You’re Moses, and you’ve been leading God’s people, guiding them through the deserts and open spaces and floods and heat and sand and rocks and sun for 40 years now, waiting for that day when God tells you, “It’s time to take them home.” Now that day has come, except that God isn’t saying exactly that. He’s saying, “It’s time for them to go home . . . but you aren’t going with them. I’ll give you a good look at it from here, but that’s all, because . . .”“ I said, “Thank you, I’m glad it was helpful,” while I was thinking, “Wellll,Thaynk YEEEWWW for thinking so much of me. Man, I’m doing all right!”

Crushing disappointment; bewilderment; inner devastation; “What? . . . I’m not. . . Why? . . .” That would be MY response. Fall on my knees, on my face, and cry and beg and plead. Start reminding God of all the ways I’ve stood for him in the face of a rebellious crowd. So I got a little mad that one time, lost my temper . . . how does that outweigh everything else?

“. . . you did not treat me as holy in the midst of the people of Israel.” Oh, God PLEEEEase . . . I didn’t know. I couldn’t know.

But I could, and I did. All those moments I stood before the congregation and soaked up the glory and attention. Every Sunday that I shook people out the door, hungry to hear how moving or inspirational or challenging the sermon had been. Every time

For all those times, for all those feelings, for all that self-congratulation, for all that arrogance and condescension . . . O God, please forgive me.

The leader’s highest calling is surely to treat God as holy in the midst of the people. To do everything I do with an eye toward bringing Him glory and honor, showing his holiness and greatness and awesome other-ness to anyone looking and listening. O Great God, push me to set aside all thought of me, burn away any wrong reaction to what people say to me. I would have them see your glory in everything I do, every word I say from behind the podium or the microphone.

I do not want them to go home without me.