Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

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)

Slumping down beside the spring, she dropped her face to her hands and rubbed her tired eyes. She hadn’t been planning to make this journey. Not now. Not alone. Not in her condition. Of course, she hadn’t planned to be in this condition, either. It was the disheartening story of her life. Not once had she been given choices, options, or a voice in how her life would go. She hadn’t eagerly waved her hand to volunteer when the opening for a traveling maid came along. She wasn’t even interested. At all. She had no desire to leave Egypt and traipse around the country with no map, no destination, no endgame in mind. She didn’t want to move a dozen times, never settling down. Given the choice, Hagar would have stayed in Egypt forever. Except she hadn’t had a choice.

As much as Hagar would not have chosen to be a maid, she was even less likely to willingly bear a child to an octogenarian. Not one part of her found Abram attractive. Seriously. Eww! Weathered, wrinkled skin darkened from long hours in the sun held no appeal. His penchant for wandering all over creation did not enhance her interest. She certainly wouldn’t fight Sarai for him! He didn’t appear to be attracted to her, either. Thank goodness!! He didn’t seem delighted with gazing at her. Never tried to engage her in conversation. She wasn’t even positive he remembered she was part of his encampment. She’d absolutely never have chosen to enter his tent or let him enter hers. Except she hadn’t been given the choice. 

Desperate to actuate God’s promise to Abram and grant her own heart’s desire, Sarai took matters into her own hands. They needed an heir. Now. And it clearly wasn’t coming from her. Well beyond her childbearing years, Sarai wasn’t lying to herself. Having a baby of her own was impossible. She’d failed. Or maybe God had. Either way, her barrenness stung. It broke her heart. Wearied her soul. Troubled her mind. So she fixed it. On her own, with no guidance from God, no pushback from Abram, no feedback from Hagar, Sarai found a way to have a child, forcing her servant to become her surrogate. 

Entering Hagar’s tent, her arms full of supplies, Sarai got to work setting the stage for success. She dressed her maid in the best garments they had. Adorned her hands, arms and ears with jewels. Fetchingly arranged her hair. Dabbed expensive perfume on her neck and wrists. Laying out an array of embroidered silk bed pillows, she seated Hagar in the center and stood back to survey her work. Very nice! It would surely do the trick. All they needed now was Abram. 

It didn’t take much to get him in there. With little to no hesitation, Abram capitulated to Sarai’s bazaar idea. He offered no other options. Didn’t back up God’s “wait” with one of his own. Didn’t even argue. Not vehemently, for sure, but not even weakly. Abram puts up no fight whatsoever to Sarai’s efforts to manipulate the timing of God’s plan and promise. Either in an attempt to appease his wife or out of real attraction to the maid, Abram enters Hagar’s tent. The rest, as they say, is history.

Forced into a pregnancy she never wanted, Hagar’s abused, broken heart stored up the injustices. Torn from her home. Pressed into slavery. Compelled into surrogacy. Never had anyone seen her. Never had anyone cared for her. Never had she been more than a bargaining chip in someone else’s life. The overwhelming bitterness built from watching her dreams die at the hands of another’s desires erupted from Hagar’s core. She snipped at Sarai. Treated her badly. Disrespected her. Perhaps the hormones played a part. Maybe the insecurity of her situation overtook her. Perhaps she developed an unexpected attraction to Abram and wanted to keep him for herself. Maybe she’s always blamed Sarai for her unceremonious exit from Egypt and used this situation to act out her anger. We really don’t know the entire impetus behind Hagar’s actions. We do, however, know the outcome. After all her machinations appeared to be coming to fruition, Sarai found she didn’t like the results. She felt insecure. She felt replaceable. She threw a tantrum. 

Angered both by her maid’s quick pregnancy and impudent attitude, Sarai casts herself as the victim and runs to Abram, demanding something be done. Now. The other woman needs to be put in her place, pregnant or not. Disappointingly, Abram seems to still be missing his spine. Abandoning the woman carrying his child, he tosses the situation back on Sarai. He simply doesn’t care. She can do whatever she chooses with Hagar. He’ll back her up. It’s exactly what Sarai wants to hear. 

It’s the exact situation Hagar must have feared all along. Sarai became an unbearable taskmaster. Her treatment cruel. Her words cutting. After being offered as a type of sacrifice to the head of the house, Hagar is despised, rejected, abused, and helpless. There was no one in her corner. No friends. No family. Not even that colossal jerk Abram protects her! Knowing she is carrying his child, he still abandons her to Sarai’s wrath. The situation is untenable. The options are scarce. The idea of staying, toughing it out, is unpalatable. At the end of her rope, Hagar is forced to choose what she believes is safest for herself and her child. Weighing the dubious security of the encampment against the obvious uncertainty of the desert, Hagar chose the desert.  

 No one followed her. Sarai did not go to Abram, wringing her hands, concerned that the maid was missing. Abram did not assemble a search party to look for the mother of his child. Not one soul seems to notice Hagar is no longer with them. No one but God. Because God notices everything. Indeed, He’s been watching from the beginning. Not one hellacious moment of Hagar’s existence is lost on Him. Nor are the feelings raging in her soul. The hurt and betrayal of forced servitude. The torment of abuse. The ache of dismissal. The agony of abandonment. Sitting there by the well, rejected and alone, the whirling eddy of emotions tugging her soul in every direction, Hagar hears a voice she never thought she’d hear. The voice of an angel speaking words from God. Words she never thought a worthless slave girl would hear.

He sees her. He knows her name. He is aware of her situation. He comprehends every nuance of her unenviable circumstances. God knows exactly where Hagar has come from and where she is intending to go. He knows why, too. He’s heard it all. Seen the whole sordid affair. He knows none of it has been her own choosing. The great God of the universe looked down from His heavenly throne and saw the misery of a helpless, abused servant girl. He felt the weight of her circumstances, the hopelessness tearing at her soul. His great heart of love ached at the sight of Hagar bent in despair beside that desert spring, and, although we have no indication they were on speaking terms before, the God who sees it all, speaks. (Genesis 16)

It wouldn’t be the last time God found Hagar sitting in the desert mired in despair. Fourteen years later, God would once again find her there with the child she’d born to Abram. Sarah’s rage had sent her running. Again. Certain they would both die, Hagar leaves her son and sits down a distance away, not willing to watch his demise. Tears fall. Sobs shake her body. Her son cries, too. And, once again, God sees. God hears. God speaks. It is the redeeming story of the inexcusable offenses in Hagar’s life. God sees her when no one else does. He comes to her when no one else will. He speaks her name when everyone else forgets it. He does the same for you. (Genesis 21:8-20)

Whether your story is riddled with abandonment and abuse, darkened by browbeating and bullying, or a veritable wasteland of consequences for one poor choice after another, know this. God sees you. All of you. Every. Single. Part. Your circumstances. Your pain. Your fear. He sees exactly where you are. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. The God who sees it all has come to redeem it all. Every single horror of your life. No matter where you are, where you’ve been, or what’s been done to you, the great God of the universe has seen it all, yet still He calls you. By name. Not the ugly things people call you, the mean words hurled at your head, the vicious names whispered on the wings of darkness. No. The God who sees you when no one else does and comes when no one else will, is calling your actual name. He’ll never forget it. It’s the one He gave you. The one engraved on His hand. The one that echoes through the desert of your life to say you are not alone, worthless, hopeless or useless. The name by which you are known to Him. Precious. Priceless. Beloved. Friend.  (John 15:15; Isaiah 43:1, 4; Job 34:21; Hebrews 4:13; Proverbs 15:3; Psalm 34:18; Psalm 103:2-5; Psalm 91:15; Isaiah 49:15-16; Zephaniah 3:17; I John 3:1)

Unaccustomed to the pitch and yaw of their newly acquired vessel, the enormous draft horse sidestepped in an effort to keep his footing. Birds squawked and fluttered their wings to keep steady on their perches. An unsecured basket of wheat slid across the floor. Three women raced to rescue it, nearly falling over one another as the vessel righted itself. They were immensely unprepared to live like this. Heaving and rolling. Surging and swaying. Tossed about by winds. Crashed upon by waves. Every moment lived to the tattooing rhythm of torrential rain. Gazing out over his family and the gathered animals, Noah smoothed his beard and let loose a heavy sigh. They were all still adjusting. The change was enormous. New spaces. New neighbors. Less privacy. More noise. 

Had someone suggested to him as a young man that he’d be here, locked in a floating contraption with his family, tending an enormous menagerie and waiting out a devastating flood, Noah would likely have laughed. He’d never planned to live on a houseboat. Hadn’t even dreamed it was possible until God slipped blueprints into his hands. He’d never had lofty dreams of greatness, prestige, or fame. Never thought of himself as a missionary. Never imagined being a preacher. Never dreamed he’d be the guy God chose to rescue part of His creation from utter devastation. He had been content with his life. Family. Flocks. Fields. Pleased with the choice he’d made to follow God. Thankful his sons had chosen to follow suit. Blessed to be chosen as a survivor of the catastrophe to come. 

It was a fact he’d have to remind himself of over and over again. As he watched the spectacular parade of animals file onboard, the birds fly in to nest in the rafters, his family assemble with the meager non-essential belongings they were able to take, Noah felt blessed to be a part of the grand plan of God. It was amazing. It was exciting. Anticipation for the upcoming adventure crackled down his spine. An unchecked smile crept across his face. Laugh lines crinkled at the edges of his eyes. A joyous chuckle bubbled from his lungs. It all seemed like such a fantastic escapade! Until God shut the door. 

As the solemn thud of that sealing portal echoed through the ark, Noah’s laugh subsided. The smile faded. Things got real. The adventure had seemed grand, but the reality was rough. Animals are needy. They argue like children. They smell. Bad. They make noise. Constantly. Feathers ruffle. Hooves shuffle. There’s sneezing and snorting, snuffling and chewing. And Noah hadn’t built for acoustics. Every noise seemed to echo. Bounce off the walls. Ping from the rafters straight to his ears. There was no way to hush the multitude of beasts. Not a moment of silence could be borrowed or bought. 

His family wasn’t much better. Man, he loved them! Wow, he sure wasn’t used to living in their space! He had no idea they had the capacity to be quite so annoying in continuous doses! A guy couldn’t find five seconds of peace and quiet. There was no peaceful deck on which to quietly relax and read a book. No plush easy chair stuffed in a calming corner where he could rest in solitude. There was literally nowhere he could go to gain respite from the noisy animals, his nattering family, the sound of pounding rain. Regardless how large their floating conveyance or the careful preparations they had made, Noah felt cramped. Hemmed in on every side. People in front of him. Animals surrounding him. Walls encasing him. A sealed door rescuing him. But where was the God who’d sent Him there? 

For forty days the rain pounded and the waters rose. For one hundred and fifty days the earth flooded. The angel of death visited every living, moving, breathing thing on earth. Beasts. Birds. Humans. For months Noah plodded through the monotony of his new responsibilities. Feed the animals. Clean up after the animals. Eat. Sleep. Float. Surely, as the days grew long and tempers short, Noah wished there was someone else, anyone else, with whom to converse. Family conversations had long since grown tedious. Plans for life after exiting the ark seemed like such faraway dreams. Hope dwindled. Fear threatened. Faith faltered. And God seemed oddly silent. (Genesis 6:9-8:14)

After all the direction and guidance God gave Noah in building and gathering and preaching prior to the flood, it seems odd there is not one indication of God speaking to Noah while he was cooped up on the ark. As the rains pounded, the waters rose, the ark bobbed and swayed, God seemed to remain silent. When the water began to recede, the ark rested on Ararat, the mountains again became visible, God still appears aloof. As Noah counted out forty days, opened a window, sent out a raven, then a dove, Heavenly quiet remains. In fact, the next record we have of God speaking to Noah is more than a year after He swung the door of their safety ship shut. A year of confinement. A year of questions. A year of faith. 

It is what we notice most about the account. Noah’s faith. In the face of obvious adversity, struggle, and frustration, Noah’s faith never fails. His obedience to God never wavers. Even when there was no one to impress with his devotion. Even though he already knew he’d be saved from the flood. Even when things were difficult, the family was arguing, the animals were inordinately restless. Not once did Noah, frustrated with God’s silence and their confinement, grab an ax and begin to hack an escape route in the hull of their ship. Not when he knew the waters had greatly subsided. Not when the raven left home. Not when the dove brought back the olive leaf. Not even when he saw the surface of the earth was completely dry. No. Noah stayed obedient and faithful until God spoke again, even though the only people who would see his disobedience were the people behind closed doors.

 Noah was the same man behind closed doors as he was when he was building the ark and warning others of the oncoming destruction. He didn’t change when no one was looking. Didn’t treat his sons differently. Didn’t rage at his wife. Didn’t ogle his daughters-in-law. Noah remained faithful to God and what he believed God required of him. In public and in private. We’d have heard about it if he had. It would be recorded for our edification. Many times in the Old Testament, the closed-door offenses are highlighted. Lot’s daughters took advantage of him behind closed doors. Amnon abused Tamar in privacy. Potiphar’s wife tried to seduce Joseph when no one else was about. David used his position to pressure Bathsheba to visit his bed. The list could go on. They are all there. The unimaginable things done behind closed doors are all eventually brought to light. Yet in all the days spent in frustratingly close quarters with temptation to speak, think and act ungodly, not one allegation is laid to Noah’s charge. Why? Because Noah remained consistently faithful to God. (II Samuel 13:1-16; Genesis 19:30-38; Genesis 39:1-20; II Samuel 11:1-12:9) 

Nothing about Noah was different in the privacy of the ark than it had been publicly in town. His faith wasn’t a front to gain respect and prestige. Noah was the same man, day in and day out. His family could count on it. His actions didn’t change. His attitude didn’t nosedive. His tone didn’t sharpen. Noah remained unchanged because the God he faithfully served was unchanged. No matter how stressed, frustrated, anxious, or annoyed he felt, Noah’s family knew exactly what to expect from him. Steady faithfulness. In front of a watching, impressionable world or behind closed doors with only an audience of animals, Noah didn’t change. Didn’t abandon his beliefs. Didn’t mismatch his words and actions. Noah followed God. Faithfully. 

We should all live so carefully. So authentically. So honestly. We should all be so rooted in faithfulness to God that our life never changes. Our families should know that the response the neighbor publicly gets from us will be the same response they privately receive. Our children should be able to trust us to privately practice what we publicly preach. Our friends should know we will lean honest even when it is unpleasant, uncomfortable, or upsetting. Our faith in action should be as unchanging as our God–in the middle of a group or behind closed doors. (I Corinthians 15:58; Proverbs 21:21; Galatians 6:9; Ephesians 4:25; I Timothy 4:12)

So is it? Is your faith, your religion, your alleged value system the same at home as it is at work, at church, at coffee with friends? Are the pretty words you staunchly claim in public a mirror of your actions in private? Are you a blessing at Bible study but a beast at home? Are you truly living the life or are you faking it for the sake of your reputation? Are you the same faithful servant of God both in the middle of town and behind closed doors? Is your relationship with Jesus authentic enough to withstand the temptation to change depending on your surroundings? Do you live for Jesus at home the same way you do in public? (James 1:22, 26; Titus 2:7; Luke 6:41; Proverbs 10:9; I John 3:18; Proverbs 6:16-20; Proverbs 11:3; II Timothy 4:1-2)

I hope you do. I hope I do. In fact, I pray it over us. May we model our lives after Jesus. His love. His mercy. His grace. In public. In private. No matter where we are or who is around. May our lives, our words, our actions continually resonate with the unchanging faithfulness of obedience to our unchanging God. (I John 2:6; Micah 6:8; John 13:15; Proverbs 21:3; Ecclesiastes 12:13)