Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

They were on the move again. They had no idea why. Camped by the twelve springs of water and seventy palm trees at Elim, the travelers would have been quite happy to stay for an extended period of time. Weeks. Months. Years. Maybe a lifetime. It had been a much-needed reprieve for their tired selves. The journey to Elim had been a less than comfortable excursion. The whirlwind exodus from Egypt, plunging them into an independence they weren’t entirely prepared to undertake. The narrow escape through the Red Sea proving there could be no turning back. The waterless three-day trek through the wilderness of Shur posing the question whether or not they’d make it out alive. The bitter, undrinkable waters of Marah, although perfected by the miraculous work of a stick, pressing home the fact that things were not as they had been in Egypt. Yes. They were absolutely interested in an extended stay at Elim. (Exodus 12:23-36, 14, 15:22-23)

It was not to be. Stretching and yawning, they cautiously peered through their tent flaps. Hopes were immediately dashed. Countenances fell. The pillars of cloud and fire were ready to move again. Their barely awakened ears would soon be assaulted by the voice of Moses as he traversed the camp, urging readiness for travel. It was time to move out again. They already knew the drill. Collapse and roll the tents. Stuff your belongings back into your packs. Collect your children. Gather the livestock. Get a move on. It’s time to move out. (Exodus 16:1)

Sighing, they obeyed. Packed up camp. Fell into traveling formation. Casting one last wistful look at the plentiful water and restful trees, they set their steps to follow. As they walked, they surely wondered. How long would the trek be this time? Days? Weeks? Longer? Remembering past events, some surely worried. How long would the water collected at Elim last? Would there be a spring or stream along the way? And what about food? What would they do when their stores were completely depleted? Surely the question on everyone’s mind, yet crossing only the bravest of lips, asked exactly how far it was to this Promised Land? They’d thought it was closer. With this amount of time on the road and no final destination yet appearing, would their weakening faith ever truly become sight? 

There’s something about the silence of traveling that wreaks havoc with your brain. It makes the thoughts in your head seem louder, more emphatic. As you ruminate over the angles of your current situation, the evil one leaps at the opportunity to whisper in your ear delivering possible problems, catastrophic circumstances, fatal futures. In a swirling eddy, they tumble over and around one another raising questions to which you have no answers. Worry clogs your throat. Fear settles like a rock in the pit of your stomach. Anxiety haunts your every move. Feeling helpless and desperate, it becomes easy to lash out. At yourself. At others. At God. 

It seems this is the exact place the Israelites found themselves. They were tired of traveling. They’d run out of things to talk about days ago. Silence reigned. Their minds roared. All they had now was their thoughts to keep them company. Thoughts of the eventful journey behind them. Thoughts of what might lie ahead. Thoughts of the hunger and thirst they had already endured. Thoughts of Egypt, its overflowing meat pots, plenteous bread, and abundant water. And they again had something to talk about. With Moses. 

Arriving in yet another wilderness, Sin, they sounded off their mouths at the ones they deemed responsible for all their troubles. They’d been fine in Egypt before Moses and Aaron came along pronouncing plagues on their taskmasters. Had they wanted freedom? Of course. Had they cried out to God to rescue them? Absolutely! But this wasn’t what they had in mind. They’d imagined something instantaneously victorious. Blindly schlepping through the wilderness wasn’t it. Day after day of walking, hauling, camping. No map. No ticking off miles. No stops for sightseeing. What was the point of this excursion anyway? Death in the desert and burial in an unmarked grave? They could have comfortably died in Egypt of natural causes with hydrated bodies and full bellies. Who did Moses and Aaron think they were? What were they up to? Had they brought them all out to the desert in a campaign of genocide? Had the people misplaced their faith to their detriment? More importantly, was God even in this or had He abandoned them too? (Exodus 16:2-3)

He hadn’t. Abandoned them, that is. God was still with His people. He was still leading them by the pillars of cloud and fire. He was still providing for their needs. He always would. In His time. They didn’t die from dehydration. They didn’t starve for lack of sustenance. In fact, their clothes didn’t even wear out in the entire time of their wandering. No, God hadn’t abandoned them. Moses and Aaron weren’t out to get them. No one was responsible for their current mental whirlwind except themselves. They had taken their eyes off the Leader and fallen into the myriad pitfalls of evil around them. Whining. Complaining. Worry. Fear. Longing for the treats of Egypt when God was offering them the buffet of His provision. Lashing out at Moses or God or anyone they thought should be able to change their circumstances. None of which would have happened if they had just kept focused on God, kept their faith fully resting in Him. If they hadn’t given the evil one space in their heads. Temptation and evil and sin wouldn’t have lured them in if they’d stayed focused on their Leader. But they didn’t. (Deuteronomy 29:5)

We can hardly fault them. So often we are guilty of the same. It must surely be why Jesus taught us to pray the words, “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” Admittedly, at first blush it seems like a ridiculous statement. Over and again the Bible reiterates that God doesn’t tempt His people. That’s not His gig. It’s our own sinful desires that get us distracted by the neon sign flashing over our besetting sins, tempting us to come in for a taste. It’s our own inability to stay fully focused on our Leader as we navigate the pathway through temptations, trials and downright evil. It’s the little piece of us that continually caves to the evil one. It’s us. Not Him. God will never lead you into temptations. He won’t. He will lead you past them, through them, around them. But He will never lead you into the middle of temptation and have you pitch your tent. That’s a choice you make yourself. (I Corinthians 10:13; James 1:13-14; Matthew 6:13; Hebrews 2:18; Ephesians 4:27)

Time after time the Israelites would trade their faith for fear at the temptation of the evil one. They’d scream for food and meat and water. They’d act like God couldn’t be trusted. They’d build an idol and rescind their covenant to be His people alone. And God would allow it because God is a gentleman. He will never force you to do His will. He will never manipulate you. He will offer you a choice and accept the choice you make. Even if He knows it will turn out badly. Even though He sees how it will affect your future. Even when He understands how unhappy you will be in the end. God will never force you to go His way, follow His advice, or abandon all to be His disciple. The choice is always yours. Temptations to go haring off down a different path will be plentiful. Evil will beckon you from every side, calling you to be the king of your own kingdom. If you choose them, those things will destroy your relationship with God. They will steal your faith, your trust, your confidence in your Leader and have you throwing tantrums as big as the Israelites when things don’t go your way. But only if you choose them. (Matthew 26:41; Mark 10:17-27)

At a time when we are vigorously encouraged to take charge of our own destiny, to be our own leader, it feels achingly impossible to find the words to express how desperately we need to pray the words Jesus taught us to pray. Daily. Hourly. We need to pray for wisdom to make proper choices. We can’t trust ourselves. Our human hearts are incredibly fickle. The things of the world are so alluring. The bright lights and baubles of temptation have such capacity to distract us and draw us aside. The inky darkness of impermeable evil shrouds every tempting sideroad. We’ll be lost and wandering a spiritual wilderness if we don’t pray the words.

So pray them. Pray. The. Words. Pray that your eyes never stray from His face, that your feet never leave His path. Even when it’s tempting. Even when it’s hard. Even when everyone else is doing it. Pray for strength to keep the faith, to trust His heart. Pray for protection and deliverance on the mountaintops of life as well as the dark valleys. Cover your path with prayer. The path for today. The path for tomorrow. Then, when the bright lights flash, when the siren call sounds, when the darkness crowds your pathway you can walk safely through, unscathed by the virulent evil around you. Pray the words, trust your Leader, and rest in the knowledge that God preserves the souls of the faithful and delivers from evil all those who call on His name. Pray the words. (Psalm 121:3,7; Jeremiah 17:9-10; Psalm 25:15; John 17:15; II Thessalonians 3:3)

The eerie sound of grief stricken men openly weeping ricocheted off the fortress walls as Ziklag was plunged into dark mourning. At the announcement of the young Amalekite, daily business screeched to a halt. Clothes were torn. Meals were foregone. Waves of bereavement rolled over David as he absorbed the pain of personal loss. King Saul had met a gruesome end. His son, Jonathan, had died in battle. The sharp lance of grief seemed to pierce his very soul. 

His people understood the intensity of his mourning. The impenetrable bond between David and Jonathan was legendary. A friendship never affected by distance, never stunted by interlopers. Friendship that never failed. Not once. Not when jealous Saul commanded his son to kill David. Not when angry Saul demanded Jonathan deliver David to him for execution. Not even when the spear previously thrown at David was hurled at Jonathan instead. Their friendship never faltered, never faded. Adversity knit their souls in brotherhood. The deep love between them made the loss more incredible. It was as if David had lost a part of himself, so deep was his mourning. His people understood. They grieved with him. For Jonathan. (I Samuel 19:1; I Samuel 20:30-34)

Less understandable was the obvious grief David felt over the loss of Saul. The history between them was no secret. A history littered with valiant wins and violent jealousy. David had been an unknown shepherd boy before he walked onto the battlefield in the valley of Elah. No one of importance knew his name. No one even cared whose son he was. No one thought for even a second he was a warrior. David probably didn’t think he was either, but he also hadn’t expected such cowardice and lack of faith from their own men. Quickly assessing the situation, David realized it was no different than the lion and bear he’d dispatched to save his flock. When your faith lies with God and your strength comes from the Lord, anyone can be a warrior. Even a shepherd boy. 

Gaining permission from Saul to approach the giant, David boldly walked to the front of the battlefield with five little stones, a leather slingshot, and enormous faith in his God. With the spin of his arm and the flick of his wrist, the gargantuan everyone feared fell to the ground, forever silenced. He didn’t need all five stones. He didn’t need a sword or spear. He didn’t even need to be fitted out in armor. God was fighting his battles. God was bringing victory. God was working out His purpose to save His people. And He was using a shepherd boy to do it. The people were ecstatic. At least most of them were. (I Samuel 17:40-54)

Riding back into town after this most phenomenal victory, the women lined the streets to welcome their warriors home. Their celebration was loud and exuberant, filled with singing and dancing, tambourines, songs of joy, and an ensemble of musical instruments. The resounding strains of their joyous chorus rang out the truths, “Saul has struck down thousands, and David has struck down ten thousands.” But the perfectly blended harmony of their beautiful voices struck a sour note in Saul’s soul. The words lodged in his mind. Ugly jealousy rose up within him, twisting his heart. He would not, should not be placed below some previously nameless shepherd boy! He would not relinquish an ounce of glory to some barefaced kid! He wouldn’t give up his kingdom without a fight! Fueled by fierce anger and burning hate, from that day forward, Saul would make it his life’s mission to take David’s life. (I Samuel 18:6-9)

Over and again the traps would be set, the command would go out, the attempts would be made. More than once David found himself the target of spear practice as he sat playing his harp to soothe the king who hated him. Purposely he was sent to battle the Philistines in hopes one of them would do Saul’s dirty work and end David’s life. In desperation, Saul would even go so far as to command his servants to simply take any opportunity to kill David. Lie in wait outside his house to capture him and bring him to Saul to be executed. No reason required. No offense necessary. Eventually, Jonathan delivered the devastating news. Saul would never relent until he saw David dead. There would be no returning home. David must run for his life. (I Samuel 18:9-11, 17-25, 19:1-2, 9, 18-20, 20:1-42)

Several years passed that way. Running from cave to cave, city to city. Constantly seeking God to know if those in his current hiding place would surrender him up to his death. It must have been exhausting. The constant looking over his shoulder. The endless covering of his tracks. The incessant moving from place to place. It seems if someone had a reason to hold a grudge, feel resentment, harbor bitterness, surely it would have been David. But he didn’t. Not once is there any indication that David held an ounce of ill-will toward Saul or sought revenge. He never laid a hand on him even when he could have.

Hiding in the shadows of a cave in Engedi, David had the perfect opportunity to seek revenge when Saul entered the cave to relieve himself. He wouldn’t have come in with his entire army. He didn’t need help. He didn’t suspect the man he sought was hiding within. David’s men encouraged him to act. Surely this was silver spoon service from God Himself. Surely this was an indication to end the chase. It wasn’t. David had no intention of killing Saul. Not then. Not ever. In fact, he stepped out of the cave and called out to Saul to prove that exact point. He wasn’t looking for vengeance or revenge. He wasn’t trying to mete out his own style of justice. He was leaving judgment up to the Just Judge. (I Samuel 24:1-15)

Hunkered down in the wilderness of Ziph, still on the run for his life, David would once again face the opportunity to strike down his enemy. Creeping into Saul’s camp with Abishai, he stood over the sleeping king and weighed his options. Abishai strongly encouraged him to strike. In fact, David didn’t even have to do it himself. Abishai would be happy to act on his behalf. Without even a second to consider, David declined. Saul’s life and times were in God’s hands. His demise would come by natural causes or in the heat of battle. It wasn’t David’s job to enact retribution, it was his job to forgive and move on. Even if he had to work at it every single day. (I Samuel 26)       

 Apparently, he did. Forgive Saul. Truly. Completely. Profoundly. If the intense mourning and kind words of lament are any indication, David still deeply cared for Saul. He didn’t allow the undue hatred and jealousy, the constant harassment and danger to turn his heart to retaliation, bitterness, and ill-will. In words he wanted the people of Judah to learn and remember, he sang the praise of Saul, extolled his military prowess. He called the daughters of Israel to weep over Saul, giving him credit for all the prosperity they knew. Their luxurious clothes and golden jewels were results of a king who had done well for his people. At a moment when David had the platform, the whole attention of the people around him and could say anything he chose, sway people to whichever side he desired, David withheld any disparaging remarks and lauded praise on the man who spent the last few years seeking his death. Without ever hearing Jesus utter the words, “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us,” David understood the concept. Forgive and be forgiven. (I Samuel 1:11-12, 17-27; Matthew 6:12)

Rarely do we put the two together. We see our own forgiveness independently from our ability and willingness to forgive others. Jesus says it isn’t. It’s all wrapped up together. Jesus commands us to forgive. It’s not a suggestion. Not a hope. Not a flight of fancy. It’s not even up for discussion. It’s an absolute command. Why? Because harboring ill-will, bitterness, anger, hurt or hate in your heart will edge out Jesus. He won’t be your King. You’ll be your own emperor. God’s kingdom can not, will not be a place where evil intent and ugly desires are entertained. That’s what unforgiveness is. Refusing to forgive allows seeds of bitterness to take root in your heart. They grow and expand, taking over the space until there’s room for nothing else. Consumed by resentment, you find yourself unable to think of anything but revenge. You waste valuable time dreaming up all manner of vile and harmful things to wish upon your enemy. Through the haze of your anger, Jesus is calling. He’s calling you to lay it all down. Give it to Him. Return the reign of your kingdom to Him so you can find rest for your soul, peace for your heart, and forgiveness for yourself and your sworn enemy, too. You just have to choose. Will you be His kingdom, on earth? (Hebrews 12:15; Ephesians 4:31-32; Mark 11:25; Matthew 6:14-15)

It will not be easy. We all have someone who has taken advantage of us, abused us, harassed us, belittled us, bullied us. So evil have they been toward us that we find it nearly unbelievable that even God could love them. Or require us to do the same. Yet He does. Before Jesus taught us to properly pray for our own forgiveness, He gave strict instructions to His listeners concerning the treatment of their enemies. In words that must have shocked them into tomb-like silence, Jesus commanded, “Love your enemies. Pray for your persecutors.” He didn’t instruct them to jump right back into relationship with people who had hurt and mistreated them. He isn’t telling you to do so, either. Jesus is telling you this isn’t even about them. It’s about you. It’s about letting go. It’s about healing. It’s about going to God in prayer about the things that hurt and humiliate you, the people who abuse and abandon you, those who use words like swords and your heart like a punching bag.  It’s about bringing it to Him and allowing His great love for you to heal your heart. It’s about coming to a place of security in Christ where you harbor no feeling of resentment or bitterness against anyone. It’s about freedom. It’s about allowing the reverberations of forgiveness to heal your heart, free your soul, and change your life. It’s about relationship–yours and God’s. It’s about God’s kingdom. On earth. In you. (Matthew 5:11, 43-48; Matthew 6:10; Colossians 3:13; Proverbs 28:13; James 5:16; Mark 11:22-25; Luke 6:37; Luke 17:3-4)

His shoulders slumped in exhaustion as he dropped to the ground under a tree near the brook. He’d arrived. Finally. East of the Jordan River, beside a babbling brook called Cherith. Miles from any town. Days from a decent city. Hiding from the enemies he’d inadvertently made. Alone. Empty-handed. No trace of food to be found in a forgotten pocket. No berries to be scrounged from surrounding bushes. It seemed an unusual place to set up camp, but God’s map had stopped here. There was no forward-leading route. This was it for the foreseeable future. Desolation. Loneliness. Hunger. Bracing his back against the tree trunk, Elijah closed his eyes and mentally replayed the events that brought him to this place.

Being the bearer of bad news always gets one a bad rap, but being the bearer of exceptionally bad news to a king whose fiercely darkened heart had embraced every form of evil, could get one a date with the executioner. The knowledge hadn’t stopped Elijah. He wasn’t one to question God’s commands, His will, His timing. When God sent him to Ahab with news of imminent, prolonged drought, Elijah went. Bravely standing before the king, he stated his business and watched the color drain from Ahab’s face only to be replaced with the purple hue of rage. And God told Elijah to put his wheels on. Get out of Ahab’s presence. Get out of town. Get away from anyone who might recognize him. Get alone. Get to the brook Cherith. Get to safety. So he did.  

Little did Elijah know the carnage that lay behind him. God had spared his life. If Ahab was furious over the announcement, Jezebel was murderous. Rarely could a more vile woman be found. Her hatred toward the God of Israel and His prophets ran deep. She’d do anything to annihilate them. Upon hearing news of the impending disaster, she chose to get started. Every prophet her minions could find was slaughtered. But she couldn’t find the one she most wanted to kill. Elijah was missing. God hid him. Alone. At Cherith. 

As much as his mind and heart could see the saving hand of God in his exile, the pressing grocery situation surely sat foremost in Elijah’s mind. Where were those ravens, anyway? Seriously. The water was great, but he was hungry. The journey had been long and he hadn’t taken time to wait for lunch before hot-footing away from certain death. So what was keeping the birds? More importantly, what were they bringing? Was he expected to share their normal fare? Gag! Rodents. Rubbish. Roadkill. Yuck! Their diet wasn’t exactly palatable. Were they going to wash their beaks before they brought him food or would every morsel be contaminated? Could he do this? Could Elijah actually do this? Did he have the faith, the courage, the trust in his God to sit alone by a brook in a desolate place and wait for dirty birds to bring him bread for life? 

 He could. He did. Elijah made his home by the brook Cherith, drank its waters, and experienced the birth of meal delivery programs. They could have been incorporated as “Raven Run.” Like clockwork, every morning they showed up with edible, palatable bread and meat. Every evening they arrived again with the same. The menu might have grown monotonous, but Elijah always had food. The exact right amount. Enough for that day and that day only. No more. No less. Perfect sustenance. Bread for life. (I Kings 17:1-7)

Eventually, the brook dried up and God moved Elijah to Zarephath where a widow and her son were also desperate to have bread for life. The drought had wrought havoc on their town. The last of her oil sat in the bottom of the jar. The final handfuls of flour waited to be shaken from the dark recesses of the canister. There was nothing else in the house. No stale crusts. No moldy loaf ends. The provisions she had would bake the final loaf. Discouraged, defeated, distressed, the widow was out gathering wood for a fire so she could bake that last loaf and prepare herself for the inevitable result of zero food. Death. Slow, agonizing death.  

Being in no great hurry to meet her demise, she was slowly gathering firewood when Elijah approached and asked for a drink of water. Preoccupied with her own despondency, she set off to get him a drink, but stopped in her tracks at the rest of his request. Taking a deep breath, she silenced the snort of derision attempting to escape. Had he really just asked her for bread? Had this guy just crawled out from under a rock? Did he not know how dire their situation was? Well, he wouldn’t be ignorant for long. Whirling on Elijah, she let loose with every frustration she felt about her current situation. Exactly what bread did he want?! The loaf she was making as a last meal for herself and her son? Did he know there was no excess flour or oil in her entire village? Did he know they were all dying? Did either he or his God care? At all? 

Yes. Yes, Elijah did know. And he did care. He also knew exactly what his God was capable of doing. Providing bread for life. Every Single. Part of it. Daily. By a secluded brook. In a populous town. In famine. In drought. When flour and oil couldn’t be manufactured, bought, borrowed or found. And he told her so. Elijah told the widow to trust his God. Trust that He would take care of her. Every day. As long as the drought endured. And she did. 

I have no idea where this woman from a foreign nation and pagan gods found the courage to place her faith in the one true God, but she did. Staring certain death in the face, she raised her chin, cast her confidence in the God of Israel, and went in to bake her last loaf of bread. Except it wasn’t the last one. She’d be baking bread for days to come. Every time she shook out the last remains of flour and drizzled the final ounces of oil, she’d come back the next day to find enough for the necessary sustaining loaves. She didn’t bake ahead or try to horde her resources for some future time when God failed to come through. No. She didn’t need to. Her faith was stronger than that. God would give her enough. Enough for herself. Enough for her son. Enough for that day. Every day. God would provide bread for life. (I Kings 17:8-16) 

Hunkered there under a tree by your very own Cherith, discouragement, defeat, disappointment, and despair breathing down your neck, hear the words Elijah spoke to the widow and know they are for you too. “Do not fear.” Hanging on to what seem to be the final tethers of your sanity, your courage waning, your strength depleted, your resources dangerously low, quiet your soul and hear Jesus whisper similar words through the Sermon on the Mount, “Do not be anxious.” Not about anything. God knows you. He knows right where you are. He sees you. Alone. Struggling. Barely surviving. Spiritually. Emotionally. Physically. He knows the constant trials, the daily tears. And, just as he required Elijah and the widow of Zarephath to do, God is asking you to stop your own machinations, be obedient, and trust Him. Today. Tomorrow. Every moment of the future. Trust Him to be your bread for life. (Matthew 6:25-34)

Shortly before Jesus admonished His followers to avoid anxiety, He taught them to pray the words, “Give us this day our daily bread.” He didn’t say a word about tomorrow’s needs, next week’s dilemma, the crisis that may possibly descend into your world five years from now. He said to ask for today. So do it! Ask Him. Ask for wisdom to deal with the situation continually plaguing your mind. Ask for resources to cover the unexpected bill hidden in the day’s mail. Ask for courage to defeat the fear warring against your faith. Ask for strength in your weakness. Ask for fortitude in your weariness. Ask for anything you need! Ask for everything you need! For today. Only today. Tomorrow will be today soon enough. So ask Him. Obey Him. Trust Him. The One who loves to hear you call Him Father is faithful. He will provide every need. From strength to salvation, restoration to rejuvenation. Just ask Him. Ask Him to be your Bread for life. (Matthew 6:11; Psalm 27:14; Proverbs 3:5-6; Deuteronomy 31:8; II Corinthians 12:9-10; Psalm 34:17-20; Philippians 4:19; Isaiah 40:29; Psalm 46:1; Matthew 7:7-12)

No. It couldn’t be. His clothes weren’t right. His mannerisms were wrong. His entrance completely missed the mark. He wasn’t the One. Couldn’t be. They should know. They’d spent their lives in hallowed halls of learning under the best tutors and religious scholars. They could quote the law verbatim. The prophets, too. Every nuance of their history was on instant recall. Regarded as the religious intelligentsia of their day, they were confident in their appraisal. He wasn’t the One. 

When their Messiah arrived, He would be so much different than this guy. He’d have a better pedigree, to start. No son of a carpenter would rise up to be the fierce, conquering warrior they felt certain was coming. In spite of Shamgar’s ox goad, David’s sling, and Samson’s donkey jawbone, no one believed the kingdom overthrow would come at the hands of a carpenter wielding a hammer. No. Their Rescuer wouldn’t trudge out of Nazareth in his dusty sandals and calmly start teaching anyone who would listen. He wouldn’t care so much about the women and children. He wouldn’t touch those afflicted with leprosy or talk to blind men. He wouldn’t sit down to dinner with tax collectors and people of ill-repute. He’d absolutely never stop to talk with a Samaritan woman! Yeah. They’d heard about that. So, no. This guy couldn’t be the One. (Matthew 2:23; Mark 10:13-16; Luke 8:1-3, 43-48; Luke  5:12-16, 27-32; Mark 10:46-52; John 4:1-42; Judges 3:31; I Samuel 17; Judges 15:16)

Perhaps their certainty would have been daunted had they been present three decades earlier when the aged Simeon, awaiting the arrival of the Messiah, took the Child version of this Man in His arms and rejoiced that the salvation of God’s people, the light to the Gentiles, the glory of Israel, had come. Apparently no one had their camera or cell phone at the ready when the rheumy eyes of Anna, the prophetess who never left the temple, lit with recognition and eternal joy at the sight of the Child she knew to be the promised One. It seems the accounts of these endorsements never made it down the gossip grapevine. They didn’t get an article in the Galilee Gazette. No one posted them to social media for all to see. Maybe no one else was even present at the time. Maybe they were there but missed the importance. Maybe they were too wrapped up in their own display of piety to comprehend what was happening. Regardless of the reasoning, they missed it. Missed the brief on heroism. Missed the truth unfolding before their eyes. Expecting a visible earthly kingdom that made their lives perfect, they missed the fact that the kingdom of God was already among them. (Luke 2:25-32, 36-38; Luke 17:20-21)

They expected a powerful, amazing, awe-inspiring hero to sweep in and rescue them. He would thunder into town on the back of an enormous white steed clad in battle array. Skidding to a halt in front of the palace, the stallion would rear, his front hooves beating the air. The warrior on his back would remain statuesque, armor glinting in the sunlight. His sword, still dripping blood, raised high in the air. His head thrown back, a ferocious battle cry bellowing from His lips. Doors would slam. Bolts would be thrown into place. Reigning leaders would take refuge in safe rooms. Hardened soldiers, previously proclaimed fearless, would strap on every ounce of their most resistant armor. It would all be to no avail. With power and might He’d come crashing in and rescue His people from the rule of outside authority, releasing them to live in freedom and peace. Except they weren’t ready to be rescued. 

As much as the religious leaders of that day believed themselves to be living in complete accordance with God’s laws and commands, they weren’t. They had picked and chosen which ones to follow. They’d created caveats. Made exceptions. Done some editing. As closely as they followed the letter of the law, the spirit of the law was entirely missing. To the innocent onlooker, their lives looked impeccable, but God saw their messy hearts. They had work to do. They had cleaning to undertake. It wasn’t enough to follow the rules and pray for God to someday come set up His earthly kingdom. They needed God’s kingdom there. Right then. On earth. In them. Their hearts weren’t ready for the final event. They were still catering to whims and desires diametrically opposed to the will and ways of God. If they were going to live forever as inhabitants of God’s eternal kingdom, their hearts and lives needed to become God’s kingdom on earth. The place His will, and only His will, was done. (Matthew 5:20-44; Matthew 15:1-20; Matthew 23; Mark 3:1-6)

Those words are breathtakingly familiar. Our hearts so desperately desire to be places God is welcome to inhabit. Places He loves to live. Places so pure and clean He brags about them to the angels. The price is high. The requirement intense. The cost is full surrender. So often we think we are there. As we skip through spiritual meadows of lush green grasses and beautiful flowers, we believe surely God’s will is easy and grand. As we grit our teeth through a steep and rocky incline, we think back to the meadow and force ourselves to believe God’s will is good and perfect. As we plod through the darkest valleys of our lives full of pitfalls and snares, temptations and terrors, when the evil around us is dark and suffocating, the battle to stay alive saps every ounce of our strength, and there doesn’t seem to be a light indicating an exit, speaking the words, “Thy will be done,” is the most difficult thing we’ll ever do. The words stick in our throats and clog our windpipes. Our stomachs clench. A sheen of sweat breaks out on our brow. Tears flow as we wrestle with the possible results. In our shortsighted vision, we can’t see how anything but our plans and wishes could possibly end in the results we so desperately desire. Yet the one who is truly indwelt by the kingdom of God will still summon the strength to surrender. Why? Because God’s kingdom is the place His will is done. Completely. Continually. Unreservedly. (Matthew 6:9-10, 33)

In a world of religious caveats steeped in selfishness and entitlement, Jesus is calling us to personally pray the words of His prayer and mean them. “Your kingdom. Your will. In me. Always.” He is calling us to full surrender no matter the cost. No matter if everyone else is doing it. No matter if anyone else is doing it. He is asking us to trust God with our lives. Our wants and wishes. Our dreams and plans. Our ambitions and anxieties. He wants it all. Every. Single. Part. Because the next time He comes, it won’t be as a scruffy little carpenter boy from Nazareth. It will be as the triumphant King of the universe. He will be resplendent in glory and power. His reign will be eternal. And the people inhabiting His infinite kingdom will be those who surrendered the keys of their finite kingdoms to the rule and reign of His will. Jesus taught us to pray those words, not because He’d never come back if we didn’t pray them, but so we would be ready when He does. (Matthew 16:24-25, 24:30, 44; Galatians 2:20; Mark 8:35; Revelation 5:9-14, 11:15)

May we pray Jesus’ words. May we mean them. May our hearts, though beleaguered with fear and anxiety, truly cast all our cares on Him in absolute surrender. May we willingly relinquish the keys to our kingdoms on earth that we may receive a key to His eternal kingdom of Heaven. Through jubilation or tribulation, in tears, toil or terror, may our hearts steadfastly cry, “Your kingdom. Your will. I surrender.” Amen. (I Peter 5:7-9; Matthew 11:28-30)

Eyes widened. Eyebrows flew skyward. Shocked gazes met across the grassy mountainside. Anyone who’d begun dozing between the dissertation against anger and the exhortation to help the needy snapped to attention. Everyone was completely alert now. Their minds were buzzing with questions. Had they heard correctly? Did He really just say that? Did Jesus just confidently give them permission to approach the great God of the universe and boldly address Him as, “Father”? (Matthew 6:9)

The very thought was appalling. They were not so unlearned as to believe they were worthy of such a familiarity. Every prayer throughout their long and storied history had been carefully addressed with a title of respect, a tribute to the very person of God. This “Father” title was an entirely new concept. One that caught them off guard. No leader or teacher had ever dared suggest such an idea before. Surely Jesus was not intimating that they, people who had heard nothing but silence from Heaven for centuries, should go out on such a precarious limb, stretch the limits of respectability, and call God “Father.”  Not one prophet, priest or king gracing the scrolls of history had ever dared to cast their gaze skyward and cry out, “Father.” The written tomes could prove it. 

When Moses entreated God not to destroy the people wholeheartedly engaged in idol worship, he cried, “O Lord.” Struggling to comprehend the massive defeat at Ai, Joshua bowed his head and  groaned, “Alas, O Lord God.” Poised before a drenched altar with an entire congregation of Baal worshippers looking on, Elijah humbly intoned, “O Lord.” In one of the most beautiful prayers ever recorded, Solomon stood before the altar of the Lord in front of all the people of Israel and offered a prayer of dedication beginning with the words, “O Lord, God of Israel, there is no God like you, in heaven or earth…” Each one acknowledged God’s omnipotence. Extolled His omniscience. Worshiped His person. Revelled in His glory. But not one of these men, no matter how chosen, how anointed, or how close to God they were, felt it remotely proper to address Him so familiarly as “Father.”  (Joshua 7:7: I Kings 8:22-23; I KingExodus 32:11) 

Measured beside Moses and Joshua and Elijah, the men gathered on that hillside were forced to acknowledge their acute shortcomings. They were not men of such high regard as to grace the annals of history. If the men who had been blessed to be deliverers and conquerors and kings for God felt it disrespectful to address Him with such informality, who were they, the humble, uncelebrated, unheroic hearers of Jesus’ famed Sermon on the Mount, that they should be deemed worthy of such a familiarity? 

They were not prophets or kings. They were not celebrated or famous. They were ordinary people. Simple nobodies. Average or below. People who knew themselves for what they were and admitted it. Sinners. Unworthy. Unholy. Unacceptable. They didn’t follow the law with excruciating exactness because they thought themselves worthy. They didn’t haul in sacrifices with alarming regularity because they were already holy. No. They knew better than anyone how much they needed grace. Yet, when offered to them with unwavering certainty, it must surely have given them pause. Their certainty of being less than good enough kicked in. Hanging in the tension of profoundly desiring the offered grace, yet deeply believing their filthiness excluded them, they surely found themselves asking what the great God of the universe could possibly want with them? Would He still want them to call Him, “Father,” when He examined their hearts and knew who they really were?

Unflattering adjectives would be the only descriptors honesty would allow. Proud. Judgmental. Hateful. Spiteful. Adulterers. Fornicators. Liars. Covetous. If anything in that list was attractive to God, they had yet to determine what it was. There was nothing that would naturally entice Him to make them such a generous offer. Why would He, given the glaring disparity in their positions? Seriously. He was God. Is God. God! Creator and Sustainer of the universe. God. Who inhabits eternity. Who always was and always will be. God. Who made a donkey talk, held the sun at midday, and cleansed leprosy with dirty water. God. Whose enormous infinity overwhelms the comprehension of finite humanity. God. The One whose wrath the law had meticulously taught them to fear. Yes. That God. The One they felt so uncertain about. Yet Jesus was telling them they could come before Him and boldly cry out, “Father.” (Job 38:33-37; Colossians 1:17; I Corinthians 8:6; Numbers 22:21-39; Joshua 10:12-15; II Kings 5:1-14; Galatians 3:24-26)

Jesus didn’t stop to let them dwell on the matter, but their minds must surely have stalled there. No matter how they would feel about the rest of Jesus’ prayer guide, each heart who heard these words would absolutely have needed a moment, or several, to digest them. I know I do. Centuries later, bogged down in the awareness of my own shortcomings, I so often find myself turning to God and addressing Him in reserved, proper tones liberally sprinkled with superlatives. My words are carefully edited to reflect what I think He wants to hear, not what I really feel. Yet when I come back to the words Jesus taught us to pray, I find my stodgy formality utterly shattered by the fact that the perfect, present, powerful God who transcends time and space has chosen me to be His child and permits me, asks me, wants me to call Him, “Father!”  

He wants the same for you. God wants you to come to Him, call Him “Father,” and speak to Him as such. He wants to hear your cares, concerns, and confessions. He wants you to tell Him how you really feel about the frustrations and blessings, irritations and exhilarations of your life. He wants to know your hesitancies, your insecurities. He wants you to bring everything to Him. Not because He doesn’t already know it, but, just like His visits to Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, God wants to be in relationship with you. He wants to spend time with you and speak to you. He wants you to know that you can never offend Him with your crazy questions and convoluted thought processes. He wants you to rest in the abundance of His mercy. He wants you to be secure in His unfailing love. He wants to be the Father your soul has always longed for. He wants you to know the true measure of His grace. (Isaiah 64:8; Philippians 4:6; Hebrews 11:1; I John 2:2; I John 5:14-15)

This is it. The measure of God’s grace. You get to call God “Father.” You. With all your sin and doubt, your filth and scars. You. The one who walked away from him, denied him, rejected his mercy. You. The dirty, smelly, broken child that struggled to find your way home. You. The prodigal son, covered in pig filth, get to call God “Father!” Not because you deserve it. Not because you earned it. Not because you were worthy on your own. No. With no logical reasoning, no obligation forcing His hand, God, in endless love and amazing mercy, awarded you child status. He made you His own and gave you the privilege of calling out, anytime and anywhere, “Abba Father,” knowing He will answer. Exquisite love. Unending mercy. Magnificent grace! (Luke 15:11-32; John 6:37; Ephesians 2:1-10; Romans 8:15)