Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Wrapping herself in mourning clothes, she stared in the mirror and wondered how she was going to do this. It was all a lie. An untruth. A manipulation. She wasn’t in mourning. Had no reason to be. It was all a charade. She wasn’t even sure why she agreed to get involved. The task was well outside her wheelhouse. Having a reputation for great wisdom did not make one a great actress. She wasn’t even sure she could do it. Couldn’t promise it would work. Could only promise she would try. It would have to be enough for Joab. 

He was set on reuniting David with his estranged son Absalom. According to Joab, the family rift had gone on long enough. David wanted to be reunited with Absalom. Absalom wanted to be back in Jerusalem. Both were simply putting in time, mourning the loss of one another, neither making steps to change the situation. It wasn’t healthy. Not for the royal family. Not for the people looking on. It reeked of a possible time in which God would do the same to His people. If they sinned, He would shun them. Give up on them. Walk away from them. Never offer reconciliation. It breathed spiritual instability. It painted God as a God of final chances.

Nothing Joab tried ever changed the situation. He could drop hints, offer suggestions, blatantly ask when the stalemate was going to end. His words  made no difference. Absalom never asked to return. David never asked him to come. Desperate to right the wrong, mend the breach, and set a proper example of God’s relationship with Israel, Joab devised a plan. One that had this woman from Tekoa dressing up like someone in mourning and approaching King David with the tallest of tall tales. 

Coming before the king, she bowed respectfully. Her face nearly touched the ground in obeisance. From her nearly prostrate position, she pitifully cried out for help from the king, and upon his request, began spinning her tale. Her husband is deceased. Her sons, never really friends, had an enormous fight out in the field. Alone. No one was there to pull them apart and talk sense into them. One killed the other. It was an accident. Truly. But now the rest of the family was in an uproar. They wanted to enact the law. Immediately. An eye for an eye. A life for a life. They wanted to kill her remaining son. 

She understands their position. She really does. But that remaining boy is all she has left. Without him, she is destitute, relying on the generosity of others, destined to fill her final days begging on the streets. This remaining son is the only person standing between herself and abject poverty. She is scared. She is sad. Her heart has been broken too many times to bear another loss. Neither of her sons were malicious, just knuckleheads. The whole event was a hot-headed accident. So please, would it be possible for the king to step in? Could he save her life by sparing her remaining son? She realized he probably couldn’t rectify everything, but she would be most grateful if he could salvage something. Anything at all. 

Patiently listening to her tale, David sympathizes with her plight. He knows how it feels to lose one son to another. It happened to him when Absalom killed Amnon. Not that Amnon should have escaped punishment, he shouldn’t have, David knew that. It didn’t stop him from wishing the situation had played out differently. Just like the widow before him. Uniquely identifying with her pain, David agrees to help. He will issue an order of protection for her son. Anyone who objects to his decision can address their concerns to him. It should have been the end of the story. Son safe. Widow protected. Life goes on. But the woman was on a mission. (II Samuel 13-14:14)

Satisfied that her fictional son will remain safe, she draws up her courage and presses her luck. She has more to say. Not about her fictional family. About David’s very real one. About the chasm between himself and his estranged son over the death of another son. The chasm he left growing. The one he refused to bridge. He was willing to go out on a limb for a perfect stranger and her son, who wasn’t even present, yet he was obstinately unwilling to risk anything for his own boy. He wasn’t looking for a way to bring Absalom back home. He wasn’t sending endless invitations. He wasn’t offering forgiveness and grace. He wasn’t extending mercy or protection. And time was running out. Maybe quickly. Maybe not. Both David and Absalom could be killed at any time. Wars happened. Revolts occurred. They could die of natural causes, an unnatural illness, an accidental shooting. Anything could happen. Any moment could be their last opportunity. And God didn’t want them to live this way. Because that isn’t how God treats His children. At all. If David was truly chasing after God, trying to emulate Him, seeking Him with his entire being, he would devise a way to bring his son home and reconcile their differences. Because that is what God does. For all of us. (Psalm 40:2; 42:1; 63:8; 68:20; 86:15; 103:8; I Samuel 13:14)  

God doesn’t leave us in our sin. Not intentionally. He doesn’t abandon us when we stray from Him. He doesn’t throw up his hands in exasperation and ban us to the backside of the desert when we purposely choose wrong over right. He isn’t waiting to strike our names from His list or delete us from the Book of Life. No. That is the last thing on His mind. Instead, he pursues us. With singular focus, God follows us. Tracks us down. Keeps His eye on us. He knows where we are and what we are doing. And He chooses to stay near. No valley is low enough, no alley is dark enough, no hovel is dirty enough to keep Him from coming to where we are. When we refuse His love, fail to respond to His grace, believe we have no right to answer His call, still He stays. Close. Reachable. Available. Through the agonizingly dark nights of our soul. Through the horrific consequences of our sin. God stays near. Busily near. Always hoping for reconciliation, God engineers situations, concocts scenarios, creates circumstances to ensure we have every opportunity to come back home. Back to Him. Back where we belong. (II Samuel 14:14)

He wants us there. Near to Him. Close to His heart. That is why God sent Jesus. In a grand plan engineered to span the chasm between heaven and earth, God and man, He sent His only Son to die a horrific death outstretched on a rough and painful cross. In a trade that gave you all the power, Jesus gave His physical life for your eternal one. Willingly He laid his battered body on that cross, stretched out his arms on those boards, and allowed spikes to be hammered through His skin and flesh and muscle. Knowing many would reject Him, some would ignore Him, and only a few would accept Him, He still believed every soul worthy of the sacrifice. Your soul. My soul. No matter what our final choice. It is the reason He came. The only reason. All the healing and teaching and miraculous feeding were fantastic, but show-stopping works and out-of-this-world demonstrations were not the reason Jesus came. No. He came to die. A violent death on a painful cross. For you. For me. So we could have forgiveness for our sins, redemption of our souls, and direct access to the Father. Reconciliation between God and humanity was the plan all along. Ongoing relationship with our Father was the goal. Eternal life with Him in Heaven was the desired end result. The choice to have it that way has always been, will always be, yours alone. (II Peter 3:9; John 3:16-17; Ezekiel 18:23; I Timothy 2:4)

As much as God wants to spend every day walking and talking with you like He did with Adam and Even in the Garden of Eden, He will never force you to do so. He will not push an unwanted relationship on you. He will not make your eternal decisions for you. God is a gentleman. He will, however, devise a plan, engineer an opportunity, invent an occasion for you to be transported across the dark chasm of sin separating you from Himself and bring you into the glorious Kingdom of Jesus Christ. That has always been God’s plan. The reason for the cross. The only reason. Jesus’ cross spans the chasm, offering a way of reconciliation when our choices, our sins, our selves, have separated us from God. The cross bridges the chasm so you can come home. Be forgiven of your sins. Be reconciled to the Father. Daily live in relationship with Him. No matter how daunting and uncrossable the chasm created by your sins seems to be, take heart, friend–that chasm is no match for the cross of Jesus that sets you free! (Colossians 1:13-14, 19-20; John 8:36; Genesis 3:8; Revelation 22:17; Romans 5:8; 10:9; I Peter 2:24; Galatians 1:3-5; Isaiah 59:2)

They were not words he wanted to hear. Ever. Especially not on the heels of such a significant victory and immense act of magnanimity. He had literally spared a man’s life. One who didn’t deserve it. At all. One who had made a career out of tormenting him and his people. A bolder king who made demands on his family, his wealth, his kingdom. A stronger king who had come against him in battle before. A man whose one determination in life appeared to be the destruction of Israel and the death of Ahab himself. A man God told him to destroy. 

He hadn’t done it. Destroy Ben-Hadad. Not in the first battle. Not in the second. Not even though he deserved it. Ben-Hadad had done nothing but cause trouble for Ahab and Israel since he surrounded Samaria, cut it off from the outside world, and began launching verbal and military attacks against them. Arrogance caused Ben-Hadad to believe he would win the battle. Israel’s silver and gold would line his coffers. King Ahab’s wives would join his harem. The most qualified of his children would become pawns in Ben-Hadad’s evil game. Everything they considered valuable would become his. Ben-Hadad truly believed he had the upper hand, could make any demand, would eventually win the battle and rule the land. (I Kings 20:1-12)

Ahab was afraid of exactly that. Surrounded by his enemies, trying to fulfill demands that would keep his people alive, Ahab could see no other way for this to end. Unless it was a miracle. One of epic proportions. One like the prophet Elijah got on Mount Carmel when his soggy sacrifice was consumed by fire from heaven. Bull, wood, rocks, dust, water. All of it miraculously gone by an act of God. The true God. The God of Heaven. Not the one with which Ahab was more closely aligned. Not Baal. Baal had done nothing in all the hours his prophets had cried and carried on. Not one thing. 

It sounded like a funeral. Like several funerals happening simultaneously. All 450 prophets of Baal calling out into the universe, hoping for a sign, a miracle to prove their god was real. All day long, they had kept up their theatrics. Shouting. Dancing. Cutting. It hadn’t changed the outcome. No answer was forthcoming. Not for them. Not so for Elijah. After his altar was laid, he had it drenched in water. Four jars. Three times. Until it pooled at the base. Then, calmly approaching the altar, Elijah spoke. To God. His God. The God of Heaven. The one who had walked with their ancestors and promised to walk with them if they lived in obedience to Him. And God answered. With fire. On wet wood. An obvious miracle. The same kind of miracle Ahab needed now. Except he didn’t have the same ingredients Elijah did. (I Kings 18:16-39)

Nothing in Ahab’s heart or life was in the right place to evoke miracles from God. He hadn’t chosen God. Ever. He had chosen evil. Always. He loved it. Reveled in it. Cherished his reputation for doing greater evil than any of his predecessors. If God made a law, Ahab broke it. Almost as if he wanted to see what God would do about it. God said not to marry women from surrounding nations who followed other gods. So Ahab married Jezebel, a Sidonian, who worshipped Baal. God said not to have, bow, or worship any god except Him. But Ahab built an Asherah pole, bowed to Baal, built him a temple, and erected an altar. His actions encouraged the people under his reign to try other gods, follow what they preferred, forget the God who had historically protected and provided for His obedient people. (I Kings 16:29-33)

Sitting on his throne for what may be the last time, Ahab shuddered at the latest message. They were coming. Enemy forces. He had known they would. He also knew his ability to hold onto the kingdom was negligible at best. Not against Ben-Hadad and his forces. True to their word, they would slaughter the people and burn the city. It was going to happen. He couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t change it. There was nothing he could do but prepare his men for battle and send them to their death. He didn’t expect them to escape. He wasn’t sure he would escape, either. Without a miracle, this might be his final battle. Ever. The fact didn’t change his mind. Didn’t bring him to his knees in repentance, begging for restoration. No. In the face of death, Ahab held his ground, refusing to regret the choice to rebelliously build his life on disobedience to and denial of God’s authority. It was a choice he gladly made. Daily. Even now. Facing death.         

The announcement of a visitor distracted Ahab from his morbid reflections. A prophet brought a message. From God. For Ahab. Yes, he had the right address. Yes, Ahab was the recipient. And the news was good. God had a plan. He would give Ahab and Israel victory over the Aramean army. Right then. That day. God would use Ben-Hadad’s arrogance against him. Ahab’s men would be triumphant. Not because he deserved it. Not because he earned it. Not because God was overlooking all his indiscretions. No. God was doing something else entirely. Something bigger than defeating Ahab’s enemies. He was offering another chance. A moment for Ahab to change the trajectory of his life by seeing, believing, accepting that the Lord is God. Above all. Over all. In all. The opportunity for Ahab to choose surrender over sin. Again. 

It was an offer God would make to Ahab more than once. One He had previously made. One He would make again. Soon. The following spring. Angry over their stunning defeat in the hills around Samaria, Ben-hadad and his men decided their loss could only be attributed to that terrain. They could think of no other explanation. The terrain had been too hilly, too rocky, too rough. Their army was better in the open fields. They could spread out there. Cover more territory. Use their chariots. Israel would be at a disadvantage. Israel’s God couldn’t be capable in the hills and the fields. No god they knew had power over both. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t happen. This battle, set in the open plains, was theirs to lose. 

Hearing this discussion, God contacted Ahab again. God’s name would not be sullied. Ever. The entire region, every soldier to every slave, would know that the Lord was God. Another battle was coming. It would be fought on Ben-Hadad’s chosen turf. He would still lose. Epically. After seven days of posturing, the battlefield would run red with Aramean blood. The soldiers who weren’t killed on the first day fled into town, only to be crushed by a falling wall. Ben-Hadad himself would run for cover. And find it. Hunkering down in a secret room with his officers, they worked to settle their heart rates, clear their thoughts, and form a plan. 

Quickly, they made a decision. A risky one, dependent on the alleged merciful reputation of Israel’s kings. It demanded unprecedented humility. It required surrender. To Israel. To Ahab. A king whose reputation for vicious killing preceded him. Normally. Apparently, these men hadn’t heard it. They hadn’t heard how he and his wife had slaughtered the Lord’s prophets. They knew nothing about how aggressively he sought to kill Elijah. They were oblivious to his threats against other kings should he find they were harboring the man he sought. Based on Ahab’s history, Ben-Hadad and his officials should have been very afraid. Maybe they were. Maybe this was their only choice. Maybe their only option was to surrender. So they did. Donning sackcloth and ropes, they went out to beg for their lives. 

Any other king would have driven them through with his sword on the spot. Complete annihilation. Total victory. Not Ahab. The sight of those men in sackcloth, begging for their lives was like amnesia. The events of the past year were wiped away. It was as if nothing had happened. Ahab spared them. All of them. Even Ben-Hadad. The man who had held them under siege for a year. A man God had destined for death. Ahab spared him, embraced him, made a treaty with him. In classic Ahab fashion, he snubbed his nose at surrender and chose to disobey God. Again.  

Jauntily travelling home with his newest treaty fresh in his mind, Ahab was again confronted by a prophet of God. Not that he recognized him. He didn’t. Listening to the man’s elaborate tale of failure to guard a prisoner and how his own life now hung in the balance, Ahab couldn’t think how this affected him. He didn’t see the correlation. The truth seemed obvious to him. The man had dropped the ball, failed his duty, earned his death sentence. Glibly, Ahab announced his opinion, only to be pulled up short when the man identified himself. He was God’s prophet. There was no prisoner. Not with him. Ahab was the one who had let a prisoner go free. Ahab was the one who had failed his task. Ahab deserved a death sentence. And God was giving him one. By choosing himself over his surrender to God, Ahab had destined himself and his people to death. It should have made him sad. It should have made him seek God. It should have evoked feelings of remorse, regret, repentance. It didn’t. Not for Ahab. Not at all. It simply made him mad.    

Hearing the words against himself and his people, Ahab dropped back in his seat, sinking into silence. Like a petulant four-year-old, he crossed his arms over his chest, furrowed his brow, huffed out a sigh, and pouted. The whole way home. He stewed. He fumed. His anger grew. His rage built. He didn’t like being called out on his own ridiculousness. He wasn’t a fan of having his sins pointed out. He wasn’t excited about the certain coming judgment or the fact he would never be able to control it. Yet, knowing he was facing death and destruction, Ahab didn’t change. He did not repent. He did not apologize. In that pivotal moment, when God was listening and waiting, Ahab chose to tilt his chin in arrogance and storm off in a huff rather than bow in obedience to God. When the situation might still have been rectifiable, Ahab chose to leave it alone. When repentance and restoration were available, Ahab chose again to sell out to sin rather than surrender to God. (I Kings 20)

We know that space all too well. All of us. You. Me. Everyone. That place where we are given the chance to choose between good and evil, self and sacrifice, sin or surrender. Maybe that is where you are today. Your soul hanging in the balance. Your self gazing longingly at sin. Your heart shrinking at the idea of sacrifice and surrender. You know it shouldn’t be a difficult choice. It still is. It always will be. Every day. That is how frequently you will need to make this choice. That is how often you will have to choose between yourself and the Savior. That is the regularity with which you will need to decide between sin and surrender to God. Every. Single. Day. It will not always be easy. It will not always feel good. You will not always want to make the right choice. Your heart will often try to stray. Don’t let it. Stand your ground and make your choice. The one with eternal benefits. Surrender to God. Today. Tomorrow. In every day to come. (Hebrews 3:15; Romans 7:19; 8:13; 12:1; James 4:7; Galatians 2:20; Luke 9:23; Joshua 24:15; Deuteronomy 30:19; Jeremiah 17:9)   

An unfamiliar knot settled in the pit of his stomach. He was out of his depth. Deeply. Issuing demands was far more familiar than making requests. It was how he lived his life, made his living. Giving commands. To soldiers. To servants. He took his job seriously. Didn’t abuse his authority. Didn’t routinely make requests to fulfill favors. Didn’t have a habit of requiring something miraculous, magnificent, or outrageous. Tried to keep his commands simple, his orders manageable. He was used to hearing “yes.” To his requests. To his orders. To his demands. Not that he didn’t know how to handle “no.” He did. He heard it often from his superior officers. But today the Roman centurion wanted to hear “yes.” Needed to hear it. His servant needed it even more. 

The boy at home was young. Very young. Full of vigor and vitality. Anxious to learn. Overly helpful. He’d make a good soldier someday. If he lived. If he healed. If he ever walked again. Injured in a recent accident, the boy lay in bed, unable to move. The paralysis was widespread. The pain was unbearable. No one knew how to help him. Not because they hadn’t tried. They had. The best physician the Roman officer could find had been called to evaluate and medicate. Endlessly, he poked and prodded. They tried a handful of different things. In the end, the doctor had solemnly shaken his head. There was nothing he could do. Not with regaining the use of his limbs. Not with easing the pain. There was nothing medically that would change the outcome. If he didn’t die, the boy would live a painful, paralyzed life.  

Those words had brought the centurion to this place. A public area in Capernaum, where anyone could hear him, anyone could see him, anyone could spread word of his actions. He didn’t care. Couldn’t care. He wasn’t there for himself. His servant needed a miracle, and he came to get him one. From Jesus. He’d heard the reports. He knew about the miracles. He understood the power and authority behind Jesus’ words. And he believed. He understood that, just as he had power to speak and have his men obey, Jesus had the power to speak and make healing occur. Jesus didn’t have to be there. He didn’t have to travel. He didn’t have to see the boy or lay his hands on him. No. The centurion believed Jesus had the power to heal from a distance, not because the boy had faith or even had the ability to ask, he believed Jesus would work for that boy because of his own faith. The centurion’s faith. The faith that had him bolting to Jesus, carrying in his heart the battered body of a servant boy, asking for a miracle, believing it would happen. And it did. When the boy was too ill to pray for himself, too broken to get to Jesus, the Roman officer carried him in faith to the place where healing could happen. (Matthew 8:5-13)

Jairus did a similar thing. It was an enormous gamble. As a leader in the synagogue, he risked so much by publicly placing his faith in Jesus. Respect. Social standing. His career. He stood to lose far more if he didn’t. His daughter was sick. Very sick. Dying, really. She wasn’t going to recover. They had done everything they could. Called the doctor. Gotten a second opinion. And a third. They followed every folk remedy. Tried every poultice and paste anyone suggested. Nothing helped. Nothing changed. She was still dying. The fever raged in her body. She didn’t eat. Didn’t drink. Every day she grew weaker. Less alert. Nearly comatose. Helplessly, they stood by, mourning the loss even before she took her last breath. Shattered. Heartbroken. Devastated by the premature loss of their only daughter.  

Jairus spent hours beside her bed, holding her hand, vainly wishing he could lend her some of his strength. He couldn’t. He knew that. But he could lend her his faith. Such as it was.  Jairus hadn’t made up his mind about Jesus yet. He was new on the scene. Jairus didn’t know much about Him. He did know He had caused quite a stir among the synagogue leaders. Most despised Him. Others rebuked, refused, or resented Him. Jairus hadn’t made a choice about Him. Not yet. He couldn’t reconcile the dangerous picture his colleagues painted with the things he’d heard from the crowds. Stories of faithful teaching and honest living. Stories of healing the sick and giving sight to the blind. The two sides didn’t mesh for Jairus. But the last part resonated. The healing part. The part where faith in Jesus was healing sick people. Hopelessly sick people. People who were unlikely to ever rise from their beds again. People like his daughter.

Placing her hand on the bed beside her, Jairus decisively stood. He should try it. Try Jesus. He had tried everything else. The answer couldn’t possibly be more painful. It seemed like a long shot, but so was everything else they had done. The difference was that everyone who came to Jesus for healing got it. Their requests were heard and answered. No one had been denied. No one had presented a challenge Jesus could not handle. The only requirement was faith. His daughter wasn’t in a position to exhibit faith, so the onus was on him. His belief was timid and tentative, more hope that He would, based on faith that He could rather than straight up trust. He hoped it was enough. It was all he had. And he was running out of time.  

Somewhere between the darkness of his daughter’s bedside and the crowd surrounding Jesus, Jairus’ faith grew to epic proportions. Not faith for himself. Faith for his daughter. Faith that God wasn’t done with her. Faith that Jesus could and would heal her. He just had to get Him there. To his daughter. To her bedside. He needed Jesus to see her, touch her, heal her. Pushing through the crowd, Jairus dropped to his knees and bowed low to the ground before Jesus. His face was buried in his hands. His tears unashamedly flowed. His words, once they could be deciphered, begged Jesus to come heal his dying daughter. And Jesus immediately set out to go there.  

Barely had they taken a few steps when He stopped. Someone had touched Him. He knew it happened. He didn’t know who. Jairus could have screamed at the delay. There were hundreds of people thronging the area. Pushing. Bumping. Jostling. Of course someone touched Jesus! Maybe on purpose. Maybe not. It didn’t matter to Jairus. His daughter was sick. Dying. This full-on investigation was taking up valuable time, perhaps the last few minutes of his daughter’s life. They needed to go. Right now. Jesus needed to get to his house before it was too late. Except it already was. 

In the time it had taken Jairus to travel to Jesus, find Jesus, speak to Jesus, and wait for Jesus to disentangle from the delay, his daughter had died. Jairus’ worst fears were realized. It had all been for nothing. The faith he had scraped together was wasted. Tragically heartbroken, eyes filled with tears, racking sobs lodged painfully in his chest, Jairus turned to head for home empty-handed. Hopeless. Discouraged. Distraught. His daughter was dead. It was over. Finished. Done. Except it wasn’t. 

Having found His answer, Jesus turned from the crowd in time to hear the servant’s words. Looking Jairus in the eyes, He said, “Don’t worry.” Don’t be afraid. Don’t stop believing. Don’t let go of the faith that carried your daughter’s need to me. I am coming. Keep believing. She will be fine. And she was. Because when she had no ability to pray for healing, when she couldn’t believe for herself, when she was physically unable to carry herself to Jesus, the faith of her father carried her there. It saved her life. (Luke 8:40-56)

Stories of the miraculous don’t stop there. Over and over in the years of Jesus’ ministry, we read of men and women who brought their broken, their ill, their dead, their possessed to Jesus, in faith, begging for a miracle. Some carried those unable to come on their own. Some carried requests for those who couldn’t be transported. All came in faith. Not for themselves. For those who couldn’t have faith, didn’t have faith for themselves. When their friends couldn’t find it in their hearts to believe. When they couldn’t wake from their coma to put faith in Jesus. When they were unable to lift themselves from the pain long enough to place their hope in the Savior. Friends and family came alongside them and carried them in faith to Jesus. We should still be doing the same. 

Some of us are. Daily carrying others to Jesus. I know. Personally. My family is blessed to have some very special friends who consider it a privilege to lift us up to Jesus every day. When they know our struggles. When they don’t. When we send specific needs. When we don’t. When they understand our dire situations. When they don’t. What they know doesn’t matter. They just keep praying. Every day. Carrying us before the throne of God, asking Him to meet whatever needs we have, fill whatever situation we are in, walk before us and make a way where there doesn’t seem to be one. They have been doing it for more than a decade. One would think they would grow tired of it, forget to do it. They don’t. Our gratitude could not be expressed in a thousand lifetimes. Their faith has carried us when ours was wavering. Their absolute trust in the love and power of God has helped us breathe and endure while we waited for the miracles to happen. Without their prayers of faith carrying us to God through all the mishaps, trials, and temptations of our lives, I have to wonder where we would be.   

You see, our churches have a lot to say about our faith carrying us through hard times. We are often charged with “keeping the faith” and encouraged to tough out the hard times by “just being faithful.” And I’m not arguing with that. At all. We need to do our best to keep our faith securely resting in Jesus Christ. We need to trust Him to hold us fast when things get crazy, keep us true when temptation comes, give us hope when everything seems lost. We need to remember that no matter what happens, we can trust Jesus. But. What about when we can’t? What about when the depression is too deep, too dark, too suffocating? What about when the fear is too overwhelming, and it is all we can feel? What about when we are sick, in a coma, in surgery? What about when we are out of our minds with grief, when the last thing we can think about is keeping the faith and remaining strong? What about when we are exhausted by the tedium of life, burdened by events in our world, disheartened by prayers that remain unanswered, and our faith seems dead and useless? What, exactly, are we supposed to do then?  

The answer is in every single Biblical account of anyone who brought someone to Jesus for healing and help. The Roman centurion and his servant. Jairus and his daughter. The friends who lowered the paralyzed man through the roof. All the parents of demon-possessed children. None of those people had the capacity or ability to seek out Jesus and ask for healing. They might not even have had the faith to make it happen. But the people who loved them did. They came around them, alongside them, supported them, and, one way or another, carried them to Jesus. Could you do that? Would you do that? Do you care enough to exercise your own faith to carry someone else to Jesus through the difficult moments of their lives? (Luke 7:1-10, 8:40-56; Mark 2:1-12, 9:14-29; Matthew 15:21-28)

In his letter to the Galatians, the Apostle Paul commands us to share one another’s burdens. Carry one another’s load. Grab a corner and lift. When it’s heavy. When it’s hard. Believe when they can’t. Pray when they don’t. Constantly carry them to the Father, reminding Him of their needs, believing He will answer. Until He does. (Galatians 6:2)

You may not know who around you is struggling right now, but rest assured someone is. Someone in your friend group. Someone in your church group. Someone in your family. Someone’s faith is floundering. Someone’s hope is waning. Someone is too weak, too tired, too sick to get to Jesus from where they are. They feel hopeless and helpless. Stuck in a space that is dark and growing smaller by the hour. They need you. Not just your flippant promise to pray, but your firm belief that God has the power and the desire to change their lives. Through their circumstances. From their circumstances. In their circumstances. They need you to carry them to the Father and ask for healing, help, salvation, surrender on their behalf. They need you to pray when they can only cry out in pain. They need your voice battering Heaven when the depression is too dark for them to speak. They need your faith, believing God for a miracle when it feels to them like there isn’t one left. When your friends, your family, your fellow believers can’t find the strength to put their faith in Jesus, they need to be able to lean on someone who can. Is that someone you? (I Timothy 2:1; Romans 12:12; 15:1; James 2:8; Hebrews 4:16; Colossians 4:2) 

I hope it is. I hope you daily carry others to the throne of God, asking for His help, hope, and healing on their behalf. I hope you have someone who prays for you like that. Daily. Directly. We all need it. We all need someone who prioritizes prayers over us and our lives. We all need to be that person for someone else. Because we will all come to a time when the circumstances of our lives get so big, so overwhelming, so terrifying, and last so long that we lose faith. We struggle. Fearing our prayers aren’t doing any good, we wonder what the point of praying even is. That’s when we need one another to help us pray, to believe for us when we can’t manage it on our own. To carry us to God and keep us there until He works. Until we see His hand. Until the answer comes. Until our meager hope takes root again. This is why community is important. It is why our circle matters. When one falls, the rest of us should lift them up. Carry them. In faith. In prayer. To God. Every day. It is our privilege. Our honor. Our responsibility. (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10; I Thessalonians 5:11, 14; James 5:16; Hebrews 10:24; Philippians 2:4)

This would be his final hill. The one he died on. Literally and metaphorically. The place he would live his last day, write his last letter, eat his last meal, make his last stand. Prison. It wasn’t his first incarceration. It would be his last. This dark, dank cell on death row would be his final earthly home. The letter he was currently composing would be his last. It would carry the same underlying message of every letter he had ever written. Stay faithful. Stay alert. Stay focused. Keep preaching the unadulterated gospel of Jesus Christ. In the face of punishment, persecution, prison, and peril, know this, the word of God cannot be chained, confined, or cancelled. It lives on in the hearts and lives of the people in which it has taken root. They may arrest and imprison believers in a futile attempt to silence them, but the gospel itself will wind merrily throughout the world on the tongues of those who know Jesus. An unchained melody, busily changing lives with or without the authorities’ permission. Paul knew it. Every apostle knew it. They had lived it.   

They had all spent time in prison. Many prisons. Much time. Not everyone wanted to hear what they had to say. Not everyone wanted to believe. Often, they were accused of being irrational, insane, insurrectionists, and iconoclasts. Preaching the gospel would do that. Alienate society. They still chose to preach it. Because they had found it to be true. Salvation through faith in the shed blood of Jesus Christ changed lives. For the better. They were living examples of the fact. Especially Paul. 

He’d lived on both sides of that particular fence. Like a bloodthirsty animal, he spent the first part of his adult life hunting down followers of Jesus. Arresting them. Imprisoning them. Persecuting them. He told himself he was doing something honourable. Working for a worthwhile cause. Until his Damascus road experience. Until he was literally blinded by the light of Christ. Until he opened his mind and heart to God. Meeting Jesus changed his life. Now here he was, in prison for preaching the gospel, writing a second letter to Timothy, facing execution for what he believed. Some would say he was crazy for not recanting and saving his own neck. He didn’t think so. He knew the truth. The spread of the gospel wouldn’t be stopped by his death any more than it would be by his renunciation. That would harm only him. It couldn’t touch the gospel. Because the gospel wasn’t chained, imprisoned, or facing imminent demise. It couldn’t be. It would never be stopped. And Paul wasn’t willing to trade his eternal soul for his aging, earthly body. (Acts 8:1,3; 9:1-31; II Timothy 2:9) 

John the Baptist had felt the same. Incarcerated for speaking out against the egregious actions of Herod, he absolutely wasn’t willing to recant. At all. No matter how badly Herod’s new wife wanted him to. No matter how friendly he and Herod became in their frequent conversations. John didn’t change his opinion to absolve Herod of adultery. Not to appease the authorities. Not to get released from prison. Not to save his own neck. Literally. John stood firmly in his beliefs, held his standards, honored the word of God. All of it. It would be his final hill. He’d die there. Holding to the truth of the gospel. Never moving. Never changing. Never reneging. And, although Herod found him intriguing, it wasn’t enough to save him. Eventually, Herod’s wife contrived a way to force his death. Not because he was a bad person. Not because he was endangering society. Not because he was threatening a coup. Because of the hill he stood on. The one where men remained faithful to their wives even when someone prettier, shapelier, or more enticing came along. (Mark 6:14-29) 

Many people would say John should have used different words. Stated things in a calmer, kinder, less accusatory way. Perhaps it would have saved his life. If he would have soft-pedalled sin or short-sold the gospel. If he had added to or subtracted from the message he was put on earth to preach. They thought he was crazy to risk his life for something he couldn’t prove with tangible evidence. He wasn’t. He was free. Unchained from the immoral, unethical ideals of his day. Free from the weight of the legalistic rules religious leaders had invented to control people and judge their hearts. John’s death didn’t kill the spread of the gospel any more than his incarceration tied it down. His chains and bars couldn’t hold back the spread of the good news of salvation. Because the gospel can’t be chained. Even when people think you are unhinged for believing it. Even when they think you are ridiculous for preaching it. Even when folks say you are crazy for spreading it. Even when it means risking it all to follow it. 

Peter was a man who knew a lot about risking it all to follow Jesus. His reputation. His body. His life. Having done his bout of denying Christ and fleeing at the thought of persecution, Peter repented and came back stronger than ever. The Peter in the book of Acts is nothing like the one who stood warming his hands at the fire outside Pilate’s judgment hall, actively denying he even knew Jesus. The rejuvenated, rededicated Peter was completely sold out, totally surrendered to God. He was zealous about preaching the message of salvation by faith, carrying it wherever and to whomever God sent him. Even when people thought he was delusional or drunk. (Acts 10)

Onlookers accused him of that very thing. Being drunk. Accused them all of it, actually. All 120 believers present at Pentecost. After the tongues of fire had fallen. After the mighty wind blew. After the Holy Spirit came to inhabit God’s people, they began sharing the gospel in more than a dozen languages and dialects. After the crowds gathered around, drawn by the words of salvation spoken in their native tongue. Seeing the attention they were getting, watching the crowd receiving their message, skeptical spectators scoffed and accused them of being drunk. At 9 in the morning.   

Peter wasn’t having it. He wasn’t allowing their lies. He certainly wasn’t drunk. None of them were. Their minds were sharper than ever. Their hearts were more in tune with Jesus than before. Their lips were more eager to speak the words of salvation to all who would listen. And Peter had words to say. To the gathering crowd eager to listen. To the naysayers in the back, there to taunt and heckle. Peter had a message to preach. Not one the belligerent bullies would necessarily want to hear. It pointed fingers. Laid bare stark truths. Told a few people off. His words brought conviction in people’s hearts to the point they asked what they should do to amend their ways. And Peter told them. Repent. Be baptized. Receive the Holy Spirit. They did. Much to the annoyance of the ones who thought they were drunk. (Acts 2)

It wouldn’t be the last time adversity followed Peter’s preaching. Often in the form of incarceration. Many times he was arrested, jailed, beaten, and warned not to preach the gospel. Every time his answer was the same. He would obey God. He would preach the message. He would spread the gospel. Amid threats and beatings, arrests and imprisonments, Peter continued to speak out because he knew what the authorities didn’t. The word of God would not, could not be chained or contained. No matter what scholars and religious authorities believed, they would never be able to chain the gospel, tie it down, hide it away, or drown it out by imprisoning the preachers. No. Even in prison, the apostles sang and prayed and praised because they knew the truth. The gospel could not be stopped by prison walls, iron bars, chains, shackles, stocks, or armed guards. 

The authorities tried all those things and more. Both Stephen and James were executed. Nothing changed. The more they tried to annihilate and incarcerate the gospel, the more it spread. Sometimes through casual conversation. Sometimes through persecution and displacement. Sometimes through the miraculous. Like Peter, heavily guarded and chained to two soldiers, being woken from sleep and safely escorted out of prison by an angel of God. Like Paul and Silas being freed from stocks, their prison doors opened, the way paved for their release by an enormous earthquake. Never once did attempts at silencing the voices promoting and providing the truth ever succeed. They couldn’t. Nothing the authorities did could ever change the fact that the gospel would spread throughout the entire world. Every part of it. News of Jesus shed blood on the cross for the forgiveness of humanity’s sins covered the known world like wildfire. It couldn’t be contained. It couldn’t be chained. No amount of watering down could stop it. Not then. Not now. (Acts 7:57-60; 8:2,4; 12:1-11; 16:16-40)

You see, friend, Nothing has really changed since Peter and Paul and the rest of the apostles travelled and preached the gospel. Not in the truth of its teachings. Not in society’s response. People are still trying to chain it up. Box it in. Mitigate its authority. Lessen its reach. Mostly, they want to water it down. Change it. Alter it just enough to be palatable. Much like Herod and his wife. They wanted a gospel that would approve their actions. John couldn’t give it to them. He could only speak the truth. The religious authorities throughout Acts wanted the same thing. Something pleasant and appealing with few requirements and no rules. The apostles didn’t have that. They had only the truth of the gospel to give. Centuries later, our society wants the same thing. They are a living, breathing enactment of Paul’s words to Timothy. They don’t want real truth, solid doctrine, Biblical teachings. They want a desirable, easy way that approves every desire of their evil hearts. They want their own way, but Heaven too. (II Timothy 4:3)

It doesn’t work like that. You know it. I know it. The gospel cannot be put in a box. It cannot be modified to fit the desires of society. The word of God stands as written. Its rules and requirements are not up for debate, interpretation, or alteration. Even if they seem silly, superfluous, or stringent. They aren’t. They are guards for your soul. You need them. You need to follow them. Salvation through faith and obedience to God’s laws are the only way to gain eternal life. That’s the truth of the gospel. The unchained gospel. The gospel that flows in and through every society that has ever and will ever grace the earth. It will never die, never be silenced. The unchained gospel will wind its way into hearts and lives, freeing captives of sin to live in the freedom of Christ. (Galatians 5:1; Acts 10:43; Proverbs 7:2; Deuteronomy 4:2; Hebrews 5:9)    

So preach the word. Share the gospel. Spread the good news of salvation through Jesus Christ, no matter what people say about you. No matter what they think. No matter if they agree or disagree. No matter if they tag you as a fanatic, a zealot, irrational, or unhinged. Stay the course. Stay faithful. Stay alert. Stay focused. Don’t capitulate to the calls to dilute the message. Don’t edit the truth. Don’t offer substitutions to appease society. Speak truth and let the gospel do its own work. It will. It always has. It is the unchained power of God to bring the freedom of salvation to every person who dares to believe. 

Unchained gospel. 

Changed lives. 

Freed people.

Are you one? 

(II Timothy 1:8; 2:24-25; I Peter 4:16; I Corinthians 16:13; Isaiah 5:20)

The email made me giggle. I don’t know why. It was the third in the series, coming at least two full weeks after the initial missive. Someone’s boat was afloat with no captain. On the community lake. It was a serious infraction. One that warranted stern verbiage outlining the ramifications should the owner fail to retrieve their vessel from the dock to which a kind soul had secured it. It had bobbed there for a week, awaiting pickup. If the owners wanted to claim it. Even if they didn’t. The responsibility was theirs. They needed to take care of their boat. Today. It wasn’t supposed to be wandering the lake alone. Someone needed to claim it. There would be repercussions if they didn’t. 

Attached to the original email was a photograph of the boat. If one could call it that. It was more of a dinghy. A sad, dilapidated little mess. Perhaps that is why it was left to drift, unclaimed, in the first place. It needed work. A lot of work. It looked like it had bobbed along a dock, forgotten, for several years. The paint was darkened with age, layered with dirt and algae. It was peeling in spots. The benches were gray from weathering. Lack of use and care had led to the erosion of its mooring rope, freeing the boat to become a lake-faring vessel all on its own. No captain. No guide. No fisherman to row it back to shore. Now, in disreputable shape, no one wanted to claim it. Relieved to have it gone, the owners quietly deleted the emails, feigning ignorance. I wonder what changed from the time they bought the boat to the day they let it drift away.  

When newly purchased, that little boat was bright and beautiful. A shiny hull. Sparkling interior. Cute little benches to sit on. Oars neatly tucked inside. It had caught their attention. They looked at it and thought, “That’s the one.” And they made it so. Purchasing that boat, they loaded it up, brought it to our lakeside community, and secured it to their private dock.  At first, they used it regularly. Every summery weekend found them out on the lake, fishing off the side of the boat, relaxing as it cut through the water, enjoying the pull of muscles as they rowed from shore to shore. They kept it clean. At first. Inside and out. Trash didn’t pile up in the corners or under the seats. Branches and leaves blown in from storms were regularly removed. Algae was meticulously scrubbed from the outside. But time passed. Life happened. Responsibilities crept in. Schedules filled. Even weekend ones. Age and time took their toll. Hobbies changed. Activity level decreased. Eventually, the boat was left alone. Tied to their dock. There, but forgotten. Owned, but not tended. Missing, yet not missed at all. Rather a lot like Solomon’s heart after the wisdom, wealth, and wives.

For a man who had everything, Solomon died as a man who had nothing. He didn’t have to. It was a choice he made. A gradual drifting. A progressive turning. An incremental lack of attention to the things he had learned. A dulling of his senses–intentional or accidental–that caused him to drift away from God. We don’t talk about it much. It isn’t the part of Solomon’s story we like to hear. We prefer to discuss his astonishing request for wisdom, his extensive kingdom, amazing wealth, bustling palace, overflowing pastures, and bursting barns. We like to talk about his accomplishments in building and poetry, his equitable judgments. We have plenty to say about his enormous harem and multitude of wives. What we rarely address is how complacent he became with all the things he had. How distracted he was by the foreign wives he accrued. How he let things go. How he slowly allowed his soul to drift. It is so subtle, we almost miss it. But God doesn’t. (I Kings 3:5-28; 5:1-7:51; 9:15-28; 10:14-29; 11:3)

After the arduous task of overseeing the Temple construction, after his own opulent palace is designed and built, Solomon largely rests on his laurels. There are no wars to fight, no military strategies to discuss. No other king is silly enough to come against him in battle. The money is flowing. The crops are growing. His fame is spreading. His name is known. There is peace all around him. Solomon’s life is good. Very good. Easy, even. He had time to spend with his wives. His foreign wives. The ones God explicitly said not to marry. Ones from Egypt, Moab, Ammon, Edom, Sidon, and among the Hittites. The ones God warned would draw him away from his God to follow their gods. Solomon had heard the warning. He didn’t heed it. Drawn in by their beauty, he married them. A lot of them. They influenced him, changed him, turned his head, and swayed his heart. Away from God. To other gods. (I Kings 4:24-30; 10:1-11; 11:1-2; Deuteronomy 7:3-4)

From every place Solomon accepted a wife, he also accepted a new god. Whether he immediately bowed in worship to it or not, he didn’t forbid them. He didn’t reject them. He didn’t eradicate them. There were no rules surrounding the gods brought into his kingdom. With his immense God-given wisdom, Solomon had no excuse to allow such an invasion. Yet he did. For his women. Each one was allowed to worship in the way she chose, follow the god she chose, and observe the religious rituals she chose. And one by one, little by little, Solomon’s head was turned. Not by the gods. By the women. By begging him to build a shrine for one god, an altar for another. By pleading for him to attend their sacrifices. By asking him to make allowances, offer space, give his blessing for them to worship gods that weren’t God. Held captive by his love for foreign women, Solomon drifted into worshipping their gods and grieving the heart of his own. (I Kings 11:1-10)

Watching the scene unfold, God saw what humans couldn’t. He saw Solomon’s heart. He saw the initial devotion to God. He knew the heart of Solomon was for Him. He heard the prayers and petitions prayed before the newly constructed Temple, the requests that God would always hear and answer His people. God answered. Affirmatively. He gave clear guidelines for integrity, godliness, and adherence to His laws and regulations. He gave the promise of His continual presence in response to their obedience. If they lived in accordance with His commands, God would take care of them. He would lead and guide and protect. He would answer their prayers and prosper them. And God did. He kept the bargain. He never budged or swayed, drifted or changed. They saw peace and prosperity. They knew God was with them. They felt it. They lived it. Before Solomon drifted away. (I Chronicles 22:9; I Kings 5:4; 9:3-9)

Somewhere in the 40 years of Solomon’s reign, he drifted. Away from God. Away from surrender. Away from the rules, regulations, and laws put in place to safeguard his soul. Maybe it started with the first foreign wife he accepted. Maybe it started before that, when his traitorous heart convinced him he could look at the foreign women but not touch them. It doesn’t matter. It happened. Over time, his foreign wives, the ones God warned him against, compromised his devotion to God. His resolve weakened. His determination wavered. His focus shifted. Solomon became more self-absorbed, prioritizing his own desires over the heart of God.  His hobbies changed. His interests turned. He prioritized his current loves over the past ones. His attention started wandering. His heart started drifting. And Solomon’s soul floated out to sea. Just like the little boat on our lake. (I Kings 11:4-8)

Before it began drifting around the lake, that boat had to get loose from its moorings. The rope holding it safely at its own dock had to decay, fall apart, break away. It didn’t happen overnight. It took time. Days of rain and sleet and sun. Weeks of alternating heat, cold, and humidity. Maybe it took months. Perhaps it took years. The timing doesn’t change the result. The boat drifted because the owner wasn’t keeping track of it anymore. They weren’t cleaning and caring for the vessel. They weren’t going for a sail on the weekends. They weren’t checking the health of their mooring rope. Before that boat drifted away, the owner, the keeper, the one responsible for housing and tending that vessel, stopped doing their job. If they had kept earnestly giving their attention to that boat, it wouldn’t have drifted away.  

The same holds for Solomon’s heart. And ours. Our hearts. Our souls. Our priorities. The writer of Hebrews tells us to earnestly keep track of and adhere to the things we have learned and been taught in the Scriptures. Follow them closely. Remind ourselves of them frequently. Keep them foremost in our minds. So we don’t slip away. So we don’t drift. So we don’t break free from our moorings and drift out to aimlessly float in the sea of life. Stay focused on God. Stay surrendered to God. Stay in connection and communication with God. Don’t throw your soul in autopilot, assuming it will be fine without supervision while you run off chasing the latest thing that captured your attention. It won’t. You need to stay alert. Be watchful. Temptation is everywhere. Distractions surround you. You need to be on guard. Pay attention to the warning signs, red flags, and indications of imminent danger God places along the path. Don’t ignore them. Diligently keep your feet walking in the path of God. Stay devoted to Him, focused on him. Just like you were in the beginning of your relationship. Watch yourself. Be diligent. Be careful. Because our hearts don’t drift on their own. (Hebrews 2:1; 4:12; Matthew 26:41; II Peter 3:17; Proverbs 4:23)     

As busy as we are, putting such great store in the passing things around us–tangible things, visible things–it stymies me that we put so little effort into what never passes away. Our souls. Those we let drift. We have become comfortable with our wealth, our lifestyle, our people, our culture. We don’t want it to change. Yet we have changed. We have become complacent, careless, convictionless. The people we were when we first surrendered to Jesus have aged, lost their edge. Yet we are still trying to claim that space without expending the necessary effort of diligently keeping our hearts from sin. And things have happened. Weather has happened. Storms have occurred. Busyness, responsibility, leisure, and work have taken more and more of our time and required more and more space in our hearts. So comfortable have we become in our social circles, so busy in our careers, so hurried in our personal lives, that we have failed to do the necessary upkeep. We haven’t spent time in Bible study and prayer. We haven’t sat in the quiet and waited for God to speak. We haven’t stood up for right and truth in a world of perversion. We have tried to alter, reword, rewrite, or simply erase the laws and regulations God put in place to safeguard our souls. We have allowed other things, other idols, to become our gods. And our vessels, the hearts that once shone with the brightness of Jesus, are now dull, dirty, in desperate need of repairs, aimlessly drifting, unmoored, on the lake of life. (Ephesians 6:18; I Peter 5:8; I Thessalonians 5:6; Romans 12:2; Deuteronomy 4:2; I John 2:15)

It seems we need our own letter from the writer of Hebrews. One made out specifically to us. One that says, “Before you drift away…”. Before you drift away, remember what you have been taught by faithful people, what you have read in the Bible, what you have heard in church, and discussed in Bible study. Before you drift away, spend time in prayer, both speaking and listening to God. Before you drift away, weigh the ramifications of your choice. Ask yourself questions. Are the things you are sacrificing your soul to chase really worth it? Are they worth the end result? Are they more important than the presence of God in your life? Are the people, professions, profits, and praise of this world, in all their passing glory, worth more to you than Jesus? Are they worth more than your eternity? Would you exchange them for your soul? Or do you choose Jesus? Full surrender. Complete obedience. Total adherence. Every day. All day. Before you drift away. (Mark 8:36-37; James 4:4; Psalm 49:8-9; Philippians 3:7-8; Matthew 6:19-21)