Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

It was one of the darkest times in their history. The saddest of days.The most bereft they’d been in recent memory. The heavens were silent. God wasn’t speaking. Not in verbiage. Not in visions. No one seemed to notice. The people weren’t listening. They hadn’t been for a long time. They were too busy with other pursuits. Ungodly pastimes. Unchecked evil. Unhindered corruption. Unbridled sin was the order of the day. For everyone. Including the priests. His very own sons. He’d talked with them. Pointed out the error of their ways. Warned them of God’s wrath. Hinted they should change. Hoped they would. It hadn’t happened. Nothing had changed. Neither priests nor people seemed concerned about the heavenly silence. Content to slide deeper into their moral and spiritual decline, they failed to notice the resonating voice of God no longer penetrated their sin-saturated hearts. (I Samuel 3:1)

Eli wasn’t getting messages from God either. Not anything recent, anyway. Since the condemning prophecy against himself and his sons, the heavens were silent, a brass sky over a gloomy existence. The decision concerning his family line was made. There was nothing left to say. God had spoken. He wasn’t prone to changing His mind. Because nothing had changed on earth, Eli was certain nothing had changed in Heaven. Destruction was coming. He knew it. Heard it in the lines of conversation rolling over and over in his mind as he rested his aging, exhausted self in the usual place. The ramifications of their choices weighed on his spirit. The coming onslaught of consequences saddened his heart. The fact he hadn’t done enough to quell the evil nosedive plagued his conscience. As his eyes slid shut and sleep began to overtake him, he idly wondered what would happen to the boy in his care. (I Samuel 2:12-36)

How well he remembered the day Hannah had desperately sought the Lord for a child. He’d never forget it. Anguish etched across her face. A torrent of tears rained down her cheeks. Her lips moved at a frenetic pace. At first he’d believed her inebriated and made his way to sternly confront the woman, considering a possible ejection necessary. Instead, he’d found a completely sober, deeply broken woman pleading with God to answer her prayers. Compassion welled in Eli’s heart. Kindness flowed from his lips in words that asked God to grant whatever it was she so urgently desired. Little did he know the answer to her prayer then would be the key to unlocking God’s voice now. Yet it seemed it was so. (I Samuel 1:9-17)

Three times the child for which Hannah had prayed rushed to his bedside tonight. He’d heard a voice. Genuinely believed it was Eli’s. Came running to his side, eager to help. Except it wasn’t Eli. Failing though his memory was, he knew with absolute certainty he hadn’t called the boy. Had no idea what he was doing there. Was fairly certain he’d been mid-snore when the child awakened him. The first time. He had just started to drift off when he arrived the second time. When Samuel arrived the third time, Eli had an epiphany. Finally. God was speaking. Calling out to Samuel. Deigning to speak for the first time in a very long time. And Eli badly wanted to know what He had to say. 

Before sending the boy back to bed, Eli gave him strict instructions. The next time he heard his name called, there would be no need to come running back. Eli wasn’t calling him. Wouldn’t be calling him. God was calling. It was imperative for Samuel to answer. Immediately. In words indicating his undivided attention and readiness to receive the message.  “Speak, Lord. Your servant is listening.” Right now. I recognize Your voice. I know who You are.  I understand the message you have to give is of utmost importance. My ears are strictly tuned to hear your voice. I am your servant. And I. Am. Listening. 

It was crucial for Samuel to answer. Say exactly what he had been told to say. When God called again, Samuel needed to respond in a way that allowed God to speak. A way that welcomed His words. Samuel needed to listen. Hearing God call him was not enough. Knowing God was speaking wouldn’t suffice. Samuel needed to listen. Intently. Intentionally. Memorize the words. Take notes if necessary. Not one word should be left to possible misinterpretation. When God called Samuel again–and He most assuredly would–the boy needed to answer. “Speak, Lord. I. Am. Listening.” And he did. (I Samuel 3:1-9)  

Lying on his mat, silently staring at the ceiling, Samuel waited for the voice to call again. He didn’t move. He barely breathed. Eli had ensured he understood the abject importance of this task. He absolutely didn’t want to miss the moment if God called his name again. He wasn’t disappointed. God didn’t just call. He came. Stood there in that space. Called Samuel by name. And Samuel heard His voice. This time there was no confusion. No jumping up and running to Eli. No misunderstandings. No misgivings. Samuel was ready for it. Waiting for it. He heard God’s voice the very moment He called. Recognized it. Responded with confidence. I. Am. Listening. (I Samuel 3:10-11)

Having read the message imparted by God and Samuel’s hesitance to repeat it to Eli. It stands to reason, the words Samuel heard were not exactly what he thought they would be. They didn’t match what he hoped God would say. It wasn’t a message of hope and forgiveness. But it was a moment. A gateway moment in which Samuel proved that when God spoke he would hear His voice and he would listen, absorb the message, speak it to the one for whom it was intended. He wouldn’t shirk his duty. He would hear. He would listen. He would share the words of God with the people God had chosen to be His own. Easy words. Hard words. Words of encouragement. Words of rebuke. God’s message to God’s people. Through Samuel. Because he was listening. (I Samuel 3:12-21)

There’s a significant difference between hearing and listening. Hearing often lacks the intentionality of listening. It can be accidental, casual. It is often inattentive, disinterested. Listening, on the other hand, speaks of interest, investment, and importance. It is indicative of your level of care concerning the subject. And the speaker. Your respect for the speaker is evident in whether you distractedly hear them or actively listen to them. Friends. Co-workers. Family. God. Yes. God. He is still speaking. To you. Often. Words of wisdom. Gentle direction. Careful warning. Boundless love. If you are listening, you will hear Him. (John 10:27-28)

Unfortunately for us, there are so many voices sounding off around us that it sometimes becomes difficult to hear God speak. They aren’t all bad voices, either. Some of them have nothing but love and good intentions toward you. Admittedly, others wish only to see you cut off at the knees. It doesn’t matter. You can’t fully rely on mortal voices alone. Why? Because no person’s voice can replace the true voice of God. No human wisdom can supersede the wisdom of God. No mortal thought or reasoning will ever trump the mind of God. You can get all your advice from the finite mind of a pastor, teacher, brother, friend. It might work for you. It might not. The only advice that will ever work and never fail is the word you get from God when you are absolutely, intentionally listening. (Matthew 7:24; James 1:5; 3:17; Romans 11:33; Isaiah 40:6-8; 55:8-9; I Corinthians 3:19)  

So are you? Are you listening? To God. As the world around us sits in the exact same deplorable, sinful, debauched state it was in Eli’s day, we are blessed by the fact that God is still speaking. In spite of an egregiously wilful society, recklessly and happily headed for destruction, God has not shut up the heavens. He still has things to say. To us. To me. To you. Just as He did to Samuel, in the middle of the chaos, God is calling you to hear His voice, respond to His call, be still in that space, and listen. Attentively. Intentionally. Absorb the message God has for you. His direction. His wisdom. His discipline. His love. Share the message as applicable. Encourage someone else with His words. Caution others with His warnings. Spread the news of His love and mercy and grace. Refuse to trade your active listening for passive hearing. When God calls your name, may your response echo that of Samuel. “Yes, Lord. I. Am. Listening.” (Psalm 119:105; Isaiah 30:21; John 8:47; 16:13; Luke 11:28; Psalm 85:8)

They were doing it again. Same tune. Same lyrics. Same song. He’d heard it more times than he cared to remember. It seemed to be their theme song. Easily memorized. Frequently sung. The chorus immediately lifted at the first indication of oncoming unpleasantness, the initial sign of discomfort, the very second they didn’t get their way. Water difficult to find. Food not to their liking. Journey longer than they expected. Foes more formidable than desired. At the first sign of possible hardship ahead, the people broke into the same song and dance. Doubt. Despair. Distress. Doom. 

It was wearing on Moses’ nerves. Not for the first time. Their angry, entitled, manipulative words were always aimed at him. As if he hadn’t been simply minding his own business, tending the flock, when God called to him from a burning bush. As if it had been his idea to storm into Egypt and demand Pharaoh let the people go. As if he’d personally chosen to map their journey from bondage to promise. As if he’d personally pledged a peaceful respite in a land flowing with milk and honey. Nope. That hadn’t been him. Wasn’t even his idea. He’d actually tried to get out of it. Offered up excuses. Posed possible obstacles. Flat out asked to be excused from service. No amount of wheedling or cajoling changed God’s mind. Moses was the one. Not the planner. The leader. (Exodus 3-4)

So here he was. Trekking through the wilderness. Listening to the murmuring, complaining, groaning and wailing. Again. They craved the delicious foods in Egypt. They longed for the predictability of the past. They wondered if it would just be better to concede defeat, turn back, and see if the Egyptians would allow their return as slaves. In the middle of hardship, when faith in God was most necessary, they chose to doubt. Failed to remember the miraculous rescue. Chose to forget the water flowing from the rock. Allowed the lapse of time, the lack of amenities, the scarcity of necessities to make them question the promise of God. (Exodus 3:7-8, 16-17; 14; 17:1-7; Numbers 11)

They were currently occupying that space. The place where their impatience with the process and anxiety over looming enemies overshadowed their faith with doubt. They had lost confidence in Moses’ leadership. Lost faith in the promise of God. Lost hope that what God had promised He would absolutely perform. They wanted to go back. Could see no other option. Death in Egypt or death in the wilderness. It was all still death. Just death. Not horrendous death. Not barbaric torture. Not the abandoning of their wives and children to be absconded with by their enemies. And that was their foremost concern at this moment. They would die by the sword and their wives and little ones would be used, abused and left to die by the men who defeated them.  

Earlier that day, Joshua and Caleb had re-entered the camp with their group of explorers after taking a peek at Canaan. They had been gone for 40 days. If one judged by the enormous cluster of grapes hanging from a pole between two men, the delicious pomegranates and luscious figs, the land was everything God had promised. More than they had ever imagined. Better than their most extravagant dreams. Food in abundance. Beautiful farmland. Gorgeous fields for grazing. Plenty of water. It would be a wonderful place to put down roots and raise a family. Build a permanent temple. Create a kingdom of Israelites. It would be the perfect place. If it wasn’t inhabited by enormous, powerful, terrifying giants.  

 If they listened to Joshua and Caleb, it was a winnable battle. Yes, the inhabitants were huge. Yes, their strength was formidable. Yes, the cities were large and fortified. But. God was on their side. He had never once failed them. They could look back over their journey and see His hand of protection and provision over and over again. There was no reason to believe that had changed now. No reason not to march up and take possession of the land He promised to provide. God was not a liar. He wasn’t prone to changing His mind. He would fulfill His promise. If they just kept the faith, didn’t doubt, and followed Him. (Numbers 13:1-30; 14:6-9; 23:19)

The rest of the men felt differently. Much differently. Absorbed in contemplation the entire journey back to camp, doubt had overtaken them. Intimidated by the sheer size of their foes, they had spent the time building a case against invading the land. Their tales of giants with unbeatable strength terrified the hearers. Their verbal vomit depicting possible inflicted horrors brought gut-wrenching panic and fear. The people weren’t having it. Wanted no part of it. Not on their watch. They weren’t going to allow this to happen if they could stop it. Promised land or not, they weren’t interested in risking their lives for it. They were done. Ready to demote Moses. Ready to choose a new leader. Ready to pack their bags and head back to Egypt. Again. Because, wouldn’t it be better to go back and face the music than be ripped apart by barbarians, leaving their wives, daughters and little ones in their ruthless hands? (Numbers 13:31-33;14:1-4)

Actually, no. No, it wouldn’t be. It would not be better to turn tail and run in fear. It would not be wiser to trade their faith for doubt. It would be cowardly. It would be contemptuous. It would be costly. Immensely costly. They would learn it the hard way. Angry with their contempt and refusal to have faith in His promise, God visits Moses, revealing His plan to strike the rebellious people down with a plague. He would kill them all and build up a nation of constitutionally stronger souls to be counted as His own. In a move of undeserved grace, Moses spoke on behalf of the wayward, cowardly, grumbling people, and asked for mercy. Begged for leniency. And God relented. Forgave their sins. Kept them as His people. But love and forgiveness do not negate consequences, and the ramifications of their doubt were steep. 

They were all going to die. Not right then by a sweeping plague, but before leaving the wilderness. With the exception of Joshua and Caleb, not one of those 20 years old and older who grumbled and complained, doubted and desired to turn back would live to enter the Promised Land. They would die in the wilderness. Watch their children endure the harsh existence of that place, herding sheep and waiting out the 40 years of their exile. Never would they see the enormous clusters of grapes or taste the bountiful figs and pomegranates. Their doubt had made them miss it all. The promised blessings. The proffered goodness. The prosperous life God had carefully planned for them. They would miss it all. It’s what their doubt would cost them. (Numbers 14:10-38)

There’s something so familiar in the cries of the Israelites as they wail, “Wouldn’t it be better to head back to Egypt?” Perhaps because the premise is so familiar. Maybe because, at some point in our lives, we have all said something similar. Perhaps because there have been, are, and will be times when things get unpleasant or uncomfortable and the evil one sidles up beside us to mention that things were better before. Before we committed our lives to God. Before we set out to do His will. Before we fully consecrated every part of our hearts and souls and minds to follow God alone. The evil one says things were easier when we were still in charge. He insinuates things were better when we were forging our own path. He claims we were less stressed, had fewer worries, made more friends, were more successful when we were making our own decisions. And, if we aren’t careful, we believe him. (II Corinthians 11:14)

With a few well-whispered words, the evil one will have you believing God isn’t coming through with His promise. He’s taking too long to answer. His response doesn’t look the way you thought it would or should. He’s allowed issues and obstacles and problems to occur, and you’ve started to doubt His good intentions. You question His promise. You actively wonder if it wouldn’t be better to just quit following God’s path and forge your own trail. Maybe you mull it over silently in your mind. Maybe you mention it to a friend. Maybe you cry your question out to God in an exhausted, broken-hearted prayer. Maybe, in the middle of all your questioning and worrying and wavering, you should stop to wonder what your doubt will cost you. (Psalm 40:1; Psalm 27:13-14)

Because doubting God will cost you. Immensely. It will crowd your heart and mind with things that draw you away from Him. Anxiety. Worry. Fear. It will turn your focus inward. It will suffocate your peace. It will drown your faith. It will bring instability to your soul. Faith and doubt cannot coexist. So choose faith. Faith in God. Faith that He rewards those who diligently seek, trust, and follow Him. Even when the path is full of twists and turns. Even when it seems things have no chance of working out for your good. Even when you can’t fathom how your current circumstances can lead you to the place He promised. Have faith in God. Do not doubt. Doubt is too expensive. It could cost you everything. It could cost you the promised land. When weighed against the final fulfillment of God’s promise, is the cost of your doubt, the option of turning back, worth the price your soul will pay? Is your doubt worth anything? Is it worth everything? Is it worth your soul? What, exactly, will your doubt cost you? (Philippians 4:6-7; Mark 11:22; James 1:2-8; II Corinthians 5:7; Romans 8:28; Psalm 45:13; Hebrews 11:6)

She should have kept her mouth shut. Desperately wished she had. No matter how strong her distaste. No matter her feelings of being replaced. No matter how much better she believed her brother could have done than this foreign floozy. She should have kept it all to herself. The ugly words about his wife. The questioning words concerning his leadership. The arrogant words suggest she and Aaron could talk to and hear from God just as well as Moses. From somewhere deep in her soul, released by her annoyance with her new sister-in-law, a well of angry, jealous, pretentious words spilled from her lips, illuminating the true content of Miriam’s heart. 

It was not her finest moment. She knew it. Aaron knew it. God knew it. Unfortunately, Moses was about to know it. They had all been summoned. All three were to appear in front of the Tabernacle to meet with God. It would no doubt be a harrowing experience, the wicked thoughts and desires of her heart paraded for all to see. There would be punishment. She knew it. Over and again God had reiterated that, although His love was endless, He wouldn’t leave sin unpunished. And she had most definitely sinned. Egregiously. (Exodus 20:5-6; 34:6-7)

Dragging the toes of her sandals in the dirt, Miriam slowly made her way to the designated meeting place. She didn’t want to go. Didn’t care to attend. Didn’t dare miss the appointment. It wasn’t optional. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo in her chest. Dread and anxiety melded together, forming a tight knot in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t care to meet Aaron’s gaze. His face would surely be filled with accusation. She couldn’t make herself glance in Moses’ direction. His loving smile would soon be replaced by a wounded frown as he was blindsided by her attempted insurrection. She really didn’t want to face God. Didn’t want to hear His disappointment. Didn’t want to feel His wrath. Didn’t want to know His just punishment. Deserving though she knew she was, Miriam wished the confrontation and ensuing fallout could be avoided. It couldn’t, so she reluctantly took her place beside her brothers.   

Called to come forward, Miriam and Aaron stood trembling before the obvious wrath of God. Regret etched their ashen faces. Guilty heads hung low. Words failed them as they stood before God to give account of their previous conversation. No excuse could be made. None was available. Their words had been unkind and unwarranted. Untrue. They knew the relationship Moses had with God. Knew their own relationships with God were nowhere near the same. Moses’ relationship was personal. Nearly palpable. His information and directions weren’t carefully gleaned from visions and dreams. No. Moses took instruction directly from the lips of God, an event neither of them had experienced. Ever. They had never heard God’s actual voice themselves. Had solely relied on Moses for guidance and direction. Yet, when frustration and irritation boiled over, they presumed, through the darkness of their own hearts, that they could lift the mantle of leadership from Moses and set it on their own shoulders. Except they couldn’t. Because God wasn’t having it. 

He said it in no uncertain terms. God was angry. At them. At their words. At their motives. And He had the right to be angry. Not just because they had been busily brewing a method to abscond with Moses’ leadership. God had the right to be angry that the people He had chosen to aid Moses in the monumental task of leading the Israelite nation to the promised land were so inwardly focused. He had the right to be angry because their hearts were so full of arrogance and selfishness that they would deign to promote themselves above God’s chosen leader. God had the right to be angry that, at a time when they should have come alongside Moses, shown their support, and portrayed true holiness, they were busy gossiping and backbiting and stirring up trouble. God had the right to be angry and disappointed and heartbroken that Miriam and Aaron were more concerned about their angst with Moses and discontent with their leadership rank than they were about their own obvious lack of relationship with God Himself.

For reasons to which we are not made privy, Miriam bore the brunt of the punishment. Perhaps she initiated the entire situation, started the conversation, exacerbated the issues. Maybe Aaron simply nodded his head in agreement as his older sister spat her venom and hate. It doesn’t really matter now. As the Spirit of God withdrew from them, Miriam looked down at herself to find she’d been stricken with defiled skin. Not just a little skin infection that would heal shortly with proper care. This was far worse. A sickness from which there was no recovery outside the miraculous. Every inch of Miriam’s visible skin was covered in leprosy.  

Never had isolation seemed like a blessing, yet, from her ragged hut outside the Israelite encampment, Miriam stared at her leprous skin and counted it such. She had gotten off lightly. Not because she deserved it. Not because Aaron had begged. Not because her contrition had been immediately forthcoming. No. Miriam would spend only seven days in excommunication from her friends and family simply because Moses asked. Pleaded, really. Begged God to spare her life. Offered an alternative punishment to the death that would certainly follow this particular form of illness. She didn’t deserve the mercy. She wasn’t worthy of the grace. Yet God chose to answer. Chose to spare her. At the earnest pleading of the brother she had unabashedly derided, God stepped in. Her death sentence was replaced with a seven-day excommunication. Seven days of lonely contemplation. One hundred sixty-eight hours of self-examination. Ten thousand minutes for Miriam to change her focus, lift her eyes, and set her heart and soul to follow God alone. And she did. 

Seven days after being handed a death sentence, Miriam emerged from isolation a new woman. Physically and spiritually. Her time alone had changed more than the state of her skin. It changed the state of her heart. What before had been cluttered with murmurs and complaints, envy and jealousy, selfishness and arrogance was now filled with the peace and contentment of God. Happy to resume her role as a prophet, musician, and leader of the women. Blessed to stand in support behind Moses. Her heart no longer yearned for power and prominence. Her mouth would no longer run to express her opinions. Her body wouldn’t suffer the consequences of her sin. Neither would her soul. Miriam learned in seven days what often takes humanity a lifetime to grasp. You are what you speak. (Exodus 15:20-21; Numbers 12:1-16; Deuteronomy 24:8-9)

It isn’t a big, well-kept secret. It is common sense. Your words matter. The ones you speak in private. The ones you yell in public. The ones you know you shouldn’t say. The ones you leave unsaid. The Bible is full of words about our words. Admonitions to guard our mouths, watch our tongues, think more, speak less. Even Jesus addressed the subject. Of all the topics we needed Him to cover in His three short years of earthly ministry, the words we speak made His shortlist. Because words are powerful. What you say doesn’t simply dissipate with the half-hearted apology you offer. The insult you hurled isn’t forgotten because you followed it up with a quick, “Just kidding.” The backstabbing, judgmental gossip in which you engage is not harmless because the words were spoken in secret. God hears. God sees. God knows. The heart you hurt. The reputation you smear. The damage you cause. Life and death are in the power of your words. Not physically. Spiritually. Your life. Your death. Your choice. (Proverbs 10:19; 13:3; 17:9; 18:21; 21:23;  Matthew 12:36-37; 15:18; Luke 6:43-45)

So watch your words. Let them be few. Choose them carefully. Speak life. Into your own soul. Out of your own soul. Refuse to engage in idle gossip, malicious slander, or destructive meddling. Don’t air your grievances to every ready ear. Keep your opinion to yourself. Shut your mouth. Unless you have something kind to say. Unless your words have been vetted by the Holy Spirit. Unless you are busy encouraging, uplifting, and supporting one another to follow hard after God. Hold your tongue. Inspect your words. Examine your heart. The state of the second determines the quality of the first. Although they may be an inaccurate description of the one you choose to slander, your words will be an accurate description of your heart. Choose them wisely. Your tongue will tell the tale. You are what you speak. (Ecclesiastes 5:2-3; Ephesians 4:29; Exodus 23:1; James 1:26; 4:11; Psalm 141:3; I Thessalonians 5:11; Psalm 19:14; 139:23-24)

Bloodthirsty excitement pumped through their veins as they saw the plan coming together. Finally. It seemed they’d been working toward this one goal far longer than they anticipated. Not by choice or for lack of trying. No. They had certainly tried before. Multiple times. Hours had been spent in clandestine meetings plotting and strategizing. Every time it had come to nothing. Their carefully laid plans had been thwarted. He’d miraculously walked away. Escaped their clutches. Or the crowd had forced them to stand idly by. It wouldn’t happen this time. The deck was stacked in their favor today. Judas’ purse was heavy with his commission, his feet light as he led them to the garden where they would finally begin the final, fatal steps of their evil plot. (Matthew 21:46; Luke 4:30; John 7:30,44; 10:39)

Adrenaline had them surging through the calmness of the night, trampling tender grasses, snapping delicate branches, destroying fragile blooms, interrupting the peace exuded by the space. Not one of them cared. Single-mindedly focused, they recklessly continued. Their torches cast an ominous glow. Their swaying lanterns twisted the shadows. Their swords clanked as they marched in full battle array. This was not simply another day, another order, another assignment. This was the most important day, the most notorious order, the most sought-after assignment. The success of this mission could make or break their careers. And its completion stood mere feet away. (John 18:1-3)

Disappointment replaced some of the bloodlust and dampened their adrenaline rush as they realized there would be no fight. No argument. No escape attempt. They had hoped He’d resist. Give them a reason to do some damage right there in front of His followers. A swift punch to the head. A hard boot to the abdomen. A sharp sword through the heart. Those soldiers lived for the moments their evil, cruel, hateful hearts could inflict pain, punishment, and death. It was all a game to them. A brutal game. One they played well. One they would gleefully continue to play once the cowardly Pilate, at the riotous urging of the depraved crowd, handed Jesus over to be flogged and crucified.  (John 18:4-8)

It was an insulting game of “King for a day,” fun only to the perpetrators of the heinous acts. A game of humiliation and abuse, ending in the ultimate barbarity of Roman crucifixion. An entire company of soldiers assembled to take part in the event. Stripping Jesus of His own clothing, they dressed Him in a purple robe, the color signifying royalty. On His head they placed a crown woven from dried thorn branches, pressing down to drive the painful thorns into the tender flesh of His head. As the blood flowed down the sides of His face, falling to stain the borrowed purple garment, they pressed a staff into his right hand. Sneering and jeering, they took turns dropping to their knees at His feet and mockingly crying out, “Hail to the King of the Jews!” (John 19:2-3; Matthew 27:27-31; Mark 15:15-20)

Not one of them meant those words. Didn’t even realize they were true. Had no idea they were actually kneeling in the very presence of Heavenly royalty. Nor did they care. It was all a game to them. A way to feed their bloodlust. They believed themselves to be in charge, the ones leading Jesus to the cross. Not once did they realize He was leading them there. Bringing them to a place where all their abominable acts could be forgiven, their odious souls cleansed, their disgraceful lives redeemed through the grace and mercy flowing down in the bloody sacrifice of the cross. 

They would find themselves there. At the foot of Jesus’ cross. Their unchanged hearts would miss the opportunity to repent, choosing instead to continue their villainous game. Others would happily join them. Sneering. Mocking. Insulting. Eventually, the soldiers would offer up a sponge of vinegar with a side of heavy derision. At His refusal, they would carelessly shrug their shoulders, sitting back to watch the goings on, joyfully listening as one of the criminals hanging beside Him took up their torch of haranguing and harassment. They heard the words of the second criminal earnestly begging for forgiveness and seeking eternal life. They heard the merciful response of grace and forgiveness Jesus uttered in return. Yet still they chose to continue in their remorseless path. Standing at the foot of the cross, the soldiers knew what to do, but arrogantly opted not to do it. (Luke 23:26-43)

 Soldiers weren’t the only ones who followed Jesus’ death procession. Others were there as well. Those who had already experienced His power and forgiveness. Those like Mary Magdalene. Her story of deliverance was so great she’d have followed Jesus anywhere, even if it meant climbing on the cross herself. For years she’d sought deliverance from the seven demons plaguing her. She’d nearly given up hope. Holding on seemed silly. Deliverance seemed impossible. She’d asked every newcomer that entered her village, no one knew anyone or anything that could salvage her terrorized soul. Then she met Jesus. The sound of His voice and the power of His words sent the evil spirits running. She was free. Free to follow Jesus wherever He led. He’d led her to His cross. (Luke 8:1-2; 23:49; Mark 15:40; 16:9; Matthew 15:40; 27:55-56; John 19:25-27)

Others had found their way there as well. Some by appointment. Others in curiosity. Some in hateful rejoicing. Others in undying love. The ground was littered with onlookers of every rank and social status. Religious aristocrats. Pharisaical rulers. Mockers. Scoffers. Scorners. Those who wished they believed. Those who already did. Those who chose to follow Jesus even to the point of His death. Those who watched when they didn’t want to, saw things they couldn’t unsee. Those who loved Jesus enough to follow Him to the cross, then courageously take up their own cross and continue to follow Him. Daily. No matter how that looked. (Luke 23:35-36,42, 48-49)

Jesus had told them they would need to do this. Take up their cross, whatever it was, and follow Him. Leave behind the things of the world, the people, the habits, the pleasures, the loves, and abandon themselves to God alone. Not once did He say it would be easy. Never had He indicated it wouldn’t be costly. Nor had He promised wealth or popularity. Instead, He’d warned them. Trouble would come. Persecution would arise. People would reject their words, scoff at their standards, mock their beliefs. There would be dangers and death threats. Yet none of this would change the fact that to be His followers, to be true disciples of Jesus Christ, they would each have to stand at the foot of His cross, personally choose to take up their own cross, and follow Him. Every day. (Matthew 10:37-39; Mark 8:34-38; Luke 9:23-25, 57-62; John 16:33)

The message hasn’t changed in the ensuing centuries. If you are going to be a disciple of Jesus Christ, you must first go to the cross. It’s non-negotiable. But it’s not just a visit. It’s a daily decision. Simply being present at the foot of the cross means nothing. It is what you do there that counts. It is the repentance you make. It is the change you embrace. It is the choice you make to daily take up your own cross and be a true disciple of Jesus Christ. It is a costly choice. You may have to lay things aside. Things you love. Friendships. Relationships. Hobbies. Loves. You will have to weigh and measure your rathers versus Jesus’ requirements. It has the potential to be painful. It carries the promise of being worth it. (Matthew 19:21; Colossians 3:1-25; Luke 14:33; Galatians 2:20)

All of us have and will find ourselves at the cross. Multiple times. Every day. Unwilling that any human should die in their sins, God makes certain to lead each of us to the place of repentance, the foot of the cross. It is what you do there that matters. It is what you choose there that alters your eternity. Hesitation to lay down your sins and pick up your cross will harm your soul. Attempting to sort through the options, choose the most appealing and discard the others will place your heart in danger. It is only in full surrender and sweet capitulation to God’s will and plan that you will find soul peace and eternal promise. And it’s all available at the foot of the cross. (Job 11:13-19; James 1:22; 4:7; Matthew 6:33; 7:21; 11:28; 26:39; Proverbs 23:26; Romans 12:1-2)

Every inch of the place was packed. Street. Sidewalk. Yard. House. There was barely room for a lone man to squeeze through the crowd in the street and absolutely no hope of actually entering. Doorways were blocked. Window seats were filled. The carefully swept dirt floor of the house couldn’t be seen for the mass of people filling the room. Perching on every available surface. Squeezing into every empty space. Crammed so tightly between those four walls the air could hardly circulate among them. It was no better outside. The entire town must have taken a day from their duties to be there. Hordes of hopefuls hovered around the doors. Groups gathered outside open windows. The line for entry wrapped well around the block. It was impossible to miss. And they were late arriving.

They hadn’t meant to be. It wasn’t lackadaisical mediocrity that had them gingerly approaching the house after everyone else had arrived. They had intended to be there early. Had appeared at their paralyzed friend’s house hours ago, hoping to implement their mobility plan and make him first in line to see Jesus. They had sorely underestimated their task. The logistics of carrying a man on a mat without dropping him and causing further damage were more complex than first believed. And they had never had to do it before. They visited his home regularly. The doctor made house calls. His wife bore the brunt of his care. He never left home. Didn’t need to until today. Today was their day. His day. The one day they had to get their friend to Jesus for healing. It wasn’t a matter of each one grabbing a corner and making a mad dash for Jesus. They would have been on time if it was. Early, even. Instead, they had to contrive a conveyance. Build a way to safely haul the dead weight of a fully grown man through busy streets and an impenetrable crowd. It took longer than they hoped. 

When they finally had their conveyance built, their friend loaded, and carefully made the walk to where Jesus was preaching, the place was overflowing with people. Some were just curious onlookers. Some were intentional seekers. Some, like them, were only there for a miracle. No one was pushing and shoving. No spontaneous wrestling matches erupted. No one disruptive verbal altercations split the air. Most people seemed content to wait their turn. Most people. The four friends holding the corners of the paralyzed man’s mat weren’t. They hadn’t spent hours of work planning and building and carrying to simply wait around to see if Jesus ended up having time for them. They meant to see Him. Now. But there was no way to get in. The doors were blocked. The windows barricaded. Their friend would never fit down the narrow chimney. But he needed to see Jesus, and they were determined to get him there. 

 Building construction must have been their stock-in-trade. Or building deconstruction. Either one. It didn’t take a lot of brain-cramping to come up with a brilliant plan. A plan allowing them to literally lay their friend at Jesus’ feet. All it required was a door in the ceiling. They could do that. They’d been planning and building and overcoming obstacles all day. What was one little roof? Climbing up to the top of the house, they began to deconstruct the dwelling. Meticulously. One section at a time. Gently removing the roofing tiles, they neatly stacked them to the side, taking up only what was necessary. They needed just enough space to lower one mat holding one man. They weren’t trying to go down there themselves. They weren’t looking for personal accolades. They just needed to get their friend down there. Desperately. They needed to get him to Jesus. 

One wonders how long it took the people below to notice something was going on above. It seems they would surely have heard the footfalls crossing the roof tiles. The falling dust raised by the deconstruction would likely have tickled a sneeze out of more than one nose. Light beaming into the dim interior of the house through the growing hole in the roof would certainly have forced their eyes to readjust. If nothing else, the mat complete with paralyzed man slowly being lowered to rest in front of them would surely have made them lose track of what Jesus was saying. Yet it doesn’t seem to do so. There is no record of people complaining at having to make space for a man on a mat. They simply parted, allowing the four friends above to rest their needy friend at Jesus’ feet for healing. Both body and soul. 

In a turn of events no one expected, Jesus doesn’t immediately heal the man’s obvious physical condition. Not because He lacks compassion. Not because He doesn’t care. Jesus looks at that man and sees his needs. All of them. The acute and then the chronic. Jesus heals his heart first. Forgives his sin. Cares for the eternal that is so much more important than the physical. And then He stops to have a conversation with the intractable teachers of the law. The guys who were there, not for salvation or healing or knowledge, but to find fault and carry tales. Men who had already judged Him a menace and were taking up space attempting to prove it. Men who clearly didn’t have the same type of friends as the man lying on the mat. 

The four expectant faces watching from the sides of the newly formed skylight fell in disappointment. They had been hoping for something more. Something physical. Something that would change their friend’s circumstances. Exchanging a round of irritated glances, they nearly acted on the impulse to jump down and put those interrupting men in a headlock. Couldn’t they see the guy on the floor clearly needing more time with Jesus? Just as they were scrambling to their feet to intervene, Jesus handled the situation for them. Looking at their spiritually whole but physically broken friend, He commanded, “Get up. Take your mat. Go home.” And he did. (Matthew 9:1-8; Mark 2:1-12; Luke 5:17-26)

At the end of accounts like this, it is nearly impossible not to wish for more information. What did those four men peering through the roof do when their friend grabbed his gear and headed for home? Did they speak their gratitude to Jesus through the roof? Did they holler their congratulations to their friend as he walked away? Did they shimmy down the house to shake his hand and check out his newly working legs? Or did they simply smile to themselves and quietly set about reconstructing the roof, resting their hearts in the knowledge their labor had not been in vain? Their friend who, that very morning, had been overwhelmed by his physical condition and allowing his spiritual one to slip, had been rescued by a meeting with Jesus. With the exception of fixing the roof, their work was done.

We should all be so blessed as to keep company with friends like these. Friends who see our needs and, even when we can’t drag ourselves there, carry us to Jesus. Friends that pull us back from the brink of an ill-fated decision with honest words of loving wisdom. Friends that pray and praise, encourage and support us through the darkest times of our lives. Friends who embody Jesus and bring us before Him day and night. Why? Because at some point in each of our lives, we become paralyzed by a sin, a situation, a circumstance beyond our control and we can’t manage to find our way anywhere. Our courage wanes. Our hope fails. Our threadbare faith gives way. We are tempted to spend the rest of our lives on our mat with our faces turned toward the wall. Good friends won’t let us do that. Good friends, friends like these four men recorded in the Gospels, will lift us, carry us, and lay us at the feet of Jesus. Right where we need to be. (Proverbs 27:5-6; I Corinthians 15:33; Proverbs 27:17; I Thessalonians 5:14)

Friends, the company you keep matters. Your circle of friends is immensely important. The people with whom you surround yourself are integral to how you live your life. Ultimately, they impact your eternity. At a time of year when we are encouraged to deeply feel the rage and disbelief at Pilate cowardly washing his hands and eschewing just judgment, at Judas selling a life that wasn’t his to sell, at the crowd’s defections, at the ignorant words of the unrepentant thief, I have to ask, what would be different if they’d kept different company? What if Pilate surrounded himself with men who encouraged him to rule with unwavering justice? What if Judas hadn’t fallen in with the Pharisees? What if the crowd had listened more to the firsthand accounts of James and John and Mary Magdalene? What if the criminal on the cross beside Jesus had kept better company beforehand? What if they’d all had friends that would bring them to Jesus no matter the cost? How would the account read then? (Proverbs 13:20; James 4:4; Matthew 26,27; II Corinthians 6:14) 

It doesn’t. I know. I get it. Jesus had to suffer horrible things at the hands of evil men. He had to die a brutal death on a rough-hewn cross. It was God’s plan. His will. So we could be saved from our sins. So we could be rescued from ourselves. So we could have eternal life. So we could keep company with God the Father. No bloody animal sacrifices for sins. No priest to do our praying for us. No temple veil to separate us. We can keep company with God the Father because Jesus fell out of company with those who refused to believe in Him and gave Himself up to death on the cross. For you. For me. For everyone. May we live there. May we be ever aware that Jesus laid down His life for the people with whom He wanted to keep company. His friends. His people. Us. May it make us better friends. The kind of friends that, when we see our fellow followers struggling, striving, barely surviving, we come alongside encouragement, help, hope and strength. Friends that never give up. Friends that don’t simply suggest one should go see Jesus, but the kind of friends that see each other’s needs, lift one another up, carry us there and lay us at His feet. In His presence. In the company of God. (Luke 23:42-47; Romans 4:25; Hebrews 4:16; John 15:12-15; I Thessalonians 5:11; James 4:8; Matthew 11:28; Romans 5:8,10)