Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Glancing back at the tiny figure clinging tightly to the old priest’s hand, she drew in a stabilizing breath, straightened her shoulders, and kept walking. Slowly. One foot in front of the other. One step at a time. It was the best she could manage under the circumstances. Her hands shook. Her knees wobbled. Her heart felt like it was being ripped from her chest. The pain was nearly unbearable. Tears clouded her vision, rolled down her cheeks, dripped off her chin. It was the hardest day of her life. Harder than realizing the truth of her barrenness. Harder than seeing her husband choose another woman to bear his sons. Harder than all the years of taunts and abuse at the hands of that same woman. This was the most difficult day of Hannah’s entire life.

For years, she had been travelling to Shiloh with her husband, Elkanah, to offer sacrifices and worship the Lord at the Tabernacle. They never missed a year. Never failed to bring the appropriate sacrifice. Never skipped the sacrificial meal. They were faithful. Dutiful. Obedient. They were also childless. Hannah had been unable to produce a child in all the years of their marriage. It broke her heart. Especially as she watched Elkanah’s other wife, Peninah, birth multiple children. She wasn’t greedy. She didn’t need as many children as Peninah had. Hannah simply wanted to present her husband with a son. One. It was the cry of her heart. The request she brought before the Lord year after year. The prayer that seemed destined to forever go unanswered. 

Slipping away after the sacrificial meal, Hannah would make her way to the Tabernacle to pray. In tears and fasting, she would beg God for a child. Every year. Her request never changed. Not when her faith faltered. Not when her hope dimmed. Not when the heavens remained silent, her womb still. She never gave up. She kept coming. Not just to Shiloh. Not just to the Tabernacle. Not just for the sacrifice. Hannah kept coming to talk to God. 

That year had been no different. Arriving in Shiloh, Hannah had gone through the motions of everything they did there. Sacrifice. Worship. Meal. She barely made it through. Peninah was especially spiteful this year. Her snide remarks were more barbed than usual. It was all Hannah could do to stay at the table, stomach the food, survive the acerbic jabs. She wasn’t hungry. At all. Her heart hurt. Intensely. Her soul felt battered and bruised by every unanswered prayer she had ever prayed. Doubts and fears and hopelessness wrecked her being. Excusing herself as soon as possible, Hannah fled to the refuge of the Tabernacle. She needed to talk to God. 

 Once there, a volley of words erupted, punctuated by ragged sobs and an outpouring of pent-up tears. Hannah had things she wanted to say to God. She couldn’t take this anymore. The pain. The sadness. The sorrow. She couldn’t handle another unanswered prayer. She didn’t have the emotional strength to endure another year of empty arms and a perpetually broken heart. So she proposed a deal. Made a promise. Offered an exchange. A son for her. A servant for Him. If God would bless her with a son, she would give the child back to Him. Completely. Physically. Literally leave him at Shiloh in the service of the Lord. From the time he was weaned to the end of his life. Her son would belong solely to God. His boy for His purpose. And God said, “Deal.”

Hannah didn’t mention her promise to Elkanah. Not at first. Not until the conversation became necessary. It must have been an enormous shock to Elkanah. What did she mean they weren’t keeping the boy at home?! They were his parents! She had done what?! Promised who?! Resting his face in his hands, Elkanah dragged in a deep breath and sorted his thoughts. Accepted reality. There was nothing he could do to change the situation. As unimpressed as he was with the bargain, he was no less duty-bound to fulfill it. The promise was already made. To God. The terms were already set. There was no negotiating. What was done was done. When their son, Samuel, was weaned, Hannah would take him to the Tabernacle and leave him there. Elkanah wished her good luck with that. He honestly wasn’t sure she could make herself do it. He said as much. Said he knew God would have to give her the strength to keep that promise.  Because Elkanah knew what we are all so loath to remember or admit. Promises are easy to make, but difficult to keep. Even promises to God. Elkanah suspected that would be the case with this one. He wasn’t wrong. 

Keeping that promise had to have cost Hannah. Deeply. Childhood milestones would pass without her being part of them. An annual visit was not the type of mothering her young self had thought she would do. The temptation to make up an excuse, find a reason to rescind, or delay the fulfillment of her promise must have been overwhelmingly strong. But Hannah didn’t. Instead, she enjoyed every moment of his infancy and toddlerhood until he was weaned. Then, she packed his tiny clothes in a bag, gathered his favorite blanket, clasped his tiny hand in hers, and walked him up the path to the Tabernacle. His new home. Forever. Fulfilling her promise to God. 

Scholars believe Samuel would have been 3-4 years old when Hannah left him at the Tabernacle, some 15-20 miles from her home in Ramah. It doesn’t seem so very far away to us. A quick drive. A phone call. A door dash away. Except Hannah had none of those options. There were no cars, no trains, no rapid transit systems. There were no telephones, no cell phones, no internet. She couldn’t drop by once a week, call every night, or dash dinner to his door. She wouldn’t know if he fell ill, caught a cold, skinned his knee. Unless it turned into something life-threatening, no one would notify her. Even then, by the time a messenger came to get her and she travelled to him, she might not make it in time to hold his hand as he expelled his last breath. When she threw that final glance back at her little boy, Hannah knew it might well be the last time she saw him.

Leaving her son to be raised by Eli may well have seemed risky to Hannah as well. His own sons were an indictment of his child-rearing abilities. They were wretched sinners. Flat out rebellious. Men of distinct ill-repute. Their violations of God’s laws were known far and wide. Relishing their sin, they were not the type of men Hannah would choose to influence her son’s life. But she realized something. She wasn’t leaving her son with Eli. She was leaving Him with God. The same God who had heard her gut-wrenching cries for a child, accepted her bargain, and given her strength to keep her promise. None of that had been done on her own. It wasn’t her own strength now. It was God. The same God who helped her keep her promise.

Transferring Samuel’s worldly goods into Eli’s hands, Hannah placed her son in the elderly priest’s care. Running her hand through his soft hair one more time, she kissed his cheek, hugged him close, and she walked away. A torrent of tears ran down her face as she placed one foot in front of the other. Not the same type of tears that flowed in the Tabernacle years before. These were different. Mingled with her tears of sadness were tears of joy. God had done it! God had answered her prayer. He had given her a son. He had done such amazing work in her heart that she was able to find the strength to give that child back to Him. He had done exactly as Elkanah had said. The Lord had helped her fulfill her vow. He had done marvelous things! (I Samuel 1-2)

Walking away from her son, Hannah again went to pray. She had things to say to God. Again. Good things. Triumphant things. Exultant things. Not just because God had answered her ragged prayer from the past. Not because she now had a son. Not even because Peninah had been forced to shut her mouth. Of all the things Hannah had to be grateful for, she praised God for sharing His strength. With her. For the entirety of her life. Strength that carried her through years of barrenness. Strength to endure Peninah’s obnoxious taunting. Strength to finally carry and give birth to a son. And strength to help her keep her promise to God. When it was hard. When her heart was breaking. When fear overtook her. When her humanity wanted to find a way out of it. God did exactly what Elkanah said he hoped God would do, He helped Hannah keep her promise. (I Samuel 2:1)

On some level, we all identify with Hannah. We are all intimately acquainted with making promises to God. We do it regularly. In an attempt to achieve our desired outcome, we rashly vow to do something, give something, sacrifice something in return for the granting of our requests. Unfortunately, when the moment comes to follow through, we often fail. We make excuses. Create caveats. Find ways to renege on our promises. We simply do not have the internal fortitude to keep our promises to God. Not regularly. Not on our own. Not without His strength to carry us. Because promises are easier to make than to keep. Especially ones that cost us, make us uncomfortable, or force us to place ourselves fully in His care. Yet in God’s care is the safest place to be. (Psalm 91:1-2; 32:7; 46:1; Proverbs 3:5-6)

Hannah found that out. Walking away from Samuel, fulfilling her promise to God, was the hardest thing she had ever done in her life. But Samuel wasn’t alone. He was with God. He grew up in God’s presence. Every year, when Hannah came back to visit, she saw her son. She watched as he grew up to be a man of God, fully committed to following God no matter what anyone around him was doing. She watched as God blessed him and people loved him. And, as every mother proud of her son would do, surely Hannah broke into praise again. Praise for all God had done in Samuel’s life, His protection, provision, and preservation. Praise that God had heard her prayers. Praise that He had answered. Praise that God had given her strength to keep her promise, no matter how many reasons her mind offered not to.  

May praise be your answer, too. When everything is said and done, when the answer to your prayer is before you, may you keep your promises to God. All of them. Even when you would rather not. Even when you plain don’t want to. Even when you don’t think you have the courage or strength to fulfill them. You do. You can. Through God. When it is hard. When it is painful. When it isn’t what you wish it was. God will pour into you the strength to keep your promises to Him. Strength like Hannah. (Philippians 4:13; II Corinthians 3:5; Matthew 19:26; Romans 8:37; Ecclesiastes 5:4-5; Deuteronomy 23:23; Psalm 76:11)

He hadn’t wanted to go in the first place. Ever. There was no mystery in it. No question about the order of events. No wait-and-see suspense. He knew exactly how it would go. He would preach, and God would be God. Gracious. Merciful. Full of compassion. Toward a people who unarguably did not deserve it. At all. Ever. Their reprehensible wickedness had garnered them a reputation for brutal atrocities known far and wide. On earth. In Heaven. God knew exactly what they were up to. He had seen their pernicious ways. He knew they deserved punishment. In fact, He had already planned it. Except His mercy kicked in. His compassion took over. His grace opted to offer one more chance at change. Through Jonah. God tapped him to go warn the Ninevites of their impending punishment. Introduce them to the possibility of grace. Tell them the truth of mercy. Exhibit for them the unfailing love of God. (Jonah 4:1-2)

Well, he wasn’t going to do it. The very idea made him ill. And angry. The Ninevites didn’t deserve a second chance, an offer of repentance, a possibility of survival. They deserved punishment. Historically awful punishment. Retribution for their own barbarity. Not that Jonah had ever seen or experienced it personally. He hadn’t. But he had heard the tales. Stories so terrifying any sane person would keep a wide berth. Jonah intended to do just that. He was absolutely not going to preach repentance to those people. He wanted no part of absolving their sins, offering them a way out of eternal punishment. No, thank you. Those people deserved everything they were destined to get. Whatever God had planned. Fireballs from heaven. Excruciating plagues. Painful starvation. Torturous slaughter. Jonah believed they deserved it all. Everything God had in mind. Except revival. Except forgiveness. Except the opportunity to change. He didn’t believe they deserved that. They hadn’t earned it. Not by his calculations. Not by anyone’s computations. And Jonah certainly wasn’t going to be the one to give it to them. Not if he could help it. 

Jumping to his feet, Jonah tossed a few belongings into a bag and raced out the door. He was leaving. Going somewhere. Anywhere. Away from Nineveh. Toward Joppa. Toward a ship that could take him even farther away from the place God had directed him to go. Tarshish was looking good. The ship headed there was nearly ready to get underway. Hurriedly paying the fare, Jonah took refuge below deck, desperately hoping to somehow avoid the presence of his sovereign God. (Jonah 1:1-3)

At first, it seemed like it worked. The ship quickly set sail. The water was smooth. The breeze was light. Jonah settled down in the deepest part of the ship, found a place to make a bed, stretched out, and, lulled by the gentle rocking of the ship, fell into a deep sleep. So deep, in fact, that he didn’t notice when the waters got choppy. He didn’t feel the boat swaying and tossing in the frantic ocean waves. He didn’t hear the sailors racing around in fear, crying out to whatever god they claimed and wrestling every available object overboard to lighten the load in an effort to remain afloat. He was still peacefully sleeping when the captain came down and jolted him out of sleep with the resounding question, “How can you sleep at a time like this?” (Jonah 1:4-6)

Rubbing his eyes, Jonah got to his feet and ran out to join the sailors. Terrified for their lives, they were trying a final effort to identify and eliminate the problem. They were drawing straws. Short straw gets the blame for their harrowing misfortune. Elbowing his way into the group, Jonah drew his obligatory straw. He knew the outcome before he even looked. It would be him. He was to blame. He might have hidden himself, closed his ears, cordoned off his heart, but God had found him anyway. And God was speaking. Through violent winds and crashing waves, reverberating thunder and crackling lightning. God’s grace, mercy, and love were giving Jonah a second chance to obey Him. Jonah knew it. He also knew that if he stayed aboard that ship, those innocent men would die for his disobedience. Taking a deep breath, he did the only thing he could do. Jonah told the sailors to throw him overboard. (Psalm 139:1-12) 

They weren’t keen on the idea. No one wanted to throw a man to his death. Not any man. Especially not this man. Knowing his God was strong enough to cause this uproar, they really didn’t want to mess with Him. They didn’t want the death of Jonah on their heads or their hands. So they tried again. Grabbing the oars, they desperately rowed against the waves and wind, attempting to get back to land. It didn’t work. The storm intensified. The wind worsened. The waves grew. They were out of options. With a cry to God for absolution, they picked Jonah up and threw him overboard. And the sea, appeased, went still. Except for the great fish that swallowed Jonah. 

For three days and three nights, Jonah made his home in the belly of that fish. It seems nearly too fantastical to believe. An entire man, unchewed, undigested, wholly unharmed, setting up housekeeping in the belly of a fish. It is impossible to imagine. Impossible to believe. Until one considers the omnipotence of God. The God so powerful He can do anything, do everything. Which is how Jonah spent his time in the belly of that fish. Considering God. His mercy. His love. His grace. Huddled there, listening to the fish’s heartbeat, Jonah reflected on what he knew of God’s nature. His heart for forgiveness. His desire was that all people, everywhere, would repent and be saved. The knowledge gave Jonah courage to hope for a second chance. And he got one. Seeing the changed posture of Jonah’s heart, God commanded the fish to spit him out on dry land. (Jonah 1:7-2:10)    

It seems unlikely that Jonah jumped back into the sea to wash off the remnants of fishy digestive tract. He probably never wanted to see that particular body of water again. It is not beyond the pale to believe he went into a nearby town in search of a shower. A long, hot bath. Or just the spray of a garden hose. It really doesn’t matter where he went first, God had somewhere for him to be. Nineveh. Yep. The call hadn’t changed. God still wanted Jonah to go preach to the people of Nineveh. This time, Jonah went. 

Not because he wanted to. Jonah still wasn’t excited to go spread the news of possible destruction or the option of repentance to the people of Nineveh. His opinion about them had not changed. He hated every step of the three-day walk through the city. Even as he cried out the warning of God, his heart hoped they wouldn’t listen. Why should they be given the opportunity? Why did they get 40 days to clean up their act? It was ridiculous. They could sin for thirty-nine days, then repent, and God would spare them? That didn’t seem fair to Jonah. It was too gracious. Too merciful. Too much like God. And there was nothing Jonah could do about it. All he could do was obey God. So he did. And the people listened. Immediately. 

Hardly had the words left Jonah’s mouth before those horrible miscreants with repulsive tendencies and disastrous track records started straightening out their lives. Repenting. Changing. Accepting God’s mercy. Even the king himself. Stepping down from his throne, he changed his royal robes for sackcloth, sat in ashes, and fasted. Then he decreed that every living being in the kingdom should do the same. People and animals alike. Stop doing wrong. Start doing right. See if we can get God to change His mind about punishing them. Frustratingly enough for Jonah, God did.

Seeing the change of posture in the hearts of the Ninevites, God relented. He chose to stay their punishment. And Jonah was furious. Seething. So mad he wanted to die so he wouldn’t have to look at this miscarriage of justice. His heart was teeming with revenge. His mind was whirling with thoughts of retribution. Those people had abused, tortured, and slaughtered hundreds, maybe thousands, of other people. Some of them had been Israelites. They had made sport of it. Enjoyed it. Their darkened hearts were unmitigatedly evil. They deserved to die. Yet here was God sparing their lives.   

It wasn’t supposed to be that way. At all. They needed to pay for their sins. They deserved to reap what they had sown–a whirlwind of righteous wrath raining down punishment on Nineveh. It wasn’t happening that way. God was being God. Like He always did. In every circumstance. For every person. He was gracious, compassionate, slow to anger, unfailing in love, always looking to withhold punishment when people turned to Him in repentance. And the people of Nineveh had turned. Immediately. Completely. If only for that moment. (Psalm 145:8-9; Joel 2:13; Isaiah 55:7; II Chronicles 30:9)

Jonah certainly wouldn’t have done it that way. Not at all. Nineveh would be a wasteland if he had anything to do with it. Jonah’s grace extended only to those he deemed worthy, those he felt deserved forgiveness, those whose sins were not so great as to be appalling. God’s grace is different. It extends to everyone. No matter the sin. No matter its egregiousness. No matter the intent of the heart behind it. Sin is sin. It all separates humanity from God. But God is God. Always. His very nature exudes grace. His mercy is inexhaustible. His love never fails, never runs out, never gives up, never ends. He pours it out on everyone. Evenly. Including Jonah. (Romans 5:20; I John 1:7; John 1:16; Lamentations 3:22-23; James 2:10)

Not so long before he preached at Nineveh, Jonah was in the exact same place as the Ninevites. Sin came between him and God. With a rebellious spirit, he had flagrantly disobeyed God’s command. Even after his repentance and final obedience, his heart was still filled with malice and ill-will toward the people to whom he was sent to preach. Jonah obeyed to stay out of the fish’s belly. He obeyed grudgingly. His heart still wasn’t in the right place as he sat on the hillside outside the city, seething mad at God for not striking the entire city with fire and brimstone like He had Sodom and Gomorrah. And, God being God, came to speak with him. Came to reason with him. Came to offer the opportunity to address his anger. Yet the book of Jonah ends with no resolution. Jonah doesn’t change his mind. And God doesn’t stop being God. Not for Nineveh. Not for Jonah. Not for us. (Jonah 4)

You see, friend, God’s very nature is one of grace and mercy, forgiveness and love. For everyone. Preachers. Parents. Politicians. Prostitutes. Pedophiles. Perpetrators of every imaginable crime. Those attributes are who God is. He never changes. Ever. Toward anyone. The same grace He extends to you for your acts of pride, deceit, ill-will, and unforgiveness is the exact same grace He extends to those who murder, molest, assault, and violate the bodies and rights of others. Because God is God. He is true to His nature. And His nature is goodness and love.

Our nature is not the same. We hear the stories of heinous crimes, and our stomachs turn. Our blood boils. Our desire for immediate justice erupts. Self-righteously, conveniently ignoring the penchant toward sin that plagues our own hearts, we stare at their mugshots and see depraved humans, corrupt leaders, violent offenders, people unworthy of mercy, grace, or forgiveness. We consider ourselves better, more worthy, because our sins are “smaller.” Somehow, we think that harboring hate and arrogance in our hearts and engaging in gossip and slander with our mouths is less offensive to God than the crimes those people in the news have committed. It isn’t. Revelation tells us that all sinners, from cowards and liars to murderers and adulterers, will meet eternal death. If you engage in any of those things, you are no closer to God in eternity than those who commit the atrocities in the news. Sin is sin. It all separates us from God. Every one of us. Yet God is still God. 

In love and mercy, God looks down from Heaven on humanity, all humanity, and sees children made in His image. Children He loves no matter their offenses. Children He wants to redeem, reconcile, reinvent, no matter who they have become, where they have been, or what they have done. His heart weeps over all our sins. Yours. Mine. Your best friend’s. Your worst enemies. In mercy and grace, from a heart overflowing with unconditional love, He creates divine appointments with opportunities to turn from sin, repent, and escape the inevitable eternal punishment. Multiple opportunities. Second chances. Third chances. Because God is God. He is not interested in the eternal death of any soul. Not yours. Not mine. Not the criminals on the news. God wants everyone to come to Him. He wants everyone to have eternal life. No matter who you are or what you have done, you are never outside the boundaries of His love, mercy, and grace. It reaches to wherever you are and covers whatever you have done. Forgiveness is His very nature. It is who God is. He will never change. God will always be God. For you. For me. For all. (Romans 2:4; 6:23; Nehemiah 9:31; II Peter 3:9; Numbers 23:19; Psalm 103:8; Ezekiel 18:23; John 3:16-17; Malachi 3:6; II Timothy 2:13; Zephaniah 3:17)    

The evening couldn’t be going better. Really. The feast was an enormous success. Tables were heaped with delicious food. Rich wine flowed. Beautiful music played. Light banter and joyful conversation echoed in the room. His party was a definite triumph, truly lacking nothing. Except those gold and silver cups. Those would really take the event to the next level. If they could all drink wine from the gorgeous cups his predecessor had pilfered from the Temple in Jerusalem, the evening would be complete. His event would be top-tier. And why couldn’t they use them? He was king. There was nothing stopping him, no one to challenge his command. Belshazzar could have whatever he wanted. So he did. 

Signaling his head of staff, he issued the order. Bring in the confiscated gold and silver cups. Fill them up. Pass them out. Let’s toast in style. Sing the praises of our inert gods made of gold, silver, bronze, iron, wood, and stone. Let everyone know that the king of Babylon is still powerful. He is not afraid of the combined military forces surrounding the city. He remains unconvinced they can overtake us. He is not concerned by the possibility of impending disaster. The king wants to party. So fill up those stolen cups with the best liquid courage and let’s drink to our gods. And they did. 

More than a few drinks in, the revelry screeched to a halt. A hand appeared on the palace wall. Only a hand. No body. No arm. No voice. Just a hand. Writing on the wall. Words they couldn’t decipher. Couldn’t translate. Couldn’t understand. Had he not seen it himself, Belshazzar would have blamed the reports on the freely flowing wine. But he had seen it. He had watched that hand quietly appear, write on the wall, then disappear without a sound. It was nightmarishly alarming. Belshazzar had never known such fear in all his life. His face went pale. His stomach lurched. His legs felt weak. Still, it happened so fast he could have blamed it on his own inebriation. Except the words were still there. Staring down at him. Silently pronouncing judgment. He knew it, could feel it. Even if he didn’t know exactly what they said. 

Panicked, Belshazzar called for every wise man in the kingdom to be brought before him. Right there. Right then. He wanted an interpretation. Right now. There would be a fantastic reward for the one who could read and interpret the words. Purple robes. Gold necklace. Elevation to third highest in the kingdom. Even with all that at stake, no one could give the king the answers he sought. They couldn’t read it. Couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t figure out its origin. Their inability made Belshazzar even more uncomfortable. His spirit more troubled. His thoughts more frantic. Hysteria threatened. Speculatory whispers ricocheted around the room. The news began to travel from the banquet hall throughout the rest of the palace. Eventually, it reached the queen mother.    

Oddly enough, she wasn’t completely ruffled by the evening’s events. Perhaps she knew her son had been treading on thin ice with God. Perhaps she remembered the grace extended to Nebuchadnezzar and hoped it would be the same for her son. Whatever the situation, she hurried into Belshazzar’s room with a plan to rescue her son. Approaching Belshazzar, she offered an option his terrified mind hadn’t yet seized upon. Call Daniel. Remember him? How many times had his predecessor, King Nebuchadnezzar, used his services when the other wise men lacked the wisdom to properly do their job? Not once had Daniel failed. He had never come up empty. He could interpret dreams, solve riddles, and give guidance on difficult problems. If Belshazzar truly wanted to know what the writing meant, he would call for Daniel.

Unwilling to waste a second, Belshazzar did exactly what the queen mother suggested. Summoned Daniel. Immediately. It must have felt like an eternity before he actually turned up. Once he arrived, the king went straight to business. A terrifying, floating hand had written indecipherable words on his wall. The hand disappeared. The words didn’t. He had already tried his wise men. Not one of them could interpret the words. They couldn’t even read them. But Daniel had a quality reputation in these situations, one Belshazzar was willing to stake his life on. Not that he had any other choice. He didn’t. If Daniel couldn’t read the words, Belshazzar was doomed and had no way to prepare himself. He desperately hoped that wouldn’t be the case. The ominous suspense was suffocating!  

Standing before the obviously rattled King Belshazzar, Daniel listened to his pleas. His face was pale. His voice was anxious. His words tumbled over one another. Daniel knew he would help. Not for the reward. He wasn’t interested in that. Anything he knew or said came from God alone. The power to interpret, predict, solve, or analyze was not his, but God’s. It was not entertainment. It was divine. Daniel wouldn’t take a reward for himself that belonged to God. But he hoped the king would listen. Carefully. Thoughtfully. Completely. Hard truths lay ahead. Honest judgments. Jarring news. The king would need to make life and death decisions based on what Daniel said. He could only hope Belshazzar would choose wisely. 

Approaching the king with respect, Daniel took a moment to introduce his God. Not because Belshazzar shouldn’t have already known Him. He should have. The nation’s history was not unknown to him. He had heard the accounts of Nebuchadnezzar’s reign. He knew God lifted his ancestor up and gave him enormous power over great numbers of people. He also knew Nebuchadnezzar’s arrogance had brought him down. Hard. When he took God’s credit as his own, he found himself living as a wild animal, eating grass, drinking dew. It was quite the comeuppance. It hadn’t ended until Nebuchadnezzar, in a moment of clarity, acknowledged that God rules over everything. He is sovereign. He raises up rulers and leaders. He also relieves them of duty. It shouldn’t have come as news to Belshazzar. He had heard it all before. It should have changed how he ran his life, ruled his kingdom, related to his people. It didn’t. It fell on deaf ears. Steeped in his own arrogance, Belshazzar defied the only God who has any power to do anything at all. For anyone at all. The God who renews hearts, restores minds, raises authorities, and replaces kings. (Daniel 4) 

It was what the message on the wall was about. Replacing kings. God had been watching. He had seen the arrogance of Belshazzar. He was aware of his immense pride. He knew every defiant act Belshazzar had endorsed and committed, in spite of knowing everything he did about God’s power and punishments. And God determined it to be enough. Belshazzar would be removed. His kingdom would end. So would his life. Imminently. Belshazzar had been weighed in the balances, on the honest scales of Heaven, and was found to be light. He didn’t measure up to God’s standard. He was known to worship false gods. He arrogantly took God’s glory for himself. He happily defied the Temple of the one true God. It was the trifecta of grievances. And Belshazzar showed no remorse. Not when the words were interpreted. Not when the indictment was read. Not when the verdict was handed down. Not when the sentence was pronounced. From the moment he knew what lie ahead to the moment it happened, Belshazzar sat in his arrogance, refusing to humble himself, refusing to repent, refusing to change. (Daniel 5:1-28; Proverbs 16:11)

As the military forces of the Medes and Persians broke through the defenses of Babylon, there was still time for Belshazzar to get right with God. He could no longer save his kingdom. He couldn’t keep his throne. But he could have saved his soul. There is nothing to indicate that he did. Not when the troops broke through the wall. Not at the cries of his people being slaughtered. Not when staring death itself in the face. Belshazzar never fell to his knees in remorse and repentance. Didn’t ask for renewal. Didn’t beg to be restored. He made no move to reconcile with the God whose power he knew from history. No matter what he knew to be true in the past, regardless of eyewitness testimony or the records he had read, Belshazzar held on to his pride, kept his arrogance, and refused redemption.

Daniel 5:30 tells us Belshazzar’s soul was required of him that night. Within hours of hearing his doom pronounced, it occurred. Belshazzar died in his sin. He knew it was coming, yet did nothing to change his eternal status. Not because he didn’t know how. Because he chose not to do it. So his arrogant life ended. His ghastly eternity began. Due to his choice to lean in to pride, arrogance, and defiance, Belshazzar’s life on earth was far better than his eternity would ever be. It didn’t have to be that way. Astonishingly, he chose that path. With all the necessary information to make a positive eternal choice, Belshazzar still chose the world. (Daniel 5:29-31)

I wish it didn’t sound so familiar. Choosing earthly rather than eternal. But it does. Every day we are dazzled and distracted by the baubles of earth. Fleeting joys. Flashy things. Fanciful dreams. We get comfortable in our lifestyles, our careers, our homes. Little by little, our faith leans earthly. We trust our abilities, our paycheck, our advisors, our gut. Our prayers begin to throw heavily toward worldly wants and human wishes. Rather than begging God to make us His kingdom on earth, the place His will is done, a people who bring glory to Him alone, we ask Him to give us things we can’t seem to get ourselves. Perfect health. Powerful status. Personal protection. We haven’t stopped praying, but our motives have changed. Our desires have leaned earthly when they should be tilted eternal. Our prayers have become about what we can get from God rather than who we can be for God. We repeatedly choose the earthly over the eternal, continually failing to give any thought to the fact that eternity is coming, and we have to choose. Heaven or Hell. (James 4:3; I John 2:15-17; Jeremiah 17:5; Ephesians 2:8) 

We really don’t like that thought. At all. We are not comfortable sitting in contemplation about eternity. It is too nebulous. Too unknown. Too unsettling. I know. It’s scary. Terrifying, really. That is why we need to make an informed decision. Make a choice based on the truths we do know, what we have learned from Biblical accounts and personal narratives. A choice for ourselves. About how we live our lives, who we glorify, who we praise, who we trust. There are only two options. God or ourselves. And there are only two eternal outcomes. Heaven or Hell. It is imperative to choose wisely. (Joshua 24:15; Deuteronomy 30:19; Matthew 7:13-14; Proverbs 12:28) 

Remembering that no decision is still a decision, it is time to take an honest look at yourself, your life, your heart, and consider what choice you have made concerning your eternity? Only you can change it. The choice is yours. So is the outcome. Choose your eternity wisely. (II Corinthians 13:5; I Peter 1:7; I John 4:1; Psalm 26:2; Matthew 16:24; John 12:26; 14:3; Revelation 3:20)     

I am not a runner. At all. With the exception of jogging a few steps now and again, dashing through the rain, or giving chase to either of my Malamutes when they abscond with something they shouldn’t, I do not run. At all. I am not sporty. I do not hit balls with bats, rackets, or paddles, nor do I kick them around grassy fields. I am not an athlete. At all. I am a walker. A step tracker. A devoted one. I do it every day. Intentionally. I don’t take days off. I can’t. I know myself. One would lead to a few. A few would become many. In less time than one would think, my moderate exercise would be a thing of the past. I don’t want that. So walking is part of my life discipline. Every day. Multiple miles. Thousands of steps. Whether I want to or not. 

The Apostle Paul must have been a walker, too. Thousands of miles encompass his missionary journeys. An astonishing number of those miles were travelled on foot over rough, uneven ground, in shoes not lined with memory foam, arch supports, or shock absorption. Many were the times he arrived at his destination exhausted. His feet sore. His shoes damaged. His spirits high. Because Paul was on a mission. A mission to spread the Gospel and make disciples everywhere he could. Intentionally. In the face of peril, persecution, and punishment, Paul kept walking. Kept traveling. When he was tired. When he was sore. When his feet hurt. When it would have been easier to stay in one place and build his own church. Paul didn’t allow himself to stop. In determination, with great discipline, Paul kept going. Because discipline is the greater part of discipleship. 

It was a fact Paul knew well, one he repeatedly wrote about. The most difficult, yet most important part of being a disciple of Jesus Christ was discipline. The same type of discipline exhibited by athletes. The kind of discipline that had them rising every day to go back to the ring, get out on the track, return to the mat for more training, more practice, more work. It was pushing themselves to do more, go farther, work harder than they thought they could. It was the knowledge that, while training hard was painful in the present, it would pay off in the future. 

Paul seems to know quite a bit about sports and training. One wonders how. Perhaps he was an athlete in his younger years. Maybe he grew up watching or hearing about the Isthmian games. Perhaps he simply loved exercise and relished competition. Whatever the reason, he seems to have quite an affinity for the sports of his day. Especially running. He frequently mentions it in his epistles, along with boxing and wrestling. His words exhibit complete understanding of what it takes to win at sports and the awareness that being a true competitor requires discipline and dedication. Boxers do not show up and randomly beat the air. Winning runners do not line up at the starting line without months of grueling training. Wrestlers do not stroll into the ring expecting to win after months out of practice. No athlete who wants to win can afford to sacrifice their disciplined lifestyle. Their diets must remain healthy. Their rest must be balanced. Their training must be consistent. Paul knew all of that. He also knew the same applies to being a disciple of Jesus Christ, to winning an eternal prize, not an earthly one.  

By his own admission, Paul wasn’t about losing. At all. He had no time for that. Refused to entertain the thought. He was strictly focused on winning. Eternally. He lived every day with that purpose. Every step he took was monitored and measured. Every area of his life was disciplined and dedicated. Every day was spent training himself, his heart, his mind, to do what he should do rather than what he wanted to do. Not because there was some grand earthly prize on offer. No. There was nothing on earth that meant enough to Paul for him to exert that much energy, force that much focus, live with that much discipline. Nothing. But there was something in eternity. Life. Paul deemed finding eternal life worth every ounce of energy, every second of discipline, every moment of intense focus. Paul wanted eternal life in the world to come more than he wanted anything in the world at present. So he practiced telling himself “no.” He trained for moments of temptation, moments of exhaustion, moments when everything seemed to be going wrong. He trained to stand strong when he knew he would be at his weakest. He put a guard around his heart and mind. He strictly disciplined his words, thoughts, and actions. Paul was willing to settle for nothing less than winning the prize of eternal life. He wanted everyone to secure the same. And, surprisingly, they could. (I Corinthians 9:24-27; II Corinthians 10:5; 12:9; Philippians 3:8,14; II Timothy 4:7-8)

Unlike the other races of Paul’s day, everyone could run, and everyone could win. It was a new concept to them. They were not from the day of participation trophies. They were not accustomed to the weaker, slower, or stumbling racer having a chance at the prize. They would never get there in time. The prizes always went to the strongest, the swiftest, the most surefooted. There was only one winner in their foot races. Only one wreath would be given. Only one prize was on offer. But the race Paul was calling them to enter was notably different. It required the same amount of training, dedication, discipline, and commitment, but it came with a surety. Everyone who put in the effort would win the prize. Everyone. They simply had to run the race of life in such a way that they would win. 

Paul didn’t leave them in the dark as to what that entailed. Even as he issued the challenge of “Run to win!” He didn’t leave them wondering how. How to stay focused and disciplined in the face of evil, harassment, social pressure, and persecution. How to keep pace when they were tired, discouraged, frustrated, or confused. How to show up, day after day, and put in the time, the effort, the energy to stay on course and win the prize of eternal life. No. Paul didn’t leave them hanging. He consistently offered many instructions on how to successfully win the prize at the end of the race called life. 

Scattered throughout his epistles, Paul leaves several exhortations to encourage the people then and us now to finish the race strong. Their summation is in I Corinthians 7:19. “The most important thing is to keep God’s commandments.” He didn’t really need to expound on it. God’s commands are self-explanatory. They preach themselves. They are concise and precise. They do not end in question marks. Adherence to the commandments of God without exception is the basis of Christian discipline. And His rules are not outside the pale. Many are basic human principles. Don’t lie, cheat, steal, or murder. Don’t let anything usurp the place of God in your life. Not yourself. Not your things. Not your world. Live a life that honors God from a heart that is surrendered to God, the place He reigns supreme and where only His will is done. Those are God’s commands, in a nutshell. Yet, upon seeing their behavior and how quick they were to make exceptions and create caveats, Paul felt the churches he was shepherding needed more guidance on practical application. Perhaps you have yet to notice, but it appears we need the same. (I Corinthians 7:19; Exodus 20:3-17)

In words that likely left people properly gobsmacked, Paul let loose a volley of astonishing memorandums meant to shore up their edges and protect their souls. “Don’t associate with people who claim to be followers of Jesus Christ yet engage in decidedly unChristlike behaviors.” Greed. Idolatry. Sexual sins. Abusers. Drunks. Cheaters. Don’t spend time with these people. Don’t allow your presence to give the impression of approval. Don’t make a moment where their behaviors might rub off on you. Don’t give them time to convince you that what they are doing is really okay. You can’t. It is too dangerous. Spending time in that environment will dull your discernment and endanger your dedication. It will actually lead you into confusion and temptation. A place God isn’t. He would never lead you there. That isn’t what God does. Ever. God wants you to win the race. He wants you to gain eternal life through disciplined obedience to His commands that never change, cannot be altered by man, and are always in your best interest. God is not present in any environment that calls wrong right or right wrong, so you shouldn’t be there either. (I Corinthians 5:11; 6:9-11; 15:33-34; James 1:13; Psalm 111:7-8; Isaiah 5:20; II Peter 3:9) 

Furthering his elaboration by using historical illustrations, Paul warns the people about becoming weary in doing good. Getting frustrated with God when things aren’t easy or don’t go as planned. Testing God to see if He is still there, still helping, still watching, still caring. Grumbling against Him when the path you are running seems to be uphill both ways. Those were all things the people of Israel had done when they were wandering the wilderness after leaving Egypt. God wasn’t pleased. It hadn’t ended well. Take the lesson, not the experience. Choose to trust when you cannot see. Choose to stay the course even when it is difficult and unpopular. Choose to believe and rest in the promise that God has only good things in mind for His children. (Matthew 7:11; James 1:17; Psalm 37:3; Philippians 2:14-15; Matthew 7:13-14; Romans 8:28; Exodus 14-33)

Diligently guard against spiritual arrogance. Be wary of thinking you have arrived at the pinnacle of sainthood. You haven’t. Not unless you have already received your prize of eternal life. Getting safely this far on your journey is not down to you or your abilities, either. Don’t think it is. It has all been God. His strength. Your weakness. By yourself, you are just one pitfall, one conversation, one distraction away from falling into temptation. So don’t let down your guard. Stay awake. Stay alert. Stay aware. The evil one is out to get you in whatever way he can. Don’t fall for his congratulatory exclamations and premature celebrations. Stay disciplined. Stay focused. Stay informed. Keep reading your Bible. Know what it says. Keep talking with God. Know what He has to say to you. Guard your heart with meticulous diligence, so you don’t fall away, go off course, or stop running altogether. Refuse to allow the lies of the evil one to convince you that you have already won, and in so doing, steal your prize of eternal life. (I Corinthians 10:1-13; Galatians 6:9; II Corinthians 10:5; Proverbs 4:23)

Summing up his exhortations, in the final bit of I Corinthians, the Apostle Paul puts everything in a succinct list for us. All of us. Them then. Us now. A basic checklist for running a successful race that is certain to win the prize of eternal life. Be strong in your faith. Don’t let anyone tell you what to believe. Check everything against the Word of God. Be immovable from your course. Don’t color outside the lines. Don’t opt for an easier path. Don’t look for a different way. Have tunnel vision. Guard yourself. Be watchful. Be aware. Stand firmly. Don’t bend or bow. Resist the urge to make concessions. Be courageous. Don’t wimp out. Don’t run from adversity. Face it head-on. Be strong. Be forceful. Be secure in what you believe. Do it all with love. Honestly. Kindly. Remembering that love is not always approval, sometimes love is reproof. And, most of all, run with patience and diligence, discipline and endurance. Run in such a way that you can be assured of winning the crown of life, which the Lord, the only Righteous Judge, will place on your head when you cross the finish line. Run intentionally. Run determinedly. Run with discipline. Run to win. (I Corinthians 15:58; 16:13-14; James 1:12; I Peter 5:4; Revelation 2:10; Hebrews 12:1; I Timothy 6:12; II Timothy 2:5) 

It was meticulous work. Like setting a banquet for a king. Everything had a place. Everything must be in its place. Every linen sharply folded and perfectly placed. Every utensil carefully aligned. Every ornament angled to showcase its beauty or radiantly shed its light. Aaron understood the process well. Although he had never set a king’s table, he had often set The King’s table. Carefully positioned the showbread. Painstakingly placed furniture in its designated space. Precisely noted direction, spacing, and lighting, because every time they moved, so did the Tabernacle. Every time they set up camp, they reset the Tabernacle. Not haphazardly. Perfectly. Aaron knew the steps by heart. Had memorized them.  

Listening carefully to Moses’ instruction, Aaron had made the appropriate mental notes.  He understood the importance of obeying every single direction regarding the Tabernacle. Every piece of furniture, every location, every wall, every curtain, every thread was symbolic of their relationship and covenant with God. But Aaron was human. He had many duties. He was in charge of a new endeavor, overseeing sacrifices and offerings, keeping the lamps trimmed and burning, refusing to let the fire of God go out in the Tabernacle. The responsibility felt heavy. Yes, he had assistants. Yes, there were other priests. But Aaron was the high priest, the overseer. Authority rested on his shoulders. If things went sideways, he must answer for it. Correct it. Ensure it didn’t happen again. It wasn’t his favorite part of the job. (Exodus 27:20-21; Leviticus 21:1-4; Numbers 17)

Carefully, he worked to ensure everything was done correctly. Every piece of furniture facing the correct direction. Every table set exactly. Every little burning bowl of oil tilted at just the right angle. Those seven lamps on the lampstand must face forward. Always. Not sideways. Not backwards. Not helter-skelter. Forward. Only. Light from those lamps needed to illuminate the entire area. In front of the Altar of Incense. Across to the table of showbread. Everything should be awash in their light. Every step of the priests illuminated. Every work area well-lit. Every example and reminder of the goodness of God and their covenant with Him brightly seen by every priest who entered The Holy Place. A reminder to those men to carry that promise, that truth, that reminder out to the people. The light of God’s presence surrounded them. He was with them. Among them. Within them. (Exodus 25:37; Numbers 8:2)

Those lights were constantly kept burning. Oil was regularly replenished. Wicks trimmed. Bowls cleaned. Never once were those lights to become dim. Because the presence of God wasn’t going anywhere. It shone from within the Tabernacle. It filled the hearts and lives of those who obeyed and followed Him. It shined out for the people whose land they travelled through to see. It echoed in their victories, resounded in their protection, resonated in God’s acts of provision. The light of God lived among them. He was their God. They were His people. They were supposed to live like it. (Leviticus 24:1-4; Exodus 13:21; 16:11-17; 17:8-13; 34:15-16)

Part of living like it was to be God’s light in the world. The Israelites travelled through some dark places. Places where sin and idolatry threatened to pull them aside. Sometimes it did. For some of them. Sometimes the pull of sin was so great, their self-control so small, their choice to live in the light of God seemed impossible to make. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes they sinned, angered God, even to the point He considered weeding out the chaff. Destroying the people altogether. He didn’t. That wasn’t the message He wanted to send to the watching world. He wanted the people who didn’t know Him to watch His care for His people, whom He was actively among, and know that He was God. Above all Gods. He wanted them to see the light of His presence. Even when the darkness of the world threatened to diminish His light, God’s presence never went out. It never left. The light remained. (Numbers 14:1-25)

People didn’t understand it. They never would. Centuries later, as the New Testament dawned and Jesus made His appearance as the light of God in the darkness of the world, they still missed it. So distracted were they by the things of the world, the worries of life, the cares of the day, the desires to have more, be more, do more, many missed the light. The wealthy young aristocrat. The Pharisees. The Sadducees. Pilate. Still, some recognized it. Some people realized Jesus was the light of the world. Nicodemus. The man blind from birth. The demoniac from the Gadarenes. Every single one of the twelve disciples. Some saw He was the one who could illuminate their darkened hearts, the darkened world, their darkened paths. He could give them light and life. He could and would be the light in their hearts that never goes out. Ever. Even in persecution, imprisonment, and death. (John 3:1-21; 8:12; 9:1-41; Mark 4:19; 15:6-15; Luke 8:26-39; 18:18-23) 

Stephen believed. With every fiber of his being. So changed was he by the light of God shed abroad in His heart that he went about preaching the word of God. Everywhere. Performing miracles and signs in Jesus’ name and power. Spreading the light as far as he could. As many as were excited to hear his truth and bathe in the light radiating from his spirit, not everyone felt the same. Pulled into a lively debate in the synagogue, some who refused to walk into the light of Jesus Christ, told lies about him. Stirred up trouble. Got him arrested. His story never changed. But his face did. It silenced the entire high council into staring. It shone. Radiated light. As bright as an angel. 

Asked if the accusations against him were true, Stephen launched into a sermon. He boldly did his part to speak truth and shed the light of God into the darkened minds and hearts of those men. They weren’t interested. Still, Stephen’s light shone. As he was shoved to his knees in anger and rebuke. As rocks pummeled his body. Even when he started to get dizzy and faint from too many blows to the head, the light of Christ shone through. Echoing words similar to that of Jesus on the cross, he commended himself to God and asked that his murderers not be charged in Heaven’s courts. Light. Illuminating the truth of Jesus to the world. From a light that was constantly lit and facing forward. (Acts 6:8-7:60) 

The command has never changed. Never once, in all of recorded Scripture, have we been told to let the light go out. That we don’t need it anymore. That there’s no need to trim the wicks, keep the glass clean and spotless, or let the oil burn down. Quite the converse. In fact, in one of His parables, Jesus tells us the exact opposite. Keep your lamp clean and trimmed and burning. Keep a supply of oil. Don’t let the light of Christ go out. Not in your heart. Not in your home. Not in your world. Your light is necessary there. Necessary everywhere. Because you are the light of the world. (Matthew 25:1-14; Luke 12:35)

Jesus said it. Shortly into His sermon on the mountainside, following a list of ways to do so, Jesus tells His followers that they are to be the light. Of the world. They are to be constantly clean and pure and filled with Him. They are to represent His presence, His power, His preeminence. In humility, mercy, purity, and peace. In the midst of persecution. When society shuns them, when neighbors revile them, when people spread rumors and lies behind their backs. Their actions then should reveal the light of Christ in them. It should radiate from their faces, resonate in their words, reverberate through their actions. In fact, actions are the only thing Jesus references when He issues this statement. Do good. To everyone. Let goodness shine from you in the way you treat other people, in the way you help others, in the way you give to the poor, in the causes you support, the way you handle adversity, the manner in which you resolve conflicts, disagreements, or differences of opinion. Let the light and love of Jesus Christ shine so radiantly through you that everything you do reflects the heart and nature of God. And don’t hide it. Ever. For any reason. (Matthew 5:14-16; Ephesians 5:8)

It is easy to do. Dim our light. Hide it. Shield it. Hold it at a different angle so we don’t have to stand up and explain our choices, don’t have to face the discrimination, don’t have to answer the backlash. Especially in our world of loose morals and low standards. Dimming the light of Christ in us is an incredibly easy and wildly attractive option. It is tempting to hide our beliefs and convictions. Keep quiet rather than speaking up. Quietly endure irreverent humor and explicit conversations. Embrace gossip groups and slander sessions. Allow yourself to spend time in questionable circumstances where temptation lurks, and the pressure to dim your light is nearly impossible to resist. Don’t do it. Don’t let your light dim. Don’t let it go out. Don’t participate in the things that will drain your oil and snuff your flame. No matter what it costs you to keep the light of Christ in your heart trimmed and burning brightly, do it. Refuse temptation. Resist the devil. Run from evil. Remembering this, your reward isn’t in the praise and prosperity and popularity of earth. Your prize is in Heaven. But you have to get there to claim it. And to get there, you have to walk with God, be in God, obey God in every word and action. You have to be the light of Christ, facing forward, illuminating the world. (Philippians 4:8; Ephesians 4:29; I Corinthians 15:33; Proverbs 4:14-15)  

Let’s be very clear, here. You can only be the light of the world if Christ is living in you, if His presence walks daily beside you, if your life echoes Him in every word and action. His goodness. His patience. His kindness. Although there may be a point when you can gently do so, being the light isn’t pointing out everyone else’s flaws. That isn’t your job. You were not sent to police the world. Being the light is about you. About living right yourself. About keeping your eyes on your own paper. About standing firmly and boldly in the Word of God and what it teaches. It is refusing to be swayed or moved by the ever-loosening morals of society. Being the light of Christ in the world is speaking truth in love, with grace, offering mercy. Living peaceably, but not passively. Actively shining your light forward so other people’s paths will be illuminated by the light of Christ, and they will come to know Him, follow Him, and worship Him. (Ephesians 2:10; 4:15; 6:10-18; Titus 3:8; Hebrews 10:24; James 1:22-25; 2:14-26; Colossians 4:6)

Don’t hide your light. Ever. No matter how tempting it is to shy away from the opposition, angry tirades, or derisive comments. Don’t be swayed. Don’t be drawn aside. Don’t get discouraged. Don’t stop following what you know to be true. No matter how thick or convincing the darkness around you, never allow your light to be covered. Don’t give in to the urge to hide your convictions, beliefs, religion, or the truth of God from a world that despises it. Tend your lamp. Keep it trimmed. Keep it burning by meticulously guarding your heart and mind. Keep it facing forward, shining brightly, illuminating every corner of the darkened world around you. Live in the light. Walk in the light. Be the light that faces forward and directs everyone to Christ. (Philippians 2:15; I Corinthians 4:20; I John 1:5-7; Ephesians 5:8-14)