Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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