Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

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)

Nothing had gone according to plan. His well-laid scheme to add yet another beautiful woman to his already full household had gone historically awry. Never had a woman given him such trouble. In truth, this one hadn’t, either. She’d been the model houseguest. Quietly settled into her quarters. Allowed the beauty treatments. Eaten the abundant food. Endured the sidelong glances of her predecessors. Not one complaint had crossed her lips. Not once had she spoken out of turn. Never had she objected. Not even when she should have. Her beautiful lips had stayed sealed for the duration of her visit. Something should have told him her silence concealed a gutting secret. 

Abimelek would never forget the first time he saw her. How could he? His head had never swiveled so far, so quickly. He’d strained his neck in the gawking. She was breathtaking! Literally. That first glimpse had the air leaving his lungs in a whoosh of exhalation and his brain forgetting to initiate the reciprocal inhale. Never had he seen a woman so lovely! And he’d seen his share of women. Wives. Prospective wives. Concubines. Servants. He paid attention to every female crossing his path. Noticed every flaw. Saw every slouch. Prided himself in his connoisseurial ability in the arena. Yet never had he seen one so gorgeous as the sister of Abraham. 

Sarah. The very thought of her evoked a wistful sigh. He wanted her from the moment he saw her. Flawless skin. Perfect teeth. Confident carriage. Tinkling laugh. No matter the number of wives and concubines already lining his hallways, Abimelek knew he’d never erase her memory. She’d be the jewel in his crown. He had to have her, had to at least attempt to make her his own. So he did.  

With barely a flick of his wrist, Abimelek sent his officials to escort Sarah back to the palace. She’d come without a fuss. Abraham, her brother, hadn’t put up a struggle, either. No one said anything to indicate their relationship was other than purported. There was no lingering goodbye, no falling tears, no looks of anguish at the separation. Abimelek had no idea he’d just stolen Abraham’s wife. He had no clue he was headed down an adulterous path. He was wholly unaware that, with one poor decision, he had placed himself and his household directly in the crosshairs of God’s judgment. Not until the dream.

It was a nightmare, really. Not only the dream. The whole situation. The beautiful woman he’d so lustfully gathered to be part of his harem was married. To Abraham. The same man who had stoically stood by and watched the officials escort Sarah toward the palace. He hadn’t even flinched! Had raised not one objection. Had withheld the truth with callous disregard for the woman he allegedly loved. Mute, he’d simply stood and watched! Abimelek had words for men like that. Descriptive words. “Pathetic selfish coward” was near the top. Knowing the truth, both of Sarah’s marital status and what Abimelek had in store for her, Abraham hadn’t moved to rescue obedient Sarah from Abimelek, nor had he tried to rescue innocent Abimelek from God’s wrath. No. He just stood there, hanging on to the unraveling facade he’d concocted, and watched his “sister” walk away. 

Abimelek wished Abraham had stopped him. Seriously. He wished he’d said something, anything to make him rethink his choice of bride. He’d much rather have had a startling confrontation in person than a terrifying reckoning with God in his sleep. Sarah was married?! He felt like such a heel. He’d had no idea. Thank God (quite literally) for that irritating litany of pre-marriage rituals!  How dark would be his situation, how horrible his punishment if Sarah’s God were not gracious and just! The eye of God had clearly been looking out for him. His hand had held him back, kept him from sin. Even in his ignorance, his innocence, when Abimelek had been blissfully unaware the path he was on would lead him into sin, God reached down and rescued him from certain destruction. He couldn’t be more grateful. 

Gratitude is a poor bandage for a damaged ego, though. He’d been made to look a fool. It stung. All of it. It didn’t seem fair. Abimelek would have treated Sarah with much more respect than Abraham had. He wouldn’t have let her go without a fight. He would have protected her, provided for her. The aircastles he’d built had them walking hand and hand into the sunset–or at least riding in matching chariots. He felt cheated. And, although he wanted to push out his lip and turn his face to the corner like a spoiled 4-year-old, he was man enough to be honest. About himself. About God. When he’d been impatient with the process, God was keeping him from sin. When his ability to circumvent royal customs was to no avail, God was protecting him from sin. When he was shaken awake by a disconcerting dream, God was watching out for his soul, his family, his future. When God woke him to say, “No,” it was a mercy. And, no matter how difficult it was to hear, regardless how much he wanted Sarah for his wife, no matter how hot his anger at Abraham’s lie burned, Abimelek couldn’t help but be grateful for the roadblock. God had kept him from sin. (Genesis 20)

It must have been outrageously difficult for Abimelek to watch Sarah walk away. No matter what he now knew, surely a part of his heart was still engaged. Anger didn’t cover it. Embarrassment didn’t thwart it. Fear of God didn’t eradicate it. It takes little effort to imagine the wistful sigh that escaped his lips as he sent her back to her husband. Why? Because we know that sigh. Intimately. We’ve pressed out the same breath ourselves. A breath of disappointment. A breath of pain. A melancholy exhalation that the thing we loved so deeply, had our hearts so firmly set upon, is not to be. Through tear-blurred eyes, we watch our dreams fade and find ourselves in the tension between angry bitterness and trusting gratitude. It is in that space where we find ourselves weighing the question, is God still good in spite of the enormous roadblock He placed in our path?

From the pages of his own biography, Abimelek would resoundingly answer in the affirmative. Indeed, it appears this is his first personal encounter with God. There’s no indication of a previous relationship with the Almighty. We have no proof the king was interested in a God not made from wood and stone. Abraham’s own words suggest as much when he admits he believed there to be no fear of God in the land of Gerar. They weren’t inundated with revivals and Bible studies, small groups and Christian workshops. Abimelek didn’t even know God. But God knew Abimelek. And God was faithful. To His own just character. To His love for Abimelek. To His nature of grace toward sinful humanity. When no one else would step up and do the right thing, God stepped in to right the wrong. He dropped a roadblock in Abimelek’s way, not to keep him from something pleasant, but to keep him from the unpleasant consequences of sin. (Genesis 20:11)

God, in unfailing love and undeserved mercy, does the same for us. There are a million things in life we want so badly. Good things. Attainable things. Friendships. Relationships. Careers. Lifestyles. There’s really nothing wrong with any of those things. Except the ones that have the potential to draw us into sin. And most of them do. At least our obsession with them does. As we chase them down, we find ourselves spending less time with God and more time in the pursuit. It is often only the unbending roadblock that stops us in our tracks and keeps us from making enormous mistakes that would lead us into sin. We aren’t always grateful, but we should be. (I John 2:15-17)

We should be thankful that God is just and merciful, that He loves us too much to allow us to go haring off down whatever pathway strikes our fancy regardless of the oncoming damage. We should be grateful that God stops us, even if it is disappointing, even when it hurts, even if we can’t figure out why until decades later. Our hearts should swell with gratitude for every redeeming roadblock in our path because they underline God’s character. They resonate with the grandeur of God’s love for us. They exhibit His enormous grace. They highlight His justice in a world of injustice. They lavishly display His tender care, His unfailing kindness. In every roadblock, every “no”, we can clearly see the new and unending redemptive mercy of our ever-faithful God. (Lamentations 3:21-26, 31-33; Psalm 78:38; Nehemiah 9:31; Psalm 145:8; Deuteronomy 32:4)

There used to be a frequently quoted phrase to the effect of, “The Bible will keep you from sin, or sin will keep you from the Bible.” I don’t know the truth of that quote. It seems a lot of folks read the Bible, put their own twist on it, and sin anyway. I do, however, know this. The God of the Bible can keep you from sin. If you obey His voice when He speaks. It might be a still, small whisper. It might be an illuminating dream. It may be a river of peace erupting from an unexpected roadblock. But He will speak. His very character demands it. And, when He does, I hope you listen. I hope you obey His voice. I hope you allow Him, without explanation or excuse, to keep you from sinning. I hope you see the redemption in the roadblock and gratefully set your feet to walk only in His paths. I hope you know, truly understand, and fully believe that the “no” is not an act of punishment, but a means of grace. Redemptive grace. Grace to keep you from sinning and rescue your soul from death. (Psalm 19:13; Psalm 119:112; Jeremiah 7:23; Psalm 85:8; Isaiah 30:21; John 8:47; John 10:27; John 14:26; Hebrews 4:12; Revelation 3:20)

Heavy steps crunched the dried dirt and gravel on the road to the temple. Burdened steps. Troubled steps. Receipt of the letter had served to underscore what he already knew. Assyria wasn’t backing down. Although they’d been drawn aside by another skirmish for now, it wouldn’t last. They’d be back. They were far too arrogant to stay away. Far too bloodthirsty to retreat. Far too certain of victory. Proof of their intent was clutched in Hezekiah’s hand.  

The letter wouldn’t be read publicly. It would serve no purpose except to cause panic and mayhem. Again. The preceding visit from the Assyrian commanders had done enough damage. The words they’d yelled out over the land had struck terror in every heart. Horrifying threats. Egregious lies. Unfounded claims. Assertions that God had sent the Assyrians to attack and destroy Judah. Most alarmingly, they held that Hezekiah, the king who did right in the eyes of the Lord, removed the offensive high places, trusted God, and refused to stop following Him, was misleading the people. God couldn’t deliver His people. Or He simply wouldn’t. Either way, the words evoked distress throughout the kingdom. (II Kings 18:12-37)

Hezekiah certainly knew the feeling. Upon hearing the report of the field commander’s words, he’d torn his clothes, donned sackcloth, raced to the temple, and fell before the Lord in desperation. Men had urgently been dispatched to God’s prophet Isaiah, searching for words from God. Words they greatly needed to hear. Helpful words of wisdom. Hopeful words of help. Calming words of hope. They needed them. Badly. They’d be lost without direction from above. Crying out to God until the answer arrived, Hezekiah must have breathed a sigh of relief when his men walked back through the door with the answer. Everyone needed to calm down. God isn’t deaf or blind. He’d heard the lies. He’d seen the fear. He was already working. With no effort from Hezekiah, no returning volley of verbal harassment, no militant positioning of troops, the Assyrian envoy retreated. Went off to fight another battle. Focused on a different war. At least for the moment.  (II Kings 19:1-8)

Unfortunately, it seems Sennacherib wasn’t the forgetful type. Finding it necessary to defend his own kingdom from incoming marauders, he put his lust to conquer Judah aside and headed home. In his wake, he sent a messenger bearing the missive Hezekiah now held in his hand. The one reiterating what had been screamed over the walls of the city for all and sundry to hear. Don’t hope to depend on God. He won’t save you. Can’t save you. Nothing in which you hope will stop your defeat. We are coming. Brace yourself. Today, just as before, Hezekiah was on his way to do so.  

On this day, however, his steps toward the temple were slower. His confidence a notch higher. His faith a bit stronger. But his heart was not much lighter. The king of Assyria had clearly stated he wasn’t going to forget his thirst to conquer Judah. He would be back. Sooner or later. Weeks. Months. Years. It didn’t matter how long he had to wait. He would come and wipe them out. Hezekiah and his people could count on it. Plan for it. Prepare for it. No matter what they did, they’d never stop it. Even in writing, Sennacharib’s arrogance was palpable. Believable. Reprehensible. 

The letter had shaken Hezekiah, but not moved him. Still resting in the previous promise and rescue of God for His people, he made the walk up the path to the temple. He needed to talk to God. Show Him the letter. Ask for guidance. Look for assurance. Remind himself Who his God was. Encourage himself to believe, to spread the word, that the same God who delivered them before was ready and willing to do it again. Not just to bring deliverance to Judah, but to let all the kingdoms over the entire earth then, and every generation to come, know that He is God. Alone. 

Entering the temple, Hezekiah dropped to his knees and unfolded the letter. He carefully smoothed the creases. Pressed out a bent corner. Wiped away a dirty smudge collected in its travels. Arranging his thoughts as well as the paper, Hezekiah leaned down and spread the missive out before the Lord. Not because God didn’t know what it said. Not because God needed a reference. Not because Hezekiah thought God needed to see it to believe it. No. Hezekiah spread that letter before the Lord as a symbol to himself that he was surrendering both the problem and the outcome to Almighty God. Then Hezekiah prayed. 

It is arguably one of the most beautiful prayers of the Old Testament. Artistically crafted words painting a fantastic reminder of who Hezekiah’s God is. Sovereign God. Reigning king. Creator. Sustainer. The One who sees all things, knows all things, and acts on behalf of His people. Triumphant Commander. Valiant Warrior. God. Alone. And although there was truth in the Assyrian king’s boasting about past victories over other nations and their hand-crafted gods of wood and stone, one absolute truth remained. They hadn’t seen anything like Hezekiah’s God. Not yet. (II Kings 19:9-19)

They would, though. At the right time, in the right way, God would move. That was the message Hezekiah received from Isaiah as he knelt there with the letter spread before the Lord. God had heard Hezekiah’s prayer just as loudly as He’d heard the ridiculing words of the Assyrian commanders. And God. Had. Spoken. Sennacherib wouldn’t be coming. Not now. Not ever. There was no need to prepare the army. No reason to stockpile supplies. No cause for fear or concern. Not even one Assyrian arrow would fly into their city. It wouldn’t happen. God wouldn’t allow it. He was coming to save them. To leave a legacy for posterity. To prove to people far and wide, for centuries to come that He is God. Alone. And that He answers the prayers of His people who spread their concerns, their needs, their hearts before Him. (II Kings 19:20, 23, 32-34; Isaiah 37:33-35)

You see, friend, you don’t have to be facing annihilation to bring your cares before God. He wants you to come to Him. First. Skip the social media post, the phone call to a friend, the counsel of your neighbor, and go to God first. Lay your issue out before Him. Physically, if necessary. Spread out every page. Straighten every corner. Leave no edge unturned. Give it to God and get His answer first. Even if you have to wait for it. Surrender your problem, your need, your concern to God and leave it there for Him to handle. Why? So everyone looking on and generations to come will see through your life and understand through your actions that He is God. Alone. And He is trustworthy. (I Timothy 2:1-8; James 5:13; Psalm 55:22; Psalm 56:3; Psalm 86:10; Deuteronomy 7:9)

It’s so much easier said than done. I know. I’m not great at it. Maybe you aren’t either. Surrender isn’t exactly comfortable. Especially for self-sufficient doers like us. We are much happier muddling through our own list of fix-its and repairs. Perhaps what continually spurs me on in this endeavor will inspire you, too. When we surrender our problems, leave them with Him and allow God to be God, the outcome preaches a message our words can never properly convey. God is God. Alone. He needs no help from human hands. He doesn’t require our ideas to clog up a suggestion box. He already has the answer to all our needs and worries, concerns and problems. And He loves us too much to ignore the things we spread out before Him in prayer. So bring your worries, bring your needs, bring your cares. Bring the daunting bill that came in the mail. Bring the reduction in force letter you received at work. Bring the nasty comments from a neighbor, the ugly accusations of a spouse, the discouraging diagnosis, the disastrous evaluation. Whatever it is. Bring it to Him. Lay it down. Spread it out. Pray about it. Weep if you want. But don’t pick it back up. Surrender it. Before you have an answer. Before you know what to do. Before you see the end result. Spread it out before the Lord and leave it there. Let Him work. Trust God to be God. Alone. (Philippians 4:6-7; Romans 12:12; I Peter 5:6-7; Matthew 6:25-26; Psalm 18:31-41; Isaiah 46:9-11; Deuteronomy 32:4)