doesn't it evoke wonderful thoughts of fresh breezes,
waterfalls?
It was two trees and a mound of dirt. No river. Lots of dust. Mountain
Aire, my foot.
Mine was close to the worst behaved troop at camp, perhaps in camp
history. God knew who to pick to shepherd them though, I, who had quit
boy scouts at twelve in a fit of rebellion.
We got busted for breaking curfew the first night. Ritalin wouldn't have
helped that gig.
The next day, the Fearless Leader of these "bunk rats" as they named
themselves, got fired - from volunteer sausage serving. I didn't know
you could get fired for a non-paying job, but I did. News spread fast: The
next day a little boy looked at me sadly and said, "Mister, I'm sorry you
got fired from sausages." It was pathetic, really. I'm not cut out to be an
athletic camp leader, especially if I can't even hang on to a sausage
job. Nevertheless, I knew I was at this camp for a reason. There were
Mephibosheths here.
Two of my campers were brought to me with lots of instructions -
mainly, with medical directions on how to make sure they got their
athsma medicine. They were big kids. They wouldn't be playing any
reindeer games, I assure you. And my heart was struck. No one was
going to mess with these boys. No one was going to tease them or
humiliate them on my watch - I remembered too well both the long
nights trying to breathe and the days I cried and begged not to go to
school because I couldn't take the humiliation and teasing anymore. I
learned these boys' names - all of them - but especially these two.
They both had an evident call of God on them. Remember what I said
earlier about the importance of names? Well, it's not just our given
names that affect us but what others CALL us. Life and death is in the
power of the tongue, and you can wound or heal with your words. So, so
many kids remember the anguish of being called "stupid", "fat", "loser",
"half-wit", and on it goes. And a lot of the kids I've loved and known got
that from home as well as school. We may be lame of heart, mind, or
body - but we stay lame of spirit because we can't forget those awful
words spoken by the proud and insensitive. The mold us into what we
think of ourselves - what we become.
So besides making sure no one called these boys names, I did
everything I could to bolster their hearts in God's way. I told them how
great they were, how proud I was of them. One of them flawlessly sang
worship in sign language with me during the night services - who would
have known, based on outward appearance, that this big kid had such a
profound gift, such an eloquent voice of hands and heart? And the other
boy - I called him "Pastor David" every time I saw him, because he had
the tender heart of a shepherd only the wounded healers have - and he
WILL be a pastor. I just know. What an awesome moment at the last
day when the speaker asked all the kids who felt God had called them
to ministry to stand, to see "Pastor David" rise without hesitation to
respond to that call. I expect to see him in a profound place of ministry
someday. I pray he will remember - not me, but that "someone" looked
out for him and did not ridicule him but made him feel special -
someone who even called him "Pastor."
And it's not just the rejected and weak that need our kindness. There
are PLENTY of Mephibosheths on honor rolls, who are well off, who are
good looking and excel in sports and appear to have it all. I spoke with
a preacher's kid that last afternoon. Nothing special; just taking an
interest in his young life.
After the last service, I saw him sitting alone on top of a monkey bars
near the commissary. I said something briefly to him going by, and
then suddenly something caught my eye - a single, solitary tear coming
down his face. I stopped dead in my tracks, and asked him to come
down and talk. Instead he came down and reached for my embrace and
sobbed for the longest time. Through his tears all I heard was, "Thank
you for being my friend." This was a hurting, limping Mephibosheth in a
preacher's kid's body, just needing a friend.
Folks, I'm nothing special 'except to God and my friends. But I do know
how to see kids on the inside. And I am always humbled when they
accept the only gifts I can give: Jesus, and my faith in their lives and
hearts and callings. Camp just reminded me: This is who I am. This is
all I am.
And I am so because someone, so many years ago, was my King David.
He was just a little guy in a big LTD that picked me up, and instead of
seeing a scarred, angry, messed up, demonized mess of a kid, he saw -
a Prince. How? How could he, except he saw through Jesus' eyes? He
kept on me - kept praying - kept calling - until I surrendered to Jesus
and the King brought this Lame Prince into His own Home forever.
There were King Davids along the way - after I became a believer - who
loved me, spent time with me and called me the names God wanted me
to have - son - loved - called - special - and I remember them all - Dave
Malkin - Doris - Ted - Mike and Rita - Claudette and Rosemary - Rick - I
could go on for pages. Each elevated me out of my limping heart into a
place of dignity and purpose. Next to Jesus, I owe them my heart.
And I have always asked, and longed, to be that to others.
You see, I still limp. The scars of my youth and childhood were deep
and wide, both physically and emotionally. Some would chide me and
say, "Don't confess that limp!" Listen, I know who I am. I am not
deceiving myself. There are many things I will never know and can
never be. And so, so many scars still sting from the corridors of my
past. And I want it that way. Yes, God could take away even the
slightest "limp." But I'm not sure I want that. I WANT those scars to be
tender to the touch, so that Pastor Davids, and preacher's kids, and
hurting children do not escape my sight but instead capture my heart
and my prayers - because in my healing, I can still feel the pang of
what it was like to be rejected, bitter, alone. I want those scars to be a
bridge they can walk over to find the King's waiting arms and
welcoming banquet set out for the royalty they are, if only they could
see themselves as He sees...
I will never forget last year in a moment of self-doubt and
discouragement, driving west to California across the desolate New
Mexico highway and saying, "Jesus, was it worth it what You did for
me? Have I given you anything at all with my life that made it worth it
for You to die for me, has anything I have done even come close to
thanking You for saving me?" The answer was unexpected and reduced
me to sobs. "Son", He said gently, "Every one You have loved, You
loved for Me."
"You were an angel of God", Mephibosheth told David.
And so are you, and so am I. And Jesus is counting on our arms, and
our hands, and our words, and our kindnesses, and our time and our
best love to find the Mephibotheths of this world, this generation - find
them, love them, bring them to forgiveness at the Cross of Jesus, and
bring them into Father's House forever. My loved friend, we are so
focused on the whys of our lives, our hurts, our pasts. Why did they
die? Why did he leave? Why did she hurt me? Why was I always ill?
But the real, life-changing prayer is not "Why?", a question that will
never answer your questions nor heal your wounds: It is "Father, WHAT
FOR?" Nothing is for nothing. Your limp is not for nothing. Your history
- painful as it is - your unique failures and rejections and losses - is for
something. There is a Mephibosheth that you will see, and you will
know is hurting like no one else can know because you know his agony,
you have walked through her sorrow and loss - and YOU are the angel
of God to them. Find them. Don't waste your sorrows. Use them. Seek
out the broken and battered along the highway who will be forgotten
forever if you do not care, if you do not see the wings of God that bring
you to their side to say, "Come, Prince, come Princess; come Home to
Father's House. He wants you to be His forever."
I finally understand who I am. Do you know who you are?
The Lame Prince