Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

It was meticulous work. Like setting a banquet for a king. Everything had a place. Everything must be in its place. Every linen sharply folded and perfectly placed. Every utensil carefully aligned. Every ornament angled to showcase its beauty or radiantly shed its light. Aaron understood the process well. Although he had never set a king’s table, he had often set The King’s table. Carefully positioned the showbread. Painstakingly placed furniture in its designated space. Precisely noted direction, spacing, and lighting, because every time they moved, so did the Tabernacle. Every time they set up camp, they reset the Tabernacle. Not haphazardly. Perfectly. Aaron knew the steps by heart. Had memorized them.  

Listening carefully to Moses’ instruction, Aaron had made the appropriate mental notes.  He understood the importance of obeying every single direction regarding the Tabernacle. Every piece of furniture, every location, every wall, every curtain, every thread was symbolic of their relationship and covenant with God. But Aaron was human. He had many duties. He was in charge of a new endeavor, overseeing sacrifices and offerings, keeping the lamps trimmed and burning, refusing to let the fire of God go out in the Tabernacle. The responsibility felt heavy. Yes, he had assistants. Yes, there were other priests. But Aaron was the high priest, the overseer. Authority rested on his shoulders. If things went sideways, he must answer for it. Correct it. Ensure it didn’t happen again. It wasn’t his favorite part of the job. (Exodus 27:20-21; Leviticus 21:1-4; Numbers 17)

Carefully, he worked to ensure everything was done correctly. Every piece of furniture facing the correct direction. Every table set exactly. Every little burning bowl of oil tilted at just the right angle. Those seven lamps on the lampstand must face forward. Always. Not sideways. Not backwards. Not helter-skelter. Forward. Only. Light from those lamps needed to illuminate the entire area. In front of the Altar of Incense. Across to the table of showbread. Everything should be awash in their light. Every step of the priests illuminated. Every work area well-lit. Every example and reminder of the goodness of God and their covenant with Him brightly seen by every priest who entered The Holy Place. A reminder to those men to carry that promise, that truth, that reminder out to the people. The light of God’s presence surrounded them. He was with them. Among them. Within them. (Exodus 25:37; Numbers 8:2)

Those lights were constantly kept burning. Oil was regularly replenished. Wicks trimmed. Bowls cleaned. Never once were those lights to become dim. Because the presence of God wasn’t going anywhere. It shone from within the Tabernacle. It filled the hearts and lives of those who obeyed and followed Him. It shined out for the people whose land they travelled through to see. It echoed in their victories, resounded in their protection, resonated in God’s acts of provision. The light of God lived among them. He was their God. They were His people. They were supposed to live like it. (Leviticus 24:1-4; Exodus 13:21; 16:11-17; 17:8-13; 34:15-16)

Part of living like it was to be God’s light in the world. The Israelites travelled through some dark places. Places where sin and idolatry threatened to pull them aside. Sometimes it did. For some of them. Sometimes the pull of sin was so great, their self-control so small, their choice to live in the light of God seemed impossible to make. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes they sinned, angered God, even to the point He considered weeding out the chaff. Destroying the people altogether. He didn’t. That wasn’t the message He wanted to send to the watching world. He wanted the people who didn’t know Him to watch His care for His people, whom He was actively among, and know that He was God. Above all Gods. He wanted them to see the light of His presence. Even when the darkness of the world threatened to diminish His light, God’s presence never went out. It never left. The light remained. (Numbers 14:1-25)

People didn’t understand it. They never would. Centuries later, as the New Testament dawned and Jesus made His appearance as the light of God in the darkness of the world, they still missed it. So distracted were they by the things of the world, the worries of life, the cares of the day, the desires to have more, be more, do more, many missed the light. The wealthy young aristocrat. The Pharisees. The Sadducees. Pilate. Still, some recognized it. Some people realized Jesus was the light of the world. Nicodemus. The man blind from birth. The demoniac from the Gadarenes. Every single one of the twelve disciples. Some saw He was the one who could illuminate their darkened hearts, the darkened world, their darkened paths. He could give them light and life. He could and would be the light in their hearts that never goes out. Ever. Even in persecution, imprisonment, and death. (John 3:1-21; 8:12; 9:1-41; Mark 4:19; 15:6-15; Luke 8:26-39; 18:18-23) 

Stephen believed. With every fiber of his being. So changed was he by the light of God shed abroad in His heart that he went about preaching the word of God. Everywhere. Performing miracles and signs in Jesus’ name and power. Spreading the light as far as he could. As many as were excited to hear his truth and bathe in the light radiating from his spirit, not everyone felt the same. Pulled into a lively debate in the synagogue, some who refused to walk into the light of Jesus Christ, told lies about him. Stirred up trouble. Got him arrested. His story never changed. But his face did. It silenced the entire high council into staring. It shone. Radiated light. As bright as an angel. 

Asked if the accusations against him were true, Stephen launched into a sermon. He boldly did his part to speak truth and shed the light of God into the darkened minds and hearts of those men. They weren’t interested. Still, Stephen’s light shone. As he was shoved to his knees in anger and rebuke. As rocks pummeled his body. Even when he started to get dizzy and faint from too many blows to the head, the light of Christ shone through. Echoing words similar to that of Jesus on the cross, he commended himself to God and asked that his murderers not be charged in Heaven’s courts. Light. Illuminating the truth of Jesus to the world. From a light that was constantly lit and facing forward. (Acts 6:8-7:60) 

The command has never changed. Never once, in all of recorded Scripture, have we been told to let the light go out. That we don’t need it anymore. That there’s no need to trim the wicks, keep the glass clean and spotless, or let the oil burn down. Quite the converse. In fact, in one of His parables, Jesus tells us the exact opposite. Keep your lamp clean and trimmed and burning. Keep a supply of oil. Don’t let the light of Christ go out. Not in your heart. Not in your home. Not in your world. Your light is necessary there. Necessary everywhere. Because you are the light of the world. (Matthew 25:1-14; Luke 12:35)

Jesus said it. Shortly into His sermon on the mountainside, following a list of ways to do so, Jesus tells His followers that they are to be the light. Of the world. They are to be constantly clean and pure and filled with Him. They are to represent His presence, His power, His preeminence. In humility, mercy, purity, and peace. In the midst of persecution. When society shuns them, when neighbors revile them, when people spread rumors and lies behind their backs. Their actions then should reveal the light of Christ in them. It should radiate from their faces, resonate in their words, reverberate through their actions. In fact, actions are the only thing Jesus references when He issues this statement. Do good. To everyone. Let goodness shine from you in the way you treat other people, in the way you help others, in the way you give to the poor, in the causes you support, the way you handle adversity, the manner in which you resolve conflicts, disagreements, or differences of opinion. Let the light and love of Jesus Christ shine so radiantly through you that everything you do reflects the heart and nature of God. And don’t hide it. Ever. For any reason. (Matthew 5:14-16; Ephesians 5:8)

It is easy to do. Dim our light. Hide it. Shield it. Hold it at a different angle so we don’t have to stand up and explain our choices, don’t have to face the discrimination, don’t have to answer the backlash. Especially in our world of loose morals and low standards. Dimming the light of Christ in us is an incredibly easy and wildly attractive option. It is tempting to hide our beliefs and convictions. Keep quiet rather than speaking up. Quietly endure irreverent humor and explicit conversations. Embrace gossip groups and slander sessions. Allow yourself to spend time in questionable circumstances where temptation lurks, and the pressure to dim your light is nearly impossible to resist. Don’t do it. Don’t let your light dim. Don’t let it go out. Don’t participate in the things that will drain your oil and snuff your flame. No matter what it costs you to keep the light of Christ in your heart trimmed and burning brightly, do it. Refuse temptation. Resist the devil. Run from evil. Remembering this, your reward isn’t in the praise and prosperity and popularity of earth. Your prize is in Heaven. But you have to get there to claim it. And to get there, you have to walk with God, be in God, obey God in every word and action. You have to be the light of Christ, facing forward, illuminating the world. (Philippians 4:8; Ephesians 4:29; I Corinthians 15:33; Proverbs 4:14-15)  

Let’s be very clear, here. You can only be the light of the world if Christ is living in you, if His presence walks daily beside you, if your life echoes Him in every word and action. His goodness. His patience. His kindness. Although there may be a point when you can gently do so, being the light isn’t pointing out everyone else’s flaws. That isn’t your job. You were not sent to police the world. Being the light is about you. About living right yourself. About keeping your eyes on your own paper. About standing firmly and boldly in the Word of God and what it teaches. It is refusing to be swayed or moved by the ever-loosening morals of society. Being the light of Christ in the world is speaking truth in love, with grace, offering mercy. Living peaceably, but not passively. Actively shining your light forward so other people’s paths will be illuminated by the light of Christ, and they will come to know Him, follow Him, and worship Him. (Ephesians 2:10; 4:15; 6:10-18; Titus 3:8; Hebrews 10:24; James 1:22-25; 2:14-26; Colossians 4:6)

Don’t hide your light. Ever. No matter how tempting it is to shy away from the opposition, angry tirades, or derisive comments. Don’t be swayed. Don’t be drawn aside. Don’t get discouraged. Don’t stop following what you know to be true. No matter how thick or convincing the darkness around you, never allow your light to be covered. Don’t give in to the urge to hide your convictions, beliefs, religion, or the truth of God from a world that despises it. Tend your lamp. Keep it trimmed. Keep it burning by meticulously guarding your heart and mind. Keep it facing forward, shining brightly, illuminating every corner of the darkened world around you. Live in the light. Walk in the light. Be the light that faces forward and directs everyone to Christ. (Philippians 2:15; I Corinthians 4:20; I John 1:5-7; Ephesians 5:8-14)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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