The "Miktams" of God

By David Hobbs

“Miktam” is a Hebrew word in the Psalms used to describe a special kind of psalm. Used only 6 times, it introduces psalms that recount David’s most harrowing experiences as a God-follower, where his life was in immediate peril and where only a miraculous intervention by God could save him. These were experiences like the one described by Paul in 2 Cor. 1:8 where he talks about “the hardships we suffered in the province of Asia. We were under great pressure, far beyond our ability to endure, so that we despaired even of life. Indeed, in our hearts we felt the sentence of death. But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead.”
One of the places David uses this term is Psalm 56 where he recounts the time he fled to Gath out of fear of King Saul only to be captured by Philistine soldiers who recognized him as the slayer of Goliath, their hometown hero. They brought him to the king of Gath who could have ordered his immediate execution. David was so terrified by his imminent peril that the Bible says he feigned insanity, drooled into his beard, and “scrabbled on the doors of the gate” (1 Sam. 21:13 KJV). This is the context in which he wrote Psalm 56.
But the whole meaning of the word “Miktam” is not just a scary remembrance. It literally means “engraving” and spiritually it refers to a time when the dark setting of the dangerous experience serves only to highlight the bright jewel of the love of God manifested in the miraculous deliverance. Therefore, the whole episode is remembered not as a traumatic event, but as a golden demonstration of the faithfulness, love, and power of God in the wondrous escape. As such, it becomes one of our most precious “memories of grace,” forever engraved on our heart; from which we can draw comfort and solace again and again as new challenges arise.
One of my most precious Miktams occurred in April of 2006. Some of us from our church were in L.A. to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the Azusa St. revival. I wasn’t planning to go because I was in the throes of getting my book Out of the Fire ready for publication. Since I was self-publishing there were lots of details of design and formatting that normally the publisher would handle, the final editing on the content that normally an editor would handle, copyright procedures, permissions to secure--the list seemed to go on and on. The whole process kept taking longer than expected and I had to keep moving the publication date up, a month at a time.
Therefore, as tempted as I was by the prospect of spending a week seeking the presence of God and learning about one of the great revivals of all time, I really didn’t want to lose focus on what I was doing. But then I was told that someone had paid for Marcine and my way, and it didn’t seem right to refuse (good thing, because it later turned out to be our pastor and his wife who were our benefactors). So there we were at the L. A. Convention Center with thousands of others, spending time worshipping and getting inspired about the moving of the Spirit of God.
I have discovered a pattern at such getaway events. I always expect a time of great blessing and experience of God’s presence, but the actual pattern is an initial blessing, then a time of intense dealing in my life by the Spirit of God, a breakthrough, and then more blessing. So after a day or two of good meetings and spiritual experiences, I began to “go through it” over my book. One of the classes I was taking in the morning session was on writing and publishing for God. The classes were good, but they began to dredge up the same old demons I had fought so long in the writing of the book, and even back to the writing of my first book, Waiting for the Dawn, where they almost destroyed me. They involved motive—why was I writing? It was a catch 22 situation. The accusation was that I wanted to write for me, to be famous, to be honored, to be somebody, to exalt self. The only way I could prove that this wasn’t so was to not write, to lay it all down. “See, I don’t need this.” But after awhile I would feel that old unction again. And when I prayed about what God wanted me to do and how I could enter fully into His calling for my life I would sense the Holy Spirit ask, “Whatever happened to that book you were writing for Me?”
But there didn’t seem to be any way I could purify my motives. When I started to work on it again, the secret pride would come back, the dreams of grandeur. I disowned them, rebuked them, rejected them, but couldn’t get rid of them. I couldn’t still the accusing voices because my sense of honesty to an extent compelled me to agree with them.
Now these classes were bringing all these issues to the surface again and I was miserable. The third morning I stayed in the main auditorium instead of going to a class. They were holding a workshop on worship and I thought maybe in the presence of God in worship I could find some answers. But the weight got heavier and heavier. I moved over to a section of seats where I could be alone. I knelt at a seat while the music was playing and it was as if all these voices rose up to surround and mock me—all my inadequacies, inabilities, failings as a writer and as a person, my barrenness as a Christian, the hopelessness of my life--the whole kit and caboodle was slowly spinning around me, mocking and accusing me. It was as if I was in the middle of a whirlpool, a vortex, surrounded by the voices of my failures. “Wow,” I thought to myself, “this is the kind of stuff that drives men to insanity and suicide.” I found Marcine, who was not far away. “I’m in a vortex,” I said, “surrounded by accusing voices; pray for me.”
In a daze, I got up and wandered closer to the front of the auditorium, where the music was coming from. I tried to get as close as possible to the music. People had seats staked out in the front but I found the nearest unclaimed seat and stood there to worship. I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t sing or even speak. I just stood there with my arms outstretched to God and tears running down my face.
Finally the song was over, we all sat down and the musician started to teach on worship. Almost as soon as I sat down I fell asleep from exhaustion. I awoke just as his teaching was ending, having missed the entire lesson, but feeling better.
On the trip home the subject of the book just seemed to come up, and I was able to talk freely about what I was usually too embarrassed to discuss. The experience proved to a turning point in the battle with my demons that finally enabled the book to come forth.