Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Anger coiled in her belly as she stood gazing down at the jubilant scene. She’d have rolled her eyes and huffed out an irritated sigh had there been anyone of importance around to hear her. This was ridiculous. Humiliating. Disgusting. Embarrassing. Not the parade. The king. Her husband. She couldn’t believe he’d gone out in public dressed so poorly. Literally. He’d exchanged his gorgeous robes of highest quality fabric to don a linen ephod. Why? What was the point of looking like a peasant? And what, exactly, was he doing? Jumping and flapping, lurching and swaying. Did he think he was dancing? If so, Michal had never seen a worse dancer. Or a male one. Celebratory dancing was normally left to the women. With good reason. If what was currently being done by the king was any indication, men couldn’t dance. Shouldn’t dance. Ever. The very sight was cringeworthy. 

Not that David noticed. He didn’t. He seemingly had no clue how peculiar his clothing and behavior were. Not that he cared. He didn’t. David wasn’t publicly dancing and celebrating to bring attention to himself. He didn’t care if no one in Jerusalem noticed. It wasn’t for them. It was for God. His out-of-rhythm gyrations in the odd linen garment was simply a joyous expression of his intense excitement at the successful return of the Ark of God to its proper place. The previous attempt hadn’t gone so well. They hadn’t followed proper protocol. Rather than engage the priests to carry it on poles slid through the rings on the sides, they’d just loaded it on a cart pulled by oxen and set off across the countryside. The oxen had stumbled. The Ark started to tilt. Uzzah reached out to steady it. God was angry.  Their haphazard treatment of the Ark was unnecessary. He’d given them distinct instructions for transportation. They hadn’t followed them. Uzzah touched the Ark. He died. Immediately. Fearful, they abandoned the idea and left the Ark in Gath under the care of Obed-edom. 

For three months it stayed there. Blessings rained down on Obed-edom and his house. They were happy to care for the Ark however long King David required. Except he didn’t. Enough time had passed without the Ark at its proper resting place in Jerusalem. David deeply wanted it there. So he made a plan. One that carefully followed the commands God handed down through Moses concerning the transportation of the Ark. There would be no ox cart this time. There would be Levites. Properly consecrated priests with poles to slide through the rings on the sides of the Ark and rest on their shoulders as they walked. Singers and dancers and musicians were appointed. There would be joy and music and celebration. There would be proper glory and honor offered to their God. Everyone would get involved. Even the king. And the Ark would be placed inside the tent David had set up to house it. In Jerusalem. Among God’s people. Where God chose to dwell. (I Chronicles 13; 15:1-16:43; II Samuel 6:1-19; Exodus 25:12-15; Numbers 7:9)

That was the scene unfolding below Michal as she stood at the window. The rocky relationship she’d had with David sat on the brink of collapse as she stared down on his mortifying behavior. To think her name might be linked with his was more than she could bear. She had no time for David and his shenanigans. His wild dancing. His over-the-top exuberance. His celebration among and with the common people. She wasn’t used to such indignity. Her father would never have acted in such a manner. It wasn’t comely for the king to degrade himself like this. David was making a fool of himself in front of everyone. He couldn’t hope to retain the respect of his people now. No one would look at him and see anything other than the buffoon they’d seen dressed in the garb of an inferior social class and dancing in the street with the women. No one would respect him now. Not the soldiers. Not the slave girls. Certainly not Michal herself.

Entering his home in a celebratory mood, one has to wonder if David felt the damper turn as he saw Michal approaching. She wasn’t exactly there by choice. At all. She’d been dealt a rough hand. Been nothing more than a pawn in her father’s hand. Married to David. Given to Paltiel. Forced back to David after her father’s death. Her bitterness was unsurprising. It had been festering for years. Now it reared its head. Ugly and dark. Storming and angry. She hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for a moment like this, but she had. A moment when she could unleash the disappointment and rage and hate she’d harbored in her heart as she’d been tossed from pillar to post like so much useless waste. Whether or not the circumstances of her life had been entirely David’s fault, he was bound to feel the brunt of the emotions they caused. (I Samuel 18:20-28; 19:11-17; 25:44; II Samuel 3:13-16) 

Briskly walking out to meet David, Michal let loose the sharp side of her tongue, disregarding anyone who might be unfortunate enough to be within hearing distance. What, exactly, had he been thinking? Did he realize the indignity he’d just done? To his station. To himself. To her. Did he comprehend how ridiculous he looked? Did he understand his place and how his behavior reflected on that? Did he know the importance of comporting himself with dignity and grace? His behavior was degrading. All of it. He’d made himself disgusting. To everyone. To her, certainly. To the slave girls, decidedly. To everyone in between, undoubtedly. Any respect he’d had among the people would certainly be diminished now. And he deserved that. His wild dancing and jubilant celebration was an indictment of the kingdom. She was done with this. Done with him. She found him absolutely revolting. (II Samuel 6:20, I Chronicles 15:29) 

You can almost feel David draw in a deep breath, school his features, steady his voice, and structure his verbiage before he speaks. It doesn’t take the sting from his words. It doesn’t reduce the impact. It doesn’t change the outcome. What Michal thinks or feels is of no importance to David at that moment. None of this had been for or about her. He hadn’t been dancing for Michal. No part of him had been secretly hoping she was watching, enormously impressed with his amazing dance moves. Not one of his actions that day had anything to do with her. They had nothing to do with anyone in the kingdom. They weren’t even for himself. His dancing and celebrating had been for only one person. God. Alone. Not the priests carrying the Ark. Not the elders accompanying it. Not the citizens welcoming it. Not the slaves watching from a distance. David wasn’t dancing for anyone on earth. He was dancing for God. To God. With all his might, engaging every fiber of his being, using every ounce of his strength. And he wasn’t going to stop. Not for her. Not for anyone. Not Ever. (II Samuel 6:21-22)

David refused to concern himself with what anyone thought about his behavior. The alleged indignity. The possible humility. Scoffers. Scorners. He didn’t care. He’d do anything for his God. The God who had chosen to pluck him from a sheep pasture and raise him up as king over Israel. The God who had saved his life from lions and bears, giants and kings. The Lord of Heaven’s Armies who is enthroned between the cherubim, yet still daily bears the burdens of humanity, watches their steps, and protects their paths. A God full of forgiveness and grace, unending love and mercy. That was the God David knew and nothing would stop him from praising Him. Boisterously. Jubilantly. Wildly. With all his might. (I Samuel 16:1-13; 17:1-51; 19:1-18; Psalm 23:3; 37:31; 68; 99:1)

In our world of cancel culture, social suicide, and snap judgments, I wish we were more like David. Unashamed to praise God with all our might in public as well as in private. I wish we were more prone to spontaneous outbursts of glorious praise for the goodness of God. I wish we weren’t consumed by the idea that we need some new and enormous occurrence to shout His glory at the top of our voices. I wish we remembered Calvary and found it reason enough to unabashedly shout our praise. I wish we weren’t so self-conscious. I wish we didn’t care so much what people think. I wish we weren’t so worried about offending unbelievers. I wish, with all my might, the people of God were busy praising Him for everything we should, at every time we should, in every place we should, in every way we should. Boisterously. Jubilantly. Regardless of who hears or sees. Regardless who dares to stand in judgment against us, unfollows or unfriends us. I wish we would set our hearts and minds, our words and actions to praise our great and glorious God. May we be encouraged and emboldened to do so. Privately. Publicly. Constantly. With all our might. (Psalm 22:22; 34:1; 150; Isaiah 25:1; II Samuel 22:50; Ephesians 1:6)      

It wasn’t the first time the disciples had tried to squeeze Him for information. They’d asked a similar question before. The answer hadn’t changed in the intervening weeks. He hadn’t told them then. He wouldn’t tell them now. Couldn’t tell them. He didn’t know Himself. It wasn’t His job to know or divulge God’s plans for the end of the age or the restoration of the kingdom to Israel. No matter how badly the disciples wanted to know the answers, Jesus hadn’t come to earth with the purpose of extending special insight into the things only God could know. He told them as much the last time they asked. Only His Father knew those things. The year. The month. The day. The hour. Not the angels. Not the Son. He wasn’t here for that. Jesus’ task was not to give His disciples foreknowledge concerning the coming acts of the Father. His job was to be about His Father’s business. He’d said that, too. Been saying it nearly all His life. At least since that extended visit to the temple when he was twelve. (Matthew 24:3, 24; Mark 3-4, 32; Acts 1:7) 

His parents had been in a right panic when they realized they’d traveled an entire day’s journey without Him. They’d come racing back into town, worry and fear shrouding every step. Anxiety etched deep tracks in their faces. Frantically they went from place to place desperately searching for their lost Boy. They questioned everyone. Interrogated them. Friends. Family. Street vendors. The innkeeper. They scoured the town looking for traces of Jesus. Nothing came of it. Not sightings. No signs. Not even a sandal turned up. Sick with grief and fearing the worst, Mary and Joseph weren’t in a positive frame of mind when they finally found Him. In the temple. Perfectly safe. Listening. Learning. Asking questions. Fully aware His family had left town, but consumed with doing the work of God on earth. Because that was His job. It was the reason He came. To conduct the Father’s business. (Luke 2:41-50)

Unfortunately for the disciples, God’s business on earth didn’t look exactly like they thought it would. Or should. Not for Jesus. Not for them. God’s business on earth wasn’t about divulging the day or hour, month or year when all things would finally be made new. No. Jesus’ work on earth was about teaching and preaching the gospel. It was about equipping them to do the same. Jesus knew He wouldn’t always walk the earth, physically touching and healing the sick, audibly speaking forgiveness of sins, and verbally directing His followers in the ways of God. He knew that, after His death on the cross for the sins of mankind, His miraculous resurrection from the grave, and His ascension to sit at the right hand of God the Father, there would still be a need for faithful believers on earth who would continue spreading the message of salvation among humanity. That’s why they were there. Right there. Hanging around in Jerusalem. Waiting on the fulfillment of the Father’s promise. The Holy Spirit. (Revelation 16:15; 21:5)

They would need Him. Jesus knew that. Because He knew where they were headed. When He’d called them from their fishing nets and tax booths, Jesus already knew what their futures would hold. He knew what they were called to do. He knew how their journeys would end. Although the disciples didn’t realize the extent of their mission when they chose to accept it, Jesus did. He knew the rigor of their course. He knew the tenacity it would take to complete. He spent three years training them to do it, cramming knowledge of God into every conversation. It must have come as something of a disappointment to have them more focused on the day and hour the kingdom would be restored to Israel than on the coming of the promised Holy Spirit and the looming mission at hand. It must have caused a frisson of concern that they were still so focused on knowing God’s business rather than doing God’s business on earth. The Father would do what He would do, when He chose to do it. The disciples needed to do what they had been called to do, right here, right now, today. They needed to get on with their own business. Tend their own concerns. Make sure their hearts were right. Put themselves in a position to receive the coming Holy Spirit so they could go out into the world and boldly preach the gospel. That was their business.

Jesus left that directive with the disciples there on the Mount of Olives. They were His parting words. He was going away. His earthly mission was complete. Theirs was not. It was just beginning. They were to continue what He started. Spread the gospel. Tell people about salvation. Start right there. At home. Among people you know and people who know you. Move on to Judea. Cover every hillside. Let everyone who will listen know that the Messiah has come. Forgiveness of sins is as close as a repentant prayer. Eternal life is possible. For everyone. Then go to Samaria. Tell them they haven’t been excluded. No matter who they are or how scorned they’ve been in the past, things are different now. Through the shed blood of Jesus Christ on the cross, they, too, can be saved. They can inherit eternal life. But don’t stop there. So long as your feet can walk, your voice can talk, keep going. Keep preaching. Keep teaching. In every part of the known world, let the message of salvation ring. Christ has died. For you. Christ has risen. For you. Christ will come again. For you. 

Oddly, the words didn’t start the disciples’ feet pounding the ground back to Jerusalem. Instead, they stood rooted to the spot, staring up into heaven, apparently convinced He’d quickly reappear. He didn’t. Instead, two angels appeared. They had a message. From God. A pointed one. Stop staring up into the heavens. You have things to do. Important things. Things Jesus commissioned you to do. So get moving. Time is of the essence. Jesus won’t stay gone. He’ll be back. In the interim, you need to be working. You have places to go. People to see. A gospel to spread. Stop staring up into heaven wondering when He’ll be back. That’s God’s business. You have your own business to attend. Focus on that. And they did. (Acts 1:4-11)

Feet suddenly loosened, the disciples wheeled around and headed into Jerusalem. Once there, they convened in an upper room to pray with fellow believers. Constant prayer. Unified prayer. Prayer for decisions that had to be made. Prayer that the Holy Spirit would descend on them and fill them with the strength and courage and power to go out into a world that hadn’t chosen Jesus when He walked among them and convince them to choose Him now. And God responded. 

Accompanied by the sound of a mighty, raging wind, the Holy Spirit descended on the praying people in that place. In power and might, He filled them with the ability to do the work Jesus had laid out before them. They would be His disciples. They would live out His commands. They would speak out His words. They would offer themselves up to be beaten, imprisoned, and murdered for the cause of Christ. Like Jesus, they would choose to do the business God assigned them to the exclusion of all else. Their bodies. Their lives. Peter and John would be arrested and beaten. Stephen would die by stoning. Men and women would flee their homes and run for their lives as Saul and his posse hunted them down, bent on imprisonment or worse. But, in spite of harrowing escapes and horrific persecution, they would never stop preaching the gospel. It was their business. The business of God. They would need His strength to do it. (Acts 1:12-26; 2:1-4, 21, 37-41; 4:1-4; 5:17-42; 6:8-15; 7:1-60; 8:1-1-4)

One can easily imagine how simple it would have been to quit. Hide out in their homes. Flee to live in mountain caves. Deny their faith. Leave the business of spreading the gospel to Peter and John and the other apostles. The cost of publicly identifying as a true believer was steep. Socially stigmatized. Physically risky. We might even find a bit of understanding in our hearts for some who believed, yet chose to hide their light. Except there weren’t any. Not one account in Acts tells the tale of a true believer who didn’t find the cause of Christ worth the personal risk of spreading the gospel. Yes. The task was daunting. Yes. They were scared. Yes. They were tempted to run. But. They didn’t. Instead, they gathered again for prayer. A specific prayer for boldness in the face of what they knew could lie ahead. A prayer for courage to spread God’s word. A request for strength to tend their business. And God answered. 

As the Holy Spirit again descended and the house shook, the people inside the house were filled with the exact things for which they had asked. Courage. Strength. Boldness. Power. When the time came for them to leave that place, they went out with God on their side, holding them up, guiding their steps. And they went boldly into the world. They didn’t sneak furtively down alleyways and arrange clandestine meetings in dimly lit basements. They didn’t hide their faith, alter their teachings, or soften the truth. No. They went out boldly to do the Father’s business. In public. Proclaiming the gospel in Jesus’ name to the ends of the earth. It was their business. (Acts 4:23-31, 12-16; 8:4-8; or just read the entire book of Acts!) 

It’s our business too. It’s everyone’s business. It always has been. Those words weren’t just for the boys standing on the Mount of Olives. The command of Jesus extends to every generation of believers. Preach the gospel. Everywhere. With words. With actions. From hearts filled with holiness and lives that resonate with godliness. Preach the gospel. Everywhere. At home. At school. At work. At the gym. Conduct your life in such a way that everyone meets Jesus through you. Friends. Enemies. Strangers. Neighbors. Those with whom you agree. Those with whom you disagree. Regardless of lifestyle choices or religious affiliation, everyone who meets you should feel they’ve met Jesus, been touched by His love, been introduced to His grace. That’s your business. The most important task you have on earth. Live boldly for Jesus. Where He’s welcomed. Where He isn’t. Be a witness for Him. In your city. In your country. In your world. Are you doing it? Are you boldly standing up for right and truth and God in a world that may choose to reject you, persecute you, alienate you? Are you busy doing the business you’ve been given to do? Are you tending the Father’s business on earth? Because that’s your business.  (Matthew 5:13-16; 28:19-20; I Peter 1:16; II Peter 3:11; II Timothy 4:2; Psalm 19:14)   

Most would consider it third-place loser. Maybe worse. That is, if anyone is still paying attention once the names of first and second place are announced. Few stop to listen for the names of those who landed in third and fourth place. They’ve already folded their blankets and packed their lawn chairs before honorable mention is bestowed. No matter the verbiage in the title, it really isn’t an honor. Losing is still losing. The elaborate name doesn’t make it better. If you care.

She didn’t. Care, that is. She hadn’t come to listen to the traveling preacher speak because she wanted to get her name up in lights. She didn’t even know it was an option. She’d stopped to listen because she was genuinely interested in what he was saying. The fact her name was recorded likely escaped her notice. There was no announcement. No one asked her permission. No royalties injected life into her bank account. No first-edition author-autographed copy of the manuscript was delivered to her doorstep. It was probably like that for all the honorable mentions. Their names were worth writing, their stories weren’t. Nothing except the most important bits. They’d all been reduced to a few meager words that barely scratched the surface of who and what they were. Words that became their definition, the only things we know about them. For her, the words were few. Woman. Damaris. Believer. 

One wonders why the author of Acts bothered to include her name. It’s almost an afterthought. Another quickly forgotten, rarely remembered, never acknowledged name tucked between the impressive stories of all the greats. There’s no clue to who she was. No mention of her past as there was of the possessed slave girl Paul delivered. Not a word about her career like that of the purple cloth dealer, Lydia. No lines lauding her character or actions as listed for Dorcas, the woman whose descriptors include disciple, charitable, and given to good works. There’s nothing written to recommend Damaris. No awards. No accolades. No accomplishments. There’s no way to know who she really was. No past. Only the present. Damaris, a local woman, chose to place her faith in Jesus Christ. She believed. Yet the scant fact was absolutely worth recording. (Acts 9:36-42; 16:11-18; 17:34)

We question how it could be. In our day of social status and public image, it is difficult to imagine such meager facts being worthy of print. They wouldn’t be today. Aren’t. There’s no ticker on your local news celebrating the number of people who believe in Christ for salvation in your Sunday morning service. In truth, we’ve all started keeping it rather quiet. Both outside and inside the church. Perhaps you’ve noticed our altars silently disappearing. There’s rarely an invitation for one to step to the front, making a public announcement that they are choosing to place their faith in Jesus Christ, choosing to change, choosing to step from darkness into light.  Instead, we silently stand people at the exits to quietly pray with those who wish to secretly accept Jesus. No one ever has to know they made the choice. It never has to be public. Not inside or outside the congregation. Not so for Damaris. Everyone got to know. The people then. Us now. With not one particle of information to recommend her, we still have all we need to know in the writer’s proclamation. A woman named Damaris chose Jesus when a faction of the congregation opted out. It doesn’t seem like enough, doesn’t seem to do her justice, doesn’t seem completely fair, but it’s truly all we need to know. Damaris believed. 

Knowing so little about someone whose name appears in such an important text isn’t something with which we are extremely familiar. We can’t type her name in our internet search engine and instantly find her life story. Age. Marital status. Number of children. Job title. It simply isn’t available. The lack of information nearly makes her invisible. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s the message the author was subtly attempting to convey. No matter how much there is to know about you–where you’ve come from, where you’ve gone, what you’ve done–only one thing matters. Faithful belief in the saving, changing power of Jesus Christ. Because, when everything has been settled and you stand before God with nothing of earth to recommend you, the only thing you need to know, the only thing anyone needs to know, will be this–did you believe? 

The wise author of Ecclesiastes, king of Israel, lays it out honestly and from personal experience. He’s tried it all. Had it all. Was gifted with wisdom. Attained knowledge. Engaged in pleasure. Accrued achievements, accolades, and wealth and possessions. He worked hard. Yet, at the end of his writings, he came to the same conclusion we can make from the seemingly unimportant mention of Damaris. None of it matters. Nothing earthly is of any great eternal importance. Every act, both public and private, will be judged by God. The only thing that mattered then, matters now. Do you believe? (Ecclesiastes 1:12,16; 2:1-11; 18-24; 12:8-14; Acts 17:31)

It’s what defines you. Whether or not you believe changes you. Your words. Your actions. Your attitudes. It changes your motives. Just like Jesus taught in the Sermon on the Mount. We know it best for the Beatitudes, but they aren’t the only thing Jesus said there. He said a lot more. A lot about how we view ourselves and how we are known on earth. A lot about how hard we work to ensure people view us in the best possible light–whether or not it’s true. A lot about how much effort we put into reimagining ourselves, building our brand, staging our status. Jesus has some very pointed words about it. Words that make me think Damaris got the best deal of the lot of us. She can be known only for the one thing that mattered most. We, in our world of social media, can be known for a thousand things, but we may not be known for the thing that really matters. Whether or not we believe.

You see, friend, the sign of a true believer isn’t in a social media feed overflowing with your generous acts of charity, pious prayers and Scripture quotations, or records of your faithful fasting. Jesus said the one who wears a sandwich board advertising their own goodness and magnanimity has already received their reward. Earthly accolades. Media attention. Public awe and adulation. If you are engaging in spiritual or charitable acts to beef up your social resume, you have missed the brief. Instead, the sign of a true believer is in quietly serving, secretly giving, privately praying, silently fasting. They desire no acknowledgment or reward for their efforts. They seek the kingdom of God and His righteousness alone, not caring if their names are ever mentioned. They confidently rest in what they know to be true about themselves and their God. They believe. (Matthew 6:1-8; 16-18; 33)

There is no greater reputation, no bigger story, no more important legacy to leave behind than the fact that you are a believer. There is nothing else that matters. Your house and car and boat and bank account are wholly inconsequential in eternity. God doesn’t care what level of education you received, which office you inhabited, or whose hands you’ve shaken. You can’t name-drop your way into Heaven. The things that impress your neighbors have no effect on God. None. The only thing that matters, on earth and in eternity, is whether or not you believe. 

So. Do you? Do you believe? Not in some lukewarm, passive way. Actively. Do you actively believe? The way Damaris believed. The way that calls you out from a group of unbelievers, mockers, and scorners and sets you apart as a believer. Do you know Jesus? Really know Him? Have you believed in Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins? Are you living in the power of His resurrection? Does anyone know you believe? Does everyone? When God judges the world, will your every action and inaction withstand His scrutiny and prove you believe in Him? Whether your name is up in lights or listed as honorable mention, are you focused solely on what really matters? Have you sacrificed the notoriety of earth for the celebrity of Heaven? Do you identify with Damaris as a believer? Does that one word define you? Upon close inspection of your innermost self, can you honestly say you believe? (Acts 4:12; 10:43; 16:31; Jeremiah 32:39; Psalm 119:6; Galatians 2:20; Romans 12:1-2; I John 2:15-17; 5:5; John 1:12-13; 3:16)

The slap of sandals pounding down the hardened dirt road rang out as the ten men raced into the village. Single-minded determination etched their faces. Hope and faith-filled their hearts. Even though they couldn’t see the results yet, they knew it would happen. They didn’t have to see to believe. There wasn’t a Naaman among them. They didn’t hesitate at Jesus’ command. They didn’t need an enormous, ostentatious ceremony. They didn’t need a special prayer spoken over them or the laying on of hands. The words Jesus spoke were enough to bring about instant obedience. Within seconds of Jesus’ words, they wheeled around, tripping over one another in their haste to get to the temple. Show the priests. Hear the pronouncement that they had been cleansed. Their leprosy was gone. They could return to their normal lives. (II Kings 5:1-27) 

With every step they checked their physical status. Studied one another. Examined their own distorted appendages. Evaluated how they were feeling. At any moment they anticipated the change. Somewhere between the entrance to the village and the priests at the temple, there was going to be a miracle. They knew it. Jesus’ reputation preceded Him. His healing abilities were known far and wide. The lepers knew, had always known, if they could just speak to Jesus, they would be healed. And they believed it. Completely. Even though they didn’t see or experience immediate change and healing, the ten lepers clung to their faith and kept running, doing exactly as Jesus told them to do. Going to show the priests they were healed, even when it hadn’t happened yet. 

No one is to say exactly when their healing occurred. Step 9 or step 99. But it happened. As they traveled, they were healed. Appendages were restored. Skin was healed. They looked like new men. Whole men. Excitement and exhilaration rushed through their hearts, exploded in their minds. They were back! Back to their families and friends. Back to their homes and lives. Back to their flocks and herds and business stalls. Back to celebrations and feasts. After a few seconds of staring in near disbelief at one another, they turned and sprinted the last few yards to the temple. This wasn’t a time for standing around inspecting one another. This was a time for jubilant celebration. They urgently needed to see the priest. They had festivities to plan. It was the most important thing they could think of to do. At least for nine of them. 

Excited and relieved to have his illness healed along with the others, the tenth leper, a Samaritan, didn’t join the final sprint to the temple. The Bible doesn’t tell us why. We can only speculate. Perhaps, being a Samaritan, visiting the temple wasn’t so important to him. Maybe he didn’t have a wife and family to return to. Perhaps he wanted to speak to priests closer to home. Or maybe it was simply that his mama had instilled far better manners in him. Maybe her voice echoed in his head reminding him of the debt he needed to pay. A debt of gratitude. Due now. While he could still go back and catch Jesus before He was enveloped by the next crowd or moved on to the next town. The priests would be available later in the day. They would be there tomorrow if he found it necessary to go then. The priests weren’t the ones who deserved his gratitude. They hadn’t healed him. Hadn’t done anything for him. Only Jesus had. 

Wheeling on his heel, the Samaritan ran in the opposite direction as his fellow former lepers. Racing back to where Jesus was, the man skidded to a halt, garments swishing around his ankles. He meant to be on his knees before he started talking, but his heart overflowed before he hit the ground. Glory to God! Thank you, Jesus! Bowing with his face to the ground at the feet of the One who had literally saved his life, words of gratitude erupted in an unquenchable flow. Thanks. Praise. Glory. Gratitude. For himself. For the others. Jesus had made their faith become sight, cleansed their bodies, restored their lives. All of them. They had all received these gifts. Yet he alone came back to offer thanks.

One wonders where the other nine found themselves at that moment. Were they already leaving the temple to scurry home, embrace their wives, kiss their children, greet their friends and neighbors with the news they were whole again? Did some head straight to their places of business to see how things were faring? Did they rush out to kill the fatted calf and proclaim a celebration in honor of their newly healed bodies? Did they pause, in all of the excitement, to silently pray a prayer of thanks for their rescue? Did they speak to their families about the power of faith in God? Did they mention Jesus at all? His power? His mercy? His grace? Was He the centerpiece of their stories or just a supporting actor as they took center stage? 

The Samaritan’s singularity did not go unnoticed. Jesus was keenly aware of their glaring absence. In questions etched with disappointment and a touch of indignation, Jesus wondered where the other men were. There were ten of them. Ten lepers. Ten outcasts begging for cleansing. Ten men with the faith to believe in His power and head off to the priests before seeing their request granted. Ten men whose bodies had been completely restored. Ten men who could now choose to go anywhere, do anything, speak to anyone they chose. Yet only one chose to return. The Samaritan. 

Where were the others? Where were the men from Galilee? Why was it only this foreigner who came back and gave glory to God? Why was it that, when the prayers were answered, the wishes granted, the desires of their hearts given, why had only one returned to give glory to God? Hadn’t their mama’s taught them better? Hadn’t the scholars briefed them? Didn’t they know their purpose on earth, the desired result of their healing was not to give them a special gift or endow them with a lovely lifetime of pleasure? Didn’t they know why they were there in the first place? Didn’t they know their sole purpose in life was to bring glory to God? And what better way to do so than to fall on their faces before Jesus in glory and gratitude? And why was it that a foreigner, a Samaritan, clearly knew what they didn’t? They were healed, they were here, not to simply go on about their lives seeking pleasure and prosperity. The sole purpose of their miracle was to bring glory to God. (Luke 17:11-19)

Admittedly, I wish I knew the rest of the story. I want to know what happened to each of those men over the next 10 years. I want to know where they ended up. I want to know if they ever realized the reason they were given the gift they received that day. I want to know if they ever found their true purpose, the actual meaning of life. I want to know if they went on to live the remaining days of their lives in a way that brought glory to God. I’m uniquely interested, because it isn’t normal for us. Not for any of us. Not the lepers then. Not us now. Gratitude is often an afterthought. Something given grudgingly or in hopes of keeping the lane open for future blessings. To be grateful and give glory to God for what He has done while humbly stepping out of the limelight is something that requires intentionality. It’s a learned art. But it’s what we were placed on earth to do. Glorify God. (Isaiah 43:6-7; Ephesians 5:15; Romans 15:6; I Corinthians 6:19-20)

 It isn’t exactly a mainstream idea. Instead, selfishness and greed are the prevailing postures of our day. Celebrities and slogans, podcasts and books encourage us to chase glory and acknowledgment and praise, to build up our following, gain publicity, become influencers for others so we can bask in their love and honor and worship. Hoard it for ourselves. Refuse to share it. Not with others. Not with God. Friends, that’s not why you are here. You aren’t here to make a name for yourself, build buildings in your honor, or leave a legacy commemorating your time on this earth. Your sole purpose in life is to bring glory to God who gives you the ability to do all things and, by doing so, point others to Him. (Romans 7:4; Isaiah 43:21; I Peter 2:9; John 15:8; Psalm 50:23)

So. How are you doing with that? Are you living a life that glorifies God? Are you pointing to Him with every success, every blessing, every answered prayer? Do you divert all praise and glory to God or do you claim some for yourself? Do you talk about His magnificent works, even the tiny ones, when you sit down with family, when you walk with friends, when you make small talk with strangers? Are you constantly singing the praises of God in a manner that encourages everyone around you to take their eyes off you, off others, off earth, and focus on Jesus Christ alone? If not, why not? What is more important to you than glorifying God? What other purpose could you possibly have on earth? Why are you here, if not to glorify God? (I Corinthians 10:13; Matthew 5:16; Proverbs 25:27; Jeremiah 9:23-24; Revelation 4:11)

They were a boisterous lot as they gathered together making battle plans and receiving orders for their posts. Adrenaline ran high. Fear didn’t. Even if it should have. There was no room for fear in the hearts of the Israelite soldiers. They were still riding the waves of victory. Two victories, in fact. Resounding ones. Destroying the Amalekites hadn’t been much of a battle, but it was definitely a victory. God had clearly gone before them, making a way for His word to be enacted. He’d done the same at Michmash. Through Jonathan’s faith and God’s power, the Philistines were thrown into panic and confusion, turning on one another as they would on their enemies. Israel had won the battle. The war was still outstanding. The Philistines hadn’t been completely destroyed as had the Amalekites. Instead, they had regrouped, returned, and now camped between Socoh and Azekah, effectively putting Israel on notice. They were coming for them. Again. They hadn’t been destroyed, just momentarily defeated. Israel would need to come out and fight. Again. For real this time. (I Samuel 14:1-23; 15:1-19)

Setting up camp in the Valley of Elah, the Israelite soldiers strapped on their armor, picked up spears and swords, and went out to stand on the hill across from the Philistines. Everyone knew they were just posturing. Doing reconnaissance. Assessing the situation. Taking a moment to identify any new tricks the opposition had invented. No actual spears would be thrown. No arrows would be released. It was a pre-battle standoff to help solidify their strategy. Do a little saber-rattling. Stare one another down from the relative safety of the opposite side of the valley. Cold, hard gazes locked. Obligatory insults flew. Weapons and armor clanked. But the battle hadn’t begun. This was just a demonstration. It was all hype. Until the Philistines brought out their champion. 

Jaws dropped open as he strode out of their camp to join the troops on the front lines. He was enormous. Nine feet, nine inches of height held upright by tree trunk-sized legs. His biceps bulged. His eyes were dark stones peering out from his massive bronze helmet. Heavy bronze armor perfectly fit to his frame. He looked invincible. And dangerous. A javelin rested between his shoulder blades, the handle within easy reach of either long arm. The spear in his hand struck fear in the heart of every Israelite soldier. They’d never seen a weapon so large or menacing. The sight of the monster was horrifying. Terrifying. The sight of his shield-bearer was nearly laughable. The man was clearly superfluous to the requirement. Goliath didn’t need him. He could handle things himself. And he knew it. 

Slowly striding to the front and center of the gathered Philistine troops, Goliath turned to face the Israelite army with a scowling look of derision. Resting the shaft of his spear beside his huge, sandaled feet, the giant opened his mouth and thundered out his invitation to battle. Send a man. Only one man. Let them come and fight him. A fight to the death. The winning warrior would take home the spoils, making servants of the opposing side. Two men. One battle. One death. One victory. That was the offer. Take it or leave it. 

As the words echoed across the valley, the men of Israel shrank back in fear. Their hearts trembled within them. Their courage did a runner. Terror had them abandoning the posturing and fleeing back to their tents. There were things to discuss. How do you respond to the demented demands of the giant who is clearly leading the opposition? Was anyone crazy enough to respond to the challenge? Did anyone want to sacrifice themselves to death at the giant’s hands? Anyone? No. No one was. No one was willing to put themselves on the line for the land. No one had the courage to take a stand, mount an offensive. Instead, they huddled around their campfires, whispered among themselves, and tried to ignore the threats still ringing in their ears. 

Forty days passed that way. Morning and night Goliath would stride out to bellow his preposterous offer. Morning and night, the Israelite army would don their armor and weapons, march out, and line up in battle array, only to retreat in terror as soon as Goliath appeared shouting his fateful offer. Their courage was an illusion. Their fear was palpable. Who knows how long they would have stayed camped there, doing the same silly thing day after day had Jesse not sent David to visit his brothers.

He hadn’t come expecting to be a warrior. He’d surely have packed differently if he had. David didn’t strap on a sword, pick up a spear, or grab his bow and quiver of arrows as he walked out the door for the battleground. He had nothing intended for use on the battlefield. Spears and swords were of little use in the pasture among the sheep. He wasn’t expecting to need a weapon at all. Not even the sling he habitually carried in his pocket. At no point during his trek to visit his brothers did David anticipate a moment when he’d hear the taunts of the Philistine giant and rise up in righteous indignation. But he’d never quite been this angry before, either. Not when his brothers teased him. Not when the bear came to raid his flock. Not when a lion tried to have lamb for dinner. He’d been upset, annoyed, irritated, but it hadn’t flared hot and white and raging in his spirit like the anger he felt when that disgusting giant opened his mouth to let fly his defiance against David’s God.

Nothing could fully describe what David felt as the taunting words fell from Goliath’s lips. Indignation. Anger. Fury. Rage. Holy rage. Burning indignation. Furious offense. Who exactly did that man, giant or not, think he was, that he would so carelessly, openly, callously defy the God of Heaven? Israel’s God. The Lord of Armies. And why did not one soldier in the ranks of Israel have the courage to stand up to him? After seeing what God could do for them, why were they cowering in fear? Was there not one man among them, one warrior amidst them who would stand up for God? Why didn’t the vicious words of the giant stir their hearts to courageous action?

They stirred David’s. Riding the momentum of his hotly burning wrath and indignation, David stepped out in faith to take courageous action. Make a stand. Plant his flag. When his brothers said he shouldn’t. When Saul said he wasn’t equipped. When doubt was etched on every face he passed on his solitary march to stand across from that giant. David took a stand and chose a courageous response in the face of evil and hate, threats, and possible death. I wonder if we would do the same. (I Samuel 17:1-39)

When faced with ever-increasing hostility, hate, and defamation toward true godliness, do you stalwartly take a stand for Jesus Christ? When the people around you choose to defy God, are you faithful to light the way of truth? When churches and organizations who claim the name of Jesus choose to avoid His decrees, distort His words, destroy His applications, do you stand in solidarity with Scripture? Do you plant your feet in the undeniable truth that every single word on every single page in every single chapter of the Bible was inspired by God and written by people in direct conversation with Him? What do you feel when the people around you choose, by word and deed, to defy your God? More importantly, do you have the courage to stand up and speak truth into the lies the enemy is so viciously spreading, or are you too complacent, too fearful to do anything at all? What is your response when the giants of the land callously bellow their fictitious theories about your God? Do you run for cover? Or do you hear those words for what they really are? A call to courage. (Isaiah 58:1; Ephesians 6:10-18; James 4:17; II Timothy 3:16-17)  

No one knows how long those armies would have stayed on opposite sides of that valley yelling insults and threats at one another if David hadn’t shown up. Neither side seemed inclined to rush into battle. Maybe they’d have died of old age there. Each choosing to hide in their own way. Israel in their tents. The Philistines behind their champion. But there’s no courage there. Only cowardice. Courage is in the doing. Facing down the giants whose voices are louder, whose reach is wider, who use fear to manipulate their audience. It’s one small person taking a strong stand, walking against the grain of society, regardless of the pushback. It’s speaking the truth of God’s Word in every circumstance. It’s called courage and it looks like a teenaged boy standing in the strength of God to fight off a giant from hell.   

When everyone else was running for cover from Goliath, David was pocketing five smooth stones and courageously running to meet his enormous, threatening opponent. Why? Because he wanted everyone to know the truth about his God. He wanted to tell the world that God will always be victorious. Our God doesn’t need swords or spears or enormous armies to fight on His behalf. He just needs people. Willing people. Courageous people. People who will plant their feet and take a stand for God and truth at a time when the loudest voices in the room are crying out lies and heresy. People who push their own fear aside, choosing instead to unwaveringly follow God in the face of harassment, ostracization, and persecution. People like you. People like me. People who hear the taunts of the giants for what they really are–a call to courage. (I Samuel 17:40-51; Matthew 10:32-33; I Corinthians 16:13; James 1:12; Joshua 1:8-9; Haggai 2:4-5)