Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Perhaps the young man missed the memo. His running days were over. Crossing the line from childhood to adulthood had solidified that fact. Running wasn’t for adults. Running was for children. Running was for slaves hurrying about their master’s business. Running was for those up to nefarious deeds attempting to outrun the ramifications, or for people in the midst of great emergencies. Running was not for average adults. Ever. It was completely undignified. Always embarrassing. Often Immodest. Running required raising one’s robes to prevent entangled feet and mortifying falls. Raised robes came with the risk of exposed ankles. Exposed ankles were not acceptable. Ankles were for walking, not viewing. Showing ankles would be crude. It would cause gossip. So grown men didn’t run. They walked. Sedately. Hands clasped before them. Heads erect. Shoulders straight. Clothing intact. Except for this one. 

Racing up to Jesus, robes raised and ankles flashing, the young man dropped to his knees and blurted out the question weighing on his mind. What did he need to do to guarantee eternal life? Was there a special fund to which he should donate for his heavenly entrance to be secured? Was there extra knowledge he needed, facts he should know, laws he had yet to learn to ensure he earned eternal life? He had been to school. He had studied at the temple. He had learned the laws and rules of religion early in life. He’d strictly followed every single word his entire life. Carefully. Rigidly. Willingly. By his calculations, he had done enough to earn eternal life. Yet something niggled at the back of his mind. A feeling that he had missed something, was still missing something. A question that sat there, plaguing his thoughts and badgering his mind. A question he couldn’t answer, the feeling that he was missing something. So he hurried to Jesus’ feet in search of the answer. An answer he didn’t yet know he would hate. 

Looking at the prostrate figure before Jesus, the disciples assessed him. Not in jealousy. In normal humanity. His sandals were of finest leather. His robe of exquisite fabric. Heavy gold rings sat on his fingers. The man was clearly lacking nothing. He had money. Much money. His family owned things. Many things. His household was vast enough to necessitate servants. Multiple servants. He could give to the church, the poor, and charitable organizations without even missing the money. When he spoke, it was obvious his education was superior. His words were enunciated. His syntax was perfect. His knowledge of the law was complete. He clearly lacked nothing, owned everything from necessity to convenience, and had comprehensive knowledge of things both religious and mundane. He was everything the disciples weren’t. He had everything the disciples didn’t. Things they had never had. Things they would never have. Things they once had, but chose to sacrifice to follow Jesus. (Mark 10:17-20, 28)

Not one of the disciples had followed Jesus without cost. Peter and Andrew left behind their boat and nets and fishing business. James and John left their father. Matthew left a stable career at the tax booth. Philip and Nathanael left their homes. They all left families–parents, siblings, wives, children–behind to follow Jesus. They lost it all to gain the one thing they believed was most important to their lives. Discipleship to and relationship with Jesus Christ. Even when they didn’t realize who He truly was. Even when they couldn’t understand all His teachings. Even when they had to ask for explanations. Even when everyone said Jesus was just a prophet, not the expected Messiah. Even when all their friends and neighbors shook their heads and raised their eyebrows at their choice. They still believed their loss, the life of poverty, the promise of harassment and persecution, was worth it. Walking with Jesus was worth everything to them. The biggest win for a group of social losers.  (Mark 1:16-20; 2:13-14; John 1:35-51)

Society wasn’t especially impressed with fishermen. No one was. They were a dime a dozen. Simple, ordinary people in a necessary occupation. Much like everyone around them. Farmers. Carpenters. Potters. Not elite. Not wealthy. Not socially prestigious. They never would be. They were just cogs in the wheel of society. So were the disciples who weren’t fishermen. None of them had social rank or authority. None of them were religious leaders or held positions of prominence in the Temple. They were all just regular guys in bargain sandals and sale rack robes. Lined up beside this young man draped in finery, they looked like paupers. Losers beside an obvious winner. The disciples weren’t sorry. 

How could they be? Their “loss” of earthly things had gained them something they could never buy, would never have found, couldn’t have earned. Something most people only ever hoped to have. Personal fellowship with Jesus Christ. Intimate knowledge of His teaching, a glimpse of His heart, and a direct connection to God. For eleven of them, changing that decision wasn’t even on their radar. They had no inclination to go back and alter their choice. Even then, standing there in knock-off clothes without a penny to their names, if offered the opportunity to do it again, their decision would remain the same. They would still walk away from what little they had, no matter its importance to them, to follow Jesus because they knew the immeasurable value of the gift they had been given and were completely unwilling to sell it back. 

The knowledge left them gaping at the man who, upon hearing Jesus’ command to sell his earthly goods and give to the poor, stood slowly up, dusted off his garment, squared his shoulders, and walked away. The disciples couldn’t believe their eyes. They thought for sure he would be a shoo-in. He obeyed the law. All of it. Treated others appropriately. Was honest in business. Respected his parents. He did everything right. His life was above reproach. Yet when it came to his money, his earthly goods, his treasures, he drew a line. He loved them too much. He couldn’t part with them. Not for Jesus. Not for his soul. Not for eternal life. 

Sadly watching the young man walk away, Jesus spoke a lesson to His disciples, “In spite of all their advantages in life, it is very difficult for the wealthy to choose the kingdom of God over their kingdom on earth.” Because that is what had happened. When offered the opportunity to choose Jesus over his possessions, his money, his lifestyle, his world, the rich young man shook his head, clasped his hands in front of him, and walked away. Unwilling to surrender his earthly goods to save his eternal soul, the man surrendered his soul to save his lifestyle. He literally turned down a relationship with Jesus for the treasures of the world. And the disciples couldn’t believe it. (Mark 10:21-31)

We can. We can believe it. We understand it far more deeply than the disciples ever could. We have seen it happen. Maybe it has happened to us. Maybe we have been the one who chose our things, our family, our significant other, our hobbies, our desires, over Jesus. We understand how easily it happens. We comprehend how hard it really is to leave everything and everyone behind, surrender it all at the cross, and follow Him. In our world of creature comforts, social pressures, and the constant desire for more, losing it all to gain Christ is a foreign concept. But Jesus’ words haven’t changed. Neither has their meaning. Entrance to the kingdom of God and the promise of eternal life rests not in our ability to simply obey a list of rules. It rests in the surrender of what we hold tightly in our heart.  

You see, that young man had everything and nothing all at the same time. He knew it. In the depths of his heart, he knew something was wrong, something was missing. That is why he came to Jesus in the first place. He wanted information. He wanted assurance. He wanted proof that he had done and was doing enough to earn his way into Heaven. But a space in Heaven cannot be purchased with good works or big donations. You can’t earn it by rigidly following the rules. You can’t buy it by feeding the poor and sending large donations to missionaries. No. Finding eternal life is about your heart. What you love most. Who you love best. It is about which kingdom you want to be in. The earthly one with wealth and comfort and fame, or the heavenly one where you willingly surrender yourself and everything earthly to gain the enormous wealth and indescribable beauty of eternity in the kingdom of God. 

Centuries later, we have quit hearing this truth spoken quite this way. We have toned down the starkness. Stopped preaching about surrender. We have allowed the line of demarcation between self and surrender to become blurry. It was too uncomfortable. 

In our effort to make church and the Bible and God as palatable as possible, we have made concessions, opted out of surrender, choosing rather to chase the things that build our earthly kingdoms rather than gain us entrance into God’s eternal kingdom.

As a society, we have become driven to earthly success and financial prowess. As churches, we have become enamored with wealth-building seminars, beautiful campuses, enormous buildings, and unending activities. As people and organizations, we are completely invested in building kingdoms on earth rather than studiously ensuring we are individually prepared to enter the kingdom of Heaven in eternity. As a whole, we have completely forgotten that we store our treasures where our heart resides. (Matthew 6:19-21; I Timothy 6:7-10)

Jesus hasn’t forgotten. In the same words He uttered to the disciples, He speaks to us today, warning us to step away from the things that don’t matter. Earthly things. Worldly things. Social things. Things that are passing away. Things that stand between us and Him. Things that keep us from full surrender and swing our eternity in the balance. And He asks us to choose. Self or surrender. An earthly kingdom or the kingdom of God. The choice is yours. Always has been. Always will be. God will not pry your hands open to take the things you hold so tightly, even if it is in your best interest to let them go. He wants you to surrender them. Willingly. Because when you surrender to God, you become His kingdom on earth. He guides your thoughts and words and actions. Obedience to His commands brings you joy. The fulfillment of His will becomes your deepest desire. And you can rest there, in that surrender, following His leading, never doubting if you have done enough, been enough, known enough, or paid enough to earn eternal life. Your daily surrender to Him secures it. Surrender to Him and rest. (Hebrews 13:5; Luke 9:23; 14:33; Romans 12:1; Psalm 37:5; 40:8; Galatians 2:20)

His heart sank at the disappointing words. He wouldn’t be going. As much as he wanted to spend every waking minute for the rest of his life in the physical presence of Jesus, the answer was “no.” He couldn’t go across the water to Galilee. He needed to stay there. Stay at home. Stay with the fearful people who had brusquely escorted Jesus back to His boat. Remain with those folks who had known him before. Settle in among those who were regarding him curiously and treating him cautiously. Live with the skeptics who were still waiting for him to switch back to what he had been before Jesus’ arrival–a crazy man, possessed by demons, haunting the tombs, terrifying the town. 

When Jesus first showed up at the dock in the Gadarenes, the demons plaguing the man had flipped out. Although no one else seemed to recognize Him, they certainly did. By name and reputation. They knew His name. They knew His power. They knew they were no match for either. And they were terrified. Using the man they inhabited for cover, the demons came racing out to the beach in an effort to mitigate damages. Call Jesus off. Stop Him from doing what they knew He would do. It hadn’t worked. None of their whining had changed the outcome. Doing what only God could do, Jesus called them out and sent them packing, bringing relief to the tormented man. Relief he had wanted for so long, cried for it in moments of lucidity.  He wanted to be a normal human being. Bathe. Dress. Live respectably. Speak intelligently. Act rationally. It had all been lost in hopelessness before Jesus came. 

Their initial encounter was confronting. Rarely did people in such rough condition come to Jesus. To begin, they were clothed. Always physically, sometimes spiritually. This man wasn’t. Not physically or spiritually. He was naked. Shockingly so. His skin was so darkly tanned one could barely tell where the dirt stopped and skin began. His hair hung in matted tangles around his shoulders. He smelled. Horribly. His fingernails were long and dirt-encrusted. His eyes were glassy, his thoughts and words obviously not his own. Most people would have shied away from him. Ignored his presence. Turned their back on his predicament. Not Jesus. When the man found himself unceremoniously thrown at His feet, Jesus didn’t back up or step away. No. Jesus stepped right into the middle of his mess and refused to leave until they could go together. 

Sitting calmly, showered, shaved, clothed, and fed, the previously possessed man sat at Jesus’ feet holding up his end of an intelligent conversation. Listening. Learning. Soaking up every word. The townspeople were in awe. They couldn’t believe what had happened. A few hours ago, they were once again warning their teens to stay away from the tombs, tucking their little ones tightly into their skirts as they walked down the streets, and furtively keeping an eye in every direction in case he decided to come into town. Yet here he was. In town. With them. Acting properly. Looking normal. Human, even. They were flabbergasted. And more than a little freaked out. 

That fear was the reason he couldn’t go with Jesus. Not his. Theirs. The people were so scared of Jesus’ power that they came and asked Him to leave. So anxious were they for His egression, they basically escorted Him back to the boat, saw Him on board, and waited until it was underway. They didn’t wait to hear Him speak. Didn’t stop to allow Him to heal anyone. Didn’t give Him the opportunity to bless their children. Didn’t let Him do anything more than He had already done. They weren’t ready for more, weren’t ready to listen. Not to Jesus. But Jesus knew they would eventually listen. To him. The broken man Jesus had fixed. He was one of them. He belonged there. Lived there. Many had known him all his life. As uncomfortable as things had been when he was possessed and roaming the tombs, he was still one of them. His now healthy, healed self brought communal relief, not consternation. His home was now his mission field. He needed to stay there and tell his story. The story of amazing grace, redemptive love, and unfathomable deliverance. (Luke 8:26-39)

The Bible doesn’t tell us exactly how that man went about sharing his story. Luke simply writes that he proclaimed what Jesus had done throughout the entire city. Admittedly, I would like a little more detail. I have some questions. Did he face skepticism? Were people uncomfortable around him? Did it take a while for them to open their doors, their ears, their minds to what he had to say? Unfortunately, we will never know those things, but there is one thing of which we can be certain. Just as every other delivered and redeemed soul is tasked with doing, that man had to get up every morning, get dressed–physically and spiritually–and get to the work Jesus left him to do. Living like Jesus. Loving like Jesus. Telling the story of Jesus. Just like we are all called to do.  

You see, it wasn’t just the released man Jesus called to work for Him. He called everyone who has been ransomed from the power of evil, redeemed from sin, released from bondage, and resurrected to life in Christ Jesus. You. Me. We have all been tasked with sharing Jesus in our families, our communities, our world. It was His final directive to the disciples before He ascended to the right hand of the Father. They were to go and share the story of Jesus throughout the known world. Make Jesus’ followers of all people, everywhere. Teach them to walk in His ways. Remember that no matter the outcome, the fallout, the persecution that may come, God’s Spirit would always be with them. But this was their moment, this was their time. Time for them to get up, get dressed, and get busy. It is our time, too. (Matthew 28:19-20; Acts 1:8; Colossians 4:2-6; I Peter 3:15)

Through all the tragically dark times in history, few have been so blatantly marked with apathy, complacency, and spiritual mutiny than ours. From where we stand, looking out over our society, our world, it seems the darkness is winning the battle against the light. All around us, people are choosing conformation to the world over transformation by Jesus. It is terrifying. It is disheartening. It is proof that the return of Jesus is closer than it was when we first came to faith in Him. It is a call to all of us to wake up, get up, put on Christ, and get busy doing God’s work. It is a time when the words of Paul to the church at Rome echo in our ears, resounding with both urgency and importance.   

Rightly believing that every day brought them closer to the return of Jesus Christ and concerned that complacency and apathy were creeping in, Paul commanded them to wake up. They couldn’t afford to sleep. They couldn’t allow themselves to be lulled into the darkness of the world. They needed to get up and get dressed. Clothe themselves in Christ. Put on the armor of God. Swathe themselves in light. Then go out and get busy showing and sharing Christ in a continually darkening world. If they didn’t, if they failed to stand against the darkness of the world, the world would try to cram them into its mold. Take them places they had no business being. Tempt them to engage in immoral habits. Encourage them to soft-sell sin, make allowances for evil, slowly embrace the darkness enveloping their society.

It wasn’t going to happen on Paul’s watch. Not if he could help it. He wasn’t about to let the world come in and conform the church of Christ to their opinions and ideals. He didn’t want to see these people, so beautifully walking in the light of Christ, be overcome with the darkness of sin. So he sent them a list. An extensive list. One that outlines in detail how true christianity looks. Yet it is all summed up in the final verse of chapter 12, “Don’t let the darkness of evil overtake you and be your demise, instead, chase away the darkness of evil by being the light of good in the world.” (v. 21) In other words, get up and get dressed–not in physical finery, but in spiritual faithfulness–and get busy doing the work of God. (Romans 12 and 13)

At one point in each of our lives, we have all been in a position similar to the man in the Gadarenes. Filthy with sin, covered in shame, unable to help ourselves or anyone else until Jesus came and stepped into our mess. Redeemed our lives. Rescued our hearts. Ransomed our souls. He stayed with us in our place of doom and despair until we could walk out of it together. He clothed us in the righteousness of Christ and commanded us to go tell the people in our homes, towns, and communities what Jesus had done for us. Give Him glory. Sing His praise. Tell others that He could do the same thing for them that He did for us. 

Initially, we did so. Churches blossomed and grew. Community ministries were formed. Missions spread across the globe. True love of Christ was prevalent. It was amazing. For a while. Eventually, we became complacent, apathetic, spiritually stagnant. The excitement wore off. We stopped getting up as quickly as we used to. We didn’t put on the entire righteousness of Christ; instead, we picked and chose what we wanted to carry with us that day. Influenced by the opinions and ideals of the world, our vision became tainted with self-righteousness, laziness, arrogance, and greed. Social rhetoric turned our heads. We ignored the voice of God telling us to stick to the old paths, the righteous paths, and chose to endorse something more socially palatable. Diet gospel. Christian lite. Decaf Jesus. We stopped going out and talking about Jesus, living like Jesus, working for Jesus. We stopped fulfilling the one mission He left for us to do. Essentially, we stayed spiritually asleep, curled up in the blanket of self-service, lulled into a state of idleness by the ever-encroaching darkness of the world. (Jeremiah 6:16; Ephesians 4:24; 5:14; Proverbs 19:15, 24; 21:25-26)

We need Paul’s message to the Romans. Today. Right now. Spoken to us. We need a wake-up call that charges us to recognize the night is darkest before the dawn, and intimates that the return of Jesus grows ever closer even as the darkness of sin in our world becomes ever more suffocating. We need to be challenged to put on the whole armor of God, to be the light piercing the darkness, to stand in holiness and righteousness at a time when few seem to believe it necessary. We need to hear a cry, a call, a command to take off the old self and put on Christ, living like Him in thought, word, and deed. Every day. Because the command of Jesus to His disciples then stands for us now. Get up, get dressed, and get busy telling the true story of Jesus in every corner of your community, your country, your world. (Ephesians 2:10; 4:22-24; 6:10-18; Colossians 3:9-15; II Corinthians 5:17; Romans 12:2; 13:12-14; Ezekiel 18:5-9; Matthew 5:14-16; Galatians 5:16, 24)

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)