Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Gingerly, he shifted the line of drying parchments to the side, valiantly attempting to create space for the most recent sheet without smearing a previous one. He didn’t care to do a rewrite. He’d already been at this for hours. Mind meticulously sifting through memories. Quill carefully gliding over crisp parchment. Page after page had been filled. Day had turned to night, then back to day. He’d never have noticed had it not necessitated the lighting of a lamp. His roaring stomach loudly grumbled that he’d skipped a meal. Or two. The last meal he’d eaten was breakfast. Judging by the crow of the rooster and the sun peaking over the hilltops, it was breakfast time again. He’d missed lunch. And dinner. Rubbing his neck and rotating his head, John carefully paused a moment to step back and inspect the parchment he’d just slipped into place. His muscles were tight. His back ached. His shoulders were stiff. The joints of his fingers cried out in refusal when he flexed his hand. And his heart rejoiced. The words of Jesus, His teachings, His miracles, His life, were inscribed on those pages. Words of life for the lives of people.  

No price could be placed on the importance of preserving the words and events inscribed on those pages. They were invaluable. For earthly life. For eternal life. Everyone needed them. Not one person was exempt. John. His family. His friends. His neighbors. People living and those yet to be born. Everyone, everywhere needed those words. Coming generations would be no different than those of his day. Eventually, they would find themselves urgently needing to read, know, and understand these teachings. Because every generation would find themselves in a position to fall away. Away from belief in Jesus Christ. Away from His teachings. Away from His commandments, His principles, His requirements. Every generation would find themselves tempted to rewrite the truth, retell the stories, reinterpret the facts. They would be urged to make the immutable commands of God more palatable. They needed John’s writings, the unadulterated words of Jesus Christ, because they would desperately need to know the path to follow. So they would not fall away. 

Those words were among the last things Jesus said to His disciples. After three years of teaching and talking, living and walking among them, He was going away. They weren’t coming. Couldn’t come. They had to stay behind as lights in the darkened world. But He hadn’t been lax while He was with them. He’d prepared them for this very moment. Every lesson, every sermon, every parable, every moment had been a preparation for the time when He would not physically be among them. He’d told them everything they needed to know. Jesus’ heart for them was that they wouldn’t fall away. From righteousness. From holiness. From God. John’s heart, his reason for long hours uncomfortably bent over a cramped writing desk, was to share the words and life and lessons of Jesus with posterity for the exact same reason. So they wouldn’t fall away. (John 13:31-33, 14:1-12, 15:4-14, 16:1; Matthew 5:14-16)

John had seen the dangers of falling away firsthand. Seated around the table at their final meal with Jesus before His death, the disciples had been surprised to hear that one of their own would betray Him. Someone they knew. Someone they trusted. Someone who had been there when Jesus stilled the sea, gave sight to the blind, healed the lame and multiplied a sack lunch. Someone who was right there to witness Lazarus walking out of the tomb at Jesus’ command. Someone who had heard the same teachings and truths they had all heard, was already in the throes of defection. Someone had fallen away. Offered Jesus’ head to the Pharisees. Sold His life to the chief priests. Would soon be handing Him over to death.  It was unimaginable. It was inconceivable. Yet it happened. (Matthew 26:20-25; John 18:1-5)

He’d been in the garden when Judas, a trusted friend and fellow disciple, approached with a group of soldiers, chief priests, and Pharisees to arrest Jesus. The defection stung. The betrayal cut deeply. The sneer on Judas’ face as he approached and kissed Jesus’ cheek raised bile in the back of John’s throat. Although he may not have known at that moment, John would surely later learn the impetus behind Judas’ actions. The love of money truly is the root of all evil. Judas obviously hadn’t been paying attention to the dialogue between Jesus and the wealthy young man who came seeking eternal life without sacrifice. He must not have heard Jesus’ response that valuing earthly treasures above eternal ones would never result in eternal life. If he heard, he didn’t listen. Judas was in the same trench with the saddened young man who refused to diminish his earthly wealth to gain eternal riches. His love for money superseded his desire for Jesus. For just 30 pieces of silver, he sacrificed Jesus’ life and his own eternity. Money was the thing Judas wouldn’t give up to save his soul. It was the thing that made him fall away.  (Matthew 6:24, 16:26, 26:14-15; I Timothy 6:10; Mark 10:17-23)

Unfortunately, Judas wouldn’t be the only one of them to stumble and fall away. Following at a short distance as they led Jesus into the high priest’s courtyard, Peter found a seat among those gathered around a fire warming themselves. He intended to quietly wait out the hearing. Gain information. Go back and tell the others what he’d learned. Except he didn’t learn what he thought he would. He didn’t learn anything new about Jesus. He learned only something old about himself. The old self-preservation was still alive and well. The old habit of denial and falling in with the crowd was still thriving in his heart. He was still fearful and largely faithless. Just like he’d been when he tried to walk on water. His spirit was willing, but his flesh was weak. He wanted to stand up for Jesus, but his fear of being mocked, abused, or persecuted silenced his voice. Jesus had warned him about this. 

 Hearing Jesus say He was going away but they were staying behind had set off Peter’s impetuousness. He wasn’t having that. He couldn’t think of anywhere Jesus was going that he wouldn’t follow. He loved Jesus more than anything. More than anyone. He would follow Him anywhere. Even death. He’d go there too. Except he wouldn’t. Wouldn’t even be tempted to. When it came down to it and his neck was on the line, Peter would deny even knowing Jesus. Not once. Not twice. Three times. He would adamantly furrow his brow and fervently deny any affiliation. When everything seemed safe and easy, Peter was happy to loudly proclaim his relationship with Jesus. But when things grew dark and threatening, Peter was a coward. Afraid to stand for truth. Afraid to proclaim holiness. Afraid to claim even a passing acquaintance with Jesus. Too afraid of the social status quo, the opinions of influencers, the current tilt of the religious world. Too worried about perception and persecution. Too concerned for his physical safety, Peter forgot about his spiritual security. And he fell away. (Luke 22:54-62; John 13:31-38, 19:15-18,25-27)

Thankfully, Peter didn’t stay there. Fallen away. Denying Christ. No. Within minutes of his third denial, Peter can be found face first in the ground, sobbing his heart out in repentance, gaining spiritual restoration. The same kind of restoration John later wrote about in his first epistle. Encouraging the Christians of that day to walk in the light of God and refrain from sin, John assures them that, if they do sin, the blood of Jesus Christ is still available. To them then. To us now. He paints the overwhelmingly gorgeous picture of Christ as our Advocate, standing before the Great Judge of all the earth, pleading our cause, offering Himself as an alternative to spiritual death. John eloquently reminds us that Jesus was the sacrifice for our sins. He died so we don’t have to. And He left His Word, His commands, His teachings, His stories, so we won’t fall away. (I John 1:5-2:2)

Everything you need to know is in your Bible. Read it. First. Before you read the news. Before you check social media. Before you pick up the latest Christian bestseller or listen to the most recent sermon from your favorite preacher. Read. Your. Bible. Know it. Memorize it. Saturate your soul so deeply in the Word of God that it is your first response in every situation. Changing times. Shifting views. Skewed media. Political agendas. Social influences. Varying opinions and irreligious ideas. No matter what, God’s Word stands. Its life-changing, life-giving, life-saving words last forever. It still applies. All of it. And you need to know it, so you won’t fall away. (Isaiah 40:6-8; Psalm 119:11; Psalm 33:11-14; II Timothy 3:16)

They were talking about him. Right in front of him. Blind he was. Deaf he was not. He could hear them. Every. Single. Word. At least it wasn’t derogatory. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t asked the same question a hundred times. Why had this happened to him? Why was he born without vision? Who was to blame for this grave injustice? Had his father committed a heinous crime? Had his mother engaged in adulterous behavior? Had he somehow, before his lungs inhaled his first breath, before his mind made its first choice, before his legs were able to carry him from place to place, sinned against God and been punished forever with blindness? Or was there another reason, a better answer for his affliction? Could there possibly be an acceptable explanation for the darkness he daily endured?

He’d never seen light. Had no idea what it was. Not because no one had tried to describe it. They had. In vain. His mind simply couldn’t conceive it. Others had tried to verbally depict the vibrant pinks and purples of a flower garden, the orange beauty in the sunset, the iridescent glory of the midday sun glinting off the turquoise waters of the sea. It was all to no avail. He’d never been able to imagine it. Any of it. Brightness. Colors. Light. All he’d ever been able to comprehend was darkness. The very concept of light escaped him.  

In the absence of sight, his other senses were finely honed. His hearing was sharp. He could hear things whispered behind cupped hands from several paces away. Every insult. Every insinuation. Every irritated complaint about his very presence. He could hear every footfall. Those who passed by close and steady. Those who hastened their steps. Those who crossed to the other side of the street to avoid him. He could hear the nearly silent movement of a stone whipping through the air. The whistle of a stick swinging too close to his face. The projectile of saliva flying in his general direction. And he could feel. The emotional pain and loss associated with his blindness. The stabbing pain of jeers and rejection. The mud gently smeared on his eyes. Except there hadn’t been mud on the ground. He’d have felt it. His feet would have slipped or sunk. It would have seeped through his garments. The ground had been dry as dust when he sat down. He’d found no mud in the area, yet here it was, without his permission, being slathered on his face.  

Suddenly it all began to click. The previous sound of spitting. The scraping of dirt. It wasn’t the nasty neighborhood bullies slinging spit and digging holes to trip him up. No. Someone had been creating mud. Intentionally. With spit. And they were wiping it on his face. Gently. Kindly. But still. Mud. On his face. It felt like an insult atop his lifelong injury. He’d endured more than his share of mistreatment, but none so severe as this. About to cry out in impotent rage, the man halted his words at the sound of Jesus’ voice. “Go wash your face in the Pool of Siloam.” 

They weren’t the first words he’d heard Jesus say. He’d also heard the answer to the disciples’ question. The one that haunted his thoughts and infiltrated his dreams. Who was to blame for his blindness? He’d found Jesus’ answer interesting. And relieving. Neither of his parents was a closet criminal. He hadn’t accidentally sinned somewhere in his past. He wasn’t being punished for something he knew nothing about. This wasn’t about him at all. It was about Jesus revealing God’s power to the world. So He’d made some mud, slathered on the original mud mask, and told the blind man to go wash his face. 

Although the command wasn’t issued with promise, nothing could have stopped him from obeying. Something else his excellent hearing had told him was that Jesus of Nazareth was no joke. When He spoke, it meant something. Something real. Something true. Something completely unbelievable. Grabbing the arm of the nearest person willing to act as a guide, the blind man made his way to the pool. Kneeling at its edge, he carefully leaned down, cupped his hands, and sluiced water over his face. Dirt flowed in rivulets down to drip off his beard and onto his clothes. He’d only gotten the first layer off. He could feel the muddy remnants on his face. So he dipped his hands again. And again. Over and over he washed and wiped and cleansed his face until every piece of grit and grime was eliminated. Clearing the excess water from his face and blotted his eyes with the driest spot on his robe, he experimentally squinted them open. He blinked once. Twice. Waited for focus. And there it was. Light. Color. Beauty. Sight. He wanted to tell the world. 

It wouldn’t be long until he could. Upon arriving home, his neighbors noticed the change immediately. He didn’t need a guide anymore. He moved faster than he ever had. Without help. The people used to seeing him sitting in the dirt beside the road, begging for coins or bread or the remnants of a half-eaten apple noticed it as well. They couldn’t believe it was him. Seeing. They even argued about it. To the point he had to step in. Tell his story. Explain that it really was him. Their minds couldn’t grasp it. They still seemed confused. Unable or unwilling to accept his explanation, they toted him off to the Pharisees. (John 9:1-12)

Standing before a group of men who were determined not to believe the power of Jesus came from God, the formerly blind man repeated his story. Again. Blind from birth. Begging on street corners. Mud mask by Jesus. Water from Siloam. Obedience. Faith. Sight. Nothing had changed. The facts remained the same. There were no opinions involved, only absolute truths. Yet these men who claimed to be so highly educated and learned refused to believe. They said it couldn’t be him. He wasn’t the blind man. He was a poser. A fake. A fraud. A liar. Demanding witnesses to corroborate his story, they called in his parents. 

Parents who didn’t go out of their way to help him. Scared of crossing the Pharisees to own a belief that would get them barred from the synagogue, they refused to commit to more than the obvious. Yes, he was their son. Yes, he was born blind. Yes, he could now see. But. They weren’t there when it happened. They had no idea who did or said what. They were unwilling to speculate on the true identity of the man called Jesus. So ignorant were they of all the details that they couldn’t be prevailed upon to answer any further questions. If the Pharisees wanted answers, the questions would need to be posed to their son. He was now a fully functioning adult, not relying on them for anything. They were off the hook. He could answer for himself. And he did. Brilliantly.

Summoned a second time before the Pharisees, the formerly blind man was over it. They were wasting his valuable time. Time seeing. Time doing. Time living. In answer to their leading questions, the man’s exasperation overflowed. He wasn’t interested in passing judgment on who or what Jesus was. Sinner. Saint. Prophet. King. He didn’t need to regurgitate the facts again as if, like a child, he’d forgotten some integral moment. Not one part of his story had changed. Nothing was different except him. If the Pharisees didn’t want to believe it, that was their problem. He knew the one thing he needed to know. He remembered the one moment that changed his life. He had met the one Man who had the power of God flowing through His veins. There were a million things he didn’t know, a thousand answers he couldn’t give, but there was one thing he knew with absolute certainty. He once was blind. Now he wasn’t. Because of Jesus. Unsatisfied with his answer, steaming mad and spewing hate, the Pharisees ejected him from the synagogue. It is doubtful he missed their company. (John 9:13-34)

There’s something genuinely lovely about this once-blind, now-seeing man’s frustrated outburst. Perhaps it’s the unadorned honesty. Maybe it’s the complete lack of arrogance. Perhaps it’s the abject humanity of his irritation, exasperation, and aggravation. We find it impossible to blame him for his straightforward speech because we identify with the frustration of having to repeat ourselves over and over again. And we can learn so much from his reply. He didn’t try to put on pomposity, didn’t attempt to demean or talk down to anyone, never used his experience to arrogantly exalt himself above the Pharisees even though the error of their ways was glaringly obvious. He didn’t try to draw them into an argument. No. In straightforward honesty, he humbly stated what he didn’t know. Then confidently followed it up with the one thing he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt because he had experienced it firsthand. The one thing he could prove. The one thing his life now exhibited. He had been blind. Now he wasn’t. Because of Jesus. (Ephesians 4:15; Colossians 4:6; Micah 6:8; Ephesians 2:8-9)

In a society where we are constantly encouraged to speak “our truth,” I hope your truth is about Jesus. I hope He’s your one truth, your only truth. The one thing you know with absolute certainty and stand on with unshakeable confidence. The one thing in your life everyone can see without you announcing it. The one thing they want to hear you talk about time and time again. The same truth the blind man had at the end of his trip to Siloam. Your soul was blind. Now it’s not. Because of Jesus. (Matthew 6:22; Psalm 146:8; Colossians 1:13-14; John 8:12; John 1:5)

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)