Precious

When the sheet of glass shattered in my hands, I couldn’t move.

The Numb3rs-inspired writing board was a Christmas gift from my wife when we still lived in South Carolina. At six feet by three feet, it took up massive residence, first in my home office and then in my office on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

I loved that board, made countless sketches on it, crafted sermons and ministry initiatives on it, and enjoyed little doodles made by my kids.

It was a precious gift to me that served me well—and survived many moves.

But one day last year as i was organizing our storage unit, I was moving it out of the unit and into the aisle when I heard a phoom and felt the heavy board dissolve in my hands.

No single image could capture the damage. There was glass everywhere, even though (thankfully!) it was wrapped in bubblewrap. I had cuts on my legs and arms but it could’ve been much worse.

Still I was sad. Sad to lose such a great tool. Sad to lose something I loved. Sad to lose something so precious.

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But there’s more than one way something can be precious.

My sister was and is precious to me. She passed away three years ago; the anniversary of her funeral comes next week.

Obviously she is precious in a very different way than my glass writing board was.

She is precious to me not because of what she could do for me. In fact, she did a lot for me. Five years my elder, she used to pick me up from school and take me to Little Caesar’s where we’d split a bag of Crazy Bread on the way home. Every Christmas we exchanged gag gifts that were always hilarious. And when my kids were born she’d travel wherever we lived to visit and be the greatest aunt to them you could imagine.

But unlike my beloved gift of a glass writing board, Lynda isn’t precious because of what she did for me.

She’s precious because of who she is.

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I was struck this week as I watched this video of my friend Dan Forrest playing his glorious new arrangement of Craig Courtney’s “Be Not Afraid.” (It’s worth five minutes of your time.)

The words are lifted from Isaiah 43 and end with this glorious statement: “you are precious in my sight.”

What kind of precious are you to God?

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My ever-present temptation is to believe that I am precious to God the way my glass writing board was to me.

I am useful, gifted, and can do some cool stuff. And as long as I’m fulfilling my purpose—ministering, discipling, preaching, counseling, caring—then I am precious to God.

But once that season is over, once I’ve outlived my usefulness, I am dispensable. Sure, if I were to shatter inexplicably, there would be sadness. But I did what I was supposed to do; it’s time to move on.

This temptation manifests in my life by incessantly checking my emails (“maybe I’m needed!”), an inability to stop at the end of a day (“have I done enough?”), and a low-grade anxiety that flares into frustration or anger when I can’t control my environment (“I don’t have time for this!”).

How does this temptation manifest in your life?

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You know what I’m going to say next.

But still you need to hear it.

You are not precious to God because of what you can do.

You are not precious to God because you are a leader in the church.

You are not precious to God because you preach great sermons and disciple a lot of people.

You are precious to God because of who you are, the object of his creation and endless affection.

The next time you don’t believe this (as in, later today), think again about what God says in Isaiah 43 and ask yourself: in what state of life does God find my precious?

Be not afraid, for I have redeemed you.
Be not afraid, I have called you by name.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.
When you pass through the flood, it will not sweep o’er you.
When you walk through the fire, you will not be consumed.
You are Mine. You are precious in My sight.

When you are at your worst—passing through waters, the flood, the fire—you are precious to God.

Because of who you are. Because of who he is.