Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

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) 

He really should be used to it by now. This wasn’t his first day. In the months since he’d willingly walked away from his boat and nets, he’d heard Jesus ask a hundred questions. To humans. As if He didn’t already know the answer. As if He wasn’t omniscient. As if He didn’t know what was going on in their minds. Yes, they wanted Him to heal them. Yes, they believed He could. Yes, they understood what He was trying to teach them. At least they thought they did. Standing there on dry ground beside Jesus, Peter had often wondered at the purpose of these question-and-answer sessions. Was it a real question? Was it a test? Was it a measurement of faith or commitment? Did the questions demand a verbal answer, or was it simply something to contemplate? (Matthew 4:18-20, 8:5-13, 9:27-39; 13:51)

Regardless of his previous ponderings, Peter would definitely be contemplating this question later. There was no time right now. In fact, he couldn’t think of a worse moment for someone to ask a question. Water lapped around his feet, threatening to sneak higher and suck him into its still churning depth. Clutching Jesus’ arm, he cautiously placed one foot in front of the other, inching back toward the boat. The trip seemed to be taking forever. His panicked breathing hadn’t returned to normal. His heart was still racing. His mind reeled from his near-death experience. He was in no mental position to process any question, literal or rhetorical. His brain kept reprimanding his impulsiveness. It had nearly been his demise. Or had it? 

Sailing toward their next destination on a placid, sun-lit lake, the disciples were reclining, soaking in the smell of water and fish, relaxing to the gentle flutter of the sail in the wind. For many of them, this was their happy place. A time to quietly ponder life and the lessons they’d just heard taught. Jesus had sent them ahead. It wasn’t unusual. He enjoyed time alone. They were used to that too. They understood. He probably needed a moment to breathe and escape from the incessant deluge of questions and requests. They got it. They also understood the sea. So, when the winds became more earnest and the waves rocked the boat more earnestly, they noticed. Paid attention. They were used to the changing pitch and yaw of their vessel and largely unalarmed by the rising winds and rougher waves. It happened. They’d live. If they exercised caution. 

Taking their stations at various parts of the ship, they monitored their progress, hoping to make land by daybreak. It wasn’t looking good. The wind wasn’t blowing in their favor. It was now against them, literally blowing them back to sea. It was frustrating. They were helpless against the elements. They could raise and lower the sail all they wanted. They could exhaust every ounce of strength in rowing. Nothing changed the outcome. They were going where the weather took them. 

Frustrated, they maintained their stations, waiting for any sign the storm might be breaking up. Visible stars. The light of the moon. A beacon from shore. Any sign of hope would have been welcome. The short rest at the beginning of their journey hadn’t been enough. They were tired. Their eyes felt gritty from the spray. They were hungry. A little grumpy. A lot alarmed as the cry came from the starboard bow. Something was in the water, rapidly headed their direction. It looked like a person, but could only be a ghost. It walked atop the water as though it was on land. Never once did the water dampen the hem of its garment. Droplets didn’t splash up with every step. It wasn’t sinking. Wasn’t scared. But it was terrifying them! 

Calling to one another above the wind, the disciples left their posts to come see what was happening. Fear-laced voices echoed across the water. What? Who? Why? How? Hearing their words of fear and dismay, Jesus called back, “Don’t worry. It’s just me. Don’t be scared.” The words might have worked on the rest of the disciples. They likely recognized His voice. The sound was enough to calm their dismay. Except Peter. Peter needed more. He needed proof. His faith wasn’t easily won. Before he could think of a way to gain proof, his impetuous self ran ahead. His mouth fired off before his brain was in gear. He called back, “If it’s really you, tell me to walk on water too.” And Jesus did. 

The others watched with bated breath as Peter stepped off the boat on the lake. It was such a risky business. What Jesus managed to easily do on land, they were often hard-pressed to imitate. They wouldn’t even attempt this. Yet, there went Peter, risking life and limb as usual, nonchalantly walking across the lake to Jesus. The wind hadn’t stilled. The waves hadn’t slowed. The danger level was still high. Yet there he walked. And they couldn’t take their astonished eyes off him. They had questions of their own. Would he make it the whole way to Jesus? Would he hit a soft spot and sink? Would he realize what he was doing and call for a life preserver? Should someone grab it just in case? 

They wouldn’t need it. Peter already had his life preserver. And he was going to need it. As a stiff wind blew across the lake, tangling his garments around his legs and whipping his hair into his face, Peter realized where he was, what he was doing, the enormous risk on which his unbridled impetuousness had taken him. He was afraid. Terrified, really. As he looked around, assessed the situation and quickly listed the things that could go wrong with this adventure, his faith failed. Doubt overwhelmed him. He felt the wind, looked at the waves, and imagined the worst-case scenario. A watery grave. And then it began to happen. He started sinking. Fast. The water covered his feet and ankles in a matter of seconds. It had soaked his clothes and climbed halfway up his calves before he managed to remember his life preserver was just inches away. Crying out to Jesus, Peter reached out his hand for help. And Jesus gave it. 

Grasping Peter’s sinking hand in His strong one, Jesus raised him back to the surface, carefully turned him back toward the boat, and began to usher him across the water to safety. The question He asked resounded in Peter’s ears. It would invade his thoughts for days to come. It would dominate every contemplative moment. When everyone else Peter knew would have shaken their heads and pointed out his impetuousness, Jesus cut right to the heart of the matter in a single question, “Why did you doubt?” (Matthew 14:22-33)

It wasn’t impulsiveness or impetuousness that got Peter into trouble. It was doubt. Doubt caused him to take his eyes off Jesus. Doubt caused him to lose faith in the power of God. Doubt made him wonder if the wind and waves would win. Doubt made Peter question, if only for a split second, if Jesus was enough. Enough to save him from the sea. Enough to carry him back to safety. Enough to calm the storm and see their vessel safely to shore. We are no different than Peter. 

   We think we are. We’ve read the Book. We know Peter was present when Jesus healed the sick and cast out demons. We remember that Peter was in the boat when Jesus rebuked the wind and waves of another storm. With all he’d seen and heard, the firsthand accounts and personal interactions, we strongly believe Peter had all the impetus he needed to faithfully believe Jesus could and would handle the water and wind and waves to get him safely back to the boat. We shake our heads in disappointment when he gets distracted, doubts, and starts to sink. Yet we are no different than Peter. (Matthew 8) 

We’ve read the Book. Hopefully, all of it. We’ve read the actions of God on behalf of His people. We’ve heard the accounts of Jesus’ miraculous work on earth. We’ve seen amazing answers to prayer in our own lives or the lives of those around us. It should be enough for us to maintain our faith in the God we can prove has never let His people down. Yet, buffeted by the storms of life, we still suck in a breath and wait to exhale, worried that this will be the time He fails. Afraid we aren’t worthy of His love, His grace, His mercy, His healing, His answer, we hold our breath and hope, but our hearts crowd with doubt. Doubt that He cares. Doubt that He’ll work. Doubt He can meet our needs without us meddling. Doubt, if only the smallest flicker, that crowds our hearts and clouds our vision with the weighty ponderance, “Is Jesus really enough?” (Hebrews 10:23; I Kings 8:56; John 16:33; Proverbs 15:29)

Well. Is He? Caught in the middle of your crisis, overwhelmed by your cares, stuck in your untenable circumstances, does your faith hold that Jesus is enough? Beyond even the tiniest shadow of a doubt? Do you believe He won’t let the waters swallow you? Do you believe that the space He’s called you to is also full of His presence? Do you know in your heart, believe in your head that Jesus is walking with you through the darkest valley as well as the brightest meadow? When it’s all said and done and you are looking back on this moment, examining all the ways God moved and worked to bring about His best for you, will you rejoice in the fact that you kept the faith or will you be forced to ask yourself the question Jesus asked Peter, “Why did you doubt?” (Psalm 23; Matthew 21:21; Isaiah 43:2; Romans 8:28)

Entering through the least crowded entrance, she paused in the shadows assessing the situation, attempting to ascertain the least conspicuous path to the offering box. She had no desire to be seen. Not that there was anything to look at. Not anymore. Years ago, when she’d been young and her husband was still alive, she’d looked so much better, had so much more. Then, her offering would be confidently made after standing in the queue with her peers. His death had changed her life. Nothing was the same. Although combed and clean, her face bore worry lines and anxious wrinkles. Her hands were chapped and worn from hours of hard work. Secondhand clothes hung off her gaunt frame, worn and threadbare, patched in mismatched fabric. It was all she had. As were the two coins clutched tightly in her hand. 

There was nothing else. Nothing tucked in the back corner of a drawer for a rainy day. No stash of mad money for going out with friends. Those two coins were the only ones of their kind inhabiting her tiny hovel. They were all she had for food and necessities until the next job came through. The next load of laundry. The next floor to scrub. The next batch of mending. Until it did, she’d be begging for scraps, accepting handouts, asking for leftovers. And she was fine with that. Because these last two coins were designated elsewhere. They were going into service for her Lord. 

She wasn’t the only one there to donate. It must have been payday all over the city. The place was teeming with people. Every class and station seemed to have turned up. Most notably, the wealthy. Unlike her, they meant to be seen. By everyone. They had dressed in their finest clothing and draped themselves in their most impressive jewelry. Their entrance had been at the most congested place, the one where everyone would see them. Tilting their heads at what they deemed an aristocratic angle, they condescendingly strutted to the front of the queue, convinced standing in line was beneath their station. Having gained the attention of the entire room, they paraded up to the giving place, and, with much ado, carelessly tossed in enormous amounts the poor widow could only begin to imagine owning. 

Whispers ran through the crowd. Excitement at being in the presence of celebrity. Awe over the amount so thoughtlessly given. Interest in this height of fashion that was surely all the rage in the upper echelon. In the midst of the crowd’s distraction, she saw her moment. Wasting not one second of the diversion, the spry widow unobtrusively slipped to the front of the queue, dodged up to the offering receptacle and tossed in her beggarly contribution. Wheeling around on worn-out sandals, she melted into the exiting crowd. 

Her heart pounded. Her anxious breath came fast. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one noticed her, visibly relaxing when she saw the people were staring with rapt attention at the next approaching aristocrat. She’d made it. No one had seen her. No one had turned their back as she approached. No one had wrinkled their nose at her clothes or elbowed their neighbor to whisper disparaging things about her tiny gift. No one had noticed her flight, nor had she wanted them to. The gift wasn’t for praise or glory or notoriety. It wasn’t for the people haughtily waving their fortunes about. She didn’t need their praise or attention. Her gift was for God alone. 

The casual observer would have missed her daring stunt. Distracted by the arrival, departure and generous public giving of the wealthy, a tiny, destitute widow wouldn’t have registered on their radar. But Jesus wasn’t a casual observer. Some time ago, He’d sat down across from the offering place to do some people-watching. Humanity was intriguing. Such interesting beings. Complex yet simple. Humble but proud. Giving yet selfish. Free will had them pulled in different directions, their hearts yearning to be good and pure and selfless, but their humanity tugging them toward selfish ambitions, worldly possessions, treasures stored up on earth. Except the widow. He’d seen her the moment she approached. Neat but clearly poor. Hesitant yet intent. Seeking privacy not prominence. He hadn’t taken His eyes off her. 

Intrigued by her reticence, He’d watched intently as the event unfolded. Had seen every move. Known the moment she saw her opening. A gentle, congratulatory smile turned up the corners of His mouth as she hurried to complete her task and make good her escape. The urge to audibly applaud her success nearly overtook Him. He didn’t want to deflate her joy. She was convinced no one had noticed her. And no one had. Except Jesus. And what a beautiful thing He’d seen!

Watching her ragged self approach the crowd, Jesus had seen beyond the patched clothes and worn-out sandals to the glorious, selfless intent of her heart. He’d known all along what was clutched in her white-knuckled fist. He also knew there wasn’t anything else. No cupboard full of filling food. No extra oil for the lamps. No bulging piggy bank of emergency funds. There were just two coins. The giving could unpleasantly impact every aspect of her life. She knew that. Knew all the risks. Yet still she gave. 

Impressed with the stunning beauty of her heart, Jesus called His disciples to gather around. Maybe they had seen her. Maybe they hadn’t. It didn’t matter. Jesus was going to make sure they knew about her. He wanted them to know her contribution, no matter how small, was not to be discounted. He wanted to contrast the selfishness of those who had much with the selflessness of the woman who had nothing. He wanted them to know that although everyone there was giving something, some were giving everything. Just like they had. (John 12:41-44; Luke 21:1-4)

Called from their boats, nets, and tax booths, the disciples left everything to follow Jesus. Not just employment and financial security. Everything. Family. Friends. Dreams. Plans. They’d missed things. Important things. Births. Deaths. Lives. Loves. Yet they’d willingly given it up, believing the cause of Jesus more important than the call of the world. Having nothing else to give, the widow had sacrificed the one thing she had. Her coins. Sustenance for her body. Oil for her lamp. Medication for her ills. In so doing, she’d willingly destined herself to more back-breaking tasks, staunchly believing the cause of Christ to be more important than food or clothes or creature comforts. Different in type, but the same in measure, her gift matched that of the disciples. A gift willingly given from a heart that absolutely believed it was worth all she had. (Mark 1:16-20; Matthew 4:18-22, 9:9-13; Luke 5:2-11; John 1:40-51)

Not everyone could say the same. Racing up to Jesus, the wealthy young man asked what he could do to gain eternal life. He’d kept all the commandments, been kind to his neighbor, and showed respect to his parents. If simply obeying the law would earn him eternal life, he had already arrived. Except it wouldn’t. There was an enormous heap of material must-haves, worldly prestige, and earthly comforts in the way. Perhaps he could have parted with some of them. Maybe he could have donated more funds, cleaned out more things. But Jesus asked for everything. The man couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t do it. His possessions, his power, his prestige were more important to him than the cause of Christ or eternal life. The disciples surely stood in shocked silence as he hung his head and walked away, willing to give something, but unwilling to give everything. (Mark 10:17-22)

Nothing has ever sounded more familiar. In a society constantly screaming for more money, more things, more power, more fame, no one is talking about sacrifice. The concept is largely forgotten. Unless there’s some notoriety that goes along with the check you write. Unless there’s a celebrity name as the face of the charity. Unless you need another tax shelter. Even then, giving looks like donating a small portion of your excess. It doesn’t pinch. It doesn’t hurt. You don’t even notice it’s gone. 

Among the churched, giving looks a lot like ten percent, judiciously figured to the penny and carefully scraped off the top of your paycheck to appease your conscience. It looks like 10-day mission trips to destitute places from which you can return to your comfortable homes with photos and stories to garner praise at your alleged selflessness. It looks like warming a pew expecting to be served and blessed but never offering to bless or serve others yourself. It doesn’t look like sacrifice. It doesn’t look like self-denial. It doesn’t look like humbly “esteeming others better than yourself.” (Psalm 126:6; Romans 12:6-13; Philippians 2:3-11; Proverbs 11:25)

It should. Why? Because giving it isn’t just about money. It’s not about cutting a bigger check for charity. It’s not about dropping more in the church collection plate. It’s not about handing a couple dollars to the guy standing on the corner with a “please help” sign. It’s about giving everything. Yourself. Your time. Your talents. It’s about holding onto the things of the world so loosely. Parting with the unused portion of your overfilled closet. Generously dispensing from your bulging pantry. It’s about sacrificing your television binge to volunteer at the local shelter, lead a Bible study, or open your home for a small group. It’s about honestly offering God all of you, not just the extra bits. It’s about believing, like the poor widow woman, that the cause of Christ is worth anything, worth everything. (Mark 10:17-22; Matthew 6:21, 16:24; Luke 14:25-33; Mark 8:35; Proverbs 28:27)

So do you? At a time when it’s so easy to throw a few dollars in the collection plate and tell ourselves we’ve given enough, do you truly believe the cause of Christ is worth everything you can possibly give? Time. Talent. Treasure. If you weigh what you’ve given against what you have, would you find you are someone who has given something or are you someone who has given it all? (I Corinthians 10:23-33; Philippians 3:8-21; II Corinthians 9:6-8; Luke 6:38; Hebrews 13:16; Deuteronomy 15:10; Proverbs 21:26)