Take Off Your Shoes

Over the past three days, I toured twenty-four very different new homes. My feet are tired and my head is reeling with hundreds of ideas for my home. The ideas range from painting a few rooms to demolishing the place and starting over from scratch. My heart is leaning toward demo, but my mind and budget are leaning toward paint. As conflicted as I am about all these new ideas for my place, I’m still glad that I went on the Parade of Homes.

It was the first time I went on such a tour, so as I arrived at the first home I was surprised that I was required to put surgical booties over my shoes, or take off my shoes and put surgical booties over my socks before I entered the home. Still, it made perfect sense to cover my shoes or socks to prevent tracking in any dust and dirt that might damage the new floors. The floors were not only new, they were without blemish. They also belonged to somebody else. In most cases, the homes I toured had been sold and the owners would be moving in shortly after the Parade of Homes was over. Putting booties over my shoes was not only good protocol for the protection of someone else’s property, it was also a sign of respect for the homeowner. Though I was invited to take a tour, the dress code for my feet was a subtle reminder that I was not entitled to the same privileges as the owner. I was a guest; I wasn’t family, and I couldn’t kick my feet up in the way I would in my own home. I was allowed to become familiar with their home, but not unduly familiar.

Based on the design of their home, I got a limited sense of what the owner’s are like, but I still didn’t really have a clue as to what they are really like. I’d have to actually spend time with them, not just spend time in their home. I have no doubt that were I to be invited back to any of the homes I toured, I would remove my shoes upon entering the house, or at least ask if I should. It’s what you do. The custom of removing shoes when entering a home is found in many different cultures, a practice born out of both necessity and respect.

When Moses was tending the flock of his father-in-law, he noticed a bush engulfed in flames, though it didn’t burn up. When he approached it, the Lord warned Moses, “Do not come any closer. Take off your sandals, for you are standing on holy ground. I am the God of your father – the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.” (Exodus 3:2-5) Once God introduced himself, Moses covered his face because he was afraid to look at God. Moses humbled himself in the presence of the Lord.

Being humble in the presence of the Lord is both a matter of necessity and respect. The Lord’s holy and consuming fire would burn up our pride in an instant and make toast of us. He is the Lord God who deserves and is worthy of all of our respect. Even though Moses was invited into the presence of God, by God, he removed his sandals. Moses understood that in the presence of the Great I Am, shoes needed to be removed and faces hid.

It may seem to many that we are in a different season with God now, but we are not. Verses such as Hebrews 4:16 – So let us come boldly to the throne of our Gracious God. There we will receive His mercy, and we will find grace to help us when we need it most – give the impression that God has relaxed his standards. He has not. God is still HOLY beyond anything we can imagine. What has changed is that God, by means of Christ’s blood, has made peace with everything.

So yes, God is my friend, but He’s not “Biggie G” or the “Man with the Plan.” He is and always will be the Great I Am. Yes, through Christ, God is now my Father, but He’s not my “Daddy-O.” He is my refuge, a strong and mighty tower. It is true that God has generously and without merit adopted me into His family, making Jesus my brother; but Jesus is not and never will be my “homeboy.” He is the One whom everyone in heaven and on earth, and under the earth will proclaim as Lord! And yes, I am invited by God to go boldly to His throne. But when I go to Him, I need - out of humility and respect - to take off my shoes. You do too.

Grace to you.

Dave Paukner