Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Up until this moment, he believed he had heard and seen every courtroom shenanigan imaginable. His position lent to it. From his seat on the judge’s bench, he’d heard every excuse and alleged defense available. Most of them were drivel. Manufactured reasons for failing to keep the law, violating one’s neighbor, or creating unrest. Rarely did a defendant stand before him in true innocence. Until today. Pilate had never seen this. Never watched the accused calmly and quietly standing before him, allowing the accusers to rail and rage, but never raising one word of defense. When asked for a response to the allegations, He said nothing. The silence was deafening. The peace etched in every line of His face spoke far more than words ever could. Jesus was innocent. Pilate’s head knew it. His heart felt it. His lips spoke it. The knowledge held Pilate in the throes of a great decision. 

What was he supposed to do now? He had only one side of the story. An unconvincing list of alleged offenses appearing to have more to do with their religion than his law. It wasn’t his area of expertise. He would take tax collection and military movement over this any day of the week. Yet there they stood. Angry. Indignant. Expecting an answer, but apparently not expecting the decision to be in their favor. The chief priests and scribes had taken matters into their own hands. Effectively stacking the deck in their own favor. While Pilate contemplated his decision, the religious leaders had gone throughout the crowd spreading maliciousness and convincing the people that Jesus should not be released back into society. He was dangerous. To them. To their religion. To their way of life. And, for some reason, the people believed them. 

Pilate wasn’t so certain. Nothing added up for him. Not the allegations. Not the testimony. Not the outward presentation of this allegedly dangerous man. If Jesus had been running about causing real trouble or outrage among the people, Pilate you have known about it. Someone would have come to him long before with the details. His men would have been keeping a close eye on the situation. Not one complaint had been filed. Not one concerning report had reached him. Not one of his officers had felt compelled to bring Jesus to his attention. When necessity demanded he do some research, Pilate had been only able to ascertain positive impacts of Jesus’ presence. He was busy doing good things throughout their society. Healing the sick. Delivering from demons. Teaching unarguable values. Who could condemn those actions? No one. Until today, not one person had come forward to ask that action be taken against Jesus. Today shouldn’t have been that day, either. Not by Pilate’s measure. This was a colossal waste of his time. The man was clearly innocent. He didn’t deserve death. He deserved freedom. A celebration. A medal, even. Unfortunately, no one was asking for Pilate’s opinion, they were asking for action. Or inaction. 

In the midst of his discussion with the tumultuous crowd concerning who should be released at the festival, word came from his wife. She was troubled. Immensely. Sometime in the night, she had a dream, a nightmare of sorts, a terror that left her in fear for her husband. Pilate needed to extricate himself from this mess. Declare a mistrial. Decline judgment for lack of evidence. Deny the accusers their desired outcome. She didn’t really care how he did it, but he needed to wash his hands of this mess. Now. He needed to walk away. Stop the farce. Let that man go. Jesus was faultless. She knew it. Pilate knew it. There was no reason to continue the ridiculousness. Judge Him innocent and walk away. Immediately. He might have done it, too, had the voices of the chief priests, elders, and raging crowd not rang out to cover the urgency of her message. Like a riptide, those nefarious voices planted doubts, raised selfish concerns, and carried him down the path of indecision. 

Standing before the agitated crowd, Pilate listened as they chose the release of a clearly guilty, convicted criminal. He couldn’t imagine such deep hate. Loathing so deep they were willing to have a criminal walk freely among them. Distaste so intense they were content to subject themselves to Barabbas destruction if it meant Jesus’ death. It was a wildly uneven trade. He shouldn’t have offered it. There shouldn’t have been options that day. No one had been able to convince Pilate that Jesus had done anything to deserve the cruelty that awaited one handed the death penalty. No one seemed able or willing to answer that question, to give him something real on which to base his decision. Stuck in the midst of his own moral conundrum, Pilate asked the crowd the question, “What am I supposed to do with Jesus?” Their chilling cry echoed back, unsurprising, yet gut-wrenching still, “Crucify Him!” And he did. (Matthew 27:11-26)

Pilate’s question begs a question of my own. Why did he even ask? Why did Pilate ask what to do with Jesus when he already knew he wasn’t going to follow his gut, his wife’s dire warning, or even his legal logic? Without evidence, proper testimony, or even real allegations, why was he even entertaining the idea of sentencing Jesus to any form of imprisonment or punishment? He didn’t have to punish Jesus at all. Pilate was in charge. He had options. He could have refused their demands. Honored his wife’s request. He didn’t. At the crowd’s urging, he doubled down. After ceremoniously washing his hands as if he could possibly forgive his own bloodguiltiness, Pilate ordered Jesus flogged and sent Him away to be crucified.   

With those actions, Pilate reveals the truth. He wasn’t asking the question to gain insight, garner opinions, or gather options. None of those things would have changed the outcome. Pilate would still have followed the crowd. Why? Because Pilate lacked strength. Inner strength. Moral fortitude. The kind of courage that makes one stand up and take the proper path regardless of the naysayers, the resisters, the haters. Underneath all the voices and opinions and options, Pilate knew what to do. His heart knew. He realized within minutes of Jesus’ appearance before him that He was innocent. He knew any other judgment would be erroneous. He simply didn’t have the backbone to stand up and make that choice. He didn’t have the strength to do the right thing. He didn’t want to face the public backlash. He didn’t want the people to riot. He didn’t want his superiors asking what he was doing meddling in religious affairs when his business was enforcing Roman law. When Pontius Pilate made his decision concerning Jesus, he didn’t base it on what his heart knew to be right and true. No. He based his decision entirely on what the loudest voices around him were saying. He founded it on public opinion. He made the decision to keep the peace around him rather than finding peace within. 

As churched people, we really hate Pilate. He’s the enemy. Evil. Able to stop the madness, but unwilling to do so. We know what Pilate chose to do with Jesus and feel justified in unleashing our distaste in condescending tones of ultimate superiority. We verbally eviscerate him for not being stronger, not standing up to the chief priests and elders, not making a different decision. Yet rarely do we admit that our elbows rub his as we occupy the same space, hearing the evidence for Christ, feeling the call of God, knowing the way Jesus would tell us to walk, yet hesitantly looking around the court of public opinion to ask, “What should I do with Jesus?” 

We need to be so careful with that. Be cautious when asking that question. Choose carefully who you ask. Not every voice will encourage you to seek God’s kingdom first. Not every opinion will value the opinion of God. Not every answer will echo the answer your heart knows to be true. While everyone will have an opinion on the options, not every opinion deserves to land on your options list. So ask your question carefully. Hear the answers prayerfully. Search your Bible. Listen to its words. Be still and hear God speak His truth, the only truth, into your soul. Then follow it. Do what God says to do. Do right no matter what. In a world overflowing with opinions and options, consciously take a stand for truth–if everyone else is doing it, if no one else is doing it, if you gain friends and followers or if you lose them–choose to do the right thing. What good is it if you gain prosperity, popularity, and power on earth, but lose your soul in eternity? It’s nothing. Worthless. Earth is busy passing away. Only eternity is forever. As you stand at the crossroads choosing what you will do with Jesus in this current season of your life, remember this, the only court that truly matters will never be held in public opinion, it will be in the moments you spend standing before the all-knowing gaze of Almighty God answering His question. What did you do with Jesus? (II Corinthians 5:10; Psalm 1:1-6; 46:10; 119:105; Jeremiah 29:13; I Corinthians 15:33; John 6:68; James 1:5-6; Romans 14:12; Acts 5:29; Mark 8:36; Isaiah 51:6) 

Early relief settled in the soldiers’ hearts as Moses picked up the staff before joining Aaron and Hur to make his way up the hill. God would fight for them. They knew it. That was what the staff meant. What it had always meant. Trapped in Egypt, begging God for deliverance,  the Israelites watched as Moses used the staff to strike the Nile and bring punishing plagues at Pharaoh’s refusal to release them. Trapped between the raging sea and the ferocious Egyptian army, fleeing bondage, Moses used that staff to part the Red Sea, making a sand pathway for safe passage. Trapped in the wilderness, desperately searching for water, God told Moses to use that staff to strike the rock at Horeb, making water gush out like a fresh stream. Today, trapped in a battle they hadn’t pursued, seeing Moses pick up that staff told them everything they needed to know. Gave them courage. Increased their faith. God was with them. They knew it. The staff of God was visible proof of God’s invisible hand among them. It meant God was busy. If Moses was taking that staff up the hill with him, God was absolutely going into battle with them. Victory was theirs. They knew it. And they were so ready to win. (Exodus 7-11; 14:5-31; 17:1-10)

So were the Amalekites. They had been waiting for this moment. Assembled there at Rephidim, braggadocio in full force, they believed they couldn’t lose. To anyone. Certainly not to a little band of poorly trained Israelites on the run from Egypt. Grinning behind ill-kempt beards, they made bets among themselves about the brevity of the battle. How quickly could they defeat these homeless Israelites and be done with it? It shouldn’t take long. A little skirmish in comparison to the battles they normally faced. Their weapons were better. Their soldiers were stronger. Their leaders were more savvy. They knew they would win. They were ready for it. 

Taking his post at the top of the hill overlooking the battlefield, Moses watched as the sides lined up in battle array. Joshua and his men had turned out well, exhibiting both confidence and courage. His heart swelled with pride at their bravery. They were good men. Seeing more than a few heads turn to look in his direction, he straightened his shoulders under the invisible but heavy load that rested there. The staff of God was in his hand. It was his job to keep it lifted, keep his hands up, for the entire battle. If he failed, if he dropped his hands, Israel would be defeated. The entire nation was depending not on their men on the battlefield, but on their leader on the hill. It was an overwhelming responsibility for any man, but especially for a man of his years. 

Moses wasn’t young. Eight decades of his life had already elapsed. Physically leading the people, spiritually tending the people, being their liaison to God was hard work. Draining. Tiring. And no one was looking after Moses. No one was checking in to see how he was doing. No one asked if there was a way they could lend a hand or lighten his load. He was doing it all, and the people were happy to let him do it. Like a group of children, they expected him to anticipate their needs and blamed him when they became disgruntled with their circumstances. There was no glamor and glitz in this leadership position. He was often the verbal whipping boy. But God had called. Moses had answered. He wasn’t about to quit when they needed him most.  

As the battle began, Moses lifted his hands in petition to God. And he left them there. Raised in position to ask and receive blessings from above. It is logical to believe that along with his raised hands, prayer flowed from his heart to God’s throne. They needed a victory. Not just so they could be the winners. Israel needed a victory because they needed to increase their faith. Moses knew it. God knew it. Their faith was meager at best. A win on this battlefield might well be the shot in the arm they needed to boost their belief in the active power of God among them. Moses wanted to see that. He wanted to see them grow their faith. He wanted them to believe that the God who had delivered them from Egypt was leading them down the best path to get to the best place in the best way possible. 

It was going beautifully. Until it wasn’t. Moses began to tire. His shoulders tightened. His back ached. His arms felt like lead weights. His hands began to lower. Bit by bit, they slid down to take a tiny respite.  Immediately, the tables turned for the troops down below. Things went awry. The Amalekites began to win. Handily. Still fighting with all their strength, the Israelite men knew they were losing ground. So did Moses. Scraping together every ounce of his energy, forcing himself past the screaming pain in his shoulders, he lifted his hands again, all while knowing it wouldn’t last long.  

Standing there beside Moses, Aaron and Hur saw the struggle. They knew what rested on those raised hands. They also knew Moses couldn’t do this on his own. The victory or defeat of their people hung not only on his physical strength, but on their ingenuity. They had to help him. They had to ensure his hands stayed lifted. Quickly searching the area, they found a large rock, big enough to sit on, high enough to still watch the battle. Working together, they wrestled it over, giving Moses a place to sit and rest his trembling legs. It didn’t help his arms. They had to stay lifted. It was imperative he keep them up. Their fate, the future of their wives and families and friends all rested in Moses’ ability to keep his arms raised. In unspoken agreement, Aaron and Hur came alongside their leader to render aid. Aaron on one side. Hur on the other. They braced their feet, positioned themselves, and held Moses’ hands. They never fell until the sun went down and God brought Israel victory over their enemies.

Something about the mental picture of two men standing beside their leader, bracing his arms, lifting his hands, sharing their strength, gives me pause. Pierced my heart with an arrow of conviction. Had me asking myself a soul-searching question. How often do I lift up–in word, in thought, in deed, in prayer–the people who lift me up to the Father? That is what Aaron and Hur were doing. Their backs must have ached. Their arms must have grown tired. Their shoulders surely hurt just as much. Their knees locked, their calf muscles knotted. Yet still they willingly gave their support, their strength, to the man who talked to God regularly, directly on their behalf. (Exodus 17:8-13)

How often do you do that? How often do you pray for your pastor? How regularly do you intercede for your small group leader, children’s minister, or Bible study coordinator? How important is it to you to lift up the people who lift you up to God? How regularly do you shoot off a text begging for prayer to the “prayer warriors” in your life, but fail to lift them up to God in return? How frequently do you phone someone, disregarding the time, to ask them to pray for your miracle? And they do. Willingly. Happily. How often do you show up for church service, prayer service, small group, or Bible study, looking to have the pastor or leader petition God for your needs? And they do. Regularly. Intentionally. How often, while they are lifting holy hands, expending themselves to pound on Heaven’s door for your needs, can you be found calling out to God for them as well? Why not? You should be. 

God’s workers aren’t supernatural. They are human, just like you. They have struggles and trials, physical ailments and emotional upsets. They need your prayers. Doing God’s work well is difficult. Being a pastor isn’t golfing and going to lunch with other preachers all week, spending a quick 20 minutes on Saturday evening sketching a Bible lesson for Sunday. It’s not 6 days of personal time and one day of parishioners and Jesus. Working for God isn’t an easy gig. Your preachers and worship leaders, Bible study teachers and children’s ministers are busy planning all week long. Some of them are juggling day jobs as well. They sacrifice their time to ensure your soul and the souls of your family are fed. They dedicate time in their prayer hour to mention your name to God. They walk you through every rough patch, every spiritual drought, every tragedy, every victory, and every joy. It’s draining. Spiritually. Emotionally. Physically. They need your prayers. They need your support. They need your help. Whether they verbalize it or not, your spiritual leaders need you to lift them up to the Father as they carry your burdens and theirs alike. 

Over and over the Bible commands us to pray for one another. Fellow believers. Friends. Enemies. Pray for your leaders. Not just the political ones, as important as that is. Pray for all of your leaders. Everyone in a place of leadership or authority in your life. Your government. Your company. Your boss. More importantly, pray for your spiritual leaders. Pray for the godly people you lean on for support. Pray for the people who lead your church. Pray for the people who lead your children’s church. Pray for those who lead your youth group. Pray for the people who daily lift up holy hands in prayer for you. Pray that they will be encouraged and strengthened. Pray for them to be bold and courageous. Pray for divine detection in their hearts and direction in their lives. And listen. Maybe God is asking you to do more than pray. Maybe He is asking you to come alongside and lift their load in one way or another. Take something off their to-do list. Volunteer at church. Cook them dinner. Mow their lawn. Babysit their children. It doesn’t have to be big and overly spiritual. It can be something as simple as what Aaron and Hur did for Moses. Simply coming to stand beside them and offer your strength, your resources, your prayers in their time of need. (Ephesians 6:20; I Timothy 2:1-4; Hebrews 13:16; Proverbs 3:27)

God certainly used Aaron and Hur to change my prayer life this week. I hope they changed yours, too. I hope they enabled you to see the people you count on for prayer and support as the humans they are. Needy. Frazzled. Uncertain. Sometimes desperate. Just like you. I hope you started praying for them as much as you rely on them to pray for you. I hope you intentionally take the time to look for ways to encourage and strengthen their hearts. I hope you find a way this very week to come alongside those loving souls and lift up to God the holy hands that regularly lift up you. (Colossians 4:2; I Samuel 12:23; Galatians 6:2; I Thessalonians 5:11, 25; Ephesians 6:18; Romans 15:30; Hebrews 12:12)

From where they were standing, this whole situation could have been avoided. Every single minute of it. From the first signs of malaise to the final doctor visit, not one moment of suffering was necessary. The scenario didn’t need to end in death. There should be no reason for them to be here, weeping out their grief and wondering about their future. They had prayed. They had believed. They had kept the faith. They thought Jesus would come as soon as He received their message. Except He hadn’t. Hadn’t shown up. Hadn’t sent a handful of disciples. Hadn’t spoken words of healing from a distance. Jesus hadn’t done anything. And now they were here. Gathered with local friends to mourn the loss of Lazarus.  

Devastated, Mary and Martha went through the motions of laying their beloved brother to rest. Prepared the herbs. Wrapped the body. Went through the motions of a funeral. Watched as their brother was carried out of sight and laid in the dark interior of a cold tomb. Their tattered faith hovered at that entrance, barely restrained, deeply tempted to join the list of losses and be buried with Lazarus. Twin sighs escaped their lips between the quiet sobs. Matching thoughts filled their minds. If Jesus had only been there. If He had come when they sent the message. If He would have rushed, maybe He would have made it in time. Maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe their brother would still be alive. Maybe their faith would be too. 

Battered faith was all they had left now. Jesus’ absence had left them reeling. The fact He hadn’t shown up–at all–left them with more questions than answers. What did it mean that He hadn’t come, hadn’t even acted? What did it mean that He hadn’t even sent a messenger back? Had He abandoned them? Did He not care? Was their relationship one-sided? Was their faith misplaced? When things got tough and ugly and terrifying, would Jesus just go silent? Did He even know Lazarus was dead? If He did, why didn’t He come back to comfort them in their sorrow? Was He unconcerned with the depths of their pain? Or was there somewhere more exciting, someone more important, something more pressing than to be in the presence of grief and sadness? Was His lack of presence, His obvious withholding of power, an indicator that all the love and care He’d promoted and promised was just a figment of their imaginations? Was His absence proof they should never have believed in the first place? 

The very thought was inconceivable. Mary and Martha had long been avid followers of Jesus. He had visited their home. Martha had fed Him. Mary had learned at His feet. He was loved and welcome in their home. They believed he loved them back. All three of them. Mary. Martha. Lazarus. They believed the things He taught. They believed he knew the number of hairs on each of their heads. They believed He kept a tally of the stars in the sky and had somehow come up with a name for each one. They believed He knew every time a little bird, worthless to humanity, flew into a rockface, fed a predator, or failed to survive the elements. They believed Jesus knew and cared about all these things. And, when He said they were worth more to Him than the billions of tiny birds, they hadn’t questioned it. They simpy believed. Yet now, surrounded by their shattering sorrow and the grieving voices of their friends, the girls hearts quietly questioned if it was really true. Did Jesus really care about them as much as He claimed, and if so, why hadn’t He shown up when they needed Him most? (Psalm 147:4; Matthew 10:29-31; Luke 10:38-42)

Days after they sent the message alerting Jesus that Lazarus was ill, He strolled into town. Four days late and a miracle short. Lazarus had died. He was buried. Four days ago. By now his body was starting to decompose. It wouldn’t be pretty. Not to see or to smell. The stone over the entrance would be only a reducing barrier. The spices they had buried with him would not be pungent enough to cover the smell of rotting flesh and seeping body fluids. The girls weren’t even there. They were quietly settled at home, sighing, sobbing, sorting through memories, shaping a future without their beloved brother. Faithful friends had gathered to keep watch over them, lend a hand, offer support. One of them must have been a lookout. Before Jesus got to the house, someone told them He was coming. And Martha went to meet Him. 

There was confrontation in her step as Martha marched out to meet Jesus. Her eyes were dry. Her shoulders were straight. Her jaw was set. The speech she had so carefully planned would finally be delivered. Martha had things to say. Real things. Important things. Things that demanded answers. She wouldn’t be asking questions. She would simply be stating the obvious. Jesus was late. Too late. If He had been here earlier, if He hadn’t dilly-dallied, her brother Lazarus would still be alive. (John 11:1-21)

Mary followed up Martha’s thoughts ones of her own, spoken in the exact same verbiage. If Jesus had been there then, Lazarus would be there now. They knew it. They believed it. Completely. They had seen too many miracles to believe otherwise. They simply couldn’t understand why, after choosing to place their faith in the God who promised to care more deeply for them than for the countless sparrows, He had chosen not to answer their prayers, to come when they called, or to rescue them from the grief and pain currently saturating their hearts. (John 11:32)

It wasn’t because they hadn’t asked. They had. As soon as Lazarus took to his bed with whatever illness gripped him, they had dispatched a messenger to Jesus. It wasn’t because they didn’t believe. They did. They believed every word that came from Jesus’ lips. They knew He was the Messiah. They believed He was the Son of God. They believed He was the resurrection and the life. They knew He could do anything. If He chose. They had seen His work and heard the accounts over and over again. What they didn’t understand, what they couldn’t comprehend, what their aching hearts were unable to fathom was why He chose not to do it for them. (John 11:22-27)

We have all stood in that same space, wondering why the miracles and blessings are raining down on others, but skipping us entirely. Maybe you are there right now. Desperately needing a miracle. Fiercely holding your faith that God will perform one. Begging Him with every breath to act. Yet watching day after day pass with no answer to your prayers. Others are getting answers. Even people who don’t believe in Jesus are sailing through life with no turbulence. Those who are willing to lie and cheat and play politics are climbing the ladder of success. But you are stuck on the bottom rung, living by faith, doing the right thing, praying until there are no words left in your soul and no tears left in your body. But nothing is happening. The miracles seem to have dried up. God is silent. The only voice you hear is the ugly one in your head saying to go ahead and pull the hairs from your scalp in frustration, God’s stopped recording the number anyway. He doesn’t care about you. He’s let you down. Decided you aren’t worth His time. God is over your relationship. 

Don’t you buy that! Not one of those things is true. God is still adjusting your hair tally every time your scalp determines one strand has outlived its usefulness. Why? Because He loves you. He cares about you. Every part of you. And nothing can separate you from Him. No one can take you out of a relationship with Jesus Christ. No one can pluck you out of His hand. No one can remove you from the meticulous care of God the Father. It isn’t possible. It’s just that His care often looks different than we imagine it should. Just like Mary and Martha. 

You see, Mary and Martha believed God’s loving care and constant faithfulness looked like privately saving Lazarus from death and them from grief. It didn’t. It looked like publicly restoring the one they lost. It looked like healing through complete revitalization–body and soul. It looked like Jesus making Himself known to the world then and every generation to come as a wonder-working God by calling dead Lazarus to walk alive from that tomb. When their situation looked the darkest, when their faith felt the weakest, when the temptation to question the truth of Jesus’ words was the greatest, Jesus Himself stepped in and did the miraculous. Why? Because whether they felt it or not, God was still counting every little hair on their heads. Even the ones on Lazarus. (John 11:38-44)

The same is true for you. In spite of your seemingly insurmountable circumstances, God is still doing what He has always done. Looking out for you. He is still keeping His promises. He is still working on your behalf. He is still on your side. He is still counting the hairs on your head. Fewer. Greater. It doesn’t matter. He knows each one. Counts them. Keeps track. Just like He does of the sparrows. Not one of them crashes into a window, becomes a cat’s dinner, or suffers from avian influenza without His knowledge. How much more does He keep track of you? Your worries. Your cares. Your needs. You are far more important to Him. Your life. Your future. Your hope. So don’t let anxiety and uncertainty overcome you. Don’t let the evil one make you doubt your place in God’s heart. He hasn’t forgotten you. He knows exactly what your life requires and is working out a plan to bring it to pass. He delights in every part of your existence. Right down to counting every little hair on your head. (Matthew 6:25-34; 10:29-31; Zephaniah 3:17; Psalm 18:19; Isaiah 49:14-16; Jeremiah 29:11) 

Whoever coined the phrase, “on the horns of a dilemma,” was clearly thinking of him when they said it. He embodied those words. Right now. Staring blindly out the window at the retreating back of the now leaving messenger, he struggled to digest their words. Tried to make his heart feel something. Sadness. Grief. Anger. Rage. Numbness blanketed his heart, stole his voice, silenced his words. Disbelief warred with the absolute certainty of the delivered words. The heaviness of betrayal settled around him like a thick fog. Mary was pregnant, and Joseph had nothing to do with it. 

The one who bore the message stated Mary had been visited by an angel who informed her that she would become pregnant by the Holy Spirit. It wasn’t a task she had asked to undertake. She hadn’t applied. Hadn’t attended auditions. Hadn’t daily bombarded God’s throne in prayer that she would be the virgin spoken about by the long ago prophet Isaiah who would carry and birth the Messiah. No. She never dreamed of such a thing. Had never wanted it. Hadn’t hoped for it. Never once raised the idea, even in jest, while chatting with her friends by the well. She also hadn’t said no. When the angel told her of God’s plan for her life, Mary quickly acquiesed, apparently giving no thought to how it would affect the rest of her life. 

As the ice around his heart started to thaw, Joseph began to contemplate the entirety of the situation. Mary was pregnant. To whom made no difference. He had some decisions to make. Difficult ones. Painful ones. Life-altering ones. Should he marry her? Should he not? Would she be faithful? Would she not? Was the baby really the Son of God? Was it not? How could he know? How could he choose? How could he forgive the indiscretion if the woman he married was eventually revealed to be both a liar and a cheat? Fighting the urge to immediately terminate their betrothal, Joseph sat in his feelings, his questions, his fears and carefully considered the options. 

Yes. You read that correctly. When everyone else would have released their seething rage on the girl and her family regardless of the public humiliation or social implications, Joseph stilled his soul and carefully considered the issues and options before him. Before he fell asleep. Before the angel visited. Before the words of God drifted into his unconsciousness, convincing him to do the “right thing”, Joseph was already doing the right thing. He was being quiet. Being slow to speak. Slow to give in to his righteous anger. He was thinking. Not just of himself and his own vindication. He was thinking of Mary. Her reputation. Her future. Her family. He didn’t want to do anything that would ruin her life or make her a pariah. Even though Joseph couldn’t come up with a scenario in which it seemed wise to continue their arrangement, he wouldn’t do anything public. It would have to be done secretly. It would have to be kept quiet. Joseph would have it no other way. As hurt as he was that Mary was pregnant to another man before their marriage, Joseph’s righteousness wouldn’t allow him to embarrass or mistreat her. Not because it hadn’t crossed his mind. It probably had. He was human. He was tempted. He held all the cards. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. The righteous integrity with which he lived his life would not allow it.  

We often miss that part of Joseph’s account. Somehow he has been relegated to a bit player, a rarely spoken about man mentioned only in passing as we read the Christmas story. He’s just a carpenter. Just Jesus’ stepdad. Just the guy who kept Mary’s reputation in tact. Except he wasn’t. There was more to Joseph than that. So much more. Joseph was righteous. He was upright. He lived with integrity. Before the angel ever illuminated Joseph’s dreams to point out the proper path, his life and actions reverberated with the truth. Joseph was a righteous man. 

Did you notice that? According to Matthew, upon hearing the unsettling news of Mary’s pregnancy, Joseph, being righteous, checked his emotions, throttled his ego, reserved his opinions, and held his decisions until he was in the proper headspace to consider the situation through the lens of righteousness. He waited until he could breathe again, until his mind could clearly weigh the consequences of his decisions. Consequences for everyone. Him. Her. Them. No matter how hurt and offended and humiliated he deserved to be, Joseph’s spiritual integrity refused to allow him to treat another person disrespectfully. Male or female. Right or wrong. It wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t say disparaging things. He wouldn’t ruin her chances. He wouldn’t publicly disgrace her by spouting his frustration to every listening ear. Just as his righteousness would not allow him to make a snap decision based on his own feelings, that same uprightness wouldn’t let him tear Mary down or tarnish her reputation. That’s how righteousness should look. (Matthew 1:18-20) 

Righteousness should look like decisions made after careful, prayerful consideration. Righteousness should look like exquisite care for others. It is never selfish. It never seeks to bring attention and sympathy to itself. It doesn’t spread rumors or gossip or slander. It isn’t talking about something rather than praying about it. It isn’t enlisting a group of sympathizers to help you make a decision. It doesn’t seek to harm. It doesn’t try to teach lessons by causing pain. It doesn’t speak out of turn or prematurely. True righteousness comes from a heart cleansed by God, ruled by God, that waits on God before it acts or speaks. It is not a pious face covering a petty heart. True righteousness that comes from God must be more than an outward appearance legalistically following a list of rules and regulations. It must be more than rote words and phrases meant to show others your Christianity. True righteousness must flow naturally from the heart in springs of love and mercy and grace. (Isaiah 32:17; James 3:18)

Jesus said as much to the disciples. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus said if their righteousness was simply that of the scribes and Pharisees, outward acts with no inward grace, they would never see the kingdom of heaven. It was a stern warning. The scribes and Pharisees weren’t known for being authentically righteous.They were known for being legalistic rule followers, attempting to earn their way into heaven one religious adherence at a time. This careful obedience had cultivated a sense of self-righteous hypocrisy and superiority in which they felt it appropriate to judge others by the measuring stick they deemed appropriate. There was no love or mercy or grace in their righteousness. It was all man-made. It was all works based. There was no wonder, no power, no Jesus in it. And it would never get them to heaven. Jesus said so. (Matthew 5:29)

We really aren’t a lot different. We, too, get righteousness confused with self-reliance and superiority. We think because we repented as a child, attend church, and reluctantly live by the rules, we deserve to be treated with awe and reverence. We believe it is our job to judge others, often attempting to determine their level of spirituality by their outward appearance. It isn’t. Jesus said not to judge others. At all. He said that if your righteousness is simply that of going to church, speaking Christianese, and living by a little black book of manmade rules, then you are no better than the scribes and Pharisees. They weren’t getting into heaven on that and neither will you. Those aren’t my words, they are His. And they are confronting. Because we tend to think our righteousness is our own doing, when in reality, all our personal attempts at righteousness are simply filthy rags. (Matthew 7:1-2: Isaiah 64:6)

You see, friend, true righteousness cannot be faked. Even if you manage to fool some people part of the time, you won’t fool God any of the time. He sees your heart. He knows the motivation behind your words and actions. He knows when true righteousness would hold its tongue, but you let yours wag. He sees when true righteousness would prayerfully wait, but you choose to rashly act. God knows what true righteousness looks like. And so does everyone else. It looks like treating others with the same grace and mercy God has given you. It looks like undeserved forgiveness. It looks like respectful boundaries. It looks like taming your tongue, holding your opinions, and pursuing peace with your neighbor. It looks like the love of God spread so thickly in and over and through your life that everyone who comes in contact with you knows you are righteous. It looks like being recorded as righteous in the Lamb’s Book of Life. And it can only be accomplished by the daily, active work of God in your heart and life. Just like Joseph. (Revelation 21:27; Isaiah 33:15-17; Psalm 139:1-2; Colossians 3:13; Matthew 7:12; Proverbs 4:23; James 3:1-12; Hebrews 12:14; John 13:34: Galatians 5:22-23)

Not one line of the Bible is devoted to delineating Joseph’s admirable works as a man of God. There is no history behind his name. We know very little about him. His part of Jesus’ story is lived in the shadow of Mary. As far as humanity goes, Joseph is forgettable. But not to God. God knew his heart. God knew his works. God knew how he handled himself in rough situations. And God was clearly impressed. He thought so much of Joseph that He had him recorded as righteous for every generation to read. It was the adjective by which God knew him. Righteous. Upright. Trustworthy.

Would He say the same about you? If He were looking for people on earth to parent the Christ-child today, would your name make the short list because the power of God at work in your heart has made you live righteously and uprightly in a world that doesn’t? In this present age of purposeful apostasy and appalling complacency, are you someone God can trust to protect and promote the true teachings of His most precious gift to humanity? Are you righteous? Truly righteous? Not by words or works that can be twisted and tweaked. Not by the opinions of friends or family. Not by your own shallow measure, but by God’s deep one? Are you righteous according to Him? Has He recorded your name that way? Does the righteousness of God fill your heart and spill out of your life on earth? Is your name recorded as righteous in Heaven? (Luke 10:20; Revelation 3:5; Ephesians 4:24; Proverbs 12:26; 21:3; Psalm 1:6; 11:7; I John 3:7; Micah 6:8)

Regret coursed through him as he held his unnaturally chilled hands over the warmth of the open fire. His heart was troubled. His soul was anxious. His mind was racing. It had been a long day. Not that it hadn’t started out well. It had. Celebrating Passover with Jesus was always a memorable time. The resting. The eating. The talking. Every year was indelibly etched in Peter’s brain. This year was shaping up to be the most memorable. Not in a good way. Statements had been made. Questions had been asked. Answers had been minimal. A heavy sense of foreboding pervaded the atmosphere. Things were changing. He knew it. Tried to digest it, even as the evening’s events played on repeat in his head. 

Into the quiet air of their friendly dinner, Jesus dropped a bombshell. Hands stopped midway to mouths. Jaws dropped. Sentences broke with unfinished thoughts. Astonished eyes clashed over the table. One of the Twelve was going to betray Him. One of them. Someone at their table. Someone they trusted. Someone they loved. Someone who claimed they loved Jesus. The plan was already set in motion. Things were already underway. Someone there would hand Him over, deliver Him directly into the hands of those who wanted Him dead. Someone among them was a traitor, and everyone wanted to know who. 

Suspiciously glancing around the table, the disciples began to silently question who it could be. Was it Andrew? Thomas? Matthew? Had anyone been acting strangely lately? Spending more time away from the others with no explanation for their whereabouts? Had they seen anyone talking to the Pharisees more? Hanging out with the chief priests? Getting lunch with the elders? When nothing specific came to mind, their scrutiny turned inward. Was it them? Was there something in their own hearts that would turn them away from Jesus? Did they love something else more? Social safety? Personal popularity? Financial prosperity? And how could they know if it was them or someone else? 

Jesus nebulous answer to their question didn’t help solidify the answer. There were twelve of them sitting with Him at the table. They were sharing a meal. Family style. Everyone was dipping out of the same bowls. Many of them had or would dip their hand into the bowl with Jesus. It wasn’t until Judas spoke up to ask if it was him that their attention snagged. Something about the quality of his voice shocked them. It was laced with sarcasm. As if he knew the answer before asking the question. Yet it was Jesus answer that silenced the lot and delivered the shocking blow. “You said it.” The final eleven watched in gobsmacked silence as Judas pushed back his chair with a smirk and made his swaggering exit. (Matthew 26:17-25; Luke 22:21-23; Mark 14:17-20)

Tension covered the room for the rest of the meal. They followed Jesus’ lead, ate what He gave them, drank from the offered cup, but, under the circumstances, they couldn’t really process it. The hymn at the end of dinner was a quiet event. Each man too deeply lost in thought to give himself fully to the experience. Jesus saw their distraction. He knew the disbelief and questions flooding their minds. He knew they were still piecing together what had just occurred. But he had something else to tell them. Something else that would shock them even more deeply. They were all going to leave Him. They would all fall away. Not one would stay to support Him, plead His cause, testify on His behalf. No matter what they believed about their devotion to Him, Jesus knew He would stand alone, suffer alone, die alone. (Matthew 26:26-32; Mark 14:22-26)

Righteous indignation covered their faces at His declaration. They most certainly would not leave Him! Not now. Not ever. Not one of them. The very thought was ridiculous. Highly upsetting. Deeply insulting. For Jesus to put them on the same level as that traitor, Judas, turned their stomachs and put their backs up. All of them. Especially Peter. He was adamant. There would never be a time when He fell away from following Jesus. He’d go with Him anywhere. Even to death. He would never deny His Lord. Never. He was crushed to hear Jesus say it would happen. Refused to believe he would purposely deny His Lord. He knew himself. He would never fall away. He would never leave Jesus. He would never run, hide, or deny. Maybe the others would fall prey to fear and run to hide or be quick to deny, but Peter knew he would never betray his faith in Jesus. 

Walking along beside James and John, Peter followed Jesus deeper into the Garden of Gethsemane. Irritation chaffed Peter’s spirit with every. His mouth was closed, but his mind fumed. He found it difficult to calm down after such a drastic affront. Reaching a quiet, peaceful place, Jesus instructed them to wait for Him there, but not to sleep. They were to stay awake and wait for His return. Peter intended to do so. With the way his mind was reeling over the events of the last several hours and the proclamation of things to come, it was unlikely the havoc in his head would let him rest. Slumping down at the base of a tree to wait, he mentally sifted through all the surprises he’d gotten that day. Little by little, his traitorous body gave in to the physical exhaustion that often accompanies great emotion. He lost the battle he planned to win against sleep. It would have been better if he had stayed awake. (Matthew 26:26-38; Luke 22:31-34; Mark 14:17-31)

If Peter had stayed awake while Jesus went further into the Garden, he might have heard the heart of Jesus being poured out to His Father. He could have heard the cries of grief and distress. He would have felt the agony as Jesus pled with the Father, with whom all things are possible, to change the course of events rapidly speeding His way. He would have heard His quiet pleas to have the coming pain and suffering removed from His path. He would also have heard His quiet surrender, the Son’s acceptance of the Father’s will over His own as He whispered the acquiescing words, “Not what I wish, but what You want.” If Peter had stayed awake, he wouldn’t have been snoring when Jesus came back to check on them. He wouldn’t have had to be wakened with the rhetorical question, “Are you sleeping?” (Matthew 26:39-40; Luke 22:39-46; Mark 14:33-38)

Peter was, indeed, sleeping, embarrassing as it was. Sitting comfortably on the ground, his racing thoughts hadn’t kept him awake as he believed they would. He dozed off. He shouldn’t have. He knew better. Not just because Jesus had told Him to stay awake, either. Peter should have stayed awake because He knew from experience Jesus never said anything that didn’t have meaning. He didn’t waste words. He didn’t play pranks. Everything He said was a lesson, a warning, an instruction. Peter knew that. The command wasn’t selfishly given. Jesus didn’t tell him to stay awake simply to torment him or rob him of rest. No. Jesus told him to stay awake because He knew what was coming. For Himself. For Peter. Jesus knew Peter needed to stay awake and pray because he was on the brink of an enormous temptation. A temptation he would never be able to resist if he wasn’t strengthened by prayer. In a very short time, Peter would face the overwhelming temptation to deny knowing Jesus. Perhaps there was a possibility of resisting. If only he had stayed awake to pray. 

Now, standing in the courtyard outside the place the arresting mob had taken Jesus, attempting to hide in plain sight, Peter recalled the third and final time Jesus woke him from slumber. It had been too late then. The time to spend in solitude and prayer, beseeching God to deliver him from temptation was past. The predicted events were occurring. Wiping sleep from his eyes, he stumbled to his feet only to hear the thud of approaching footsteps. It sounded like an army. Everyone who was anyone was there. Chief priests. Scribes. Elders. Soldiers armed with swords and spears. And Judas, the betrayer, proudly leading the charge. Anger surged through Peter’s veins as Judas stepped forward to exchange words with Jesus and mockingly kiss his cheek. Shock slammed through Peter as he realized everything was happening just as Jesus said it would. Panic rocked him as he realized he was next. In the line of events Jesus said would occur, Peter’s denial was next. Before the rooster announced the dawn, Peter would deny His Lord. Not once. Not twice. Three times. (Matthew 26:44-50; Luke 22:47-53; John 18:1-9; Mark 14:43-49)

One wonders if, in the moments of introspection before the servant girl first recognized him, Peter wished he would have stayed awake in the Garden of Gethsemane. As he stood there wondering what would happen next, did he wish he had taken Jesus’ words to heart and stayed awake to pray? As the battle raged within him whether to admit his identity or cave to his humanity, did Peter finally understand that staying awake to pray would serve him much better than the sleep ever had? As he vigorously denied the accusations over and over again, did Peter finally realize why Jesus hadn’t rested His body to recharge his strength for this ordeal, but rather prayed to recharge His soul? Or did the necessity of staying awake to pray only set in after the rooster crowed and Peter found himself alone, prostrate in penitence and tears? What might be different if Peter had stayed awake to pray? (Matthew 26:69-75; Luke 22:54-62; Mark 14:66-72; John 18:15-18, 25-26)

It seems that is where Peter’s denial began, his inability to stay awake and pray. His lack of interest in arming himself with the spiritual fortitude to withstand temptation. It seems the account would read so much differently had he simply heeded Jesus’ warning and stayed awake to pray. Had he done so, perhaps he’d have answered the servant girl honestly. Had he recharged his soul in prayer instead of his eyes in sleep, maybe he would have had the courage to own the truth when she outed him as Jesus’ follower to a group around him. Had Peter chosen to center his heart and soul in communion with the Father, perhaps he wouldn’t have had to vehemently swear the charge wasn’t true. Maybe, had Peter stayed awake to pray, he would have resisted the temptation to deny Jesus and cheated the rooster of his triumphant crow. 

You see, friends, your betrayals and denials of Jesus never begin in your place of prayer. They can’t. There is no space for them there. When you are on your knees, pacing your floor, driving down the road, communing with God, and recharging your soul, temptation flees. The evil one knows he can’t win in those moments. So he loiters. Patiently. Waiting for the moments of sadness, suffering, and silence. The times when your heart is troubled, your soul is burdened, your mind is a blur of barely processed information. Then he strikes. He whispers things to you that seem completely believable. Fear becomes your reality. Anxiety becomes your daily bread. You will be tempted to go off course, chart your own path, make decisions not sanctioned by God that have no possibility of ending in your good. Without the top cover of a prayed-up soul, the evil one will quickly lead you out on a spiritual ledge and encourage you to jump. If you have allowed your soul to sleep rather than pray, you’ll do whatever he suggests in that moment. Just like Peter. You will rely on your own wits and abilities to rescue you from your troubles rather than being true and trusting God to make your life beautiful in His own way and time. (Ecclesiastes 3:11; I Peter 5:8; Luke 18:1-8; Romans 8:28) 

It doesn’t have to be that way. Not for you and me. We can learn from Peter’s mistakes. We can read the directions of Jesus and arm our souls against temptation. That was the whole point of Him telling them to stay awake and pray. Temptation was coming. He knew it even if they didn’t. And it wasn’t just coming for Peter. Their world would soon be flooded with choices they would be tempted to make poorly. Their desire for self-preservation would come to the fore. Fear would make them run and hide. Anxiety would keep them locked in darkened houses, hoping to somehow survive the surging tide of persecution. That wasn’t what Jesus wanted. He wanted them to be bold and strong. He wanted them to share the gospel. He wanted them to go out and boldly, loudly, without reticence or hesitation tell the world about His life. His death. His resurrection. Their fear would tempt them to stay hidden away. Only through prayer would they find the strength to bravely move forward with the task Jesus charged them to do. The same is true for you. (Matthew 28:19-20)

Through the chaos and uncertainty of life, God is still calling you to pray. Why? Because temptation is coming. Maybe it is already there, surrounding you, bombarding your soul, taunting your mind, troubling your heart. Maybe fear and anxiety have you in a chokehold. Your faith is flagging. Your hope is sinking. Your trust in the faithfulness and promises of God is all but gone. You are exhausted. Mind. Body. Soul. Every part of you cries out for sleep and its momentary relief from the breath-sucking conflict around you. Into the cacophony of voices offering suggestions and temptations to ease your worries and better your situation, I hope you still your soul enough to hear the words of Jesus echoing from Gethsemane, “Stay awake and pray.” I hope you do it. Before you rest your tired eyes, I hope you bring your weary soul to the throne of grace and pray for rejuvenation. Ask for strength to stand against temptation. Ask for wisdom to navigate your circumstances. Ask for grace to endure difficulties and struggles and hardships with courage. Ask for the peace of God to fill your heart and mind through Christ Jesus. Ask Him to keep His promises. Then fall asleep resting in Him, knowing He will keep His word. Because He will. If you stay awake and pray. (John 14:1; I Corinthians 10:13; James 1:5; II Corinthians 1:20; 12:7-9; II Timothy 2:1; Philippians 4:6-7)