Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

The reptiles were everywhere. Hiding under rocks. Lurking behind tent flaps. Slithering from under bushes. Striking out at the unaware, unsuspecting, unprepared passersby. Their prey was woefully unequipped for the attacks. Fully distracted by their most recent litany of irritations and complaints, the Israelites were so busy bemoaning the lack of their desired food and the scarcity of drinkable water they didn’t even notice the uptick in reptiles sunning themselves on trailside rocks, slithering unhurried down the road, or coiled in the crooks of tree branches, secretly watching the world around them. Snakes weren’t an oddity. They weren’t endangered. Mostly they were too afraid of people to stick around. No one paid them any heed. Until they started biting. Ankles of walkers. Arms of wood gatherers. Young. Old. Healthy. Ailing. The serpents didn’t discriminate. They would bite anyone. Badly. Venomous kisses of death. There were no exceptions.

People were dying. Men. Women. Children. Those who had lived a lifetime. Those who had a lifetime yet to live. Losses were piling up faster than graves could be dug. Nothing they tried helped. Their normal poultices didn’t work. Their healing salves didn’t help. Their herbal remedies didn’t relieve the pain or save their lives. The bites would result in death. They knew it.  They were helpless to stop it. Their very existence was at the mercy of serpents. Undiscriminating, venom-releasing, life-draining snakes. It was more than they could take. 

The fear was suffocating. The death toll was rising. The constant vigil to preserve life was both physically and emotionally draining. The knowledge they had likely brought this on themselves banged away inside their brains. If only they hadn’t whined. If only they hadn’t complained. If only they hadn’t loved the food and comforts of the world more than they loved God. Yes. It was their fault this disaster had befallen them. And it was their responsibility to do something about it. They had to own it. Own responsibility for their actions and inactions. Own their sin. They needed to humble themselves. Step back their words. Retract their complaints. They needed to repent. Surely through repentance they could appeal to the merciful God who could eliminate the havoc-wreaking, life-draining serpents. 

Approaching Moses, their humility firmly in place, the people admitted their sin. They had audaciously complained about God’s provision and protection. They had ridiculed Moses’ leadership skills. They had unendingly whined about food and water even when they weren’t starving or dehydrated. They fussed because they weren’t getting the delicacies their sinful hearts desired. The wrong was completely theirs. They knew it then. They knew it now. Then they didn’t care. Now they did. Now they needed deliverance from evil. Now they needed protection from serpents. Now they needed a cure for certain death. So, with heads bowed over clasped hands, they came to Moses and asked him to pray. Specifically. Not for forgiveness of the sins they acknowledge committing. Not for an attitude adjustment. Not for heart holiness. Not for spiritual renewal, revision or revival. No. The people had only one request. Ask God to eradicate the snakes. 

Their request reeks of entitlement. They didn’t bother to truly repent or even apologize for their egregious behavior. They weren’t interested in changing. No one asked what they could do to alter the trajectory of their circumstances. They weren’t considering overhauling their souls. They weren’t looking for renewed hearts, reinvigorated dedication to God, greater faith, deeper trust, or hope that would stand firm in the face of impossibilities. They weren’t looking for spiritual healing. They were asking for a skin-deep answer to a soul-deep disease. They didn’t want to be better people. They were happy with the sinfulness of their filthy hearts. All they wanted was for God to remove the snakes. Take away their immediate pain. Fix their current problem. And they were offering nothing in return. Not one thing. It comes as no surprise that God declined. 

God didn’t choose to remove the snakes from among the people. He didn’t just sweep away their problem. He didn’t fix it so they could go on about their selfish ways. No. God left the snakes slithering among them. Extremely venomous. Ridiculously vicious. No medical cure in sight. But there was an offer of hope. A way to escape the death sentence of the bite. Moses, instructed by God, created a snake of bronze, attached it to a pole, and stood it among the people. The snakes would still live among them. The people would still be bitten. The venom would continue to be life-threatening. Except now there was a way of escape. Now there was a cure. Now the serpent-bitten human could make their way to the pole, look up at the bronze snake, and live. The sight alone would save their life. Physically. And they were content with that. (Numbers 21:4-9)

They shouldn’t have been. It was far too short-sighted. It would save their physical lives, but would do nothing for their souls. It fixed their present, but didn’t salvage their future. They could sit and stare at that snake all day, but it wouldn’t change their hearts. It wouldn’t place in them a hunger and thirst for righteousness. It would make them choose permanent holiness over their own fleeting happiness. It wouldn’t make them live with eternity ever in their sights. Even if they made an effort to change, and so often they did, it would be only a short time before they would go back to following the evil desires of their own hearts. They would run after idols. Take forbidden wives. Seek earthly pleasures. Abandon the God who had brought them out of bondage and provided lifesaving food and water from impossible places. In truth, nothing would change. That snake on a stick might preserve their lives, but it couldn’t, wouldn’t, save them from the sin eroding their souls. It solved their current problem, but left their future destiny untouched. Why? Because they hadn’t asked for eternal salvation from sin, they’d only asked for earthly escape from the snakes. (Numbers 11:4-34, 20:1-11, 25:1-10; Exodus 12:31-40; Matthew 5:6)

Such is the unending, unchanging story of the human heart. My heart. Your heart. When you should be much more concerned about your soul than your social life, the opposite is often true. In a constant state of comparison with the neighbors, perhaps you find yourself angry with God for asking you to rely on Him instead of a six-figure income. Your heart fills with greed, envy, jealousy and covetousness. You whine and complain to all who will listen. You skip prayer time. You shorten Bible reading. You allow your heart to be overcome with thoughts and feelings that spew out your mouth. Then something real happens. Snakes overtake your life. Illness strikes. Layoffs hit. The car breaks down. The kid’s need shoes. The dog needs surgery.  A partner walks out. And you realize you need help. Real help. You need a miracle worker. 

Racing to your little-used prayer closet, you hit your knees and, with barely a passing acknowledgment of how far off course your soul has strayed, your entitled self lays a litany of requests before God. Just like the Israelites, you ask for your earthly discomforts to be fixed while ignoring the disastrous mess in your soul. You get caught up in the present and discount your future. You ask only for the temporal things you want, not the eternal things your soul needs. You ask for a snake on a stick, rather than the Savior from the cross. 

You need the Savior. More than anything. More than financial security. More than perfect health. More than a big house, a beautiful family, a picture-perfect life. More than all the things society says you need. More than the stash of goods your fear dictates you have. You need a relationship with Jesus. You need His peace that stymies the most brilliant of minds. You need His joy that transcends even the darkest circumstances. You need His love that never fails, never gives up, never leaves, never ends. You need His grace for the times you fail. You need His strength to shore up your weakness. You need His limitless power in the face of your impotence. More than you need anything in this world, you need Someone out of it. Yes, friend, you need Jesus more. (Philippians 4:7; Nehemiah 8:10; Romans 8:38-39; II Corinthians 12:9-10; Ephesians 2:8-9; I Chronicles 29:11)

 There are a thousand things that call us to prayer every day. Frantic prayer. Desperate prayer. Intercessory prayer. Constant prayer. Good things. Normal things. Things that require the miraculous. I’m not here to tell you not to bring those things to God. On the contrary, please bring them. Boldly. But. While you are busy bringing your cares and concerns to Him, bring yourself along too. Confess your sins and shortcomings. Examine the thoughts and motives of your heart. Ask Jesus to be your Savior. For today. For tomorrow. For eternity. And ask yourself this question. If you could ask God for anything and know your request would be granted, would you ask for saving from the discomforts of life or would you simply ask for the Savior? (Hebrews 4:16; I John 1:9; II Corinthians 13:5-7; Romans 10:13)

More than 30 years had passed in the waiting. Three decades of anticipation. It felt like a lifetime. In the 40 weeks of gestation, there had been a lot of time to think. Wonder. Dream. Consider what it would be like to raise the Son of God. Would a glowing halo settle around His head at birth? Would He be the smartest, fastest, most advanced child in the neighborhood? Would He perform miracles as an adolescent? Become a religious leader in His late teens? His identity must be revealed eventually, but Mary had no idea how it would occur. Nor did she have anyone to ask. The only people who knew were her and Joseph, and no one would believe them even if they spread their story far and wide. 

For years, she kept the secret diligently. Partly for self-preservation. She had no need for the entire community to believe she’d lost her mind. No desire to be ostracized. No love of being fodder for the gossip mill. Also, Gabrial hadn’t given her permission to tell anyone. Not even Joseph. The angel of God had done that very task himself. Even her cousin Elizabeth had known without her saying. There was no one to tell. No one to share her life of suspense. No one else was waiting for her Son to publicly reveal His identity. No one but Mary. Mary was waiting. Had been waiting, wondering, watching for 30 years. It’s a long time to wait for something. (Luke 1:26-45; Matthew 1:18-25)

A long time to keep a secret. A long time to foster hope. Plenty of time to decide whether you misunderstood, misheard, were mistaken. Time to stop hoping. Time to quit believing. Time for doubt to take root and grow strong. Not for Mary. Her faith never faltered. Her hope never hedged. For more than 30 years she’d believed. She’d been watching Him carefully for signs of omnipotence since the day He was born. Not once had He done anything out of the ordinary. He didn’t walk early. Didn’t speak prematurely. Didn’t bring wooden animals to life. Didn’t touch and instantly heal the sick as a teen. Didn’t fill her cupboards at the snap of His divine fingers or clean her house with the wave of His hand. There hadn’t been even one indication that He was God’s Son. Although Mary believed without seeing, she knew others weren’t. The order of the day was and always has been sight before faith. No one would believe her account unless there was physical proof to back it up. And Mary was exhausted in the waiting. 

She was done with this. Finished. Her patience had taken flight. He was a full-grown man now and she certainly wasn’t getting any younger. She wanted to be there when His divinity overtook His humanity. She wanted to see His power displayed. She wanted to see Him take His rightful place among His people. She wanted everyone to know her Son was the Messiah. God in the flesh. Right now. Today. She’d push for it if only the opportunity would present itself. And then it did. 

Flitting in and out of the crowd at the wedding in Cana, Mary serendipitously overheard the frantic whispers of the servants. A catastrophe had occurred. The bridegroom would be enormously embarrassed, publicly humiliated, socially shamed. He hadn’t planned properly. Hadn’t counted the RSVP’s correctly. Hadn’t given the accurate number to the sommelier. The wine was gone. Completely. There was nothing left. No old bottles in the cellar. No new bottles in the kitchen. Not even a drop of champagne to toast the newly married couple. Things really couldn’t get much worse than this. And someone had to go tell him. 

There was an argument over who should do that task. The most comely female? The strongest male? The oldest? The wisest? The most trusted? No one wanted the job. It would surely deflate the host’s joviality. As they stood hashing it out, Mary saw her moment. Ignoring His protests, Mary grabbed Jesus’ hand and pulled him over to the arguing crew, determination evident in every step. Pushing between the two closest servants, she shoved Jesus into the deep end and gave Him the opportunity to show the people who He really was. Owning their attention by her presence alone, Mary simply said, “Whatever my Son tells you to do. Don’t argue. Just do it.” And they did. 

Working as quickly as possible they carried gallon after gallon of water to fill the six stone water jars. They weren’t small jars. It wasn’t a small task. It was huge. It was urgent. Muscles burning and chests heaving from the hurried exertion, they finally finished and stood before Jesus, awaiting His next command. Yet no one moved when He gave it. They weren’t sure they had heard Him correctly. They knew what they had just done. Poured water into jars. Plain water. Unfiltered. Unflavored. Unadulterated. Boring water. Washing water. And Jesus had just told them to draw out a cup and take it to the master of the banquet. Did He know what He was asking? Did He know the result of handing the host a glass of water in place of wine? Was He serious? Was He sure?

The look on Jesus’ face must have said it all. He was absolutely serious. He couldn’t have been more certain of anything. Gathering their wits about them, they collected a glass of water, selected a martyr, and stoically sent him off to deliver the drink. Every servant held their breath. Their stomachs churned. Their hearts quaked. The women squeezed one another’s hands. The men clenched theirs into fists. The master picked up the glass and took a tentative sniff. Then he sipped. Then he drank in earnest. A broad smile broke across his face. An excited light lit his eyes. The wine was fabulous! Where had they found it? Why hadn’t they served this first? He needed to go talk to the groom. And the servants, their exhalations audible, went back to work, but not without the knowledge they had been in contact with a power greater than that of any they had ever seen. And the disciples, those who Jesus had already called to travel with Him, those who tentatively believed already, believed in Him completely. (John 2:1-11)

Standing by the wall, watching the goings on, Mary must surely have had a twinkle in her eye. Her heart overflowed. What she had known and believed for three decades had finally been put into action for all to see. When she’d been tempted to doubt, tempted to fear, tempted to question her own experience with Gabriel and God, she’d pushed herself to keep believing. She’d been as patient as she could make herself be. She’d waited when she didn’t want to. Believed when her faith was whisper thin. Hoped when trust in God’s promise seemed futile. She had kept believing even when she didn’t immediately see action. And, at just the right time, in just the right way, Jesus had shown Himself and revealed the glory of God to those whose hearts were prepared to believe. 

It’s a space we have all occupied. The waiting space. Time and again. Maybe you’re there right now. Falling on your knees, praying and begging and crying, asking God to move. Act. Do something, anything. Now. Please. Sometimes He does. Immediately. Sometimes. Not always. Some requests appear to go unanswered. Days turn into weeks. Weeks become months. Months stretch into years. You are tempted to give up. Quit praying. Stop hoping. Give in to doubt. But you haven’t. You have kept praying. You still believe God will keep His promises. With your faith as threadbare as the knees of your prayer-worn jeans, you choose to hit the carpet in prayer one more time. You have chosen to trust. You have chosen to believe. Because you know that God is God. Always. Forever. From eternity to eternity. Today. Tomorrow. Next month. Next year. In every circumstance. In every moment. In the blind faith. In the clear sight. Even in the middle of the waiting. (Hebrews 13:8; Isaiah 43:13; Lamentations 3:25; Psalm 33:20-22) 

I don’t know what you are waiting for today. I don’t know how long you’ve been asking, begging, pleading. I don’t know how thin you’ve worn your faith, if your trust is wavering, if your hope is nearly exhausted. I do know, with absolute surety, that God hears you. Even when He doesn’t visibly act the very second you ask. Even when you don’t see a change in your circumstances. Even when things seem to get worse instead of better. God hears you. And the God, your God, who knows the end from the beginning and everything in between, is waiting for the exact right moment to bless you with the best possible answer. For you. For your circumstance. For the friend who needs Him. For your child who’s lost. For the situation that seems beyond hope. For the relationship that appears beyond repair. God is hearing the cries of your heart and prayers of your lips. He is planning. He is working. God will move. So keep the faith. Don’t quit believing. Don’t grow impatient. Be diligent in your intercession. Keep asking. Keep seeking. Keep knocking. In His time, in His way, God will show up, revealing His glory, fulfilling His promise, to those who believe. (I Kings 8:56; Proverbs 15:29; John 9:31; Romans 12:12; Psalm 18:6; Luke 11:9; I Corinthians 1:9)

Aghast, they watched the horror show unfold before them. It was disgusting. Disgraceful. Disrespectful. Those men completely bypassed the washing station. The entire lot of Jesus’ disciples paraded straight into the dining room and comfortably seated themselves at the table. Their hands were still covered in both visible and invisible grains of dirt and dust. Germs nestled there from multiple handshakes. Undesirables snuggled under their nails. It was cringeworthy. It was also noteworthy. A little check in the “probably not God” column of their scorecards. The coming Messiah wouldn’t allow His followers to eat without first washing their hands. He’d follow all the customs and traditions of their day. That meant this Man, the Son of Joseph the carpenter from Galilee, wasn’t the Messiah. According to their calculations, He couldn’t be. And the Pharisees were glad.

They didn’t want this unwashed individual to be the promised One. He didn’t fit their ideals. Didn’t mesh with their plans. Didn’t follow their customs. He didn’t do anything the Messiah they expected would do. Their Messiah would look so much differently. He wouldn’t be meek and mild, using words and parables to teach lessons. He wouldn’t have time for the aged and infirm, the tiny tots and bedraggled mommas, the rugged fishermen or the dirty prostitutes. He wouldn’t be distracted by every illness, turn aside to every person possessed, or concern himself with feeding a bunch of guys too lazy to pack their own lunch. No. He’d be a leader from the start. In every way. Meticulously adhering to their traditions and laws, and forcing his men to do the same. Worried more about the important things than some inconsequential kid’s boo-boo. And He’d surround himself with intelligent, aristocratic, well-mannered men. Men like them. Not men who were too stupid to even wash their hands before lunch. 

Hoping to reveal the truth of His identity, they probed Him on the error. They had questions. Why didn’t He make His men follow the revered traditions of their elders? Why didn’t they wash their hands before they ate? Why didn’t they scrub meticulously, catching every crease and callous until no grain of sand could possibly remain? If He was who He seemed to believe He was, why didn’t He follow the rules and regulations and traditions the religious leaders and elders had put in place? Where did He get off thinking He didn’t have to? 

If the Pharisees thought the answer was going to be a stuttering, caught-in-the-act, guilty response, they were in for a surprise. Instead of offering some elaborate excuse of an answer to their question, Jesus responded with a pointed question of His own. One that got right down in the muck of where they lived and called them out. Why were they so busy straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel? Why did they believe their ability to use their traditions to skirt God’s commands would gain them eternal life? Why did they think lip service and outward actions of good behavior would save their souls? At what point had the scales so massively shifted as to present the idea that human rules trumped God’s laws? (Matthew 23:24; Ephesians 2:8-9)

By the end of Jesus’ discourse, a crowd was starting to form. In an effort to nip the issue in the bud and answer everyone’s questions, Jesus called them to gather around. They needed to hear His words. They needed to mark this down. It needed to be indelibly written on their hearts and etched in their minds. What they put in their mouths could never, would never defile their souls. The fish they had for lunch was fine. The sufganiyot they ate that morning was perfect. The rack of lamb currently roasting for dinner was absolutely acceptable. Even if they forgot to wash their hands, if water wasn’t readily available, or if they simply didn’t feel like doing so. Why? Because physical food feeds only your body. It quiets only the grumbling of your empty stomach. It does nothing to assuage the cries of your empty soul. Nourishment for your soul must come from Christ alone. Time spent in His Word. Hours seeking His will. Moments lived in His presence. A lifetime dedicated to being holy as He called you to be. (I Peter 1:15-17)

Appalled at the obvious set down and deeply offended by Jesus’ words, the Pharisees slunk off to lick their wounds. Their exit didn’t go unnoticed. Neither did their offense. The disciples saw their retreat and accurately identified the issue. Approaching Jesus as the last of the crowd finally meandered away, the disciples asked if He realized how offensive His words had been to the Pharisees. It must have come as a shock when He answered in the affirmative. Jesus knew the Pharisees were offended. He knew they didn’t like His words. But He hadn’t come to tickle ears and rubber stamp their ideals. He came to give life. Eternal life. The only way to do that was to correct the inaccuracies in their teachings. They didn’t have to like it. They could choose to reject it. But they could never say they hadn’t heard. The ball of obedience was in their court. 

Unfortunately, the disciples were running a little obtuse that day. They were still confused. About handwashing. About eating. About being defiled. About what Jesus was really saying. Regularly the one to speak up, Peter, his brow furrowed in puzzlement, asked for an explanation. Could they get some clarification on the parable? Could it be simplified? Was there another way to say it that would highlight the main points and eliminate their bewilderment? There absolutely was.  

Sucking in a deep breath and pushing it out in a controlled sigh, Jesus answered in understandable sentences built with small words and simple ideas. Reiterations of what He’d just said to the crowd a short time ago. Things they’d already heard but were struggling to separate new truths from old traditions. What you put in your mouth never touches your soul. It can’t. Go lick the sand, if it makes you happy. Eat a few blades of unwashed grass. Drink a handful of lake water. Your stomach may wish you hadn’t. You may cast it up immediately. You may suffer an elimination situation a few hours later. It may stand as an indictment of your ability to make intelligent choices, but it won’t affect your soul. At all. (Matthew 15:1-20; Mark 7:18-20)

It can’t. The things that affect your soul don’t go into your mouth. They come out of it. Words erupting from thoughts, feelings, and ideas. Reactions flowing from the inedible things that seep into your heart through exposures, experiences, and the natural bent toward sin in every person. Festering anger. Deep-rooted bitterness. Jealousy. Arrogance. Selfishness. If you allow them to take root, grow, and envelop your heart, they will spill out of your mouth and into your actions through depravity, corruption, immorality and hate. The state of your heart has nothing to do with what you eat, and everything to do with what you hold dear. (Luke 6:45; Matthew 12:34; Proverbs 4:23; Jeremiah 17:9-10; Proverbs 27:19)

See, you really aren’t what you eat. What you put in your mouth isn’t what defiles your soul. It doesn’t define you. It doesn’t derail your eternity. So eat the donut. Drink the coffee. Have the steak. Unless God has specifically asked you to lay that thing aside, choosing to do so in order to honor the tradition of Lent is simply following a man-made tradition in an attempt to please a sovereign God. And it isn’t the spirit of Lent. Lent is about editing out the things in our lives that fail to please God and writing in the things that do. Lent is about more. More time with God in prayer. More time in His Word. More time in silent contemplation. More careful listening to hear Him speak. (Romans 14:14)

Lest misunderstanding occurs, know this. I love the traditions of the church. The Liturgy. The sacraments. Their significance. I stand by them. Encourage them. So long as they are humbly done to honor God. What doesn’t honor Him is when these things are done out of a belief that participating in these actions alone brings the righteousness that leads to eternal life. It doesn’t. It can’t. When they are done with no commitment to holiness, no attempt at spiritual renewal, no desire to change or increase their relationship with God, these things mean nothing. You can skip a week of meals, forgo caffeine, eliminate wine, make Lent your own diet program, but unless you purposefully add in moments of honest conversation with God, you’ve wasted your time. Your diet means nothing. Because you aren’t what you physically consume. You are what you spiritually devour. (Romans 3:28; Galatians 2:16) 

So. Get the donut. The one with cream filling, chocolate icing, and multi-colored sprinkles, if you’d like. Eat it while you read your Bible. Sip your coffee while you contemplate the words you read. And pray. Every day. All day. Don’t stop. Turn off the television. Silence your cell phone. Tell your friends you aren’t available for an hour. Find a place to be silent and hear God’s voice as He speaks to you. Draw as close as you can to Jesus. Stay there. Nourish your soul with the Bread of Life. Quench your spiritual thirst at the Spring of Living Water. Take time to shore up your edges, clean out your clutter, straighten the shelves of your heart, leave no room between your soul and your Savior. You can sacrifice your steak, your chocolate, your crisps, but since you aren’t actually what you eat, it means nothing. Instead, rend your heart. Search your soul. Make edits that bring forth fruits declaring you have been redeemed. You may not be what you physically eat, but you are what you spiritually consume. (I Chronicles 16:11; Luke 18:1; Ephesians 6:18; Romans 12:2; Matthew 6:6; John 6:35; John 7:37-39; Matthew 3:8)

Staring down his aquiline nose at the quivering lump of humanity bowing before his throne, the king waited impatiently for his report. Bejeweled fingers drummed the elegantly padded armrest. Impatient toes tapped comfortable sandals of soft, supple leather on the impeccable floor. His posture indicated indifference. His countenance exuded mild annoyance. The irritated huff of breath that escaped his lips assured everyone present he remained unconcerned about the messenger’s words. Except he wasn’t. 

Underneath the weight of his royal robe, the king’s pulse was tapping a rapid tattoo. Anxiety pumped through his veins, twisting his stomach. His mind raced. His palms were sweating. The tiny hairs at the back of his neck stood on end, unmistakably warning him of impending doom. A nagging voice in his mind warned him that the forthcoming message would not be good. Something was terribly amiss. Before the man in front of him could coerce his shaking vocal chords into expelling the truth, the king of Nineveh knew in the deepest part of his being it was true. Trouble was steamrolling their way. 

Hearing the first report, the king had felt little concern over a solitary Jewish man trudging through their city in threadbare robes and worn-out sandals. His beard had split in a grin, a chuckle rumbled from his chest. The man must be a lunatic. Had he never heard of how they had vanquished the Jews in the past? Had the news of Nineveh’s dubious loves–idolatry, hedonism, and bloodlust–not reached his ears? Was he too demented to comprehend they would stop at nothing to protect everything within the city walls? Perhaps the man had a death wish. Maybe he was lost. Perhaps he was just passing through. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was a spy. Maybe he was a refugee. Maybe he was just a wanderer. But he wasn’t, the man was clearly on a mission.

He wished he’d been more proactive. Wished he’d commanded his men to bring Jonah straight to him instead of allowing the man to wander through the city stirring up the residents. Barely a day after he’d walked through the gates, Jonah had traveled one-third of the way through town spreading a message that struck fear in the hearts of the bravest men. The entire town was in an uproar. People were panicking. As their king, he was required to respond, protect his people, make decisions that would avert disaster and reinstate calm. And he would. As soon as he knew what Jonah was saying.

It seemed to take an eternity, but the trembling man before him finally controlled his faculties enough to speak. The news was indeed horrible. The man plodding through their great city was not a tourist. He wasn’t lost. He wasn’t a spy. He was a prophet. The words he spoke came straight from Israel’s God. The God whose reputation of inexhaustible power preceded Him. And He had a message for them. A warning. Destruction was coming. Devastation was imminent. Nineveh would be overthrown. Only forty days stood between them and total annihilation. Their skilled soldiers and trained strategists couldn’t stop it. No sacrifices to their gods could alter it. They were impotent against the coming onslaught. Unless they repented. Unless they laid aside their idols and habits and preferences. Unless they changed. Unless they turned to God. 

Nineveh’s king was no stranger to the God of Israel. He couldn’t boast of ever knowing Him personally, but he had made it his business to know all about Him. The history of Israel’s miraculous victories and triumphant escapes wasn’t an enormous hidden secret. Their God had a reputation and He upheld it well. Although slow to anger and of great compassion, once kindled, His wrath was unbearable. No man or army or kingdom could stand against Him. His word was sure. What He said would absolutely come to pass. So when the man standing before the king finally loosened his tongue enough to say the terrifying words the wandering man called Jonah was speaking as he marched through their city, the great, powerful, ruthless king of that bloodthirsty land became wildly distraught. Destruction was coming. Judgment for the things they’d done and the things they’d left undone. The God of Israel was tired of their shenanigans. He was over it. He was demanding change lest He come and extract His price. A price they were unwilling to pay. A cost they couldn’t afford. The city would be overthrown. The people would be annihilated. If they lived, life as they knew it would cease to exist. Unless they did something. (Romans 8:31; II Chronicles 20:6)

Rising from his throne, the king took immediate action. Tossing aside his royal robes, he clothed himself in itchy, smelly sackcloth and sank down to sit in the dust. From his now lowly station, he issued a decree effective immediately. Whether he realized it or not, he followed the actions of Mordecai and Esther when faced with King Xerxes annihilation edict. He followed the same script as the Israelites after Ezra read the law. He did what the people of God had been doing for centuries. The king of Nineveh called a fast. For everyone. People. Animals. Flocks. Herds. No food. No drink. Drape yourselves in sackcloth. People and animals alike. Get. On. Your. Knees. Bow down. Put your face in the ground. Literally. Then urgently, desperately, frantically cry out to Israel’s God. Repent of your evil ways. Put them behind you. Quit your violent tendencies. Change yourselves, your hearts, your lives. Perhaps, just maybe, it will be enough to stay His hand. Maybe it will be enough to stir His renowned compassion. Maybe it will assuage His anger and He will relent. It was all they could do. It might not even work. Their change may be too little, too late. Yet there were no other options. It was a risk worth taking. (Esther 4:1-3, 15-17; Nehemiah 9:1; Jeremiah 18:8 

The people must have wondered if it would be enough. It certainly wouldn’t be for their gods. The gods they worshiped would require a much steeper price. They would demand sacrifices the Ninevites were loath to make. Child sacrifices. Lots of them. They must surely have quietly wondered if the king was right about this. Wouldn’t a God storied to hold the power of the world in His hand have a much greater demand? Would this simple fasting and repentance and change be enough to stay God’s hand? With no other options available, did it matter? There were no other options. The king’s ideas were all they had. They had to try them. So they did. Through the haze of fear and panic surrounding them, the people did exactly as they were told. Everyone wore sackcloth.  Everyone fasted. Everyone fell on their faces. Everyone repented. And they waited to see what God would do. (Jonah 3)

The Biblical account doesn’t offer an exact timeline, but it seems they didn’t have long to wait. Stirred by their repentance and change, God’s great heart of compassion compelled Him to relent. Without horrendous requests. Without heartbreaking requirements of child sacrifices. Without any of the craziness the gods of Nineveh would have required. Why? Because the sacrifices that please our God have nothing to do with punishment. He doesn’t require self castigation. He doesn’t bestow guilt trips. There are only two sacrifices God is interested in. A broken spirit. A contrite heart. Two things that move God’s heart with compassion and mercy. Both then and now. (Psalm 51:1-17; Deuteronomy 12:31; Isaiah 54:4; Joel 2:13)

See, God isn’t asking you to give something up, lay something down, forgive, forget, or repent because He needs His ego stroked, feels the urge to exercise His divine authority, or flex His omnipotent muscles. No. God brings you to a place of repentance and change for one reason only. The health of your soul. It’s His main concern. Yes, God cares about the daily maintenance of your body, the bills you have to pay, the necessities your life requires. But. He cares more about your soul. He is more invested in your eternity. Because it is permanent. Your eternal destination is a one-way ticket. There are no do-overs. No second chances. No mulligans. Once you arrive, it’s done and dusted. And God is enormously interested in where you spend eternity.(Jonah 4:9-11; Matthew 6:25-34; Philippians 3:13-14; Proverbs 3:11-12)

Perhaps it doesn’t affect you the same way, but there is something about reading God’s response to the Ninevites’ repentance that warms my heart. It curves my lips in a smile. It speaks to my soul about the heart of my God. It underscores the attributes of His character I most often need myself. Compassion. Mercy. Grace. That God would take the time to throw a roadblock in the path of those rebellious, selfish, arrogant, bloodthirsty people speaks to the depth of His unfailing love for mankind. Even before Jesus came to die for us, God the Father wasn’t willing that anyone should die in their sins. When we hate Him. When we don’t choose Him. When we act like He doesn’t exist. When we follow the idols of the world that use and abuse us, demanding more than we can possibly give. Still, He seeks us. Calls us out. He draws us to Himself. Offers reconciliation in exchange for the miniscule price of a repentant spirit and a heart that is willing to change. (II Peter 3:9; Isaiah 30:18; Psalm 145:8-9; Exodus 34:6)

With the Lenten season only a week away, are you listening intently to what God is saying to you? His spiritual warnings. What to lay down. What to pick up. What places in your soul need attention. Are you willing to do it? Are you willing to lay aside your own arrogance and preferences, habits and desires that you might gain Christ? Will you take His warnings seriously, heed His words wholeheartedly? Or does it seem undesirable to you? Does it seem unnecessary to you? Does it feel too uncertain for you? With your eternity hanging in the balance, is following Jesus a risk worth taking? (Joshua 24:14; Philippians 3:7-8; Matthew 11:28-29; Ephesians 6:13; Mark 8:34-37)

The mantle of responsibility settled even more heavily around him as Moses issued yet another requirement from God’s lips to the priest’s ears. It was all he could do not to release a meaningful sigh. There was already so much to keep track of, so many things to do. Rules and requirements. Regulations and responsibilities. The position should be accompanied by a set of manuals, so extensive was the list. Officiating. Teaching. Sacrificing. Maintaining. Tax collecting. Dispute settling. And that was just the professional part. The personal side was just as tedious. Touch this. Avoid that. Marry her, but not her. Eat this, eschew that. Wear these clothes. Use this hairstyle. Be respectful, appropriate, perfect, holy. It was a lot to keep straight. And now there was a new addition. Tend the lamps. Continually. (Leviticus 1-24:4, Exodus 30:7-10, Numbers 18, Deuteronomy 17:8-13)

It wasn’t a huge ask, but still Aaron’s shoulders slumped at this new duty. He was busy. Incredibly so. All the priests were. There was always something needing tending. A skin issue to examine. A moldy fabric to inspect. A sacrifice to slaughter. A grain offering to burn. Commandments to teach. Laws to preach. They barely had time to sleep. And now it seems they truly don’t. The lamps in the tabernacle are not to go out. Ever. They have to burn all night, every night. Brightly. They must never go out. The darkness must never come in. The light of God must shine. Continuously. For His people. In His people. Out of His people as they walked in obedience to Him. 

Obedience was imperative. Outlined just as clearly as His commands and decrees were the results of choosing alternate paths. Terror. Illness. Famine. Fear. The ground would not yield its fruit. Wild animals would ravage their towns. War would come. Plagues would descend. Starvation would ensue. Death would be certain. There could be no other gods. There could be no other paths. There could be no other rules and laws and commands. Not because God was some arrogant, selfish taskmaster. No. The rules were put in place to protect their souls. To keep the lamps of their hearts clean and full and burning. The consequences were clearly delineated to remind them that the light of God among them must never go out. Ever. Morning. Evening. Day. Night. A glance at the tabernacle would be a steady reminder that careful obedience to God was better than the sacrifice of their souls on the altar of the impotent gods of the world. (Leviticus 26:14-39) 

Blessing would accompany their obedience. Amazing blessing. Nearly unbelievable promise. Skies that dropped the necessary amount of rain. Land that yielded bountiful crops. Their bellies would be full. Their barns would overflow. Peace and safety would rest on their land. Wild beasts would avoid them. Enemies would fall to them. God’s favor would rest on them. The covenant God had sworn to His people would be fulfilled. He would walk among them. They would be His people. He would be their God. So long as they followed every decree, obeyed every command, and observed every law passed down from God’s lips to their ears via Moses. So long as the light of God among them, in them, was never extinguished. (Leviticus 26:1-13)

It meant someone had to be in the tabernacle. Always. Awake. Alert. Keeping watch. Anticipating outages. Intercepting any form of unexpected circumstance or unceremonious disaster. The glass must be clean. The oil must be clear. The wicks must be trimmed. The flames must be lit. The light of God must fill the room. In the dusk of evening. In the darkness of night. In the slowly emerging light of dawn. Aaron and his sons, his descendants, must tend the lamps. Continually. 

For quite some time they did so. Even after Aaron died on Mount Hor. Even after Moses climbed Mount Nebo and never returned. Even after 110-year-old Joshua was called to his eternal reward. They tended their lamps and obeyed their God clear up until every last man of Joshua’s entire generation had gone the way of all the earth. And God blessed them. Time and again the hand of God can clearly be seen fulfilling the promise that results from obedience. Jericho fell at their feet. Ai succumbed in spite of Achan’s extinguished light. The five Amorite kings are annihilated. The southern and northern cities were conquered. The people were able to settle in the land God had promised. Then Joshua died. One by one the members of his generation followed. Eventually, no one was left to remind them to tend their lamps. So they didn’t. (Numbers 20:22-29; Deuteronomy 34:1-12; Joshua 24:29-31,6,8; Judges 2:10)

The younger generation didn’t bother. Although the priests may still have been lighting the lamps in the Tabernacle, it was simply a habit. The light in their hearts had faded. The brightness of their relationship with God had dimmed. Their obedience flagged. Instead of being lights in a dark world, they became distracted and enamored by the gods of the people around them. And again God kept His promise. In response to their abandonment of His laws and commands, God allowed them to be plundered and sold. There wasn’t a battle they could win. Distress mounted. Regrets piled up. Sorrows nearly suffocated them. If only they’d tended their lamps! (Judges 2:11-19)

Unfortunately, things never really changed. Not permanently. Generation after generation came and went. Sometimes they obeyed God. More frequently they didn’t. Through judges and prophets, good kings and bad, their lights flickered and fluttered, sputtered and guttered. The prophet Isaiah cried out words of repentance and change, an end to the meaningless rituals that left their hearts in darkness. Jeremiah, in anguish over the darkened state of his people, wept while speaking the words of the Lord against them. Amos outlines their sins and resulting punishments, begging them to repent. Zechariah issues a call to return from the darkness of their evil ways and practices. Yet still, they failed to turn and tend their lamps, choosing instead to dwell in the darkness of this world rather than revel in the light of God. (Isaiah 1:11-20; Jeremiah 9,11; Amos 4-5:17; Zechariah 1:1-6) 

Into this inky darkness, Jesus comes. The light of the world to people dwelling in darkness. Folks stumbling around trying to find their own way. They were in disgraceful condition. Lamps unlit, wicks untrimmed, oil depleted. The lamps in the Tabernacle may be lit and burning in honor of the centuries-old ritual, but the light of Christ in their hearts was sadly missing. The people called to be filled with the Light of the world so they could be lights in the world, had fallen prey to the darkness around them. They hadn’t tended their lamps. Didn’t really comprehend what that looked like. Jesus tells them the same things in the flesh that God the Father had spoken through prophets hundreds of years before. Obey my laws. Keep my commandments. Follow my decrees. Tend your lamp. Be the light of the world. (Isaiah 9:2; Matthew 4:12-16, 5:14-16; John 8:12)

In the ensuing centuries since Jesus walked the earth, His message hasn’t changed. You are the light of the world. You are the witness of Christ on earth. You are an example of His attributes. You are the living, breathing word of God to those who have never read it, refuse to acknowledge it, and race to refute it at every turn. You are words of grace and peace to the people lost in the darkness of this world. Your life is a beacon of hope radiating through the shadows, pointing to the mercy and forgiveness of Jesus Christ, calling others to repentance and change. At least it should be. If you’ve been tending your lamp. Just as Aaron was tasked with the continual tending of the lamps in the Tabernacle, you are tasked with tending the lamp in the temple of your heart. Tend it constantly. Clear the sins and cobwebs out so the light can be clearly seen. Trim away the unnecessary excess, the edges frazzled and frayed by the pull of the world so your light will burn strong and bright. Be filled with the Spirit, the fire of the Holy Ghost, the presence of Almighty God. Willingly, happily follow His voice, obey His commands, speak His words. Tend your lamp so those lost in the darkness of their trespasses and sins can see Jesus shining in and through and out of you. Jesus called you to be the light of the world. So tend your lamp. Continually. (Acts 1:8; I Timothy 4:12; II Corinthians 3:3; Ephesians 5:18; I Corinthians 6:19; Philippians 2:14-15; Ephesians 2:1-10)