From the book "The God Who Smokes" by Timothy Stoner
As I began digging around inside, I had to ask, Why have these maddening impulses been inflicted if you are deprived of a platform for communicating the vision that has been offered? If the driving force behind art is not self-expression but communication, what's the point of yearning to create and being utterly unable to get any kind of an audience for the creative offspring?
Must artists view themselves as failures if they are not published, marketed, televised, signed, or booked? Can you only lay claim to the identity if you make money at it? If you just do your art in the studio, or den, or bedroom, have you flunked your AEEs (Artist Entrance Exams)? Success (some measure of fame and financial reward) thus becomes the hallmark of artistic authenticity.
When I finally allowed myself to think honestly about it, I have to admit, I believed I had pretty much failed at being who I truly was meant to be.
I had washed out at fulfilling my calling (as an author) and had to settle for being a fraud, living behind a stifling facade the remainder of my life.
I decided to stop fencing and parrying away these questions and allowed myself to look them straight in the eye without flinching. It did not take too long. What came was a picture: a little shepherd boy alone on a hill. He is the baby of the family and gets no respect from his seven older brothers, who secretly despise him. This youngsters name was David, and he was an artist before he was anything else. He wrote poetry and sang songs by himself on the Bethlehem hills long before he was lauded as Israel's poet laureate and premier warrior king.
In the still of the night, with no one applauding or fawning or flattering, he pours out his heart. He plays on his lyre and sings to the skies until his voice breaks or gives out. He then lays down his wooden instrument and lifts his arms above his head as he stands to his feet.
And he begins to dance in the dark And there is this wild, happy, crazy gleam in his eye as he looks up at the whirling stars.
If you read his life story carefully, you will be struck by something unusual.
He seems to be singularly unimpressed with himself or his status.
He strips off his royal robes and dances ecstatically in full view of all the populace. He is so shameless he embarrasses his blueblood wife with her highly cultivated sense of propriety.
Michal despises him in her heart (2 Samuel 6:16). She mocks him for being a crass, uncouth rustic, a "buffoon" (6:20). David will not be deterred. He does not allow her to shame him. He responds that he will keep dancing before Yahweh and will demean himself even further. "You thought that was bad? Check this out!"
Later, we read that he is absolutely staggered by the enormity of the promises God is making to him and his bloodline. He does not feel the slightest bit deserving. He even refers to himself as God's own little "dog" (7:21).
Toward the end of his reign, as he is fleeing for his life, he is cursed and assaulted with stones by an enraged Shimei, a descendant of the former king Saul. David does not retaliate. He does not automatically conclude that he is blameless. He seems to assume the opposite. Maybe Shimei is an instrument of God's discipline, he muses. And even if Shimei is acting on his own, God can set the record straight (2 Samuel 16:5-12).
What is the reason for the meekness?
David knows who he really is.
He has no grand illusions about himself. When the robes are removed and the pomp and circumstance quieted, when the royal veneer and the position and titles are taken away, he knows that at heart he is just a humble singer. He's a simple, abandoned worshipper who delights in God's presence more than anything in the whole wide world.
If you've lived deeply and truly alone in God's presence and grown still and safe there, doing your best work for Him first, it doesn't make a whole lot of difference anymore if you happen to find yourself seated on a throne, a crown resting on your head, with servants at your beck and call, or signing your name to a million-dollar advance.
They may call you king and flock to your concerts, but you know you are just a shepherd writing lyrics and singing till your heart breaks.
Your secret identity remains intact: You are a worshipper."
