Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

This was ridiculous. Aggravating. Frustrating. Offensive. To be chased down and accused of something they hadn’t done was the epitome of insulting. Especially by friends. Men they considered brothers. People who were supposed to have their backs in battle. Instead, they were pursuing them at breakneck speed. Making assumptions. Jumping to conclusions. Hurling accusations. Having screeched to a halt before the men of Gilead with barely a cursory greeting, the leaders of Israel began their diatribe. They had heard about the altar built by the Jordan River. They had seen it themselves as they passed. They were appalled. Aghast. Angry. Able to build up a full head of steam on the journey, the ten leaders of Israel had a lot of words for the men of Reuben, Gad, and the half-tribe of Manasseh. 

Barely had they come to a halt before accusations began pouring from their lips. They knew what the moving tribes were up to. They knew they had evil intentions. It was obvious they were already straying from the commands of God. Well. The remaining ten tribes weren’t having it. At all. As they spoke, their people were sharpening swords and shining armor, preparing for battle. That altar was worth fighting over. Because they were scared. Terrified, really. Not so much because they were affronted by the building of a new altar or that the people might decide to offer sacrifices there rather than as required on the altar at the Tabernacle. Not really. This fear was personal. Rooted in history. Deeply established in self-preservation. The ten tribes left on the other side of the Jordan were beside themselves with fear that the consequences of another man’s sin would be visited on them all. Like it had in the past. At Peor. At Ai. 

At Peor, twenty-four thousand people died because the men of Israel became distracted and enamored by foreign women and drawn into idol worship. At Ai, an entire family had been killed because one man, Achan, had coveted, stolen, and hidden articles God said to leave alone. It seemed whenever someone in Israel sinned, others got caught up in the punishment. It was terrifying. Horrifying. And the current leaders of Israel weren’t having it. They were completely uninterested in being caught in that net. They didn’t want to suffer. They didn’t want to die. They didn’t want their families to either. In fear of the supposed outcome to their imagined situation, the ten men had worked up an entire scenario in which they were all in danger because of this newly constructed altar. Driven by this angst, they approached the men of Reuben, Gad, and the half-tribe of Manassah with a volley of presumptive words when a calm, clarifying question would do. (Numbers 25: Joshua 7)

There didn’t need to be a big confrontation. No one needed to ride in, verbal guns blazing. It wasn’t like that. At all. They had completely misread the situation. There was no treachery involved. No nefarious intentions implied. Although it was true they had built a large, imposing altar, the builders had no intention of offering sacrifices to God or anyone else there. It wasn’t for sacrificing animals or burning offerings. They weren’t descending into immorality and idolatry. They hadn’t sinned against God now, and they weren’t planning to do so in the future. No. This altar wasn’t about sacrifices and offerings. It was about remembrances. For them. For their descendants in Gilead. For the remaining tribes of Israel and their descendants on the other side of the Jordan. The altar was meant to remind them that they belonged to God. All of them. To the same God. All of them should be granted access to the Tabernacle altar. No matter their street address or country of origin. No one should be barred, banned, or denied access to the Tabernacle. Ever.  

Admittedly, building the symbolic altar had been an afterthought. After they packed and loaded. After they left. After they put enough miles behind them that going back to hammer out any details was inconvenient. After they had time to travel in silence and let their minds wander. That’s when they started to think that perhaps, someday, maybe the children of the people they left behind would claim sole use of the temple. They would say the children of Reuben, Gad, and the half-tribe of Manasseh didn’t belong, couldn’t be part, weren’t welcome. It frightened them. Worried them. So the memorial altar had come into being. As a symbol. A reminder. A place to acknowledge that, no matter what side of the Jordan they inhabited, no matter whose tribe they were from, no matter if they visited the Tabernacle every week or twice annually, they were all God’s people. Every single one of them.  

Clearly, their plan backfired. Although the builder’s intentions were benign, their pursuers were unconvinced. They viewed that alter in the worst possible light. Their minds went straight there, in fact, as if they were looking for a reason to judge the men of Reuben, Gad, and the half-tribe of Manasseh and find them worthy of excommunication. It is all said in their approach. The way they stormed into the camp, making accusations based on assumptions with no real evidence to back up their claims. Usurping God’s duties, they crowned themselves judge, jury, and executioner. They were ready to go to war! Without asking questions. Without getting the facts. Without the capacity to know and read the hearts and minds of the accused. The men from the remaining ten tribes of Israel just made things up as they went along, carried by fear, and nearly declared war on innocent people. (Joshua 22)

If you aren’t squirming in your seat by now, you probably should be. We have all been there. Every single one of us. We judge on what we see and pretend full comprehension of what we can’t see or possibly know. We covetously judge on outward appearance. The size of someone’s house. The flash of their car. The size of their wedding ring. We look at tables to which we weren’t invited, and jealously judge the people who have been. We pretentiously judge responses we can’t possibly understand. We self-righteously judge choices made by people whose life experiences differ drastically from ours. Frightened to exit our comfort zones and pre-determined notions of what Christianity and church should look like, we judge the people who have courage to extend grace, offer kindness, show love, embrace differences, and overcome divisions when we aren’t brave enough to step out and do so. 

Over the years of my life, I have heard this type of judgment called, “fruit inspection.” It’s a play on Jesus’ words stating that Christ followers will be obvious by their fruits. It is true. The fruits of the Spirit will be evident in those who truly know and follow Jesus. Their feet won’t run to do evil. Their tongues won’t race to share gossip. They won’t share assumptions built on too little evidence garnered from their own jaundiced opinion. They won’t be quick to tell everything they know about everyone they know to anyone eagerly willing to listen. They also won’t judge others. At all. Not even as “fruit inspectors.” (Matthew 7:15-20; Galatians 5:22-23; Proverbs 1:10,16; James 3:6; 4:11-12; Romans 2:1, 14:13) 

You see, true followers of God know that judging isn’t their job. It’s God’s. He is the just Judge. Of everyone. He knows the thoughts and intentions of every heart. Even theirs. He doesn’t need any of us to don our black robes and pick up our gavels. In His courtroom, our opinion is superfluous to the requirement. The only opinion that matters is God’s. And true people of God, those who seek after His heart, who walk daily in His footsteps, know this. They also know that they, too, will stand before the bench in that very same courtroom. A verdict will be read over them. And they intentionally live in such a way that it will clearly say, “Well done.”  (I Peter 1:17; Psalm 96:13; I Chronicles 28:9; Hebrews 4:12)

That courtroom verdict is the reason we do the things we do, make the choices we make, school our thoughts, and watch our words. It is why, in a world that encourages us to make our own assumptions, draw our own conclusions, build our own accusations, and openly share our opinions, we must choose to let our words be few. It is why we must actively ignore societal norms and magnanimously extend grace, offer mercy, exude love. It is the reason we must sternly admonish ourselves to mind our own business and admit that we have no capacity to identify motives, assign emotions, or determine desires based on what we see or what gossip we hear. It is the reason we must actively resist the urge to judge others. At all. It is a solemn reminder that there is only one just Judge, only One who gets it right every time, only One who decides fairly. God. And it is His job to do, not ours. Our job is to focus on our own hearts and lives and words. Our job is to weigh our own actions against the commands of God. Our job is to listen to the needs of others, the stories of others, carry the pain of others, with love, out of love, in love. Without judgment. Because love listens. (Ecclesiastes 5:2; II Corinthians 13:5) 

Had the leaders of the tribes of Israel simply asked for the truth and settled in to listen, Joshua 22 would be a shorter chapter. Those men said a lot of words before they shut up and listened to the truth of the situation. They threw a lot of accusations. Made a lot of judgments. Set the stage for a lot of division. Except it didn’t happen. Because love listens. The men of Reuben, Gad, and the half-tribe of Manasseh modeled this beautifully. They listened first. They heard all the inaccurate judgments against them, allowed their accusers to exhaust their diatribe, then they spoke. Humbly. Respectfully. Gently. They diffused the tension, created an opportunity to form a bond, build unity, create a stronger community. They listened first, explained second. Because Godly love listens first. Before assumptions. Before accusations. Before opinions. Before judgments. Godly love asks questions, obtains answers, gains understanding. It is patient, waiting its turn. It is kind, being careful with the hearts of others. It is never rude, demanding, or demeaning. It is the love of God. Spread through the people of God. To every Creation of God. All people. Everywhere. (I Corinthians 13:4-7; I Peter 3:8-9; Proverbs 15:1; Genesis 1:27; Colossians 1:16)

The hardest thing to do in this world of noise and opinions is listen. It is easy to get so caught up in the sharing of thoughts and assumptions that we just keep talking and drop our opinions in the mix as well. Judging others is so accepted and encouraged, even within the Christian community, that it has become one of the biggest sources of fracture. It is the tool of the evil one to cause division, create tension, inflict pain. And it isn’t godly. At all. It has no place there. Not in our hearts. Not in our homes. Not in God’s house. It is up to you to change it. Choose to show grace and mercy and love. Choose not to spread or share the things you have heard or know. Choose not to break confidences. Choose not to judge others on outward appearance, 15-second interactions, or the opinion of your best friend. Seek the truth. Ask questions. Hear truth. Heal hearts, mend wounds, build strength with love. Because real love listens. (James 1:19; Proverbs 10:19; 18:13; Romans 1:29-32; II Corinthians 5:16)

As the sun set on yet another uneventful day, he lowered his head and braced himself for the flood of oncoming emotions. Disappointment. Discouragement. Disbelief. Doubt. He knew them well. For seven days he had lived with them. They dogged his steps. Filled his mind. Tortured his heart. Disappointment haunted his memory. Discouragement posed uncomfortable questions. Disbelief ricocheted through him. Doubt whispered plausible, yet erroneous, suggestions in his ear. Overcome by feelings of rejection, fear, and uncertainty, Thomas scrubbed his face with his hands and hoped perhaps tomorrow would be better. Maybe day eight would be the one. Maybe it held the moment Jesus would visit him. (John 20:26)

He hadn’t intentionally been out roaming the streets the last time Jesus had come. Who would be? With soldiers and Jewish leaders on the prowl, Jesus’ followers weren’t out boldly announcing their religious stance. They were scared. They were hiding. They were keeping the lights dim and their voices low. Not one of them wanted to draw attention to the group gathered behind closed and bolted doors. They didn’t want to draw attention to themselves in public, either. One by one they went out to conduct only the most imperative business. Furtively peeking around corners. Carefully listening to conversations. Always alert to possible danger. It was perilous business. It seemed their lives were at stake. As much as they wanted to spread the good news of Jesus, it was too dangerous. So they stayed secured indoors. Shrouded in darkness. Hemmed in by silence. Just like Jesus in the tomb.

Thoughts of Jesus’ lying in that cold, dark, silent tomb, guarded by soldiers broke Thomas’ heart. The whole story did. He hadn’t witnessed it, only John had been there, but Thomas had certainly heard the accounts. Some gleefully told. Some quietly reported through torrents of tears. He couldn’t imagine the fear, the horror, the pain. The finality. Thomas hadn’t witnessed the empty tomb, either. Peter and John were the ones who had raced there, looking for truth in the words Mary Magdalene spoke. She had been correct. Jesus wasn’t there. The stone was gone. The linens were folded. The tomb was empty. Jesus was missing. Until He walked through a locked door to visit His terrified disciples. But Thomas missed that event, too. He was the only one not present. Every other one of the remaining eleven were there. They all saw Him. Everyone except Thomas. (John 20:1-23)

Ducking out of their hiding place for a few necessities, Thomas had been gone only a short time. Slipping through the door and slamming the bolt in place, he let out a sigh of relief and turned to face the room. What he saw had his eyes bugging out in surprise. The room was in a hushed hubbub. Obviously excited. Faces radiant. Joyful tears on cheeks. Whispered words of awed praise sounded across the room. He had clearly missed something. He had no idea what. Until one of the other men spoke, his words hitting Thomas like a punch to the gut. The women were right. Jesus was risen. The men were certain now, too. In Thomas’ absence, “Jesus was here!” (John 20:24-25)

What?!?! In the short time he had been gone, Jesus came? In the flesh? Disappointment fell heavily over Thomas heart. Tears filled his eyes. Not ones of rejoicing. Tears of sadness. Tears of disappointment. Tears of grief. He had missed Him. Missed seeing Jesus. And who knew if He was going to appear again? Who knew where? Who knew when? The possibility that Jesus wasn’t going to physically appear to them again was very real. Thomas knew that. Responding from a place of emotional pain and disappointment, Thomas vowed he wouldn’t believe. Not that Jesus had risen. Not that He was alive. Not that He had visited anyone. Not unless he saw Him with his very own eyes. Not unless his own finger could trace the nail scars in Jesus’ hands. Not unless Thomas could put his own hand in the wound on His side. (John 20:25)

Thomas’ rash words saddled him with the modern day moniker of “Doubting Thomas.” An odd occurrence as it seems to be the only record of him showing any form of doubt. He didn’t voice doubt that Jesus could feed the multitude. He didn’t express dubiosity over Jesus’ ability to heal the sick or give sight to the blind. He wasn’t the guy testing Jesus to see if it was really Him walking on the water toward them. But Thomas was a realist. He believed what he saw. He saw Jesus doing good and loving sinners. So Thomas believed God was love. He watched Jesus heal and help and deliver people from sickness, situations, and savagery beyond their control. So he believed God was all-powerful. He experienced Jesus appearing beside them when He hadn’t travelled with them. So he believed God was transcendent. But Thomas hadn’t watched Jesus die on the cross, visited the empty tomb, or been present when Jesus visited the disciples. It had all been hearsay. He hadn’t experienced it. But he had experienced the flood of emotions that went with not witnessing those things. Guilt. Worry. Uncertainty. Fear. (John 6:1-14; 9:1-9; Luke 17:11-19; Matthew 14:29-32; Mark 5:1-20)

Having fled the scene of Jesus’ betrayal to save his own neck, Thomas knew guilt. Was wracked with it. He wished he had done something different. Stayed and fought. Stood his ground. Anything to save himself the guilt of running away. He’d acted out of fear. Terror, really. It had been the scariest moment of his life. It was why he ran, why he didn’t follow Jesus the way he’d sworn to do. It was likely the underlying motivation behind his unbelief now. Those ridiculous words of refusal were the result of ricocheting fear ping-ponging around his mind, planting unfounded thoughts and ideas. Like maybe Jesus purposely visited when Thomas was out. Maybe Jesus didn’t want to see him. Maybe he wasn’t as important as everyone else. Maybe Jesus didn’t love him after all. Springboarding from those ideas, fear then suggested his rejection. God had weighed Thomas in the balance, found him less than desirable, and ordered Jesus to cut him off without a word. The thought was enough to fill Thomas with uncertainty. About where he stood with God. Who he was to Jesus. What he was called to do. Who was Thomas if, after devoting 3 years of his life to following and serving Jesus, he was suddenly cut off without warning? 

We will never know, because he wasn’t. Eight days after Jesus appeared to the other disciples, He stopped in again to visit Thomas. Especially Thomas. Perhaps only Thomas. Holding out His palms and baring His side, Jesus invited Thomas to do whatever it took to throw caution to the wind and place his faith in the resurrected Lord. Look with his eyes. Touch with his hands. Grab the tiny vestiges of his tattered faith and believe. For time. For eternity. Believe that the tomb was empty. Believe that Jesus had risen. Believe that his Lord and his God who once was dead was now alive. Believe that he could live every day of the rest of his life in the reality of a resurrected Redeemer. When the heavens were silent, when things went badly, when answers weren’t available, when he couldn’t see the next step in front of him, all Thomas needed was to choose to have faith in God. And he did. (John 20:26-29)

I don’t know what corner you are crouching in right now, disappointed, scared, on the brink of despair, and sinking in doubt. I don’t know what answer you are waiting on or how low your level of faith has become. I don’t know which one of fear’s random thoughts has gripped your mind and choked your soul. I do know this. They aren’t true. None of them. You are loved. You are forgiven. You are wanted. There is a place for you at God’s table and a job for you in His kingdom. Waiting on your answer for eight days, eight weeks, eight months, or eight years, is not indicative of God’s delight in you. He rejoices over you with singing! Beautiful singing. Perfect pitch singing. Music that delights the ear and warms the soul type of singing. Even if you messed up like Thomas. Even if your fear triumphed over your faith for a minute. Don’t give up. Don’t count yourself out. Don’t decide you are unworthy. Choose to believe your answer is coming. An answer just for you. The right answer. Just for your need. It will come. At just the right time. It will arrive. Special delivery. By the nail scarred hands of the resurrected Savior. Wait for it. Choose faith in God. Even when it is hard. Even when it takes time. Even if you don’t see Him working. Believe in Him. Rest in His love. Trust in His power. Make your home in the words of your resurrected Lord, “Blessedly happy, beautifully favored, abundantly satisfied are those who choose to believe in My power and rest in My presence, even though we have never physically met.” (John 8:44; 14:1; 20:29; II Timothy 1:7; Mark 11:22; II Corinthians 5:7; Zepheniah 3:17; Ecclesiastes 3:11; Isaiah 55:8-9; Psalm 34:15; Romans 8:25; I Peter 1:8-9)

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Smooth, silver coins clattered as they hit the tile floor, rolling in every direction. It was a mess. Just like his life. It was a disaster, too. Full of accidental missteps and egregious errors. A thousand things he wasn’t proud of. A handful of things he was. Like being Jesus’ disciple. No matter how the gig had ended, he would never regret the time he’d spent as one of the chosen ones. He couldn’t. Those had been the best years of his life. Years brimming with miracles, ministry, mercy, and magnificent love. For him. Judas. No matter what he did. No matter how offensive the words he spoke. No matter how often his suspect heart was displayed for all to see. The love of Jesus still covered him, welcomed him, fed him. No matter who he was that day. Judas Iscariot. Disciple. Chief financial officer. Thief. Betrayer.  

He hadn’t meant to be those last two things. Not really. It all started so small. Skimming a few coins from the money bag had been the extent of his intentions. He thought it would be enough. He wasn’t planning to rob anyone blind. He wasn’t pocketing jewelry and valuables from the homes they visited. Largely, he kept his hands in his own pockets. He also kept his ear to the ground for opportunities to get more money. He wanted it. Needed it. Craved it. The love of money held his soul in an iron-tight grip. Judas was willing to do anything to have it. That was how he ended up here. Betraying his Savior. Selling his soul. For the love of money.  

Realizing how eager the priests and elders were to arrest Jesus, Judas arranged to meet them himself. Sneaking away from the other disciples, he quietly made his offer. He could get them what they wanted. A time. A place. An opportunity. All for a fee. A finder’s fee, if you will. A tiny sum. Paltry by any estimation. Just thirty pieces of silver. The going cost of a slave. The price of opportunity. That was his offer. Take it or leave it. They took it. (Exodus 21:32) 

So did Judas. Without discussion. Without explanation. Without taking a moment to unfold the plan and peruse the outcome. Judas took the money, made the arrangements, and handed them Jesus. Not once did he stop to consider whether or not those pious religious leaders had truly nefarious intentions. Not once did he consider trumped-up charges, planned narratives, and blatant lies. Not once did he worry that Jesus wouldn’t walk out of this situation unscathed, as He had so many other times before. Not once did Judas truly believe there was any charge that would stick. He knew there weren’t. He knew Jesus. Knew his history, his heart. Knew there was no reason to hold Him. No accusation worth imprisoning Him. No grounds to execute Him. When Judas approached those men to strike a business deal, he never dreamed things would go so far off the rails. Unfortunately, Judas had his money blinders on. The delicious weight of those coins in his hand clouded his thoughts. Silenced his conscience. Obscured the truth. Until it was too late.   

Arriving at the temple in the early morning, Judas found himself eavesdropping on an urgent meeting of the religious leaders. It was so much worse than he originally thought. Pain lanced through his soul as their words drifted across the quiet expanse of the room. They were actively plotting to kill Jesus. Creating a narrative. Building a case. Lining up witnesses. It was appalling! Horrifying. Breathtaking. Worse was the realization that he had aided their plan. He shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have approached them. Shouldn’t have made the offer. Should never have let the love of money take over his soul to the point of betraying someone who had only shown him love and kindness. Frozen in time, listening to their treacherous plans punctuated by evil chuckles, Judas regretted his actions. All of them. Regretted meeting them to propose an offer. Regretted receiving the bag of coins. Regretted leading the mob. Regretted kissing His cheek. Regretted the fact he was here lurking, listening, as the religious leaders plotted and planned their revenge against Jesus. Regretted that he was alive when Jesus would soon be dead. Because of him. 

Unceremoniously crashing the private meeting, Judas, filled with remorse, did his best to reverse the situation. Return the money. Release Jesus. Absolve his guilt. It wasn’t happening. No amount of wheedling or cajoling would change the minds of the priests and elders. What was done was done. The guilt was his own. They felt none. It was Judas’ problem. Not theirs. His feelings weren’t their concern. Not now. Not ever. Judas’ part of the agreement had been fulfilled. They were under no obligation to him. They had purchased his help fairly. Paid the amount up front. What he chose to do with the coins was up to him, but they would never rescind Jesus’ arrest. It was too late.  It was done. It was nearly finished. 

Anger and self-loathing collided in Judas’ soul as the words of rejection rang through the Temple. His hands were tied. There was nothing he could do. Despair and desperation engulfed him. The coins in his hand felt as though they weighed a thousand pounds. They dragged him down. He couldn’t wait to be rid of them. Money meant nothing to him anymore. Hurling the coins to the floor with violent force, he whirled around and ran from the building. At the end of himself, hopeless, helpless, overcome by sadness, regret, and remorse, desperate to be free from the haunting guilt, Judas fled to a copse of trees. And there, he hanged himself. (Matthew 26:14-16, 46-50; 27:1-5)

There is no sadder phrase in all of Scripture. Not for me. Nothing hurts my heart more when I read it. Feeling hopeless and helpless, believing himself to be beyond the reach of grace, past the point of mercy, Judas ended his life. He didn’t think there was anything left for him. He believed himself to be too bad, too evil for the amazing, unending, unfailing, redeeming love of God to reach him. Settled in that dark space with no one to tell him it wasn’t true, in despair, Judas gave up on living. Gave up on God. Gave up his soul. To death. I can’t stop the tears from welling up in my eyes when I think about it. Nor can I stop my mounting frustration as I realize how often we hear about how awful Judas was, how hard his heart, how evil his soul, yet we rarely hear that little, defining phrase from Matthew ever mentioned. Judas was filled with remorse. 

Judas wasn’t skipping down the road making plans for his riches, and just happened to get caught in a loose rope somewhere. No. Judas hanged himself. On purpose. Because he was filled with remorse. His heart was broken by his own actions. He regretted every part he’d played in Jesus’ arrest. He hated the part of himself that pressed him to do it. Judas saw himself for exactly what and who he was and was deeply repulsed. We never talk about it. I don’t know why. We are exactly the same. We are just like Judas. We rarely weigh the end results against the immediate gratification. We often fail to look before we leap. So excited are we to cut a favorable deal that we don’t stop to ask questions, read the fine print, or seek godly advice. We don’t stop to pray about it. To our great regret and remorse, just like Judas, we grab the pleasures of this life with both hands and make a run for it, stopping only in the aftermath to count the cost. 

You see, friend, Judas didn’t actually have the heart of a murderer. He had a heart just like yours. A heart that easily becomes distracted and enamored with earthly things and worldly comforts. A heart that wants some of Jesus, but not enough to change your life. A heart that craves decaf religion and Jesus’ lite. A heart that hopes Jesus will answer your prayers and fill your requests like an online ordering system, yet never make any demands of your life or take up any of your time. A heart that thinks it can get to Heaven by name-dropping Jesus rather than by a soul that is cleansed, a heart that is pure, and a life lived in holiness before God and man. Sound familiar? It should. That’s you. That’s me. That was Judas. He was just like us. He needed a Savior.

So do we. Buried in our self and sin, frequently betraying Jesus by our words and actions, we find ourselves in the exact same space as Judas. Hearts darkened by sin. Disgustingly evil. Yet remorseful. Regretful. Filled with despair. The voice of the evil one continually tells us there is no hope or help for people like us. We are too far gone. Beyond salvation. Without hope. Outside the reach of mercy, the grasp of grace. It says we have exhausted the love of God, that forgiveness is impossible. Don’t you buy that. Don’t even listen to it. It’s just not true. At all. The truth is this. Nothing can separate you from the love God has for you. It is inexhaustible. No matter what you have done or left undone. No matter who you have wronged or betrayed. No matter what unchangeable life choices you have made, the love of God transcends it all and offers forgiveness through the shed blood of Jesus on the cross. The one Judas sent Him to. The one He willingly hung on so He could offer you grace upon grace. Whenever you come to Him. Whoever you are. Wherever you have been. The darkest of sinners, the purist of saints. There are no exceptions. Whosoever will may come. No matter where your sins have taken you, the amazing love of God can bring you back, even if you are just like Judas. (Colossians 2:13-14; Revelation 22:17; John 3:16, 8:44; Romans 8:31-39, 10:13)

They were tired of being here. In this wilderness. At this campsite. By this mountain. They were tired of waiting. It was all they had done since they arrived. At least it was all they remembered. Moses had disappeared up the mountain for weeks. No messages back. No postcards of his progress. Just radio silence while they sat in the wilderness, waiting for his return, suspended between the promise of heaven and the memory of hell. Hell was most certainly behind them. Slavery in Egypt could be considered nothing less. The brutal conditions. The violent taskmasters. The impossible workload. It had been hell on earth. 

Stagnating in this wilderness was a close second. The food wasn’t great. The conditions barely tolerable. Water was often scarce. The terrain was unforgiving. But. Heaven was allegedly ahead of them, the promise of God for a land overflowing with abundance. Milk. Honey. Lush grass. Flourishing trees. Flowing water. Great abundance. They were anxious there. That final, delightful dwelling place. But they hadn’t moved in weeks. Months. Even though Moses had returned, they were still here. Stuck in their own purgatory. Waiting for Moses to give the signal.  Waiting for the pillars of cloud and fire to move. Waiting for the moment the promise would be a reality. Yet, as another silent morning dawned, they had to wonder if they were to blame for the extended stay. 

Admittedly, they had gone off the rails. Even for them. They weren’t averse to some grumbling and complaining. They experienced only a twinge of guilt at having wildly pouted until manna and meat fell from the sky. But creating, celebrating, and worshipping an actual idol was a step too far. Even for them. They knew it when they started the process, when they approached Aaron and twisted his arm, when they exuberantly collected their gold jewelry and threw it into the melting pot. It hadn’t mattered then. Their singular focus was retribution for Moses’ abandonment. He had left and taken too long to return. Their fickle faith had failed. They were bored. Their minds were wandering. The enemy was roaming the camp, liberally sprinkling discontent and angst. They needed something to do. Something to celebrate. Something to worship. Something, someone, to believe in because Moses had disappeared. 

Molding the calf, preparing the feast, and planning the celebration had gone beautifully. Better than expected. Until it hadn’t. Until Moses returned in the middle of their tumultuous festivities. It was a surprise. For all of them. The people and Moses alike. Moses was beyond angry. He was irate. Infuriated. Absolutely incandescent. The stone tablets inscribed with God’s own handwriting, carefully hauled down the mountain, ended up in a crumbled pile at his feet. Had a whip been readily available, he would have liberally doled out an Old Testament-style thrashing, foreshadowing the New Testament-style cleansing Jesus gave the temple. These people needed cleansing! They deserved stoning. Had Moses’ mind been clearer, he may have been inclined to use the broken tablets at his feet to stone them! They deserved it. Instead, striding into camp full of fury and purpose, Moses tore down their idol, ground it to powder, threw it in the water, and forced everyone to drink it. It did not taste good. It was disgusting. Their stomachs revolted. Violently. Perhaps they would have preferred the thrashing. Or not. Because Moses wasn’t done. 

Shouting to the camp, Moses commanded everyone who would side with God to step forward. Stillness fell. Silence reigned. Steadfast gazes stared downward. Except in the Levite division. Boldly stepping forward, ever ready for action, they took their orders from Moses. “Grab your swords. Cleanse the camp.” Don’t be careful. Don’t be judicious. Don’t go soft. Spare no one and nothing. Brothers. Friends. Spouses. Neighbors. Cleanse every part of the camp. And they did. But God wasn’t done.

Knowing their hearts, the part of them that mattered, God knew they could pretend to repent. They could stop openly worshipping the idol, remove their jewelry, put away their fine clothes, and mourn pitifully without it meaning a thing. He knew they weren’t with Him. They hadn’t truly repented. They weren’t really changed. They chose not to be. So God sent a plague to get their attention. Illness fell. They were weak and miserable. It changed nothing. Their hearts remained stubborn and rebellious. They never fully turned to God. They never really changed. They didn’t welcome His presence among them or ask Him to accompany them on their journey. They refused to make a space for Him, unable to realize that without God, they were never leaving the wilderness. Because Moses was going nowhere without Him. 

It was a discussion God and Moses had on more than one occasion. God would tell Moses to lead the people forward. He would promise the leadership and protection of His angel. He plainly stated it was for the people’s own safety that He not accompany them. Their rebellion would soon lead to their destruction if He were present. Moses wasn’t having it. No matter how many times he heard God say, “Go ahead and lead the people to the land I promised.” Moses also heard the caveat, “I will not be travelling with you.” Moses couldn’t think of anything less appealing. Leading a troupe of brats and hooligans through the wilderness without even the whisper of God’s presence among them was a terrifying thought. He couldn’t do it. It was beyond his ability, leaving them in limbo. Moses couldn’t handle them. God couldn’t stomach them. The possibility of entering the promised land was looking dim, because Moses was taking them nowhere unless God was going along. 

Daily the people watched as Moses trekked outside the camp to pray in the Tent of Meeting. They watched the pillar of cloud come down and cover the entrance. They knew he was talking to God. Personally. Face to face. Inside that tent, Moses begged and bartered and bargained with God. There was no way he could or would go forward without the promised presence of God. He was under no illusion that he could lead these people on his own. He had already proven his inability. How often had he been angry with them? How often had he wanted to throw in the staff and leave this bunch of crazies to fend for themselves, wilderness or not? And how many times had God given him the strength and courage and wisdom to lead a people who wouldn’t recognize a proper choice if it sat down beside them? Every time. Every time Moses was overwhelmed and frustrated and angry with the people or the situation, God had carried him. Directed him on how to handle every situation. Without God’s presence, Moses could do nothing. He knew it. And he was absolutely not interested in pushing forward without God now. Unless God went with them, they would end up lost and confused and probably dead. Moses believed that. He believed they needed God to go with them. So he stood his ground, planted his flag, and made his choice, “If You aren’t going, Lord, I’m not going either.” (Exodus 32:1-33:17)

Moses didn’t want to be anywhere God wasn’t. Not in the wilderness. Not on the trail. Not in the promised land. Moses understood the importance of God’s continual presence. Going before them. Following behind them. Hovering over them. He was fully aware that their defining characteristic, the one thing that separated them from everyone else in the world, the thing that brought them safe travels and miraculous victories, was the presence of God among them. His glorious presence that covered their encampment. Peaceful presence that engaged with His people. Powerful presence that shut down enemies, brought water from rocks, and sent food from the sky. Preserving presence that made shoes and clothes last for decades. No holes. No wear and tear. No problems. Moses was absolutely not confused about the mess that would ensue if he tried to lead the people on his own. It would be an epic failure. And he wasn’t having it. As much as he wanted to move forward on their journey, as much pressure as he felt from the people to break camp and get started, he would only do so if God was going along. Because Moses only wanted to be where the presence of God was. So should you. (Deuteronomy 8:4; Nehemiah 9:21; Exodus 16; 17:1-13) 

Echoing from the depths of our hearts, in every situation, should be the words of Moses. Before every decision, they should be the prerequisite. “If God’s not going, if God’s not in it, if God doesn’t sanction it, I’m not interested.” They should be playing on loop in the heart of every person who claims to know and love and follow Jesus Christ. We should be deeply cognizant of the unmitigated importance of having the presence of God surrounding us, accompanying us, and leading us through every moment of every day. Wherever we are. Whatever we are doing. Whoever we are with. No matter what. We need Emmanuel. God with us. Literally. We need His thoughts in our minds. We need His words on our lips. We need His hand guiding our actions. We need His peace, His courage, His strength, His wisdom. We cannot live this life on our own. We will fail. We will crumble at the first sign of trouble. We will capitulate to friends. We will cave to social pressure. We will collapse under the weight of the demands of life. We need God with us. Every step of the way. Everywhere we go. No matter the promised joys or potential benefits,  if God’s not going, you shouldn’t be, either. (Exodus 33:14-15; Deuteronomy 13:4; 31:8; Joshua 1:5; John 14:27; 15:5; Psalm 16:11; Proverbs 21:23; James 1:5; Isaiah 40:31; Lamentations 3:25)