Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

The sight shouldn’t have come as such a surprise. It wasn’t his first day. He wasn’t a new prophet, hadn’t been ordained yesterday. It was far from his first vision. That had happened years ago. The voice of the Lord came calling him to be God’s prophet, to speak the words of the Lord, whether or not the people accepted him or his message. Nothing had changed in the intervening years. Visions continued to come. Words miraculously flowed. He’d lived out entire object lessons. It had been lonely work. Costly. He’d lost things. People. Popularity. Respect. Tasked as God’s watchman for the people of Israel, Ezekiel would never find himself in a position of reverence and authority. No. The people were rarely interested in what he had to say. They weren’t inclined to turn from their idols. They weren’t thrilled at being called out on their less-than-stellar behavior, their bent toward sin. The priests were certainly less than happy to have their spiritual shepherding called into question. Yet this vision appeared to be headed in a different direction. Indeed, it was quite possibly the strangest one yet. (Ezekiel 1-3, 8-9, 11, 34)

He hadn’t been doing anything special when it came. Wasn’t praying in the temple. Wasn’t prophesying. Wasn’t preaching. He was simply going about his daily tasks. Surviving. He hadn’t eaten anything crazy. The lamb hadn’t been too spicy. The milk wasn’t on the turn. The bread hadn’t molded. He hadn’t set out on a spurious hike over an unknown mountain into a forgotten valley. Yet here he stood, in the middle of a valley. A valley of bones. Old bones. Dry bones. Disconnected bones. Thousands of them. A veritable sea of body parts. Every part of him shrank back at the sight. Body. Mind. Soul. His stomach lurched. Bile rose in the back of his throat. He wanted to look away, but couldn’t. Couldn’t drag his eyes away. Couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Couldn’t begin to understand the vision God was showing him this time.  

As his eyes darted from one side of the eerie graveyard to the other, Ezekiel’s mind fired off questions. Where did they come from? Who had they been? Why had no one taken the time to give them a proper burial? Or had they somehow come to the surface? It must surely be so. The people of Israel didn’t leave their dead unburied. It simply wasn’t done. Yet here they were. Here he was. Every step a stumble over a loose femur. Every move a rattle of dismembered ulnas, fractured skulls, and disconnected vertebrae. Every sight a reminder of the death and dryness that inhabited not only this valley of death, but the souls of the nation to which God had sent Him to prophesy. 

Struggling to absorb the sight of death surrounding him, Ezekiel was shocked nearly speechless at the question God posed. “Can these bones live?” Was He serious? Really? Did he want Ezekiel’s off the cuff answer or was He asking for more? It felt like a test. Erring on the side of caution and drawing from all the humanly irrational things he knew God had done in the past, Ezekiel responded with words that echoed both his incredulity and stalwart faith, “Not in my book, but Yours probably reads differently.” (Ezekiel 37:1-3)

It was an answer stemming from a wealth of experience as God’s prophet. It was a response echoing from the depths of his soul rooted in the absolute, unshakeable knowledge that God could do anything. No matter his own human limitations, Ezekiel knew God’s abilities were limitless. He knew His word was final. He was all too aware that what God decided, what He promised, what He determined would always, ultimately be performed. If God desired to raise this army of scattered, dried up skeletons into a living, active army of God, it would happen. The God he served could make anything out of nothing. By now, Ezekiel was bouncing on his toes in poorly concealed excitement because he knew God wasn’t done there. (Genesis 1; Romans 4:20-21; Genesis 18:14; Jeremiah 32:17)

Neither was Ezekiel. He should have known he’d never have the role of silent bystander. God hadn’t called him to prophesy only to silence his voice. God didn’t visit him with visions so he could sit idly by and watch God move. It didn’t work like that. It never had. The visions always came with an opportunity for obedience, a way for Ezekiel to get involved. Not one thing was different about this event. God had something for Ezekiel to do. Something he’d done before. Something he’d practiced on living, breathing humans. Something they hadn’t obeyed, but he was somehow certain these skeletons would. God tasked Ezekiel with preaching. And Ezekiel was there for it. 

Breathing words into Ezekiel’s ear, God told him to speak to the valley of dry bones. Preach the words and promises of God to them. Address this audience who was so completely beyond saving and offer them the gift of restoration, the gift of life. Tell them the sovereign God of the universe promises to breathe into them the breath of life. He will knit them back together, assembling bones, attaching tendons, adhering flesh and covering the whole with skin. As their lungs inflated with that first breath of life-giving oxygen, the living dead would know beyond even the slightest doubt that God was the Sovereign Lord of all the earth. (Psalm 33:6)

Taking a deep breath, Ezekiel began to speak the words. He’d barely gotten past the first sentence when a rattling sound came from his left, then his right, then echoed from the other side of the valley. To his astonished eyes, the bones began to assemble themselves. Correctly. Phalanges did not attach to the humerus. The clavicle did not attach to the ilium. No. Each bone miraculously found the one to which it would properly attach. As the words of God finished flowing from Ezekiel’s tongue, he stood in silence, watching as tendons stretched over bones, flesh over tendons, and skin over flesh until not one loose bone lay unclaimed. The only thing missing was the promised breath of life. 

God, Who never promises something He cannot or will not perform, had the answer for that. Pray. “Pray, son of man.” Pray that the breath of God, Who at the dawn of creation breathed into man the breath of life, would come down and fill the lungs of the lifeless bodies spread across the valley. With not one thought of hesitation, Ezekiel did. He prayed the exact words God told him to pray. He prayed with fervor. He prayed with urgency. He prayed with great desire. By now, he was wholly invested in this company of the dead. He wanted to see them come to life. He wanted to see them spring into action for God. He was anxious, excited, thrilled to be part of this grand transition from death to life. With every nerve in his body vibrating in anticipation, Ezekiel earnestly petitioned Heaven that the breath of God would sweep across that valley bringing life to the dead. And it did. (Genesis 2:7)

In a sweeping movement, the breath of God flowed into the lungs of the lifeless bodies lying helplessly on the valley floor. An inhale of epic proportions echoed around him. Formerly prostrate bodies began rising to their feet. Turning from side to side, robe billowing as he spun around, Ezekiel’s widened eyes took in the miracle happening before him. His heart overflowed with awe and amazement. His soul danced with exuberant joy. God had done it! Into this valley of impossibly dead, desperately dry, irreparably broken humanity, God had restored life and filled it with His own breath. The breath of life. Oh, that we would see the same in our day! (Ezekiel 37:1-10)

Surrounded as we are with the spiritually lifeless, apathetic, complacent shells of those claiming godliness but lacking the spirit of God, we urgently need the resuscitating breath of God to sweep across our land. Our society dangles precariously on the edge of complete abandonment of every conceivable moral principle. Our churches lie in disrepair. Our homes are shattered. Our hearts are broken. Our spiritual pulse is barely detectable, if there at all. We embody the valley of Ezekiel’s vision. Dry. Destitute. Dormant. Dead. We indisputably need a miracle. We need the life-giving breath of God to sweep down over us and raise us back to life, a veritable army of righteousness to rise and stand against the sweeping tide of the world. We need the Breath of Life to breathe life into our physically living yet spiritually dead or dormant souls. We need an Ezekiel. More than one, actually. We need an entire congregation. Every. Single. One of us. (II Timothy 3:1-5)

For the breath of God to sweep across our nation bringing revival and restoration, everyone who has managed to elude the bog of spiritual passivity must boldly speak God’s words. His wisdom. His commands. His judgments. His mercy. We need to tell of His miracles. The things He promises His people when they get and keep their hearts in proper relationship with Him. And we need to pray. Pray like we’ve never prayed before. The evil one is working overtime. We must do the same. We must pray that the God who breathed the breath of physical life into Adam’s nostrils will breathe the breath of spiritual life into our valley of dormant, dying and dead souls. We must pray that God will raise up an army for Himself in our day of unbelief and apostasy. Can you even imagine what that might look like? (Psalm 85:6-7; Matthew 19:28-29; II Chronicles 7:13-14; Ezekiel 33:11-12; Psalm 60:2; Joel 2:12-13; Proverbs 14:34)

Although I find it difficult to even imagine the glory of such a large-scale turning toward God, I absolutely know this. I want to be part of God’s renewal process. I want to see the revival and restoration of our society, our churches, our homes, our souls. I want to be knee-deep in the middle of things when the prayers of saints from around the globe are answered. I want a front-row seat to the moment the breath of God sweeps across this valley of carcasses and brings them back to spiritual life. I want to be Ezekiel, standing in the middle of a valley full of dry bones and watching in exhilarated amazement as God does the impossible. And I want you to be there beside me. Preaching. Praying. Believing. Trusting that the pages of God’s version of events reads far differently than the one we are looking at right now. Are you here for it? Are you working toward it? Are you ready to do it? Are you willing to be an Ezekiel doing God’s business in the valley of the living dead? (Psalm 84:1-12; Daniel 9:4-10,17-19; I John 5:14-15; Jeremiah 33:3)

They weren’t going to do it. Not a chance. It wasn’t going to happen. Following Pharaoh’s defiant lead had long been the norm, but no more. They were done. Enough was enough. They had suffered plenty in the days and weeks since Moses and Aaron showed up with that nifty staff. Unfortunate things. Unpleasant things. Things that would haunt them for the rest of their lives. Not this time. They took the warning seriously and heeded it. No matter what Pharaoh chose to do, no matter the choice of prominent social leaders, not caring if they became a laughingstock in their communities, they were doing it. Their livestock would be safely sheltered in barns and stables. Their workers would be in from the fields. Perhaps no one else had learned from the past, but they most certainly had.  

Never would they forget that day the ladies went to fetch water, only to come back with blood dripping from their water pots, staining their clothes, tainting their fingertips. Their story was so far-fetched the men hustled down to check its accuracy. The ladies weren’t wrong. It was a mess. The Nile had betrayed them. Where clear water had flowed just the day before, blood ran in its stead. Everything aquatic was dying. Dead fish floated on top of the red river. The smell was atrocious. The river was useless. The people were helpless. Their arrogant leader didn’t care. Faced with the choice to listen to Moses and Aaron, Pharaoh had responded by strutting back into his palace, head held high, back ramrod straight. Not one part of his response indicated concern for his people. Instead, with that singular move, he reduced every household in Egypt to frantically digging along the Nile in a desperate search for drinkable water. (Exodus 7:14-24)

A week passed. Seven days. Days of wild imaginings, worried surveillance, endless suspense. The wait for things to return to normal seemed interminable. Their minds reeled with the possibility of drilling for water and abstaining from fish for the rest of their lives. In the midst of their current disaster, they wondered if another calamity loomed unseen on the horizon. They were right to be concerned. Something else was coming, but it wasn’t on the horizon. It was on land. Inside their homes, leaping from beds, jumping out of ovens, springing from mixing bowls, frogs infested the land. They were everywhere. Horrified squeals echoed across through the air as they hopped from hiding places, surprising even the most alert individuals. It was nothing short of revolting. Everyone hated it. Even Pharaoh. But, although he begged Moses and Aaron to pray for the frogs to be taken away, although God answered, although the land reeked with the stench of decaying amphibians, still Pharaoh hardened his heart. (Exodus 7:25-8:1-15)

It wasn’t the end of it. The Lord wasn’t done letting people know that He alone is God. The smell of rotting frogs had only begun to dissipate when the gnats came. They were worse than the frogs. More elusive. More annoying. The air teemed with them. Animals and people were covered in them. They swarmed around faces and ears, irritating infants and adults alike, making folks tentative to suck in a breath for fear of ingesting a thousand tiny dots of protein. Still, when Pharaoh’s magicians could do nothing about it, when they declared in hushed and awe-filled tones this was surely an act accomplished only by the finger of God, their pompous leader remained just as intractable as usual. He refused to let God’s people go. (Exodus 8:16-19)

The entire land of Egypt, with the exception of the Israelite settlement, would all pay the price. Their suffering would continue with no respite in sight. Enormous black clouds of buzzing, swarming flies moved in to cover the land. Every inch of it. Homes were infested, the walls becoming masses of fluttering wings and bulging eyes. The ground was covered with them. Every step carpeted by the squirming mass. What once had been beautiful land lay ruined in their wake. And, once again, the people held their breath, anxiously waiting to see if Pharaoh would keep his word and let the Israelites go. They surely hoped he would. Their livelihoods were not sustainable should the onslaught of plagues continue. Slave labor meant nothing if they lost everything. Homes and storehouses were excellent things to own, but only if you had something to put in them, and what would they have if the entire land was laid waste by pestilence? (Exodus 8:20-30)

Unfortunately for those longing for a reprieve, Pharaoh wasn’t inclined to back down. It seems his addled brain actually thought he’d win the war. He wouldn’t. Another catastrophe was on the way. One that would bring at least some of the people to their knees in hope and prayer that Pharaoh would take the condition of the land and the deteriorating quality of life in Egypt into consideration before his next ill-fated decision. Their livestock died. Never before had they seen such a fiercely infectious disease, nor one that spread so quickly. They were helpless to combat it. One by one they watched their donkeys and horses, cattle, sheep and camels meet an unfortunate end. Pharaoh didn’t care. Those things could be replaced. He could take them from the Israelites or raid a neighboring land. He wasn’t about to budge. Not for his own household. Not for the people he ruled. Certainly not in obeisance to God. (Exodus 9:1-7)

So badly did they wish he would have! Writhing in agonizing pain at the festering boils on their bodies, the people surely wished Pharaoh would have made a different decision before the next torment befell them. They wished he’d have shown mercy–on them! The pain was unbearable. The situation untenable. There was no way to continue this. They’d lost sanity and livestock and health. Only them. The Israelites weren’t suffering. Not one donkey or lamb had been lost to the mysterious illness. Not one boil arose on the skin of one person in Goshen. They remained completely unaffected. Couldn’t Pharaoh see this? Couldn’t he see what his choices were doing to the people under his leadership? Didn’t he care that his own people were suffering the most? Even he himself was not exempt from the wrath of God. How could he possibly be so obtuse?!?! (Exodus 9:8-12)

If the people were speaking, Pharaoh wasn’t listening. Blinded by his need to prevail, he remained unmoved in his position. Even when a merciful warning was issued beforehand. The worst hailstorm in Egyptian history was coming. Nothing outdoors would survive. Balls of ice would fall like rockets from the heavens, destroying man and beast and decimating crops. Safety could only be found indoors. 

As Pharaoh rolled his eyes, insolently slouching into the corner of his throne, others sprang into action. Not because he told them to. Not on his behalf. No. They were done following the nefarious path of their bull-headed leader. The crops would have to be forfeited, but the people and animals could be saved. No matter what choice Pharaoh made, they weren’t going to scoff at the promised oncoming disaster. They were not about to ignore the warning or rebuff the offered safety measures. They believed the words of the Lord. They comprehended His power. They were in awe of His great ability. And they weren’t about to be caught out when He’d planned a way of escape. (Exodus 9:13-20)

Not everyone heeded the warning. Some chose to do nothing at the expense of everything. The wailing in the land of Egypt must have been frightful that day. As the hail subsided and the people walked the fields assessing the damage and searching for the missing, surely the tone across the land was that of immense mourning. Their animals were dead. Their crops were destroyed. Their servants, family and friends lay lifeless in the fields. Sobs shook their frames. Tears drenched their faces. Worry and fear filled their hearts as they stared at the future. And the accusatory question circled around in their minds, with the effects of the first six horrors still echoing in their memories, why didn’t they take seriously the warning preceding the seventh? (Exodus 9:21)

Regret must surely have saturated the minds of those who’d scoffed at the warning. As their world lay in ruins before them, surely they wished they’d made different choices. By then it was too late. Too late to save the servants. Too late to protect the livestock. Too late to call their sons in from the fields. Too late to check the options, change the choices. Too late to save their lives. Everything had been lost for nothing. 

It didn’t have to end that way. No livestock needed to die. No people needed to perish. Sorrow and mourning and weeping didn’t need to become the order of the day. They chose that. They chose to ignore the warning. They chose to live in defiance. No one made them do that. As much as he scorned the warning himself, Pharaoh issued no decree forbidding the sheltering of livestock and people until the storm passed. There was no one to blame for the results of the atrocity but themselves. Not God. Not Pharaoh. No one had forced their hand. They were fully responsible for the choice they made. As are we. 

Centuries ago, God the Father made the choice to send Jesus, His only Son, to die an inglorious death so you would have the option of a glorious eternity. He had weighed the options and made an invaluable choice that would affect all humanity. Jesus always knew how His destiny looked. He didn’t love it. Wished there was a way around it. Still, in fathomless love and infinite compassion, Jesus looked upon failing, fault-filled mankind and decided they were worth it. You. Me. All of us. Worth it. He spent His earthly ministry warning of eternal death and offering the option of eternal life. Time and again He would offer the facts, explain the options, explicitly spell out the results of each one. His heart desperately hoped you would choose Him. Yet the choice, no matter what it was, would always be yours. (John 3:16-17; Matthew 7:13-14; John 10:27-28; Matthew 26:39; John 14:6)

It’s still your choice. God will never force your hand or reduce your options. So. What have you chosen to do with your life? With the invaluable opportunity of informed choice in your hand, who have you chosen to follow? After assessing the facts, reviewing the options, studying the promised results of each path, where have you chosen to spend eternity? Recognizing that the responsibility for your choices lies solely with you, understanding that life is short and eternity is long, knowing that God’s promises are sure, tell me, friend, what have you chosen to do with Jesus? (Numbers 23:19; Proverbs 14:12; Romans 6:23; Ecclesiastes 6:12; Luke 12:47-48)

Sadness settled over her, leaking out her eyes and weighing down her heart as she gently rubbed the pad of her thumb over the tiny fingers clutching hers. They didn’t have a lot of time left. Before long, she’d have to give him back. Give him up, actually. God had originally given him to her. She’d carried him in her womb, birthed him in her home, kept him quiet, hidden, safe. For the first three months of his life, no one outside her family and closest friends had known he existed. It was too dangerous to spread the joyous news. Too possible the wrong person would overhear. Too likely a thunderous fist would land on her door, demanding her infant son be executed. Pharaoh’s decree had made it so. 

Moved by his own insecurities, the newest Egyptian leader had come down hard on the Israelite encampment. The number of years they had peacefully coexisted meant nothing to him. His fear of their escalating population and the far-fetched possibility they would overthrow his throne had him scrambling to implement every possible method to keep them under his control. He turned them into slaves, setting taskmasters to oversee the work and monitor the goings on among them. He forced them to build store cities for himself. He made their lives bitter, their situation untenable. When the effects of all his efforts only served to make the Israelites more prolific, Pharaoh settled on one final, fateful idea. Calling the Israelite midwives to him, he issued the arrogant command to kill every Hebrew male child at the moment of his birth. 

They had no idea whom Pharaoh thought he was talking to, but they weren’t going to do it. Weren’t even going to try. He may make others shake and quake in their sandals, but Shiphrah and Puah were made of much sterner stuff. Killing wasn’t part of their job description. Never had been. Never would be. But they needed a plan. They needed to convince Pharaoh they were helpless to curtail the live births of male children. Contemplating their predicament the entire way back to their homes, they carefully devised a plan. An excuse, really. It might not even have been untrue. The Hebrew women had solid constitutions. They worked hard, weren’t quitters, and everything they did was done with efficiency. It would surely come as no surprise that they would give birth the same way. Quickly. Efficiently. Independently. At least that is what they told Pharaoh. (Exodus 1:15-19)

It didn’t satisfy his bloodlust or calm his fears. Instead, Pharaoh was enraged. Violently angry that his orders hadn’t been followed. In towering fury, he issued the command to his own people that every Hebrew boy born must be thrown into the Nile river, only the girls should live. Had Pharaoh held the great intellect with which he surely credited himself, he wouldn’t have missed the fact he had just been outsmarted by quick-thinking girls. It wouldn’t be the last time. Into this unwelcoming social climate, a clever Hebrew woman named Jochebed birthed the boy child that would grow up to lead the great exodus from Egypt. (Exodus 1:8-22, 6:20)

For three months she kept him secreted away in the safe haven of her home. Three beautiful months of cuddles and care. She knew it wouldn’t last. Couldn’t last. His cooing and babbling would grow louder. His cries would become more robust. He would begin to roll about, then crawl, then toddle. It was too dangerous to strap him to her back and carry him with her as she had Miriam and Aaron. She had to find another way. She had to keep her son safe. She had to protect him, even if it meant hiding him in plain sight. The rushes of the Nile River. 

Painstakingly she worked, crafting a basket of papyrus large enough to fit her growing son. Carefully she waterproofed it with tar and pitch, sealing the cracks where water could leak through and cause the basket to sink. With trembling hands and a pitching stomach, she placed her son in the basket and carried it to the edge of the river. Glancing about to ensure no one was watching, she set it afloat among the reeds and posted his older sister, Miriam, as guard and informant should things go awry. She wasn’t naive enough to believe her basket would go unnoticed. The river was a popular place. It was only a matter of time. The only question remaining was who would spot it first. Soldier or slave. Egyptian or Hebrew. Pauper or Princess. Her heart could hardly handle the thoughts. 

Walking away from the river, leaving only Miriam to protect her son was the hardest thing Jochebed had ever done. Miriam was little more than a toddler herself. How much protection could she provide? Still. It had to be done. Sparing herself only one backward glance, Jochebed headed off to the day’s labor. Her heart was heavy. Her eyes were drenched. The lump in her throat seemed like it would never dissolve. Her stomach was in knots. She had no idea if she’d ever see her son again. Yet still she went, willing God to protect her children. 

Miriam didn’t have long to wait. It was a bath day for Pharaoh’s daughter. She approached the river with her entourage, a group of attendants and her personal servant, each one scanning every nuance of the landscape for dangers both man and beast. Spotting the basket floating among the reeds, she sent her female servant to retrieve it. A wail erupted from within. Carefully opening the lid, Pharaoh’s daughter was instantly enamored with the red, screwed-up face of a howling infant boy. She knew he was Hebrew. She knew about her father’s decree. It wasn’t going to happen. Not today. He was going to be thwarted by a woman again. No way was she throwing this cutie in the Nile. She was keeping him. Her father would have to adjust. She had a more pressing concern. The child wasn’t weaned. Wouldn’t be for some time, it appeared. Who could she get to nurse the child until he was old enough to be weaned?

Perhaps she voiced the question aloud. Maybe one of her attendants reminded her of the need. Perhaps, before anyone raised the issue, God simply prompted tiny Miriam to boldly approach Pharaoh’s daughter with the offer of help. Regardless how it happened, the offer was graciously accepted. Without knowing it, Pharaoh’s daughter placed Jochebed’s son back in her arms. 

It wouldn’t last. Couldn’t last. Jochebed knew that. She’d have to give him back. As grateful as she was to have him in her arms again, she tried to keep the truth in the forefront of her mind. She didn’t understand it. Couldn’t fathom what God was doing. Didn’t know why she had to let her son go. Couldn’t answer why he was chosen to receive royal favor. Try as she might, her finite mind couldn’t grasp why he had to go. Her heart ached. Her head wondered. Her eyes flooded with tears as she gazed at the cherubic sleeping face peeking from the blanket in her arms. She’d let him go. She had to. But she couldn’t understand it. 

We do, though. We look back through history, read the entire accounts recorded in Exodus, and understand that God was raising up a rescuer for his enslaved people. Still, knowing all we do, our hearts pinch at the thought of Jochebed holding the hand of a toddling Moses as they walked up the palace steps that fateful day. We feel the pain of placing that little person in the arms of Pharaoh’s daughter. Our stomachs tighten at the cries of the child as the woman who raised him, loved him, cared for him turned and walked away. We feel the crippling ache in Jochebed’s soul as she does the only thing she can do. Offer her son as a gift to a princess and hope she understood how priceless the offering. (Exodus 2-6)

Centuries later, in a different time, a different place, another mother would bear a child sent to be a rescuer of enslaved people. From His heavenly throne between the cherubim, God the Father watched as His Son, Jesus, was born to Mary. Although she was told His true identity, the full impact of that truth eluded her. She didn’t expect what was coming. She never dreamed the Savior of the world would have to die to redeem humanity. She never planned to watch her son brutalized and murdered. She could never have imagined the crippling pain as the Father turned His face away and the cry, “It is finished!” rent the air. Her mother’s heart would have done anything to prevent the pain and agony her Son felt at that moment. Because she couldn’t, she did the only thing she could. She let Him go, watched Him die, and hoped selfish humanity understood how priceless the offering. (Luke 1:26-38; 2:6-7; Matthew 1:18-24; John 19:25-26; John 3:16; Romans 5:8; II Corinthians 5:21)

I wonder if we do. As easy as it is to read the accounts of Jesus’ birth and death, resting in the knowledge that He doesn’t stay dead, do we really grasp the enormity of the offering Jesus made on Calvary? Do we get it? Really get it? With our hearts, not just our heads. Are we overwhelmed by the grace and love that caused the Father to send His only Son to earth, knowing a painful death awaited Him, so that abjectly unworthy humanity could be blessed with forgiveness of sins and granted eternal life? The thought alone should wreck your soul every time you read it, hear it, think it. The God who owed you nothing, gave up everything, so that you might gain the one thing worth having. “Christ in you, the hope of glory.” In joyous response to the truth of this proclamation may we find ourselves willingly, selflessly letting go, giving up, surrendering all to the God whose way is perfect. (Colossians 1:27; Deuteronomy 32:4; Romans 8:32; I Corinthians 10:24; Matthew 25:40)

As the gift of letting go echoes through Biblical history, it begs us to do the same. In return for what Christ has done for us, we must open our hands and hearts and give back to Him. We aren’t good at it. Control freaks, all of us, we tend to close our fists around the things we want to supervise and keep them for ourselves. Please, let’s stop. It does us no good to hold onto the things God can use. It doesn’t do anyone else any good either. So let them go. Let go and let God work with what you give. Yourself, your time, your talents. Give your wealth for the work of the Lord. Surrender yourself, your hopes and wishes. Offer up your children and grandchildren to be instruments of God’s purpose and plan. As a gift to yourself. As a gift to others. As a sacrifice to God. Let go of anything that stands in the way of God’s kingdom flourishing, and let God be God. Knowing that everything you have and are came first from God’s open hand, may we open our own hands and gift back to Him the things He has given us. May we find peace in the giving. May we find the gift of rest in letting go. (Matthew 16:24-25; Luke 14:33; Romans 8:28; Matthew 19:29; III John 1:4; I Chronicles 29:14; Proverbs 3:9-10; Romans 12:1)

It was the last straw. The final provocation. The absolute end of his previously enduring patience. He was done. He’d heard more whining and groaning, complaining and moaning, whinging and quarreling than any man should have to endure in the minute earthly span God gave him. Even his own boys hadn’t raised such an unholy ruckus. None of the children in the group had. The adults had pushed him to the brink of insanity. Full-grown men. Forgetting the miraculous deliverance from Egypt and overlooking the provisions along the journey, they went about fussing over what they’d left behind. Grain. Figs. Pomegranates. Grapes. Leeks and garlic. Melons and fish. Things they’d still have if they’d never left Egypt.   

Like a repetitive children’s traveling song with the tendency to push parents to the lip of the ledge, the people’s complaints came ad nauseam every time things got uncomfortable. The food was bad. There was no meat. The water wasn’t plentiful. The terrain was rough. Moses had heard it all a hundred times. The lyrics never changed. Complaining seemed to be the balm for their frustrated discontent. Deeply unhappy, the people cast about for somewhere to place the blame. Unfortunately, they found it. In Moses.

The fault for their current unpleasant circumstances surely lay with Moses. If he hadn’t shown up with this grand plan for an exodus, they’d never have left Egypt. They’d be working night and day, but at least they’d still be eating well. They would never have crossed the Red Sea. Wouldn’t be schlepping through the wilderness. Would have turned back or chosen an easier way long ago. Perhaps they’d have joined a town through which they passed. Maybe they’d have set up their own city near an uninhabited spring. Perhaps they’d have made a deal with Pharaoh to live in the suburbs of Egypt. No matter how they looked at it, the unavoidable truth was glaringly apparent. The only reason they were in this forsaken place was because Moses had come and taken them there. Hunkered down in front of their hastily erected tents, they commiserated over all their grievances, discussed the current water situation, and came to a consensus. This, too, was Moses’ fault. If only they had a more competent leader.  

Well. That would be fine with him. Whoever wanted to step forward and take his spot was welcome to it. They could have it. For free. Moses was just as tired of this whiny bunch of overgrown children as they were of him. Seriously. If he had taken time to stop and record every complaint since they left Egypt, they’d all have died in the wilderness. It was as if they couldn’t hear themselves. Or maybe they didn’t want to listen, either. They didn’t want to hear the whiny, teenage-sounding refuse spilling from their mouths every time their wishes didn’t appear like magic. They didn’t hear the ungrateful, insensitive, ignoble words they spewed when things were less than perfect. Worst of all, they either couldn’t hear or wouldn’t acknowledge that the complaints falling from their lips weren’t about Moses at all. They were about God. 

It didn’t feel like it. Not to him. Every single barb that slid past their angry lips shot like a bullet into Moses’ soul. He’d invested his entire self in the endeavor to save these people. Set his own plans and dreams aside. Left his wife and sons to live with his father-in-law while he led God’s people out of bondage. Looked in horror at the golden calf, a physical depiction of the obvious inability of these grown humans to stay away from idols. He’d listened to hours of accusations against himself and Aaron. Found himself face down before the Lord time and again as the frustrations and complaints piled up like overwhelming obstacles. More times than not, he’d stayed on his knees long enough to realign his vision and remind himself that these were God’s people. His children. Everything about them belonged to God. Both the problems they faced and the ones they caused. They all belonged to God. Moses just needed to remember it.  

Unfortunately, he didn’t. After one spectacularly bad rendition of the blame game, Moses fell heavily before the Lord, weighed down with months of pent-up frustration and anger burning a hole in his soul. He was at his wit’s end. He had no idea how to help them. Wasn’t even sure if he could. Or if they really wanted him to. He felt unappreciated, undervalued, unwanted. The people resented him. He was just a means to an end. Need water? Rail at Moses. Want meat? Nag Moses. Tired of hiking through the wilderness? Berate Moses. He was exhausted, body, mind, and spirit. He’d drained himself on behalf of the people. Literally. And even though God commanded him to speak to the rock so water would flow, Moses’ long burning irritation over insult upon injury bubbled up and caused him to disobey. Lambasting the people with his wrath at their ignominious, ungrateful, rebellious selves, Moses turned and vigorously struck the rock. And water flowed for the people. 

Moses should have felt relief. Maybe he did. Briefly. Until the satisfaction of flowing water and the reprieve from complaints was overshadowed by the scathing rebuke from God. He shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have struck the rock. He should have left his angst with the people at the entrance to the tent of meeting where God had appeared with direction for their current circumstance. He shouldn’t have hung onto his frustration, irritation, and anger, or allowed it to alter how he responded to God. He should have remembered. They are God’s children. Their problems and needs, complaints and grumblings, issues and circumstances were all God’s problems. Moses wasn’t responsible for keeping the people happy. That was God’s job. Moses had only to obey God and honor Him by exhibiting trust in His power to meet their needs. He’d been doing a great job. Until now. Until he allowed himself to get distracted by the feelings their words and actions evoked. Until he allowed himself to lose the focus of Heaven. (Exodus 14:11-18, 15:22-25; 16:2-20 & 27-30, 17:1-7; 32:1-25; 18:2-6; Numbers 11:1-20; 20:1-13)

From the comfort of our modern living accommodations, we snuggle into our easy chairs to sip our coffee, read the account of Moses’ disobedience, and silently judge him. We shake our heads and wonder what he could possibly have been thinking to get so upset about a matter God clearly had well in hand. Aren’t hindsight and information wonderful things? They make us able to comprehend every nuance of another person’s situation and judge the actions they took with much less knowledge than we have. I mean, look at Moses. 

His own adventure into the promised land was unceremoniously cut short because he couldn’t keep his anger in check. So busy was he with trying to meet, or get God to meet, the desires of the people, that he forgot their problems weren’t his to solve. Their verbal abuse wasn’t his to change. Their constant complaining wasn’t his to stop. Their bent toward disobedience wasn’t his to heal. No. Those problems were God’s. It was God’s job to deal with the people. And He did. The only job Moses had was to obey God. But he didn’t. Why? Because he’d carried the insults, indignities, and injustices in the depths of his soul for so long they weighed him down. Bitterness set in. It grew and festered until he couldn’t hold it back any longer. In a fit of anger built up over time, Moses whacked when words would do. It cost him. He’d never walk the lush hills of the Promised Land. It was a heartbreaking price to pay for failure to remember that all problems are God’s problems. (Numbers 20:1-13)

In a world of technology where we are constantly bombarded by news of issues and problems in societies, countries, and governments, I urge you to remember those are God’s problems. When friends and family, neighbors, and fellow parishioners use you for a wailing wall, a commiseration station, or a verbal whipping boy, I beg you to remember those are God’s problems. When the previous incidents break your heart and threaten to overwhelm you with fear and anxiety, sadness, despair, or self-recrimination, I encourage you to bring it all to God. Don’t hold onto the feelings of irritation and anger these things create. They will do you no good. They will clutter up your soul, growing and overtaking every available space in your heart. But they won’t stay there. They will come out. They will cause you to sin. A word said in anger. An act of disobedience. A deliberate turning from God. A slow but steady drifting from your spiritual moorings. Regardless of how that bitterness exhibits, you’ll regret it. It won’t be worth it. Not even a little bit. (Ephesians 4:26-27; Hebrews 12:15; Psalm 62:8; Deuteronomy 10:14-17)

So bring it all to Him. Every single problem. Leave it there. Stop trying to fix every situation. Quit attempting to mitigate every complaint. Stop acting like the world rests on your shoulders. It doesn’t. It’s all God’s. The good. The bad. The ugly. It’s all God’s. It is all under His sovereign authority. No amount of working or worrying on your part will change what God has already determined, and He’s already got it well in hand. So. Don’t sacrifice your peace by allowing the things you can’t change to cause upset and anger and fear. Don’t surrender your soul to the detriment of bitterness. Don’t stop praying. For yourself. For your loved ones. For the world. Take your burdens and concerns to God. Leave. Them. There. Rest your impotence in His potency. Remembering, it’s all God’s! (Ezekiel 18:4; Psalm 55:22; Matthew 11:28; Matthew 6:25-27,34; II Corinthians 10:4-5; Isaiah 45:7-9; Job 42:2)

He had clearly been forgotten. Again. Not that anyone cared. Being forgotten was the story of his life. The brothers who sold him to the merchant caravan had likely gone on with their lives, forgetting there had ever been another brother. So accustomed to buying and selling, the merchants had probably forgotten him before they’d even knocked the dust of Egypt off their sandals. Potiphar, the man for whom he’d faithfully worked, had never sent for him to be released. He’d likely forgotten the whole incident. Potiphar’s wife, the reason he was imprisoned in the first place, had probably pressed her seduction on some other unsuspecting fellow, forgetting the one conquest she’d lost. She clearly hadn’t recanted her previous allegations, because Joseph was still there. Still in prison. Years later. (Genesis 37:12-36, 39:1-23)

More than two years ago, a brilliant ray of possibility had brightened his dim existence, reigniting the dying hope he’d somehow be released. New prisoners arrived. Important ones. With little pomp and no explanation, Pharaoh’s baker and cupbearer took up residence in prison. Joseph’s prison. His section. Assigned to his care. It almost felt like a gift. He knew they wouldn’t be forgotten there. No. Pharaoh wouldn’t forget. He would eventually act. Releasing, reinstating, or executing them. If reinstatement were to come, they could surely bear a message back to Pharaoh concerning the innocent man inhabiting his cells. There was just waiting to endure now. 

Unfortunately, things didn’t happen as quickly as Joseph would have liked. Time passed. A lot of time. The men settled in. Joseph got to know them. Well. He knew their moods, could read their expressions. Yet even without that knowledge, Joseph would have had to be blind to miss the dejection on their countenances as they came out to breakfast several weeks into their stay. Lips turned downward. Eyes were troubled. Shoulders slumped. Heavy sighs escaped. Noting their obvious distress, Joseph wandered over to ask the cause. He wasn’t expecting the earful he got. They had been plagued by strange dreams. Troubling dreams. Dreams of vines and branches, grapes and cups. Dreams of baskets, bread and birds. Dreams they knew had important meaning, but it rested elusively beyond their grasp. Dreams destined to continually trouble them because they lacked an interpreter. 

Whether or not Joseph realized it as the beginning of his rescue, he jumped straight in. They didn’t need someone who knew how to interpret dreams, they needed someone who knew God. The true God. The One who sits enthroned in the heavens. The One to whom all dreams and their interpretations belong. And Joseph knew God. He didn’t hesitate. In faith that God would answer, he listened to their dreams. Then he relayed God’s interpretations. He didn’t hold back or alter the answers. Not even for the unpleasant one. 

In three days the men would both be gone. One permanently. The baker wouldn’t get his job back. He wouldn’t keep his life, either. The cupbearer would, though. Not only would he live, he’d end up back on the job, serving Pharaoh, in close enough proximity to present Joseph’s case. There was no charge for the interpretation, it wasn’t his to sell, but Joseph did have one request. A favor, if you will, to ask of the cupbearer. “Remember me. Talk to Pharaoh on my behalf. When you are gone, when you are restored, when you are happily serving Pharaoh again, remember me.” (Genesis 40)

The cupbearer didn’t. Remember Joseph, that is. Restored to his position, he failed to even remember Joseph. And Joseph knew it. It’s not like outside news never got inside the prison. It came fast and furious. Who kept their head. Who lost their head. Who was reinstated. Who was pushed out on their ear. It all came in. There was no hiding it. Especially not from the warden’s right-hand prisoner. He heard everything. From the warden. From the captain of the guard. From other prisoners. It was a veritable hotbed of gossip. What else did they have to do?

There was no surprise in hearing the news of the baker’s gruesome death. It was sad, but not surprising. Joseph felt no surprise upon hearing the cupbearer had been restored to his position, either. God said it would be that way. He’d never been disappointed in God’s ability to keep His word. It was people who couldn’t be trusted. And it stung. It was frustrating. The cupbearer had promised to speak to Pharaoh on Joseph’s behalf, but nothing was happening. No one came running to the gates requesting his presence. No memorandum came articulating the terms of his release. The phone didn’t ring. The door didn’t mysteriously unlock. The angels didn’t come to escort him out. Only the silence of passing time and the pain of being forgotten remained.

The waiting was nearly unbearable. Day after grueling day of sameness. Watch the prisoners. Count the prisoners. Feed the prisoners. It wasn’t exactly stimulating work. And there were other places he could be. Should be. Wished he was. The mind-numbing similitude of his daily tasks left Joseph plenty of time to ponder his past. Imagine his future. Consider all he’d lost. Wonder what had changed in the years of his incarceration. How were those brothers who hated him faring? Were they happily living lives of luxury or hounded with regrets? How was Benjamin? Had they hated him in Joseph’s absence?  What about Reuben? He’d never been completely keen on the mistreatment of their younger brother. Did he ever think of Joseph? What of Judah who saved him from death? Was he blessed, even marginally, for his marginal act of mercy? And what about his father? Was Jacob even still alive? Was he still mourning the loss of his son? Or had Joseph missed the final goodbyes, the final service, the final resting of his father’s body? Had his family gone on without him, believing him lost or dead? Would there ever be a reckoning, a reunion? Or would he live out his days as the model prisoner in an Egyptian prison? If he died there, would anyone remember him? And where was God? Did He even remember Joseph was?

Perhaps you are sitting there with Joseph in one of his darkest moments. When the question stealing the breath from your lungs and riddling your soul with concern isn’t really about the inconsistent memories of family and friends, but about the consistent, steady, stable mind of God? The God who never forgets His children. Who swears He will never leave or forsake us. Yet there you sit in the dark prison of your current circumstances, and you wonder if it’s true. When God doesn’t deliver you as soon as you’d like, when He doesn’t immediately illuminate your path, when things are hard and Heaven seems silent, your heart aches with the pain of the terror clutching at your soul as you wonder if God remembers you. Does He still see you? Does He know where you are? Does He feel your desperation? Does He hear your frantic prayers? Does God still remember you when you’ve been stuck in the same dark place for so incredibly long? Yes, friend. He does. God remembers, even when you’ve quit hoping. (Deuteronomy 31:6; Joshua 1:9; Isaiah 41:10; Isaiah 43:2; Isaiah 49:15-16) 

As the days and months turned into years, surely the hope that had leapt in Joseph’s soul at the reinstatement of the cupbearer began to wane. The passage of time seemed to indicate a rescue wasn’t coming. He wasn’t going to be delivered. The silence from beyond the prison walls echoed with the truth he was loath to accept. He’d been forgotten. Again. Nothing had changed. Nothing would be changing. Not the scenery. Not his job. Not his life.

Settled in the monotony of his humdrum existence, it must have been quite a surprise to have the warden come hustling in to escort Joseph out for a shower, shave and change of clothes. Pharaoh had called? For him? Were they certain? It had been two years since Joseph had seen the back of the untrustworthy cupbearer. Two years of waiting and hoping. Two years of begging God for release. Two years of fading hope and waning faith. Two years of believing he’d been forgotten, only to be assured God had never forgotten him. When his prayers seemed to bounce back from the ceiling. When it felt like God was too busy to answer. When it appeared that prison would be his forever home. God answered with resounding proof that He never forgets His people. Interrupting Pharaoh’s rest with crazy dreams, God jogged the memory of a forgetful cupbearer and enacted an amazing rescue for His child. 

In the shortest imaginable timeframe, Joseph went from forgotten prisoner to second in command over all of Egypt. Proving to himself, to the cupbearer, to the world that even when you are gone from sight, even when you are in the depths of despair, even when no one seems to know you are alive, God remembers. He never forgets. He sees you. Where you are, what you need, and when you need it. He has not stopped hearing your prayers. He has not left off planning your rescue. You are never forgotten. You are never alone. Even if you find yourself somewhere you never intended to be. (Genesis 41; Psalm 136:23; Psalm 120:1; Deuteronomy 4:31)

Perhaps like Joseph, you feel trapped in a prison of someone else’s poor choices. Perhaps like Noah you find yourself hemmed in by God, waiting for the fruition of your faith.  Perhaps like the people fleeing Egypt you feel lost and forgotten in a spiritual desert. Maybe, like Sarah and Rachel, Rebekah and Hannah, you feel like your hopeful prayers are bouncing back unheard from the heavens suddenly turned to brass. Locked in this moment, stuck in this space, constricted by these circumstances, you feel abandoned. Gone from remembrance. Forgotten. As hope wanes and faith falters, know this. The same God who remembered Joseph and Noah, Sarah and Rachel, Rebekah, Hannah, and all the people He called precious is not plagued with a faulty memory. He knows where you are. He sees your circumstances. He hears your cries. He remembers you and calls you precious. Even if you are gone from where you want to be, ought to be, or wish you were, God is with you. He never forgets His children and He never leaves us alone. (Genesis 8:1; Exodus 2:24; I Samuel 1:19; Genesis 25:21; Genesis 21:1; Genesis 30:22; Deuteronomy 7:6-8; Psalm 9:10; Matthew 28:20)