Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

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)

Perhaps you are never stymied by prayer. Never distracted, disoriented, or discombobulated. Maybe, as you bow your head over perfectly folded hands, your words stream out in a logical, all-encompassing flow of penitence, praise, and petition. Perhaps you mention everything in one well-constructed paragraph, forgetting nothing. Maybe, during your prayer time, your children never get sick all over their bedrooms, the dog doesn’t use the floor as the grass, the phone doesn’t ring, the responsibilities of the day never creep in. Perhaps your mind never wanders. Your thoughts never stray. Maybe you can forget the list of errands, the demands of your job, the soccer schedule, the dinner conundrum and settle into an hour of uninterrupted prayer. If so, you have both my respect and admiration. There must surely be a special seat in Heaven engraved with your name.  

Not so for me. Quite the opposite, really. I am consistently stymied by prayer. After the initial invocation, the words take on a mind of their own either coming out in a jumbled rush or failing to materialize at all. I find myself eternally grateful that God can read my thoughts. If answers were dependent on articulate verbalization, I would undoubtedly receive no response. I am constantly distracted. The smoke alarm beeps its reminder for a battery change. Someone knocks on the door. My cell phone indicates a text, call or email. My thoughts seldom follow a logical pattern. They leapfrog from one topic to the next, jumping back again to add something I forgot to the previous request. My words rarely flow beautifully. My requests frequently trump my praise. And, when I finally say “Amen”–if I say it at all–it’s more of a “to be continued as I remember things I forgot” than a final benediction.  

Admittedly, it seems I should be better at praying. This isn’t my first day. It seems my prayers should be focused and organized and structured by now. Surely somewhere, in all the years I’ve been following Jesus, I should have figured out how to pray the grandiose prayers of the liturgy, the flowery prayers of the prewritten variety, or just the simple prayers necessary in a specific moment. Instead, I find myself throwing an elbow, standing on tiptoe, trying to peek over the disciples’ shoulders, desperately straining to hear Jesus’ response to the request I’ve been making for years, “Lord, teach us to pray…” (Luke 11:1) 

The very request is surprising. Whether from one of the twelve or one of the larger group of Jesus’ followers, it stands to reason those devotees would have already learned to pray by following the model they’d heard Jesus use. They would certainly have heard Him pray. They followed Him closely. Listened intently to His teachings. Walked by His side. Obeyed His bidding. Saw His miracles. Their awe was surely constant, their attention to Him complete. How frequently must they have heard Jesus pray? Yet, much to my comfort, at least one of these devout followers of Jesus Christ, distressed over his haphazard prayer life, felt it necessary to implore, “Teach us to pray.” I’m right there with him. 

My heart echoes the sentiment. Resoundingly. Sometimes my voice does, too. Loudly. Why? Because, just like the brave soul that dared to voice this request centuries ago, I want what Jesus had. Direct connection with the Father. Immediate audience in Heaven’s throne room. Relationship with God that transcends my situations, issues and circumstances. I want to pray the way Jesus did because I want the results Jesus got. Results that came from the power of a relationship with God the Father. A relationship built through the conversation of prayer.

Since the dawn of time, God has sought to be in conversation with humanity. Before sin entered the world, when Adam and Eve inhabited the Garden of Eden, God would come in the cool of the day, seek out His people, and converse with them. Those must have been delightful conversations. No suffering to heal. No sin to repent. No evil to report. What, exactly, did God and Adam discuss? Everything was perfect and beautiful. Yet still, God chose to create relationships through personal conversations with mankind. 

When Adam and Eve chose to disrupt the unblemished line of communication, God still came to talk to them. He knew what had happened. He knew the evil one had tripped them. He knew things would never be exactly the same. God could have chosen then to end the relationship, stop the communication, forgo the intimacy He’d been building between Himself and humanity. He didn’t. Although He had to make adjustments, God never disconnected from humanity. Over and again, as His people rejected Him, tossed aside His laws, refused to keep their covenant, God continued to call them into a relationship with Himself through the conversations of prayer. (Genesis 3:1-8, 4:26)

Jesus modeled this throughout His earthly ministry. Time and again He would draw aside, alone, to pray. His mission on earth depended on those conversations with His power source. Healing the sick, feeding the crowds, casting out demons. These all required a constant connection with the Father. Choosing His inner circle, walking on water, preaching in synagogues. They all necessitated wisdom and power and input from God above. Immediately prior to being asked the question burning on my heart, and apparently the heart of at least one other person in history, Jesus was again spending time in conversation with His Father. It seems to be what birthed the request. (Matthew 14:23; Mark 1:35; Mark 6:46; Luke 5:16; Luke 6:12-13; Luke 11:1-4)

Having gathered with the others to hear Jesus teach, the seeker notices Him slightly aside from the crowd, posture reverent, lips silently moving, obviously in prayer. The seeker waited, choosing not to interrupt the holy conversation. Instead he watched, waited, crept closer to eavesdrop, and attempted to deduce what made the prayers of Jesus so successful. He couldn’t. He’d have to ask. So he did. Waiting until Jesus had finished His conversation with God, the seeker pulled up every ounce of his courage and posed the request, “Teach us to pray.” And, with no hesitation or extensive dissertation, Jesus did. (Luke 11:1-2)

Reiterating words He’d spoken before, Jesus gave them a basic outline for conversations that would build relationships with God. Deep relationships. Lasting relationships. Relationships that would stand in the face of trial, tribulation, and persecution. Because all those things were coming. Dark days were ahead. Temptation would haunt them. Evil would hound them. Fear would weave its web over the hearts of the most devout earthly followers of Jesus Christ. People would fall away. Disciples would turn tail and run. Only those in true relationship with God the Father would remain faithful. And Jesus wanted them to be among the faithful, but they could only be found there if they developed a stalwart relationship with the Father through the conversations of prayer. (Luke 11:3-4; Matthew 6:9-13; John 16:23, 33; Mark 14:27) 

It would almost seem we are living in the exact same times as the seeker who begged to learn the art of conversing with God. The spiritual climate of our society has clearly dipped far below the Biblical standard. We are constantly hounded to call good evil and evil good. We are subliminally conned into believing it is so. We are singled out, verbally flogged, culturally canceled for believing a standard undesirable to the world around us. Yet, in a world of uncertainty, surrounded by a persistent air of fear, know this. Your relationship with the Father built through prayerful conversations will withstand any oncoming social storm. Indeed, it will thrive. (Isaiah 5:20; Haggai 2:20-23)

For several years, I’ve been journaling the spirit of the words Jesus taught us to pray. They are never verbatim. I still get distracted, lay down my pen, mentally go off on a tangent that has nothing to do with the words on my page. It’s still a work in progress. Probably always will be. That’s what relationships are. Works in progress. That’s why it is so important for us to continually engage in conversations with God. Conversations that acknowledge His omniscience, His omnipotence, His sovereignty. Conversations that build a relationship strong enough to stand in the face of monstrous adversity and pray the words Jesus taught us to pray, “Your kingdom, not mine. Your will, not mine. Your power, Your praise, Your glory. In and through me. Today and always.” May we pray those words. May we mean them. May our prayers be focused more on relationship with God than receiving gifts from God.  May we never stop asking, “Lord, teach us to pray!” (Romans 8:26; Matthew 26:41; Psalm 40:8; Luke 17:21; Ephesians 3:20)

Sleep clouded their eyes at the sudden wake-up call. Their slumber fogged brains struggled to catch up. They hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Truly, they hadn’t. When Jesus told them to pray for strength in the face of coming temptation, not one question had crossed their lips. No one argued. No one commented. With Jesus’ warnings of impending perilous events still echoing in their ears, they immediately dropped to their knees and began entreating Heaven. Until they fell asleep. Kneeling right where He left them, Jesus would later come back to find them. Their prayerful posture still intact. Hands folded. Heads bowed. Eyes closed. In sleep.

Their exhaustion was understandable. It had been a long day. They had ticked the boxes on quite a formidable Passover checklist. Slaughtered the sacrificial lamb. Found and secured a place to hold the feast. Prepared the meal. Set the table. Served. It might have been bearable had the duties been only physical. They weren’t. The conversations and events around the table forced each man to engage in a formidable amount of mental calisthenics. Their physically weary brains tried desperately to keep up with the flow of words and symbolism. Wine and bread signifying Jesus’ body and blood. Dire warnings of His imminent departure. The suckerpunch of a traitor sitting at table with them. And that ridiculous squabble about who was the greatest among them. That was uncomfortable. More for some than others. Likely less for Peter than the coming revelation. 

They were all surprised by Jesus’ stunning verbiage to Simon Peter. His strong warning effectively quieted any useless chatter among them. As heavy silence enveloped the group, they stared at one another in disbelief. Peter was headstrong and wild. A bit crazy. A lot impulsive. They all knew it. Still, no one doubted his devotion. No one wondered if he truly loved Jesus. They knew he did, impulsive behaviors notwithstanding. Yet the idea that the evil one was stalking him, seeking him, doing everything in his power to gain control of him was alarming. Terrifying. It shook them to their very souls. If the evil one was stalking Peter, was he also after them? Would Peter really deny knowing Jesus? Would the knowledge change his course? Would Peter be friend or foe in a few short hours? And what about them? What about the men Jesus hadn’t mentioned by name? Were they also going to fall prey to insurmountable temptation? Would they give in? Or were their souls strong enough to resist? Were their hearts more devoted? In a moment of quiet introspection, surely each man weighed his own heart to see exactly what was there, suss out the weaknesses, shore up the sagging edges of his own spiritual stability. They all wanted to remain faithful. They wanted to believe they had what it took to stay when everyone else left. In fact, every single man swore he would.

Not one of them did. Jesus warned them of the fact. They would all eventually turn tail and run. When it came to the most horrific night of His earthly life, Jesus would stand alone. Alone before Caiaphas and the council, alone before Pilate, alone before a ravenous crowd out for blood. Alone to lay down His life on the cross in payment for Judas’ defection, Peter’s denial, our depravity. Alone in that moment to ensure we would never be alone no matter the temptation, trial, tribulation or tragedy. Yet, before running that final, unavoidable gauntlet, Jesus had one last call for His disciples then and us now. A call to prayer. 

Leading them out into what must surely have been commonly referred to by the disciples as Jesus’ personal prayer garden, He solemnly spoke these words. “Watch. Be on guard. Pay attention. Temptation is lurking everywhere. Pray that it does not overtake you.” The words drip with urgency. There’s an insistence, a gravity, an intensity in them. Jesus desperately wants the disciples to hear what He’s saying and do His bidding. Not just in that moment, not just for the next few hours, but in every moment, every day, for the rest of their lives. Why? Because temptation was most assuredly coming. (Matthew 26:17-75; Mark 14:12-72; Luke 22:7-23:25)

Over the next few hours and days, their faith would be tested like it had never been tested before. They would be given cause to question, to wonder, to pause. Times would arise when they would be tempted to forget to Whom they belonged, Who their Father was, and how much power was available through just the mention of His name. As the cry of, “It is finished,” rang out from the cross, they would need to remember and employ the words of the prayer Jesus had taught them to pray in the beginning of His ministry. They’d need to repeat each phrase. Often. So do we. (Matthew 6:7-12; John 19:30;  

Our world isn’t so much different than the world the disciples inhabited. In spite of advancements in plumbing, lighting, and technology, humanity is still the same. Busy. Tired. Overwhelmed by the events and voices around us. Dozing off when we should be on guard. Tending to sleep when we should be in prayer. There is but one significant difference. The disciples were physically asleep. We are spiritually so.  

With few exceptions, the days of crowded mourners’ benches and prayer meetings stretching into the wee hours are simply a dusty memory. Many churches have completely removed the altar rail, choosing instead to ask seekers to quietly approach a staff member or write their need on a card so someone can get back with them. There’s no sense of urgency. No desire to approach God immediately. No time in our busy secular schedules to gather and pray for needs, personal, communal, or national. Because of the lack of time spent on our knees, our religion has become rote, our spirituality lukewarm, our souls adrift from the alertness true prayer affords. Temptation is kicking our collective behinds because we have chosen not to obey the command of Jesus. Our watching is passive. Our prayer lives are tepid. Our flesh has proven it is absolutely weak. We are an exact image of what Jesus was attempting to help us avoid when He first spoke the urgent call to prayer. Apparently, we need a wake-up call. Just like the disciples.

Regardless of what form of exhaustion made them doze off, Jesus found them that way. Eyes closed. Heads lolled to the side. Mouths slack. Soft snores wafting across the cool night air. Nudging the toe of his sandal against their relaxed feet, Jesus woke them. He had to. Temptation was coming. Right then. The opportunity to remain faithful or run in fear was fast approaching. They needed to pray. Right then. Because, both then and now, the only way to stand against the temptation to run, buckle, or bow is prayer.    

In a world brimming with temptation to do exactly those things, Jesus’ words ring out again. Stay alert. Be on guard. Watch yourselves. The evil one wasn’t just preying on Peter, he’s stalking you too. He will take advantage of any little piece of bitterness or unforgiveness to wreck your soul. He will play on worldly desires to draw you aside. He’ll offer you the world, but give you hell instead. So pray. Bombard heaven. Don’t quit. Don’t stop communicating with the Father. Even when you are tired. Even when you are overwhelmed. Even when you are embarrassed, worried, or scared. Just keep praying. You are not alone. The God of strength and power is coming to your rescue. He will never let you down. So, don’t drop your guard. Don’t lower your voice. Don’t back down. No matter the situation. Just keep praying. (I Peter 5:8; Hebrews 12:15; Psalm 56: 3-4, 8-11; Psalm 145:18-19; II Corinthians 12:8-10; Luke 18:1; Ephesians 6:18)