‘I’ve Lost My Taste for God’s Word’

I spoke to a friend the other day. Truth be told, I could hardly recognize him. He seemed beggarly, scruffy, gaunt, though dressed in nice enough clothing. His eyes were shifty. His gaze cold. Spring had fled from him.

I had to ask, “How has your walk with the Lord been?”

“It’s been fine,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

But he already knew.

We were both there at the beginning. Back when each new truth about Jesus increased our astonishment. Back when he could not get over that the Savior died for him. Back when he was zealous enough to do things he wouldn’t do now but was happy to do then. Back when he used to gobble up the word like Thanksgiving dinner, when no one needed to ask if he wanted seconds. Back when he grew greedy for wisdom, turning over Scripture in his mind, memorizing chapter upon chapter, studying book after book, yet readily giving it away to man after man, speaking about his great God’s astonishing love to sinners.

But now? He makes excuses for why he sleeps in, why he doesn’t read like he used to, why his mind wanders away. But we both know why the Bible by his bed is too often closed. The hunger has weakened; the fire has cooled. He skips meals and leaves food on the plate. He has become predictably bored, bound to earth, and too busy for heaven.

Now that I’d mentioned it, he confessed to being distracted lately — busy, just a little lackluster, he guessed. It should pass.

“That’s notable,” I remarked. How differently we can speak of our wanderings. If it had been another, he would have used labels such as deceived, blinded, and lukewarm.

He remained silent.

“Friend,” I said, looking my own soul in the face, “wake up. Wake up; run anew to God; seek his face while he may be found. Turn from this neglect and half-heartedness. Before it is too late.”

Where Is My Honor?

I asked my lukewarm soul to read a text with me that had piqued his interest the other day.

A son honors his father, and a servant his master. If then I am a father, where is my honor? And if I am a master, where is my fear? says the Lord of hosts to you . . . who despise my name. (Malachi 1:6)

“You have forgotten God,” I said. “Take Bible reading as an example. You say you don’t have much time, you say life is busy and tiring, you say it’s a season, yet you have time enough to scroll your phone not knowing what for, explore avenues for supplemental income, and wander through Vikings updates. You have forgotten, forgotten him.”

Perhaps you find yourself in a similar place. You can’t recognize yourself lately. If so, God has questions for us. Will we answer them?

If then I am a father, where is my honor?

Is it there — half drooling over a Bible just opened fifteen minutes ago? Is it there — allowing the mind to wander anywhere in creation but to him? Is it there — snacking on little devotional thoughts as a commercial break from life in the world?

“Your time in the Bible needs this shot of adrenaline: You are holding God’s word. God speaks.”

Cold soul, remember your God! You don’t need new tricks and programs; you need to remember that he is God. God! Your imagined god has been so light, so trivial, so practically irrelevant. Thoughts of him blow away, having less solidity than football scores, house projects, or today’s weather. This God has become hollow, like helium in your heart. But a son gives honor to his father. He reckons him as weighty, substantial, heavy, important. His words rouse the listless mind and quake the idle spirit. His presence sits him upright.

O my dear soul, have you forgotten how to spell the word reverence? You have not forgotten to read; you have forgotten that he of whom you read is holy, holy, holy. You have not forgotten the word, just whose word it is. You approach your Bible like a text message. He is not your homie. Not your neighbor. Not your wife. Would you approach the Almighty in flip-flops and T-shirts, replying to his commands with LOLs and smiley faces?

Do you dare loiter casually in the presence of the Holy One? Should angels shield their eyes from his otherness, should Israel of old beg that no more be spoken to them from the mountaintop, and should his apostles fall as though dead at his feet, and you lounge before the throne of God, taking him only half-seriously?

Your time in the Bible needs this shot of adrenaline: You are holding God’s word. God speaks. Sit up. Wake up. You are in the presence of the Being who created heaven and earth. You listen to the One who has loved you with an eternal love and ransomed your wayward soul. Hear him ask before you dare open his Bible with casualness, with sleepiness, with sluggishness, “If I am your Father, where is my honor?”

And My Fear?

If I am a master, where is my fear?

The voice that spoke all worlds into being, all stars into orbit, all mountain ranges into their regiments — is this voice now to be yawned at, half-heard, or fallen asleep on? If he is your Master, do you obey his commands? Why bother to call him “Lord, Lord” if you do not do what he tells you, when he tells you, precisely how he tells you?

You may not do much of the bad you once did, but do you do much of the good you ought?

Let’s remember the context of this verse. God here questions his people, specifically the priests, both of whom had not flung off religion. They had not ceased to march through the routines; they were not apostates; they even pretended to be clueless when the Lord brought his soul-searching questions about their devotion. But here God accuses them of despising his name.

“How have we despised your name?” they ask (Malachi 1:6).

Not by tripping over obvious sins, but by offering unworthy sacrifices (Malachi 1:7–8). By bringing blind animals to the altar. By going through the motions and giving God the leftovers. By seeking the kingdom of God not first but fourth, fifth, or sixth. By giving God passing glances and mild consideration, but not the attention that befits their King.

In fact, their allegiance did not even befit rulers of earth: “Present that to your governor; will he accept you or show you favor? says the Lord of hosts” (Malachi 1:8). Such offerings were unworthy of lesser royalty, much less the King of heaven’s armies. And has it been such with you? You would not dare to open your door and greet the mailman with such flatness. Will you be monotone and bring your blind sacrifices before your Creator?

At times, would it not have been better not to read or pray at all than to be content to do so with half a heart — as a mere formality, as an unspoken drudgery? Hear the Lord declare to Israel, “Oh that there were one among you who would shut the doors, that you might not kindle fire on my altar in vain!” (Malachi 1:10). Better to lock the doors than enter irreverently.

Awake, my sleepy soul. Awake, you lukewarm believers. Awake, and return to your first love. Give him your full attention, your heated devotion, your sustained adoration. Honor him as your Father. Fear him as your Master. Love him as your God.