Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Stopping abruptly in her tracks, she slowly turned and stared at that man straight in his eyeballs. He must not be from around here. Or he was joking. Badly. The request was beyond the pale. Not the first request, the one for a drink of water. That was doable. It was the second request that brought her up short. The one made to her retreating back as she left to fetch his water. The one he hadn’t had the decency to look her in the eyes and make. The one he’d tried to present as an offhand addition. The one that would require the last morsels of food in her house and bring death to herself and her son even more quickly than it was already coming. The man wanted bread. Her bread. All the bread she had. 

For months, no rain or dew had fallen. Not one drop. It felt like so much longer. Cracking and crumbling from the punishing heat of the sun, their fields had long since dried up. The plants were shriveled, brown sticks standing in the fields where they died. Nothing flourished. Nothing grew. Nothing could. Food was beyond scarce. For everyone. The days of their lives were measured in edible resources. Jars of flour. Jugs of oil. Rations determined how long one would live before the drought took its inevitable toll. Worry and fear were twin companions constantly plaguing their minds and torturing their hearts. The widow of Zarephath was no exception. With the care of her young son resting on her shoulders, she was even more aware of their dire situation. And she had nothing extra. Not even a crust of bread. 

Drawing a fortifying breath, she retraced her steps, squared her shoulders, stared straight in the man’s face, and outlined her sustenance situation. They had nothing extra, because there was nothing left. Their larders were empty. Their cupboards were bare. Their fields were dry and dead. Food of any kind was at a premium. And hospitality had its limits. The last drops of oil and the final cup of flour would be used that day. For herself and her son. The tiny loaf of bread it produced would be split between them. Not evenly. His portion would be larger. They would savor that final meal together, and accept their fate. Death. From starvation. It was not an embellishment or an exaggeration. It was simply the facts. By nightfall, they would have nothing left. Sooner, if he ate their bread. 

Knowing his request was unwelcome under the circumstances, Elijah still persisted. Not because he was starving. He wasn’t. At all. He had just travelled from Kerith Brook where God had blessed him with all the amenities. Flowing water to drink. Doordash ravens. His needs were well and truly met. He could have gone several more days before his body demanded this widow’s final meager loaf of oily flour. But Elijah was on a mission. From God. For God. An errand of salvation. One to rescue bodies and redeem souls.    

Calmly looking back at the woman, Elijah watched the emotions flash across her face. Anger. Fear. Despair. Defeat. She was angry that he asked. Angry that he seemed to place such low value on their lives. Enraged that he would make such a selfish request. Terrified they really were going to die, no food would come, no help would arrive. Horrified that she might have to watch her son starve to death before succumbing herself. Or worse, she would die before her child, leaving him alone to fend for himself. The knowledge that she had no power over the elements, could not speak food into existence, and couldn’t control life and death had despair and defeat slumping her shoulders. She had done everything she could to survive. Rationed supplies. Cut portions. Searched the entire countryside. Nothing had helped. Now the only things standing between them and death were a handful of flour and a drizzle of oil. It was all she had. And he had just asked her to give it away. 

Responding to the depth of her barely controlled emotions, Elijah explained himself. She didn’t need to be afraid. Not anymore. She could lay that down. Right now. Go inside and bake him a little loaf of bread. Then make one for herself and her son. Make them each one. Make a large loaf. Make two small loaves for each person. Bake as much bread as she wanted. There would be enough supplies. There would always be enough. If she would step out in faith and make him a loaf of bread, God would reward her with a constant supply of oil and flour until the drought ended, the rains came, and the crops once again produced food.     

Carefully weighing the options, the widow of Zarephath had to be honest with herself. Hoarding that one little loaf to themselves wasn’t going to prolong their lives. Not really. Those few bites of food would only delay the inevitable. They would die. Both of them. Her. Her son. Even if she gave him her entire portion of bread, death was still lurking, waiting for him like a vulture. It broke her heart. The whole thing had. The drought. The food shortage. The toll it was taking on their friends and neighbors. Living in the reality of imminent death had sucked the life from her soul. Yet here stood this prophet, offering her an opportunity to survive, to thrive when everything else was dying. She couldn’t prove his words were true, didn’t know what she would do if they weren’t, but she had nothing left to lose. She had nothing left in general. Nothing but hope and faith in the promise of God spoken to her through the prophet. 

Silently nodding her head in acquiescence, the widow headed to do as Elijah had said. Bring him water. Make him bread. One loaf. It would take the remainder of her ingredients. Firmly silencing the dissenting voice in her head, she started working. Building a fire. Making a dough. Baking the loaf. She didn’t peek back into the jar after she emptied the last of the flour into her bowl. She didn’t keep checking the jug for additional oil after draining its dregs. She just kept working. Kept hoping. Kept believing. Kept placing her faith in the God of Elijah. It was all she could do. All she had left. There was nothing else in her pantry, nothing else in her soul to give. Nothing but faith.   

As she headed off to make that last meal, as the smell of freshly baked bread filled her nostrils and made her mouth water, one wonders what thoughts crossed her mind. What did she really think as she carried the bread and water, her own final meal, out to Elijah? Was there a moment when the doubt and fear nearly had her snatching it back, calling her son, and hurrying to eat it before Elijah could? As she turned to head back into the house to make more bread for herself and her son, did her stomach clench, her throat tighten with the worry that she had been duped? Did she make that walk with bated breath, uneasy until she lifted the lid of the flour jar and shook the jug of oil? Did she ever once doubt her decision to trust the words of God from the prophet? Was she tempted to change her mind, go back on her word? Or had she weighed it all in the balance, the certainty of death against the possibility of life, and determined that the risk of faith was worth it? 

The widow couldn’t have been more correct. Upon returning to her kitchen, she found her flour jar still contained flour and her oil jug was full. They weren’t going to starve. At all. Not physically. Not spiritually. When there was nothing left, no food to be found, no help to be offered, no hope to be had, when meager faith in the promise of God was all she could muster, it was all she needed. Faith. In God. To do the impossible. To perform the improbable. To manage the inconceivable. When she had nothing left but faith, she found it was all she needed. (I Kings 17:1-16)

As easy as it is to get caught up in the miracle of this account, I wonder if we can just set that aside for a moment and focus on the woman. So often we can identify with her. Not necessarily because our cupboards are bare, a drought has struck the land, or we are on the brink of watching our children starve. Most of us have never been there. But we have been in the same emotional space. Discouraged. Desperate. Destitute. Distressed. Her life was on the brink of ending. She was staring at the horrific, gut-wrenching possibility of watching her son die of starvation. Listening to his cries of hunger. Watching his little body waste away. The pictures of what she knew was coming flashed before her eyes like a daytime nightmare. She was wrecked by the knowledge she couldn’t fix it, couldn’t stop it, could do nothing about it. Everything within her power to do had already been done. She was out of options. Her heart was shattered. Her mind searched endlessly for a reason for their circumstances. She had done nothing to incur the wrath of Israel’s God. She lived a quiet life scraping out a living for herself and her son. Try as she might, she couldn’t manage to come up with a reason, an explanation for the relentless drought, their empty food bins, their rumbling stomachs, or their imminent death. For the widow of Zarephath, everything was already gone. The food was nearly exhausted. Their lives were nearly extinguished. All hope had died weeks ago when she opened her final jar of flour. Her soul felt empty. Her heart felt dead. She was physically and emotionally drained. She had nothing left and nowhere to turn. Until Elijah showed up. 

Even still, with the odds stacked so completely against her and the options so severely limited, we have to acknowledge the monumental effort it took to force herself to step out in faith and give Elijah that final little ball of bread–the last chance of survival for herself and her son. Giving it to Elijah meant risking any possibility her son could survive the drought, grow up to be a man, live his life. She knew that. She had weighed it all in the balance. She also knew she was at the end of her resources. She had nothing left. No options. No prospects. No hope of help. So she grabbed the little bit of faith she had left, took a chance on God’s promise, and handed everything she had to Elijah. 

Sit in that for a minute. Stay in that space, mentally picture that widow releasing everything she had to God and trusting Him to faithfully figure out the future. Let that lesson seep into your soul and penetrate your heart. You need to do the same. We all do. We need to live like that. Have faith like that. Realize that we are always at the end of ourselves, the end of our resources, the end of our abilities. Understand that our strength, our courage, our help, our hope comes only from God. Admit that we are broken and empty, having nothing, owning nothing, in charge of nothing. Nothing but our faith. And it is ours alone to give. (Psalm 121; I Chronicles 29:11-12; Romans 12:1; I Peter 5:7; Matthew 6:28-31) 

We are not good at it. Giving everything to God in faith. Pulling back empty hands. Trusting Him with our present and future. Allowing Him to work things out for His glory and our good. Knowing in our heads and believing in our hearts that He is our only safety, our only security, our only shelter in the storms of life. We waste so much time trying to find our own answers, make our own paths, forge our own destinies. We need to stop. Just stop. Quit acting like we can handle everything on our own, know all the right answers, or can find a way to fix all our own problems. We can’t. We don’t have that power. Only God does. He is sovereign. He knows all things. He sees our beginning, our end, and everything in between. He has a plan for us when everything else is changing and fading and passing away, when everything spins out of our control, when we feel drained and discouraged and nearly dead. God has a plan. For me. For you. A good plan. A perfect plan. A plan based on faith alone. But you’ll have to trust Him. With everything. As the world and society rages out of control, as things rattle and shake around you, as the feelings of uncertainty and unsettledness beat on your heart and batter your mind, you need to find the courage to put your faith, your future, in God’s hands. All of it. The part you can see and the part you can’t. Empty your hands until you have nothing left but faith. (Isaiah 46:9-10; Daniel 4:35; Psalm 18:30; Jeremiah 29:11; I John 2:17: Proverbs 3:5-6; Matthew 6:33)

Too often for our comfort, we find we can’t alter our circumstances or change our situations. We can’t change the things that happen to us. We can’t stop the diagnosis, the termination, the paycheck that doesn’t stretch as far as it used to. We can do nothing about the bent toward sin that has taken over our nation. We can’t stop the fires, stem the floods, end the wars that grip our world. We can’t always halt the fear that hounds us or the worry that batters our peace. But. We don’t have to be overcome, overwhelmed, exhausted by these things either. When everything else is gone, when hope seems lost, when we can’t understand why things are happening to us or going on around us, when we feel we have nothing left to offer, we can still choose to place our faith in God and trust Him with our lives. Every. Single. Day. When our cup is full. When it is empty. Even when we have nothing left but faith. (Hebrews 11:1; II Corinthians 4:18; Mark 11:22-24; Psalm 42:11; Philippians 4:6-7) 

Staring in silence over the surrounding land, he allowed his joy to momentarily be overshadowed with disappointment. Not about the land. The land was beautiful. Lush. Perfect. He couldn’t be happier to know his people would own it, live there, die there. If he ever had any people. That was the problem. It hadn’t happened. The promise of a son had never materialized. He didn’t understand why. He had done everything exactly as he was told. Packed up his goods. Rounded up his livestock. Forced his wife, his nephew, his household to bid goodbye to friends and family. Pulled up stakes and started traveling. Without a map. Without a mileage counter. Without an estimated number of days on the road. The command had been, “Leave. Go. Stop when I tell you.” And Abram had done it. (Genesis 12:1)

Leaving Haran, they travelled to Canaan, south toward the Negev, dipped into Egypt, then headed north again. They didn’t stay anywhere. Not for long. A pitstop here. A rest there. No place was permanent. They didn’t put down roots, plant fields, or build houses. Every time they pitched their tents, it was with the knowledge they would be taking them down again. Soon. They were nomads. All of them. Not by personal choice. By divine instruction. They would live that way until God said otherwise.  

Eventually, God allowed them to stop travelling. Settled them in Canaan. Abram’s heart leapt in his chest. Surely now would be the time God fulfilled His promise! Surely his son’s birth was imminent! It wasn’t. And Abram couldn’t stop his mind from wondering why. Why was God delaying the fulfillment of His promise? The promise of a child. A son. It plagued his mind. Kept him awake at night. Kept him silent during their journeys. His rumination revealed no answers. Ever. Abram didn’t know why Sarai had never been able to conceive. Was it God’s will? Abram’s fault? Sarai’s problem? He didn’t know. But it broke his heart. Bent his faith. Offered more questions than answers. Why did God keep promising him all of this land, space for thousands of people, when He knew Abram had no sons? There was no one to carry his name. No one to inherit his wealth. No one except his servant Eliezer. The man would get everything–wealth, servants, livestock, land–because God had chosen not to give Abram a son. Unless there was a miracle. But Abram wasn’t really expecting one. Not this late in the game. (Genesis 12-13, 15:1-6; 16:3; 17:15-18)

Sarai was beyond the age of childbearing. They both knew it. As the years had passed and her womb remained empty, she had given up all hope of being a mother. Watching her do so hurt Abram’s heart. Hopeless, she went through the motions of life. Completing each day’s necessary tasks. Surviving. Not thriving. He’d talked to God about it. After one of the times when God promised him an enormous swath of land brimming with Abram’s descendants, Abram had literally questioned how that could happen. How could there be descendants from nothing? How could they have children now that they were old? How was God going to fulfill that promise? Was He ever going to fulfill that promise? (Genesis 15:1-6; 16:2)

God said He would. Promised it. Again. Repeated His previous words. Abram would have more descendants than he could count. Than anyone could count. Grandchildren. Great-grandchildren. People who could trace their DNA back to Abram through his son. His legitimate son. A child conceived with his wife Sarai. Not an illegitimate child with a maid. Not a son of his servant, Eliezer. No. The promise was for a son. His son. Conceived within his marriage. A child belonging to Abraham and Sarah together. The child God promised. A son. Abraham would be his father. Sarah would be his mother. The child would be a miracle. It would happen. In due season. At just the right time. (Genesis 17:1-8)

Years passed while they waited for the fulfillment of the promise. Years filled with desperation. A time when Sarah convinced Abraham to take matters into his own hands. Try to do God’s job. Have a child by any means necessary. Sleep with the maid. It wasn’t God’s will. It wasn’t part of the promise. Human machinations rarely result in the work of God. Maybe it slowed down the process. Maybe it halted God’s timing. Maybe it made them wait longer than intended. We don’t know the full ramifications of that error. We do know the silence stretched on. For years. (Genesis 16:1-4) 

Thirteen years passed in heavenly stillness. Silent years. Years when their prayers for a son went unanswered, their cries seemed unheard, their tears felt unseen. Years when their faith faltered and questioned. Years when their doubt exponentially grew. Years when they simply kept plodding. Faithfully. Determinedly. Listening to God’s voice, obeying God’s commands, while slowly but surely losing hope in what daily became a more impossible promise. Until it happened. After 90 years of barrenness, two decades of stillness, years of heavenly silence, God gave Sarah strength to birth a son. Isaac. The fulfillment of His promise. (Genesis 17:17; 18:10-12; 21:1-7)

For twenty-five years Abraham and Sarah’s faith carried them through weeks of uncertainty, days of discouragement, hours of fear. It walked them through every moment of the journey, every foray into enemy territory, every encounter with Pharaohs and kings. It held them fast against the torrent of doubt. Gave them strength through the silence emanating from the heavens. Offered hope as they eagerly waited for God to fulfill His promise of a child. Faith brought them through moments of silent pain when no child was forthcoming. In retrospect, they could see what they hadn’t seen in the waiting. Although God hadn’t answered their prayers for a son on their timetable, He had immediately answered their prayers. In His own way. With His strength. Strength to have faith when doubt was stronger. Strength to endure when every day was a struggle. Strength to get up, keep going, when the darkness of disappointment made them want to hide away. Strength to trust His heart, believe in His goodness, rest in His care, even when it seemed the promise wouldn’t, couldn’t be fulfilled. Into the echoing silence of waiting, God poured His strength. The immediate answer to the future fulfillment. God’s strength in God’s silence. (Genesis 17:17; 18:10-12)

Just as the land would pass to Abraham’s descendants, so would the lesson. Stuck in Egyptian slavery, his descendants found themselves praying, begging, crying for deliverance. Immediate deliverance. Instantaneous deliverance. The answer didn’t come at their first call. It took a long time. A long, painful time. Years of harsh circumstances, abuse, and death. Weeks when the heavens seemed like brass. Their prayers went unanswered. Their cries seemed unheard. It felt like God was completely ignoring their worsening circumstances. There was no proof God had heard. No action to indicate He was responding. They had no promise He was ever going to come to their aid. Every day they went to their jobs and labored long hours, their hearts continually crying out for a rescue from Heaven, but no answer came, no reply resounded. They couldn’t see it then, but we see it now. Littered throughout the chapters of Exodus, outlining the horrific circumstances the children of Israel endured before leaving Egypt, when the silence from heaven was thick, God gave them strength to endure that silence. When it seemed their prayers weren’t being answered. When it felt like God wasn’t doing anything. When hope seemed lost. They still got up every day and endured their situation while they waited for the answer. They didn’t stop praying. They didn’t stop working. They kept going. Because God gave them strength in His silence. (Exodus 1-15)

The writer of Psalm 138 clearly walked through similar waters, learned a similar lesson. One he chose to share with posterity as he penned the words, “You answer my prayers as soon as I pray them; you encourage me by giving me strength.” We would like those to be two independent sentences. They aren’t. Sometimes the immediate answer to our prayers is not the exact thing we asked for, but the immediate filling with God’s strength. For our circumstances. For our burdens. For our hopes. For our dreams. Strength to carry us through fears and uncertainty, tears and triumphs. Strength to walk in faithful obedience when we don’t understand the timing. Strength to endure hardness and trouble, disappointment and sorrow. Strength to believe in God’s goodness and trust His love even when we don’t see the answer we are waiting for. Strength to understand that sometimes the immediate answer to our prayers is God’s strength to help us carry on in His silence. (Psalm 138:3)

It is the hardest lesson we will learn, possibly the most difficult thing to believe. But if you look back over your life, you will see it is true. In those moments when your knees ached from the amount of time you spent on them, when your eyes burned from the sheer volume of your tears, when your throat was raw from the intensity of your prayers, God didn’t give you exactly what you asked for. He gave you strength to carry on. In His stillness, when it seemed He wasn’t hearing. In His silence, when you couldn’t hear Him speak. In the waiting, while your ragged faith sat before Him in tears and prayers that seemed unnoticed. Whether you felt it or not, God acted. Into the silence, God sent you His strength to carry on. Strength to wait for His timing. Strength to wait for His answer. Strength to keep going in the face of fear, anxiety, mistreatment, and pain. God may not immediately speak change into your circumstances, but He will immediately fill His silence with His strength. (Isaiah 40:31; Psalm 27:14; 37:7; Lamentations 3:25; Philippians 4:6-7, 13)

In his second letter to the church at Corinth, the Apostle Paul tells his own story of finding God’s strength in God’s silence. It cuts more closely to home for us. Continually badgered by something he dubs his “thorn in the flesh,” Paul asks God to rid him of it. Three times he asks. Begs, actually, for God to eradicate that illness, that opposition, that temptation which continually rose up to trouble him. God didn’t do it. Declaring His grace sufficient, His power more than enough, God leaves Paul to endure. But not without His strength. Into God’s stillness and silence over that situation, He sends Paul His strength. For Paul’s weakness. It is never recorded that God relented and fixed whatever the situation was. Instead, He infused His silence on the issue with His strength for the issue. God’s strength for Paul’s weakness, even when God chose to remain silent. (II Corinthians 12:7-10)

You see, friend, God is never doing nothing. He is always busy. Working for you, in you, through you. You can’t always see it. You may not even know it is happening. You might not know who is looking on, watching you bravely carry on, keep the faith, obey God, even when the storms of life threaten to capsize your soul. If asked, you possibly couldn’t clearly explain how you do it. How you get out of bed every day, face those impenetrable, unscalable mountains, and keep going, have courage, maintain faith. But I know. Now you do too. When the exact answers you asked for aren’t readily forthcoming, your prayers are still being answered. Immediately. Exactly the way God knows you need them to be. Into God’s silence flows God’s strength, giving you courage to hope, faith to believe, and strength to carry on while you wait. (Exodus 15:2; Jeremiah 33:3; Psalm 66:19-20; 121:1-2; Ephesians 3:16; I Samuel 30:6; Hebrews 4:16; II Timothy 1:7; Isaiah 55:8-9)

Fourteen months ago, we found our household in the unenviable state of canine deficit. The dog kind. Not because we didn’t have any. We did. Two females. Delilah and Fiona. A lab hound mix and a registered malamute. Five years separate their ages. I won’t try to do the math in dog years. It isn’t important. It doesn’t matter to them. They are besties. They love one another with that special bond dogs have. The teeth licking, face sniffing, nose kissing bond. The one humans can’t truly comprehend. Their age gap and significantly different health situations make no difference. They are pals. If one goes somewhere, the other feels she must also go. Even the vet. It’s that kind of love. 

At ten, Delilah is riddled with arthritis. Her ACL’s have both been replaced. Her gait is stiff. Her brain doesn’t seem to function at full capacity. And, although her spirit is willing to play, her flesh isn’t truly able. Fiona, the malamute, is five. She substantially outweighs her friend. She is agile and nimble and energetic. She loves to play. She likes to run. She still gets the zoomies. She digs like there’s treasure buried in our yard. She is always interested in jumping, wrestling, and body slamming her friends. She’s never mean. Never aggressive. Never intentionally harmful. She just has more energy, less pain, no stiffness, and a longer battery life. Fiona can play for a long time. In any kind of weather. When it is cold and snowy. When it is hot and muggy. As long as she has a playmate, Fiona will play.  

Delilah is not that playmate. She can’t be. Her bones are brittle. Her joints are stiff. We fear one good body slam would damage her beyond repair. Understanding Fiona’s need for someone less fragile to play with (and our constant desire to keep our house full of canine babies), we went in search of another malamute. A male, this time. A dog that could match Fiona in size and energy. Maybe in attitude, too! Someone who wouldn’t allow her shenanigans to keep them down. Someone she wouldn’t accidentally break when her overexuberance got the best of her. Someone whose personality would be the perfect foil to hers. The search was not the difficult part. That would come later. After the search, the choice, the pickup, the arrival at home. It would come in the daily grind of training, midnight outies, and indoor messes. We knew this going in, yet still we determined the adventure to be worth it.    

Like most registered breeds, malamutes aren’t cheap. They aren’t easy, either. There’s a whole new level of stubbornness, independence, and strong will hidden behind that soft, floofy fur and those beautiful, manipulative eyes. They love hard, pull harder. In their own direction. House training, kennel training, leash training, and learning general doggie manners are all their own individual journeys–marathons, actually–each achieved only through rigorous effort and patient endurance. None of that was a surprise. We expected it all. When we went to purchase another malamute puppy, our eyes were wide open. We knew exactly what we were getting. A fluffy ball of infinite love who was more stubborn than he had a right to be, more independent than was good for him, and brimming with shenanigans and mischief. The vet bills would increase. Our patience would sometimes be threadbare. Some days we would have to force ourselves to stay the course and not let him run the house, even when it felt like the progress was non-existent. We knew it all before we ever left home to meet him. Yet, knowing all of that, we were still captivated by the soft brown eyes peering up at us through copious amounts of caramel and white fur, and we chose to make Finnigan part of our family.      

One year later, Finn has settled in nicely. He’s not perfect. Has a long way to go, in fact. But he is better than he was. He can do some doggie tricks now. Normally comes when called. Walks decently on a leash. Unless there’s a scent. Scents cancel his ability to obey. All of it. So do sticks. We are working on it. His personality is not as sassy as Fiona’s. Thank goodness!  He’s a little shy. Suspicious of people he doesn’t know. Oddly possessive of his collection of lambchop toys, but not his chew bones. They are a great combination. Equally resplendent in mischief. Too cute for their own good. Opinionated. Strong-willed. Always ready to push boundaries, make me repeat commands, or force me to get out the trusty spray bottle. They love as hard as they play. Sleep like bears. Hog the bed and steal the couch. Clog my vacuum with fur and paint my floors with mud. But they are worth it. Every penny we paid. Every minute we spend training. Every hour of mopping. Every worry, concern, and emergency vet visit. Knowing all we know about raising puppies and owning dogs, we would do it all again. Because to us, they are worth it. 

Last week, as I sat at my desk writing the words to the blog post, “Even If You Didn’t Listen,” Finnigan lay sprawled on his side behind my chair, fast asleep. His morning nap time. Distracted by his presence, or more likely, considering his distaste for listening, I looked down at his softly snoring self and smiled. My mind flashed back through all the things he’s put us through this past year. The car sickness, the emergency vet visits for tummy troubles, the mischief, the shenanigans, the disobedience, the monetary price we paid to bring him home, and without thinking, I audibly whispered, “You were worth it.” With my next breath, I found myself wondering if God finds himself in the same situation as He looks at us. 

Before you began growing beneath your mother’s heart, God knew you. From your first inhale to your last exhale, God saw the timeline of your life. His loving thoughts toward you began before you could form a single thought on your own. He made it His business to know you. All of you. Your temperament. Your personality. Your strengths. Your weaknesses. Your hopes. Your dreams. Your fears. He knew who and what you would become. He knew the choices you would make. Those that included Him. Those that excluded Him. He knew how stubborn you would be. He knew how hard He would have to work, how much effort He would need to put in to reconcile you to Himself. He knew how often you would need His loving correction. He realized how much you would need to feel His accepting love. He knew you would run from Him, reject Him, refuse Him. He knew your life would take you down alleys and through valleys you wouldn’t know how to escape. He also knew He would never stop trying to reach you. To save you. To bring you into His family. He knew you would need a Savior. Someone to save you from yourself, from sin, from eternal death. And, because He loved you before you even began to be formed, because He deeply desired for you to be part of His family, God deemed it worth it to make a plan for that very thing. (Psalm 139:1-18)

Imagine the squeeze of God’s heart as He prepared Himself to send Jesus, His only Son, Heaven’s perfect Child, to sin-filled, hate-drenched earth. As a helpless infant. Sin would surround Him. Hate would encircle Him. He would grow up in a world brimming with evil. He would live among humanity, brush shoulders with the dregs of society. Pretentious hypocrites. Humiliated prostitutes. Brazen thieves. Self-righteous sinners. Some would listen as He taught. They would learn. They would follow. They would obey. Some of them. Not everyone. Others would choose to scoff and scorn. They would mock Him. Hate Him. Decry, deny, and defy Him. Eventually, they would crucify Him. (Isaiah 53)

As horrifying as it would be, Jesus’ death would not be permanent. It would be redeeming. For all people. From His final breath until the end of time. Jesus’ sacrificial death would pave the road to eternal life for all humanity. The only road. No bulls or rams or goats to sacrifice. No wheat to gather. No oil to bring. No special mixtures or methodical butchering. Not anymore. With Jesus’ final cry, the veil in the temple would tear down the middle, giving all humanity direct access to the Father. They can come boldly, directly to Him with their sins, their burdens, their cares. The great love of the Father for worthless humanity compels Him to make this all possible, no matter the price. No matter what He knows about them. Because He knew it all. And even in the knowing, He believed the sacrifice, the cost, the pain, the suffering, the separation was worth it. Knowing our ridiculous shenanigans wouldn’t stop. Realizing our deep penchant for disobedience wouldn’t end. Understanding our stubbornness, our arrogance, our moral bankruptcy, and ethical corruption. Fully aware that we would sometimes get distracted, fall away, and stray from the paths of righteousness. Completely cognizant that we would follow the siren song of the world more quickly than we would follow Him. Acknowledging the risk He was taking by making such a sacrifice, yet still allowing humanity to freely choose to accept or reject Him. God still deemed the cause worth it. Worth His Son. Dying. For people then. For us now. For you. For me. When we were still ensnared, entrenched, embedded in our sins–and loving it. God sent Jesus to die for us, determining the redemption of our souls to be worth it. (Leviticus 1-7; John 14:6; Matthew 27-28; Hebrews 4:16; Psalm 49:8; Romans 5:8)

In the Book of Revelation, John classifies those who refuse to follow Jesus and live according to His commands as dogs. Not the cute, fluffy, loving kind I have. No. The scraggly, aggressive, diseased, terrifying kind. The kind who haven’t been washed and cleansed by the blood of Jesus Christ. The ones who haven’t accepted their reserved place at His table. Those who refuse to listen, to learn, to change. Those who choose to stay in their rebellion, their immorality, their lies, their idolatry. Given the opportunity to step into a new role as a beloved, redeemed child of the Heavenly Father, they have refused, choosing instead to revel in their sin. Outside the city of God. Outside of Heaven. Outside of eternal life. Unworthy dogs. A place we have all been at one point in our lives. A place you don’t have to stay. (Revelation 21: 8, 27; 22:15; Philippians 3:2; I Corinthians 6:9-10)

Jesus’ redemptive work on the cross means you don’t have to remain a scraggly dog on the outskirts of the kingdom. Haunted by sin. Hunted by fear. Hate-filled and hell-bent. You can be a family member. Washed. Cleansed. Forgiven. Redeemed. Saved from sin to eternal life through Jesus Christ. No matter who you are, where you have been, or what you have done. Because God, in His unfathomably vast love for you, deemed you worth saving. Bringing you into His family, holding near to His heart. God knew in the end, your redemption would be worth the cost. So He paid it. Willingly. Offering forgiveness and reconciliation to all of us unworthy dogs, making us worthy pups. Worthy to bear His name. Worthy to stand in His presence. Worthy to approach His throne. Worthy to sit, eternally, at the overflowing table of His grace. (I Corinthians 6:11; Romans 6:23; Ephesians 1:7; 2:4-6; 3:12; Colossians 1:22; II Thessalonians 1:11) 

As much as he hated to say he told them so, he had, in fact, told them so. It wasn’t sailing season. Fall never was. The weather was unpredictable, the wind strong, the storms frequent. Every sailor knew it. They all knew fall was the time ships battened down in a safe port and wintered there. Spring would come. Eventually. Bringing with it the promise of smooth waters and light breezes. Perfect sailing weather. But this wasn’t it. Wouldn’t be it. Paul told them so. The owner. The captain. The officer in charge of prisoners. All sailors by trade. All men who should have known the truth of his words. All too arrogant, too ignorant, or too concerned with the financial gain of delivering their cargo to listen to a man in chains. 

Paul wasn’t there as the ship’s chaplain. No. He was a prisoner headed for Rome. His case was set to be heard by Caesar. He wanted to make it there alive. Even if he didn’t make it out of Rome alive. No matter the outcome of his trial once he got there, Paul wanted to live long enough to stand before Caesar and proclaim the good news of the gospel of Jesus Christ. It was the reason he warned the captain, owner, and ship’s prison guard not to continue. As much as he understood their hesitance to spend the rough winter months in an open harbor, he knew in his heart that risk and loss lay ahead if they left Fair Havens. Shipwreck. Cargo loss. Danger to life and limb. But Paul wanted to make it to Rome. Alive. It felt imperative that he do so. 

No one was shocked that they didn’t listen. Not even a little bit. Who would rely on the word of a prisoner, even a model prisoner, over the word of seasoned sailors and ship owners? They needed to move. They needed to go up the coast of Crete, get at least to Phoenix. It was a safer harbor. Less exposure. They had a good chance of survival and keeping the ship in one piece for the few months they would spend there. It sounded good to everyone. The captain. The owner. The sailors on board the ship. Everyone thought it was a good idea. Everyone but Paul. 

Pulling up anchor and sailing closely along the shore of Crete to the gentle push of a light wind, the ship’s crew thought they could make it. Everything was calm and clear and peaceful. In the beginning. It didn’t stay that way. Shortly into their voyage, the weather changed. Not subtly. Suddenly. With no warning, violent winds began to buffet the ship, pushing it further out to sea. Using every ounce of strength, the sailors did everything they could to turn the ship into the wind. It was no use. They were powerless against the typhoon-force gale. Still they kept trying. They had to. Their lives depended on it. They hauled in the lifeboat being towed behind them. They daringly wrapped the hull of their ship in ropes. They lowered the sea anchor in a futile attempt to brace against the wind and slow their speed. Nothing worked. 

Desperate and terrified, the crew jettisoned the cargo. Crate after crate of goods plummeted to the sandy floor of the sea like offerings to the unseen god of the water. The gale remained relentless. Severe. Howling around their heads. Battering their ship. Stealing control. Leaving them at nature’s mercy. Fighting for their lives, the sailors threw some of the ship’s gear over the side, hoping to lighten the load and tilt the scales of survival in their favor. It was a wasted effort. The storm raged out of control, enveloping them in its fury. The sky remained dark. The sun stayed hidden. The stars refused to appear. The wind tossed their vessel from side to side. Clinging white-knuckled to the edges of their seats, the sailors were forced to admit defeat. Having done all they could to remain in control of their ship, they had failed. They were not in control. Not of the storm. Not of the ship. Not of their lives. What they could have controlled, they had chosen not to. They hadn’t listened. 

It was a choice they deeply regretted. Huddled in the bowels of the ship listening to the wind roar, the ship creak, and the waves crash, they knew there was little hope of survival. For any of them. Those who deserved death. Those who didn’t. They were all going down with the ship because they hadn’t listened to Paul. They hadn’t stood with him. They hadn’t argued to stay where they were rather than risk their lives, their cargo, their ship on an ill-advised journey. They had fallen prey to a deceptively calm, clear day and a beguilingly light wind that teased them out to sea with the promise of safe travels only to turn into a raging, furious storm. Helplessly rocking on the waves in their doomed ship, the men could do nothing but watch and worry. They couldn’t eat. They didn’t speak. They barely dared to move. When all they could do had been done and failed, their greatest regret was that they hadn’t listened. 

The price of not listening was high for those men. Their silence told the story. It was heavy with mourning. Before their eyes flashed images of loved ones at home. People who waited for their safe return. Wives. Children. Parents. Friends. Hopes and dreams of future plans died untimely deaths as they came face to face with the certain destruction of their ship. Fear and despair warred with grief. Past memories faded into present regrets. And every sailor on board that doomed vessel desperately wished they had listened to Paul. 

Watching the chaos of panicked sailors tossing goods overboard transition to the solemnity of sailors accepting their fate, Paul pulled himself to standing and called the crew together. They needed to hear his words over the raging wind and thundering waves. He had something important to say. Something they needed to hear. Something they needed to know. Something they needed to believe. All of them. Although they had chosen not to listen before, they needed to hear and heed his words now. They needed to calm down. Breathe deeply. Find their hope. Gather their courage. Be strong in the face of fierce danger. Because God was going to give them another chance. They were all going to be fine. No one was going to die. There were going to be some rough waters ahead. Days of craziness. Their ship would be dashed to pieces. But. Their lives would be spared. All of them. Even though they hadn’t listened. Even though they made poor choices. Even though the path they had purposely chosen led them toward certain destruction. God, in His mercy, had devised a plan to save them. No matter who they were, where they came from, or what their job description was. They could all be saved. Every single one. (Acts 27:1-26)

Paul’s words to those sailors, suffering the effects of not listening to his original warning, echoed the message He was so eager to spread throughout the known world. The one he was so excited to carry to Caesar. The good news of the gospel. The salvation story. Jesus Christ came into the world with one purpose–to save sinners. All of them. Every single one. The people gathered around Him then. Those who seek Him now. All of us are welcome at His grace-filled table. There is a seat there with your name on the card. Whoever you are. Wherever you have been. Whatever you have done or are currently doing. Even if you didn’t listen the first time. Or the second. God’s plan is still in place. There is still grace and mercy and forgiveness available. For you. For me. For everyone, anyone who will hear His voice and open their hearts to the cleansing power of Jesus Christ. (John 6:35, 37; Luke 19:10; Joel 2:32; Revelation 3:20)  

Unfortunately, no one listened the first time Paul spoke. Not everyone listened the second time, either. It isn’t a part of the account we hear very often. Preachers and teachers tend to run straight to the part where the ship runs aground, is dashed to pieces by the waves, yet everyone grabs a piece of wood and floats safely to shore in a happy ending. But between the promise and the preservation lies the attempted prevarication. The part with which we each identify so deeply. The section that tells of the sailors who didn’t listen. Again. Who didn’t believe. At all. The ones Paul caught trying to sneak off in the lifeboat to save their own necks. The ones who thought their way was better. The ones who refused to believe. The ones who chose not to listen. The men who were exactly like us. (Acts 27:30-32)

We have all done what they did. Tried to find an alternative to God’s path. Ignoring His voice and turning a blind eye to His Word, we look for a way we like better. A smoother path. A wider trail. More exciting attractions. We choose it because we believe we can handle it. The pull of the world. The pressure of satan. The enticement of sin. Tuning out what we have heard about broad paths and wide gates, we dance along the path of least resistance, believing we can do things our own way and get the same result. Eternal life. But we can’t. Just like those men couldn’t sneak off in the lifeboat and save their own lives, we can’t trip happily down a path of our own choosing, do things our own way, ignore God’s voice, and still save our souls. We have to listen to God. We have to obey Him. That’s how it works. It’s the only way. (Matthew 7:13-14; James 1:22; I Samuel 15:22; Proverbs 14:12; John 14:6) 

Thankfully, God offers us chances to listen, hear, and obey. Multiple chances. He doesn’t stop when we decline the first opportunity. He doesn’t run when we throw away the second. He doesn’t rescind His offer when we travel down roads so dark and shameful we don’t want anyone to know where we are. He doesn’t leave, either. Not ever. He is constantly available. To you. For you. He is with you. There is nowhere you can go, nothing you can do, no words you can utter that catch Him by surprise. He’s already there. Inhabiting that space. Speaking into that darkness. Offering directions into the light so you can have eternal life. He knows you might not listen. Lots of people haven’t. Don’t. Won’t. He’s still speaking. Still offering. Still hoping. Even if you didn’t listen the first time. (Psalm 139:1-16

It’s the message Paul was determined to take to Rome. The one he wanted even Caesar to hear. The message of God’s grace. The glorious good news of the gospel of Jesus Christ. The truth that God sent Jesus, His only Son,  into the world to save sinners because His great love for humanity hated even the thought that one of us should miss the opportunity to be saved. It’s the message I hope you take with you today and every day for the rest of your life. Even if you have heard it before but didn’t listen. I hope you listen today. Grasp its truth. God loves you. God is with you. God is for you. God wants to walk every day of your earthly journey and spend every second of your eternity with you. In friendship. In relationship. His grace is limitless. His mercy is boundless. His love is fathomless. You are the reason Jesus came. The message of the good news of the gospel of Jesus Christ is for you. No matter what your past looks like, no matter where you presently are, no matter what your future holds. Even if you didn’t listen before, I hope you hear the message now. Loud and clear. Jesus Christ came into this world to save sinners. People who didn’t listen the first time. People like me. People like you. Everyone who chooses to listen today. (Matthew 11:28; Isaiah 55:1-3; Mark 10:45; John 3:17; Acts 2:21; Romans 10:13; Psalm 136; John 14:3; Hebrews 3:15)

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)