Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

It was a story as old as time itself. Or so it seemed. A history of shenanigans. The people had been pulling them for centuries. Generation after generation followed the same track, each needing to learn for themselves what should have been garnered from history. Idols were a bad idea. Very bad. Horrible. Worshipping them never worked out. At all. Ever. It never brought what they’d been promised it would. No prosperity. No fertility. No victory. Only death. Spiritual death. Physical death. Experience had told them that. Past experience. Not their own. Their ancestors. Unfortunately, they had yet to learn the lesson. That’s why Ezekiel was there, speaking God’s words out over the land. Pronouncing their destruction because they had failed to learn from their ancestors’ mistakes. (Ezekiel 6:1-14) 

The mess dated back to the Exodus from Egypt, specifically the moment Aaron decided it was a good idea to create a golden calf and the people decided it was intelligent to hail it as the god of their deliverance. A fantastic party ensued. Revelry. Dancing. Sacrifices. They went all out in their first grand display of idolatry. Nothing really changed after that. History kept repeating itself. Familiar tune. Different words. The refrain always the same. Israel was following idols. Some they carved, cast, or built themselves. Some were found in nature–sun, trees, water, wind. Some were figments of their imagination, suggestions made by other people or religions. Some were created by foreign nations. It didn’t seem to matter where they originated, the Israelites adopted them. In spite of the direct command from God against it. In spite of the promised ramifications. In spite of the fact not one of their prayers or petitions to those gods ever came to fruition. They still tried them out. All of them. It always ended the same. (Exodus 20: 1-6; Exodus 32)

Every time the people of Israel strayed and followed idols, terrible things happened. The Ark of God was stolen. Wars broke out. Droughts happened. Famines occurred. They ended up conquered, exiled, enslaved. Never once had it turned out well. Never once did it bring prosperity, protection, or provision. No. Every visit to the idolatrous altars and shrines brought only heartache and misery. And every time they found themselves in a tight spot, miserable and desperate, they turned back to God. Begged forgiveness. Cried out for mercy. Asked for a rescue, prevailed upon His unfailing love for them. And God relented. In their turning back to Him, He turned back to them. For as long as it lasted. He knew it wouldn’t. Last, that is. Israel wouldn’t stay faithful to Him. Their turning would grow more and more, get worse and worse, until there was no real turning in them, just a desire to be removed from their current unpleasantness. No real repentance. No true revival. No lasting change. (I Samuel 4; Judges 10:6-16; I Kings 17-18; II Kings 17:7-23)

As the people grew more accustomed to their idols, they did half-turnings. In the historical books of the Old Testament, we read of kings who chose to follow God, destroying some of the shrines or idols or places of pagan worship. Some. Not all. They didn’t tear out all the things and dismantle all of the places that drew them away from God. They left a few behind. A remnant, a seed, a root, a tip of something that could grow up and lead them astray again. And it did. Often. Because those kings who chose God for themselves didn’t choose to completely eradicate idols from the land when they had the chance. (I Kings 15, 22; II Kings 11, 12, 14, 15; II Chronicles 27)

It wouldn’t have been a popular choice. With the kingdom split between Israel and Judah, each king felt enormous pressure to keep their subjects happy or run the risk of them defecting to the other side. The people were happy worshipping at the high places. They believed them a good replacement for the temple of the Lord in Jerusalem. And the kings were pleased to comply. Especially Jeroboam. Driven by fearful desperation that the people would defect back to Judah and King Rehoboam, he built golden calves and created high places specifically for them to worship in their own land rather than travelling to Jerusalem. He said it was for their convenience. It wasn’t. It was for himself. It was to calm his own fear of being dethroned, decrowned, decapitated. It was so he could remain in control. Of the people. Of the land. Of his future. He was terrified of losing that control. He didn’t want to forfeit his kingdom, his status, his glory. He wanted to be in charge of his future. Deeply concerned about losing his subjects, his position, his life, he took matters into his own hands, trusted his own ideas, rested in his own power. Loving the life he had created more than the God who created all things, Jeroboam fearfully clung to the things he could never keep and forfeited the one thing he could never lose. The presence of God. Choosing fear of uncertainty over faithful obedience, he chose to trust his own machinations and blatantly disobeyed God. (I Kings 11-12) 

It was the same reason Aaron and the children of Israel built their golden calf. Fear. Fear was what started the whole idea of building idols when it felt like God had let them down, abandoned them, ignored them. Fear motivated that entire defection at the base of Mount Sinai. Moses, their only leader, the one who heard directly from God, the one on whom they were solely dependent, had gone up the mountain. Weeks ago. He hadn’t returned. At first they had tried to believe he would come back down, but as the days turned into weeks, hope had died. Faith shriveled. Fear set in. Knowing the ills that could befall a man alone on the mountain, the people began to worry. Rumors spread. Assumptions that Moses was dead and they were on their own in the wilderness spread like wildfire. Fear raged. Terror ruled. And their response was to build a god. A new god. A god they could control. One who wouldn’t drag them out into the wilderness and abandon them without a leader. Fear made them cast their faith in something that wasn’t God. At all. It made them sin and place their faith in something made by human hands when they should have remained faithful and continued to trust in God. (Exodus 32)

Fear will do that. Fear will whip your emotions into a panicked frenzy and have you working yourself into a lather trying to manage situations and manipulate outcomes rather than trusting the God who is in charge of it all. Fear will tell you to depend on yourself because no one and nothing else is trustworthy. It will have you chasing money and power, success and popularity, earthly security, prosperity, and prominence. It will tell you that only the work of your hands is worth trusting, only your own efforts can save you. Fear will convince you that your safety and security depend on more money, a bigger house, more amenities, a grander security system, a fallout shelter, or a space in a doomsday bunker. Fear will tell you to fill your pantry, stack your storage place, and cram every empty space on your property with stuff you might need in the future. It will tell you that you are preparing for the worst. But if you pause and reflect for a moment, you will realize that your faith isn’t in God anymore, it is in all the things you have built with your hands, the money you have accrued, the survival rations you have, the items you have stored up. They are your idols. Your gods. Not God. Your hope and faith is placed in things. Things that pass away. Things that can be destroyed. Things that can be stolen, corrupted, decayed. Rather than humbly bowing at the altar of God’s all-sufficiency, you are smugly erecting an altar to your own self-sufficiency. (Matthew 6:19-21; Proverbs 11:28; Psalm 62:10; I Timothy 5:17; Luke 12:16-21) 

That is where the Israelites were when God was conversing with Ezekiel. They had built idols, created high places, established altars to gods who weren’t God at all. Gods that were impotent and ignorant. They had abandoned the only God who could help them, heal them, and bring them out of exile. And God wasn’t having it. He was done with their defection. He was tired of being cast aside for the idols they claimed. He was done with their alleged confusion on who the true God was. This was His final message on the topic. He was done talking. Now He was going to act. The works of their hands would all be destroyed. Altars demolished. High places devastated. Idols deconstructed. All in hope that the people would realize the one truth they seemed to have the most trouble believing. God is the Lord. Of all. In all. Over all. They would know it. When the works of their hands were utterly wiped out. When they had nothing on earth on which to place their faith. When their only option was trust in God alone. Then they would turn back to God. Then they would choose Him. Then they would admit that God alone is the Lord of all things. (Ezekiel 6)

Often I read the many reiterations of “then they will know that I am the Lord” spoken by God to Ezekiel and wonder what God would say about our society. What would He say was necessary to turn our hearts to Him and make us admit that He is the Lord? Destruction? Devastation? Drought? Death? How bad do things need to be before we turn from worshipping the work of our own hands and fall before God in faithful obedience? We blindly trust in the locks on our doors, the pictures on our security cameras, the zeroes on our annuities, our job titles, our bank accounts, our own abilities. But where is our faith in God? We happily put our hope in things we have built and created with our own efforts, our stockpiles of goods, our insurance policies, and our emergency funds, all while ignoring the fact that it’s all earthly. It is all worthless. It is all fading away. They are all idols, vulnerable to every type of disaster. They can all easily be wiped away. Only what is built on faith in God will stand. (Matthew 7:24-27) 

Reading of all the devastation sweeping our world, we can be certain of these things. Fires devour. Floods sweep away. Thieves and hackers break in and steal. The only thing that is eternal, that can’t be taken away, is your faith in God. It is the only thing worth having. In spades. God is the only firm foundation. He is the only shelter in the storms and mishaps and emergencies of life. His sufficiency far outdistances your efficiency in planning for every eventuality of life. He has promised to meet your needs and work everything together for your good. You can trust Him. He has you covered. God has a plan for you. Personally. A plan that will stand even when the works of your hands have been wiped away. (Proverbs 3:5-6; II Timothy 2:19; Romans 8:28; II Corinthians 3:5; Philippians 4:19; Jeremiah 29:11; I Corinthians 3:12)  

The whole event was entirely confusing. Beginning. Middle. End. She had questions about every part of it. Like, why was he even there in the first place? What was a Jewish man doing parked by a well in Samaria? He didn’t have to be there. Didn’t have to travel this way. Didn’t have to pass through Samaritan land at all. Although not as direct, there were other routes to travel between Judea and Galilee. Known routes. Common paths. Many Jews chose them, preferring their inconvenient length over possible contact with the Samaritans. This path was a choice. An intentional choice. He had purposely chosen to travel this way. 

Stopping in the middle of Samaritan territory at a popular well was also a choice. An interesting decision for a lone Jewish man in enemy land. He clearly wasn’t trying to sneak through unnoticed. Not sitting by the well. That would only get him noticed. A lot. All the women came there. Mostly in the morning and evening. Midday wasn’t usually so busy. Unless you were avoiding the other women. Unless you were the outcast, the laughingstock, the socially unclean among them. Unless you wanted to draw your water unseen, unheard, unnoticed. Then you went to the well at midday. When the sun was high, and the heat was suffocating. When no one else would be there. When you didn’t have to endure the hard stares, the side-eye, the whispers, the obvious insults. Noon was the perfect time to draw water if you were someone like that. And she was.  

Life’s circumstances had forced her to make some hard decisions. Apparently she wasn’t good at it. Her choices hadn’t all been stellar. She had upset some people. Made a name for herself. Built a reputation. Not a good one. No one wanted to associate with her. No one reputable, anyway. Women lucky enough to stay married to the same man for several years looked pretentiously down their noses at her. Men leered as if counting the days until the next unfortunate event put her back on the market. Death or divorce. They didn’t really seem to care which. She knew she should be grateful someone always stepped up to marry her or take her as their new partner. She was. Sort of. It kept her off the street. It had also stolen every ounce of her dignity, robbed her self-respect, and drained her self-esteem. Try as she might, every time she looked in a mirror or saw her reflection in a bowl of still, clear water, she saw the same thing the local women saw. A fallen woman. Dirty. Disgusting. Disgraced. The dregs of society. A person not worthy of their kindness, their inclusion, their time.

She couldn’t really blame them for their ostracization. In their position, she might do the same. Association with her would mark them as well. Put them in the same position. One of being outcast, rejected, snubbed. It could harm their own reputations, their husband’s businesses. Interaction with her was a detriment to their lifestyles. She knew it. She didn’t judge. She did her best to stay out of their way. Make life as easy on everyone as possible. Men and women alike. Kept her socialization minimal, her head down, tried to stay invisible. Yet, despite her best efforts, here was this man, sitting by the well, when it was her time to draw water. 

Approaching slowly, she cautiously watched him from the corner of her eye. He was obviously Jewish, but didn’t seem to be looking for trouble. Didn’t appear to be a criminal. Didn’t seem to be trolling for a companion. Instead, he looked exhausted. From travelling, she assumed. He didn’t appear chronically ill or in the throes of a medical emergency. He didn’t seem malnourished. His pallor was good, his hair combed, his clothes neat. Maybe he really did just need a rest and chose to pop a squat by the city well. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t let it stop her. This was her watering time. She wasn’t in a terrible rush, but she did want to be quick. Squaring her shoulders, she resolutely stepped forward, ignoring his presence as any decent Samaritan would do, and began to lower her bucket into the well with meticulous care. 

His softly spoken words startled her. Had her jumping, nearly dropping the bucket. Not the request itself. That was not alarming. He asked for a drink. Politely. It was the fact he spoke to her at all that shocked her. He must be severely dehydrated. Desperate for water. Otherwise he surely wouldn’t have spoken. Not to her. Because he was a Jew. Because she was a Samaritan. Because everyone, everywhere seemed to recognize the social disgrace that surrounded her. Because no one ever spoke to her at the well. But Jesus did. He asked for a drink of water. Kindly. Calmly. Without presumption or pretension. And the questions in her brain tumbled out of her mouth before she could filter them. Why was he talking to her? Was he unaware of the social standoff between Jews and Samaritans? Why was he asking her for a drink? 

Jesus’ response only deepened her confusion. After having asked her to give him a drink of water, He offered to give her water. Different water. Special water. Living water. Better water than was in the well before them. Water that would quench her thirst. Eternally. It sounded like a work of fiction. Felt like he was baiting her, taunting her. Indignation rose up alongside her confusion and loosened her lips even more. She let loose with a volley of questions. If the man had water, why had he asked her to give him a drink? Why had he made a point of talking to her if he could fulfill his own needs? And how, exactly, was he going to give her water? He was travelling light. No bucket. No rope. Nothing to lower into the well and draw up water. She didn’t even see a canteen. He didn’t have water with him. So where was he getting this special water? And how, without trying the water from the well, could he say he had better water than what had been coming from this well since the time of their ancestors? 

No part of his story made sense to her. She couldn’t see how it could possibly be true.  But she couldn’t completely discard it, either. If this man had better water, water that would quench her thirst forever, water that would reduce her need to make this particularly unpleasant journey every day, she absolutely wanted it. Right now. 

Impatiently waiting for him to produce this miracle water, her heart sunk to her toes at Jesus’ next words. Her past, with its series of unpleasant events, popped up to plague her. Again. He wanted her to go get her husband. The husband she didn’t have. Not currently. Hope died within her at his words. This would be the end of it. There would be no living water for her. She knew how this would go. No one ever looked past the mess behind her. The five husbands. The current cohabitating partner. The blight on her character. The disreputable reputation. The uncleanness. No one saw more than that. No one talked to her after hearing it. No one who already knew it gave her the slightest acknowledgement. She wouldn’t be getting the thirst-quenching water. She knew it. She was too dirty. Too disgusting. Too disgraced. 

Resting her bucket on the edge of the well, she swallowed the despairing sob swelling in her throat and assessed the man before her. He must be a prophet. What other explanation could there be? How else could He know all those things about her? He had to have some divine inspiration. Had to have been told in advance. But if He already knew, why was He still sitting there talking? To her? No one did that. No one kept interacting with her once they knew her story. But Jesus did. He had not chosen that route on a whim. He had not stopped by that well because it was the only resting place. No. It was all on His divine itinerary. An appointment with grace for a woman in disgrace. This specific interaction with that particular Samaritan woman on that precise day beside that exact well was definitively where He was intended to be. A heavenly pitstop orchestrated by God. 

You see, Jesus wasn’t in Samaria, near Sychar, beside Jacob’s well on accident. He wasn’t in a hurry, necessitating that route. He hadn’t left too late in the day or dawdled along the way, forcing a stop there. Jesus was there on purpose, at that specific time of day, when no other women would be about, the exact time when that one, nameless woman would come to the well in search of water. Jesus wanted to talk. To her. Specifically. Individually. He wanted to speak with this woman who was outcast by society, shunned by neighbors, stuck in the cycle of questionable choices. He had things to tell her. About herself. About Himself. Things He hadn’t outright said to others. Things like His identity. He was the Messiah. And this shunned woman who had been through nearly half a lineup of husbands and was currently cohabitating with a man who was not on that list was the first person to whom Jesus specifically revealed His identity. Of all the people who were expecting the Messiah, the devout law observers, the priests and religious leaders, even His own disciples, God chose a Samaritan woman whose character was suspect and whose past was dodgy to be the first person to get confirmation of His identity. “I am the Messiah.” (John 4:3-26; John 3:17)

Essentially, Jesus said to her, “I am the One everyone has been waiting for. I am the One who came to take away your sin and offer you hope. I am the answer to the desperate cries of your heart.” At that moment, she had to know this meeting was not a mistake. Not at all. It was an appointment written in divine ink on the calendar of Heaven. An appointment Jesus was happy to keep. Because that is what He does. That is why He came. That was His mission on earth and His message as He ascended. When Jesus told His disciples to go everywhere they could to anyone they could, spreading the gospel as far as they could, He was sending Himself to every person on earth. The lost. The lonely. The least. The last. Those forgotten by society, rejected by humanity, disdained and disrespected for their obvious failures and inordinately poor choices were absolutely included. Those were the people Jesus was trying to reach. People like you. People like me. Because that is what Jesus does. (John 10:10; Mark 16:15; Acts 1:8; Revelation 22:17)

Into our darkness and despair, our loneliness and lostness, Jesus comes. Purposely. He comes to where we are. Meets us where our schedule places us. He speaks to us when no one else will, accepts us when people reject us, fills the emptiness in our hearts left by the betrayals of others. He clears our vision. Changes our lives. Draws us to Himself and leads us to faith in Him. Encourages us to throw our sins on His shoulders, acknowledge our need, and accept His redemptive grace. Teaches us to lean on Him. Trust Him. With our lives. In every season of our lives. That is why Jesus comes. To talk to us. To live in us. To walk with us. Daily. Individually. Wherever we are. Whoever we are. Whatever we have become due to circumstances beyond our control or choices within our command, Jesus meets us where we are and speaks to us when society says we are too dirty, too broken, too wasted to deserve a second of His time, a moment of His grace, an increment of His love. Jesus openly disagrees with society because we are the reason He came. (Matthew 9:12; Luke 5:32; 12:6-7; I Timothy 1:15; John 3:16)  

Jesus had no human reason to be at that well. There were no celebrities to meet, no public engagement with crowds to feed and people to heal, no group of children to bless. The only person there was that one scarred, scared, scandalous woman. She was the reason He was there. Her name was on Jesus’ schedule. In bold print. An appointment with grace for a daughter in shame. That is the lesson from the well. When everyone has written us off, determined us lost, decided we are irreparably damaged by the choices we made in the worst times of our lives, when they exclude us, ignore us, reject us, refuse us, Jesus comes to us. On purpose. Wherever we are. Makes us an offer too good to refuse. The water of life to cleanse our lives for the rest of our lives and give us eternal life in the afterlife. That is the reason He came. (Luke 19:10; I John 4:14; I Samuel 2:8; Psalm 113:7-8; John 7:37-38; Revelation 21:6)   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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