Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

It made no sense for them to return to Judea. Not even a little bit. Enough time had not elapsed between today and their last visit. Tempers would not have cooled. Memories would not have faded. Hate would still run strong. The same Jews who had then been breathing out threats and actively searching for reasons to let stones fly from their fingertips toward Jesus would surely have added to their ammunition pile. Going back was risky. Dangerous. Insane by every human measure. Yet still He said, “Let’s go.” It wasn’t so much a question as an invitation. There would be no vote. Majority didn’t rule. Jesus wasn’t asking for permission or input. He was going back to Judea. With or without them. (John 11:7)

Of course, they’d go too. They’d follow Him anywhere. And they got it. They understood Jesus’ desire to return, at least to Bethany. It wasn’t difficult. Word arrived two days ago informing them of Lazarus’ dire physical situation. Things clearly didn’t look good. Mary and Martha would never have sent the message for a cold, the flu, or a passing stomach virus. They understood the importance of Jesus’ ministry. They knew He had to be about His Father’s business. But the girls were worried. Anxious. Scared. Seeing that nothing else was working, they sent for Jesus, fully believing He was Lazarus’ last hope.  

Perhaps He should have left sooner. Maybe they should have walked faster, journeyed longer each day. Perhaps He should have simply spoken words of healing from the town in which He received the message. Maybe then Lazarus would still have been alive upon His arrival. He wasn’t. Instead, Martha approached. Even at a significant distance, it was impossible to miss that she was on a mission. In spite of, or possibly because of, her grief-stricken state, she was obviously a force to be reckoned with. Her tear-stained face was set in determined lines. Her steps were firm. Her back was stiff. She had things to say. She had questions to ask. She needed answers. And she would have them. 

What had taken Jesus so long to come? Was He too scared of the people who wanted to kill Him? If so, why didn’t He simply speak healing from wherever He had been? Why had He allowed Lazarus to suffer, die, be buried? Did He not care as much about Lazarus and Mary and herself as they thought He did? Was He completely untouched by their pain and grief? Why, exactly, had it taken so many days for Jesus to get here? And did He realize Lazarus had already been buried? In short, did Jesus feel her pain? Did He even care?

Trudging down that path toward Jesus, Martha lined up her questions to shoot off her lips in rapid-fire succession. Her bruised and broken heart had to know, needed to see, desperately had to hear if He really cared for them as much as she thought He did or if it was all an enormous farce, a gigantic fable, an intricate fabrication. From where she was sitting, they’d been played for fools. Stalking straight up to Jesus, Martha laid her charge at His feet. “If You had been here, if You had come when we called, my brother would still be alive!” 

The same words would cross Mary’s lips as her greeting as well. “If You’d been here, if You’d come, if You cared as much as You said, my brother would still be alive!” Essentially, “We wouldn’t be grieving. I wouldn’t cry myself to sleep every night. My yard wouldn’t constantly be filled with people weeping and wailing. The little voice whispering in my ear saying that You don’t care, don’t feel my pain, are completely unconcerned with my anguish wouldn’t be quite so tempting to believe.” If Jesus had come then, they wouldn’t be there now.  Mary and Martha wouldn’t be bereaved. The entourage of mourners wouldn’t be standing at the grave. Lazarus wouldn’t be encased in a cold, dark tomb. Surely things would be so different, if Jesus had only felt their pain and followed their plan! 

How well we know this feeling! How often we’ve cried out the same things! When life takes turns we didn’t ask for, hands us problems we can’t figure out how to solve, puts roadblocks up where we thought it would be smooth sailing, we cry out to God for a rescue. We are even so helpful as to tell Him how to do it. And when He doesn’t come through in the way we expected, hoped, or thought He should, we scream that He doesn’t love us, doesn’t care, has no idea what it’s like to be human, have emotions, feel pain. John 11:35 says differently. 

Facing a troubled Mary, flanked by a determined Martha, followed by disciples who likely had questions of their own, Jesus stood…and He felt. He felt the force of every wracking sob. The bottomless devastation, anguish, emptiness. The intense pain that speared their hearts and stole their breath. He felt their disappointment and wavering faith because it looked like He’d failed them. He felt their immeasurable grief and His heart broke too. For their sadness, their pain, their fear, their tears. Jesus looked on them, those people He loved so profoundly, and, feeling the depths of their despair, His tears flowed too. Even though He knew the outcome of the story. Even though He knew He was right on time. Even though He knew Lazarus wasn’t lying in a cave deteriorating from the inside out. Jesus wept because His heart was full of compassion for their current situation and because He cared.  About Mary and Martha. About the other mourners. About Lazarus who had to endure an illness and death. About the disciples who were likely feeling confused and conflicted. Jesus wept because they wept, they mourned, they hurt. And Jesus cared. (John 11:1-36)

This may well be one of the most difficult truths to grasp. We easily believe in salvation because we can point to Jesus’ death on the cross. We believe in lives changed by His blood because we can look back to who we were, compare it to who we are now and see the difference. We believe that Jesus loves the obviously good, clearly sainted, decades-old Christians because they seem so rooted and peaceful when the storms of life take them by surprise. But when we look at ourselves, clinging to the sides of our leaking dinghy in the middle of raging winds and high seas with no help in sight, we find it impossible to imagine Jesus cares about us. Why? Because He didn’t come flying to our rescue according to our carefully constructed script. And we always have one. Trust me, I know. 

Two weeks ago I had to have a root canal. It wasn’t a surprise. It has needed to be done for quite some time. I knew about it. Put it off. Full disclosure? I kept praying God would miraculously heal it to keep me from having to face what is one of my greatest fears. Dentistry. Seriously, I’d rather give birth on a dirt floor with no medical supplies or personnel present than go to the dentist. Abhor is the strongest word that comes to mind. If you can think of a stronger one, replace it and you’ll finally be in the right ballpark. Clearly, God didn’t follow my script. He was on a mission. A labor of love to show me that just because His script reads differently than mine doesn’t mean He is indifferent to my fears, frustrations, tears, or pain. 

Attempting to find me as much peace and support as he could, my sweet husband texted a faith-full friend asking for prayer on my behalf. The friend replied, “I Peter 5:7.” In the grocery store when my husband read the text, I immediately quoted the words, “Casting all your care on Him because He cares for you.” Overly proud of my quick uptake, my husband responded that I knew the verse by heart. In words he couldn’t know would change my life, that friend replied.

“Yes, she knows the words, but does she really KNOW them? Does she believe them? Does she know that He cares about HER? Her fears. Her cares. Her worries. Her anxieties.  Does she understand that as she feels the fears of your children and seeks to calm them, God feels her fears and seeks to calm them as well? Does Naomi know, really know, truly believe, God cares for her?” 

Well. She does now. A dentist appointment and a faithful friend nearly 3,000 miles away cleared things right up. Whatever we are going through, facing, hurting over, or scared about, God cares. Every. Single. Thing. Little things like the dentist. Big things like the stack of bills. Terrifying things. Horrifying things. Hurtful things. Jesus cares. And He wants you to bring them to Him. Not so you forget they exist. Not so you dance along happily through life as if nothing negative ever crosses your path. Not even so He can fix them. His fix probably doesn’t look like yours anyway. No. Jesus wants you to cast your cares on Him because He cares about you. (Psalm 55:22; Matthew 6:25-34; Hebrews 4:16; Psalm 27:14)

I don’t know what you are facing today. I have no idea what makes you sigh, brings tears to your eyes, or makes you want to hide. Maybe you feel alone in your place of fear. Perhaps you’re embarrassed by what hems you in. Maybe it seems no one in the world has ever been facing the mountain of things stacked up at your door. You feel deflated, dejected, depressed. As the dark ink of despair attempts to suffocate you, I hope you’ll take a deep breath and remember, Jesus cares. About you. About the things you feel. About the things that make you feel that way. I hope you truly believe it. Read it over and over again until your heart resonates with the absolute truth of the statement. Jesus cares for you! Every part of you. He does not see you as ridiculous, pathetic, or hopeless. He is not listening to you out of duty and responsibility. He is sitting on the edge of His seat, hoping you will bring your battered, weary soul to Him and cast your cares at His feet. He wants you to come! So come. Obey the words. Cast your cares. Anchor your soul in His love. And rest. Knowing this beautiful, unchangeable truth–Jesus cares for you. (Psalm 40:17; Psalm 127:2; Philippians 4:6; John 14:27; Psalm 56:3; Matthew 11:28-30; Jeremiah 33:3; I Peter 3:12; Psalm 18:6)

A short time back, a friend posted a quote to social media noting the decidedly deteriorating state of today’s church with the speculation that were the Apostle Paul alive today, he’d be writing some letters. Having recently read the letters of Paul to the ancient churches, I concur with the above statement. Paul would most certainly be writing letters to today’s church. Lots of letters. Long letters. Detailed epistles full of encouragement, direction, reproof. He’d need multiple reams of paper, several pots of ink, and an entire package of unused quills. He’d surely be afflicted with carpal tunnel syndrome by the end of his writing. I believe he’d risk it. The dire straits of today’s church would compel him to do so. And he wouldn’t be the only one fiercely scribbling down letters. John would be right there with him. 

Although not as copious or detailed as Paul’s epistles, the words John penned to the seven churches in Asia were no less potent. Exiled to Patmos for his unfaltering faith in Jesus Christ, none of us would have blamed him if he sat under a lone, remaining tree and prayed for death. Maybe he did. Maybe that is how he stilled his soul enough to hear the voice of God when He delivered the messages for those churches struggling to survive in a world of persecution, tribulation, and hate. (Revelation 1:9-11)

John was no stranger to those three words. He understood the social hatred of any teachings that promoted full surrender to God and absolute adherence to His laws. He’d walked the waters of tribulation and persecution at the hands of those who thought they could force his conformity to society’s desires for blanket approval of their evil ways. Even now, a citizen of a tiny island reserved for criminals, John understood the opposition and fear gripping the church of Smyrna. He had firsthand knowledge of the white-knuckled tenacity exhibited by the church in Philadelphia as they refused to deny their trembling faith. Indeed, in the face of mounting political and social pressure to renounce their beliefs, abandon their convictions, accept the desired conventions of their day, these two congregations squared their shoulders and refused to err from the laws and regulations of God. 

  And God saw them. He saw their faith, their struggle, their tears. He saw the ravenous fear constantly poised at the door, waiting to overtake them and demolish their faith. He noticed they never let it happen. Through threats and persecution, discrimination and hate, tribulation and poverty, and malicious slander, the people of these churches never once denied their God, rearranged His laws, or adjusted His teachings to their advantage. They were completely sold out to Him, dedicated to His ways, determined to obey His commands. Come hell or high water. Freedom or imprisonment. Life or death. Nothing mattered more than being in the right relationship with their God.

 Their reward would be not of this world. Nothing earthly could possibly be a worthy reward for such absolute surrender. God had a better plan. Heavenly crowns. Eternal life. John was blessed to be able to write such words of encouragement and promise to people he knew to be struggling and fighting for spiritual survival in a world utterly barren of hope for the same. His letters to the five remaining churches would not resound with similar accolades. (Revelation 2:8-11; Revelation 3:7-13)

Hot tears would course down his face to land on the parchment, smearing the ink as he wrote to them. His heart broke at the words he was compelled to write. Although there were indeed things that deserved commendation, the fabric of their faith was fraying, the weave loosening. Things were going sour. Though many were commended for their patient endurance and steadfast faith, there were issues that needed addressed. Words fell from God’s lips to his ears to flow from the end of his quill onto the parchment in front of him. Somber words. Strong rebukes. Stalwart promises both for obedience and disobedience. Words that, in the suffocating darkness of night, surrounded by threatening sounds of island creatures, must surely have washed over John, breaking his heart and causing him to cry out for the safety of his Christian family so far away. Spiritual safety, for their souls were most certainly in peril. 

Situated in the heart of wickedness and idolatry, the church at Pergamum had always been a prime target of evil. It surrounded them. Chipping away at their resolve with teachings that sounded good but held elements condoning sin. Sometimes it was difficult to see the difference. But they needed to be smart. Try the spirits. Test the doctrines. Measure them against what they knew to be true and throw out what proved false. So did Thyatira. Their tolerance of evil put them in a terrible position. A place where they could easily fall from grace and find themselves doomed for eternity. They needed to hear from John. They needed his call to repentance. They needed the words of God reminding them that He alone searches and knows the minds and hearts of all people and will give each according to their works, according to what they condone and accept, according to what they call good and what they deem evil. They needed the strident reminder to get back on track. They needed the urgent call to repentance and rededication. They needed to refocus their spiritual lens for the safety of their own souls. (Revelation 2:12-29; Isaiah 5:20)

Lackadaisical love and lukewarm commitment had overtaken the churches of Ephesus and Laodicea. They had lost their fervor. The love and excitement they once felt for following the things of God had lessened considerably. Their admirable work and patience and endurance had become rote. Their service was from loyal duty, not loving devotion. Some had been drawn aside by the bits and bobs of the world. Taking credit for their own success, they found it easy to rely on their own abilities, to pat their own backs in satisfaction, to blossom under the praise of others all the while forgetting that without the prevailing work of God in their hearts they were poor and weak and blind. Without Christ, they were nothing. The evil one saw his chance and monopolized it. He’d drawn them aside. Clouded their vision. Cooled their love. On a collision course with spiritual death, they desperately need this wake-up call. They wouldn’t survive without it. (Revelation 2:1-7; Revelation 3:14-22)

Tears must surely have accompanied the aching pain in his heart as John penned the words spoken by God to the congregation at Sardis. They followed a form of religion. Kept those around them convinced they were a living, thriving spiritual community. They did good works. Gave to the poor. Cared for the orphans. Housed the widows. If eternal life were counted by outward actions, they were shoo-ins for Heaven. But God doesn’t look on the outside. He’s not busy seeing what you do to gain attention and accolades, fame and fortune. He doesn’t care one iota about your building, your video screens, your membership drives or fundraisers. He cares about what’s inside. He cares about your motives. He cares about whether your actions and words match up with your innermost thoughts and feelings. For the church at Sardis, what God saw told a different story than what everyone else saw. They were dying. The little bit of good remaining needed a significant amount of spiritual resuscitation. It couldn’t be done by the handful of faithful alone. They’d never get to Heaven riding someone else’s coattails. They needed revival. They needed to repent. They needed to wake up and straighten up! (Revelation 3:1-6)

As heavy as John’s heart must have been as he meticulously folded the parchment of each letter, I find my heart just as heavy as I read his words to the churches then and see the obvious correlation to the churches now. You saw them too. They are too stark to miss. Love has grown cold. Fervor has waned. The duplicitous arguments of the world for the invasion of idols and false doctrines have caught the wavering church in a moment of weakness and drawn them off course to condone and accept attitudes and actions God despises. Once avid followers of God have now veered off course to chase down wealth and power, fame and fortune, accolades and acceptance. As the death rattle sounds in the constricting lungs of today’s churches, I find myself wondering what God would say to these first-world churches with their elaborate buildings, expensive electronics, intensive membership drives and abandoned morals. Churches who do all the right things but lack the power of God among them. Your church. My church. Most churches. (II Timothy 3:2)

In a moment of heartbreaking revelation, I find myself unable to shake the irrepressible belief that God’s letter to us would reach back to the Old Testament words of Jeremiah and could be summed up in common colloquialism to be verbalized like this, “Speak up, shepherds! Straighten up, saints!” Speak and obey the word of God. Only. Don’t enhance or edit. Don’t simply say what people want to hear. In honesty and truth, keep to the old paths. The paths that lead to eternal life. Don’t waver. Don’t be drawn aside by the fancy speeches and angry diatribes of the world. Keep. The. Faith! Hold fast in the face of persecution and tribulation and hate. Guide one another in the indisputable ways of God. Be leaders in a world that’s only interested in followers. Stand up. Step up. Speak up. (Jeremiah 3, 4:1-4, 14, 22; II Timothy 4:2; Jeremiah 6:16-17; Ephesians 4:15)

Surrounded as we are by a society hell-bent on making evil good and good evil, it has become imperative for us to solemnly take stock of our souls and determine where we stand before God. Our churches. Our small groups. Our Bible studies. Ourselves. We need to ask questions. Hard questions. Questions that make us honestly examine ourselves, our hearts, our motives. Questions asked with eternity in mind. Questions that will change our lives, our churches, our communities. Questions that bring revival, renewal, rededication. Questions whose answers would alter the ending verbiage if God were to speak the words to one of His people,“To the churches of America write…” (James 4:7; II Corinthians 13:5-10; Proverbs 4:23; Psalm 44:21)

Heavy silence blanketed the congregation as edicts flowed from the lips of their leader. Statutes. Rules. Commands. Answers for any questions. Guidance for every situation. Punishment for ne’er-do-wells, scoundrels, and the blatantly defiant. The list was comprehensive. Overwhelming. Intimidating. It would take days, maybe months, to memorize the list of laws and punishments. It was imperative they do so. Boldly underscored by every spoken word was the irrevocable truth. The individual brazenly choosing to sin would die. 

The list of rules was logical, even if the litany was tedious. Nothing surprising had been listed as taboo. It made sense to cleanse the evil from among them. Every community, every civilization, every group of people needed laws and rules to govern behavior and establish societal norms. It seemed realistic to quickly punish sin, make an unforgettable example of those who chose to step outside the lines of the law. Yet while their heads were still nodding in affirmation of Moses’ most recent words, a more challenging order reached their ears. Total eradication of their enemies. Annihilation. Complete destruction of those currently inhabiting their God-promised lands. Men. Women. Children. Animals. Every single breathing life. 

As the words of war wafted over the congregation, men’s faces surely paled. Women, running herd on restless children at the outskirts of the crowd, clutched their nursing infants more closely to their chests. They were moved by the words. Their hearts shook. Their stomachs clenched. Feelings of sympathetic horror brought bile to burn the backs of their throats. It took little effort to imagine what those unsuspecting women would feel as swords sliced through their children only to cut them down in the midst of their mourning. Horrified by the thought, tears coursed down their faces to drip from their chins. More than one Israelite woman must surely have wondered why they had to kill them all. Why the women and children? What had they done wrong? Couldn’t they be saved? Couldn’t they assimilate into the Israelite culture? Did all of them really have to die? (Deuteronomy 20:16-17)

The short answer was, “Yes.” No one could be left behind. Not because there was no hope of assimilation, but because assimilation had the potential to swing God’s people over into the abominable practice of idol worship. They couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t set such a trap for themselves. Their entire existence, from current prosperity to future security, rested on their ability to remain faithful to God. Their God. The God who had claimed them as His own possession. The God whose people they had vowed to be. The jealous God who would abide no idols, no distractions, no substitutes. The God who had promised to fight for them, stand with them, deliver them victorious in every battle… if they remained faithful. The God whose requirements could easily be summed up in three short sentences. Fear God. Follow God. Obey God. That’s all He asked. (Deuteronomy 4:1-9, 5:6-8, 7:6-10, 14:1, 15:4-5, 18:9-14, 20:18)

It was essential for their survival that they keep their encampment free from sin. The enemies against whom they would fight were large and established. Men of war. Women of cunning. The Israelites’ ability to confidently fight against them rested in the power of God alone. If even one grain of resentment, rebellion, or earthly attraction took root among them, it could grow and spread, causing God’s presence to withdraw and their fighting skills to be called into question. The danger of allowing sin to thrive among them was too high. The implicative price was far more than they were willing to pay. (Deuteronomy 10:12-21, 11:8,16, 19:9, 20:1-4) 

And it wasn’t the first time they had been told to eradicate sin from among them. Earlier in the same delivery Moses had issued a similar directive concerning evil stemming from within their ranks. Warning against false prophets who would arise and encourage the people to chase after other gods, Moses directed that the one who attempted such a thing must be put to death. No matter who it was. Parent, sibling, friend, neighbor. Do not listen to them. Do not be drawn aside. Do not allow yourself to be tempted. This is not the time for making allowances. Eliminate them. They aren’t your friends. They aren’t looking out for your best interests. Whoever seeks to draw you aside from following God, whoever makes allowances for sin, whoever encourages you to chase after anything but God, is an enemy of your soul. And you have just one set of rules to follow. Fear God. Follow God. Obey God. That’s it. (Ezekiel 18:20; Deuteronomy 13:1-11; Colossians 2:4; Proverbs 1:10)

Centuries later King Saul found this to be unequivocally true. Sent by God to utterly destroy the Amalekites, he and his men became distracted by the earthly attractions they found there. Gorgeous sheep. Strong oxen. Fattened calves. King Agag. Drawn aside by the greedy desires of their own hearts, they failed to follow orders. Instead of arriving home physically empty and spiritually full, they toted wagons of ewes and lambs, led herds of cattle marked for destruction, and towed a king they should have buried. 

Approached by Samuel and asked for an explanation, Saul handily blamed the people under him, readily offering excuses on their behalf. He tried to dress it up, make it look innocent, even holy. “The people brought the best sheep and oxen from the Amalekites, intending to sacrifice them to the Lord,” he whined. But it wasn’t Samuel’s first day. He’d already had a conversation with God. He wasn’t buying what Saul was selling. In words of strong rebuke, Samuel annihilated Saul with simple sentences impossible to misunderstand. God is interested in obedience more than anything. Rebellion and presumption are sins equal to divination and idolatry and God finds them violently repugnant. He rejects both the actions and those who engage in them from His presence. Because God cannot, does not, will not, dwell where sin is welcomed. Choosing not to obey the simple set of rules handed down from God generations before, Saul paid the ultimate price. He forfeited the presence of Almighty God. (I Samuel 15)

From our regal position as Head of Hindsight, we read Saul’s story and shake our heads. We wonder why he didn’t just obey God. It seems so simple, so easy. It was such a small ask. Go in. Destroy the Amalekites. Come home. Samuel didn’t stutter when he gave the directive. There was nothing in his verbiage to confuse or mislead. Clearly Saul and the people went off track of their own volition. Why? Why did they do that? Knowing God’s laws, having firsthand experience with His power, why didn’t Saul hold everyone’s feet to the fire and follow the simple instructions before him?  

Probably for the same reason you don’t. Saul got distracted. Distracted by the sight of healthy, beautiful, fattened animals. Drawn aside by the ability to trek a defeated king through town and celebrate his victory. Diverted by the pull of earthly things, the desire to please the people, the invalid assumption that God would overlook his disobedience so long as they sacrificed the best animals at Gilgal. Saul couldn’t have been more wrong. Neither can we. 

Too often we find ourselves in a similar position. Our world is full of distractions. Things pulling us in one direction or another. Issues demanding we staunchly choose a side. People pressuring and pressing us to loosen up, lighten up, liven up. In the midst of the cacophony of earthly things vying for our attention so they can pull us off track, we find ourselves sorely tempted to adjust our spiritual landscape to include things God has destined for destruction. It is a slippery slope from which we must keep clear. God doesn’t ask us to quit something or someone just because He suddenly had a crazy notion to mix things up a little. No. Everything God does has a purpose. Tearing out the sins and temptations, severing ties to poor influences and pressures, clearing out the things that obscure your full view of Jesus Christ all serve to preserve your soul. If God asks you to make a sacrifice, rest assured, He asks with your eternal safety in mind. 

In the final lines of Ecclesiastes, the Preacher, a man who has searched the world over for wisdom and meaning, finds the most important words to speak are reiterations of the ones God gave Moses so many years before. “Fear God. Keep His commandments. That’s it. That’s all.” The preacher wasn’t wrong. The same message can be found throughout the entire Bible. Its unchangeable truth echoes through time to ring in our ears, “Fear God. Follow God. Obey God.” Nothing has changed since those first edicts so long ago. God required obedience then, He requires nothing less now. Regardless of the changing social climate. No matter the political pressures. The opinions of friends and family notwithstanding. May we dedicate ourselves to the only things that truly matter–perfect obedience and adherence to God’s laws. May it be our vision. May it be all we seek. Fear God, follow God, obey God. That’s it. That’s all. (Ecclesiastes 12:13; Revelation 14:12; Romans 6:16; Luke 11:28; Joshua 1:8; Exodus 19:5; Acts 5:29; I John 5:3; Romans 12:2; Deuteronomy 11:26-28)

Taking tiny sideways steps, one arm stretched out before them to ward off advancing fans, the disciples attempted to usher Jesus through the sea of people surrounding them. It was a monumental task. One step forward, two steps back. Or to the side. Or a dead standstill. They were getting nowhere, regardless how necessary it was for them to get somewhere. They truly needed to leave. Jesus had places to be. He had been politely summoned to an important place by an influential man with an imperative request. More urgent than all other requests. His daughter was dying. 

It was a last-ditch effort on Jairus’ part. He didn’t know what else to do. They had exhausted all other avenues. Doctors. Tinctures. Advice from friends. Nothing changed his daughter’s declining health. She was getting worse. Daily. Clearly, her last breath was imminent. In desperation, knowing his contemporaries may well hold him in contempt for his actions, Jairus had publicly come to the only One he believed had even a chance, no matter how remote, of saving her life.  

The decision wasn’t popular. He wasn’t likely to get slaps on the back and a promotion at work. Not everyone who held positions in the synagogue was eager to place their faith and hope in Jesus. Jairus didn’t have a choice. Not if he wanted his daughter to live. But he did have the pedigree. Jew. Synagogue leader. Religiously faithful. Good father. Everyone knew his name. His resume was highlighted in all the right places. The disciples deemed him qualified for a miracle right from the start. In fact, they were willing to part the crowd, and escort Jesus out of there so He could heal this important man’s daughter! Yet just as they began to find some success in the doing, Jesus got sidetracked. Again. 

Abruptly halting their departure, Jesus stopped mid-step. Turning to look around, He asked aloud who had touched Him. The disciples snorted in derision. It was a ridiculous question. With the crowd pressing in against Him, all trying to touch Him, see Him, speak to Him, how could Jesus expect anyone to know who had touched Him? It was probably accidental, anyway, and they needed to be going. Jairus was waiting. His request was important. He was esteemed. The rest of the unwashed miscreants would have to wait. Their resumes didn’t sparkle with glowing recommendations. They needed to go. Right now. 

Jesus wasn’t going anywhere. His question demanded an answer and He would have it. Gazing from one person to the next, Jesus silently waited, giving the miracle stealer time to own their actions. Eventually she did. Slipping around the large man she’d hidden behind, came a slight woman, the marks of her extensive illness still evident on her frame. Fear etched her features. Movements hesitant, eyes wary, speech barely audible, she claimed her actions. She’d been sick for years. More than a decade. Doctors had treated and mistreated, guessed and hoped. Money had run out. She was tired of being sick. She was sick of being tired. Then Jesus came to town and she’d known, with every fiber of her being, He was the answer to her illness. 

She’d done everything to get to him. Crawling past kicking feet and dirty ankles. Stretching, reaching, hoping, praying. The graze of His garment against her fingers as He turned to walk away had been almost accidental. She didn’t think she would touch Him. Yet she had. As she stood there, whole yet still appearing emaciated and tired from her extended physical battle, surely the disciples weighed her against the man they were supposed to be going to see. A nameless woman in a sea of people. Poor. Female. Unemployed. Her reputation built solely on her illness. Her resume less than desirable. In comparison to Jairus, she was sorely underqualified. Yet Jesus saw something in her that was worth saving. He called her “Daughter.” 

Even as Jesus spoke the words, a servant came to tell Him Jairus’ daughter had passed away. He didn’t need to come after all. It was too late. Although we have no record that they voiced them, the disciples must surely have had questions. Their human minds must have whirred with wonderings. What made that old, decrepit woman more important than a dying child? Couldn’t Jesus have gone and saved the girl then come back to the woman? Didn’t Jairus’ list of qualifications push him up the list of people to help? And, even after Jesus spoke breath back into that child’s lifeless body, it is logical to think the disciples wondered how, exactly, Jesus decided who to heal, who to save, who to call, and when? (Luke 8:40-56)

They would often have occasion to wonder these things. Approaching the well to find Him in conversation with the Samaritan woman, they were immediately aghast at the social faux pas. Did Jesus not know what that woman was? Did He not understand the social restrictions forbidding Jews to interact with Samaritans? What could He possibly be thinking? Knowing nothing about her, they judged her. Without knowing she had been married five times and was now living with a man who was not her husband, they determined her worthlessness. Basing their disgust and consternation solely on her gender and lineage, they deemed her categorically unqualified. She was wholly unworthy to receive anything from Jesus. Not grace. Not salvation. Not even a conversation. Jesus didn’t share their opinion. He saw something more. Something worth saving. And He blessed her with water that wasn’t from the well. Living water for eternal life. (John 4:1-29)

For the disciples standing within earshot of the cross, they must surely have been surprised to overhear the conversation between Jesus and the thief hanging next to Him. By his own admission, the thief was unquestionably disqualified for eternal life. He knew the mountain of sin he’d been carrying around with him, the piles of guilt that had built up at his door. He believed the sentence against him was fair. He made no move to persuade anyone of his innocence. He asked for nothing more than a thought, a memory, a mention. He knew he didn’t deserve it. There was no way he could earn it. Even if he had all the money and goods he’d stolen over his lifetime, he knew it would never be enough to purchase his redemption. In bold letters across the evening paper would be the accurate heading, “Death Penalty Not Enough to Pay For Thief’s Offenses.” In monumental pain and anguish, Jesus hoisted Himself up on nail-pierced feet just far enough to get air in His lungs to speak. Enough air to offer the same things He’d offered to every soul that asked. Pardon. Redemption. Eternal life. (Luke 23:39-43)

The listening disciples must have been astounded. They shouldn’t have been. It was the reason He came. They knew it. They had seen it. Apparently they had some trouble comprehending it. Decades later, after his own encounter with the gospel, Paul would put into easily understood words what the disciples had witnessed. In his letter to the Colossians, penned in beautiful, comforting, inspiring verbiage, Paul outlined for us how God the Father, Creator, Sustainer, Beginning and End, sent Jesus, His only Son, to qualify worthless humanity for Heaven. Any of them. All of them. Everyone who would come to Him in repentance and faith. The over-qualified. The under-qualified. The obviously unqualified. The utterly disqualified. Everyone. With absolutely nothing to recommend us, Jesus came, snatched up the list of sins that had us standing in line to receive judgment, and decisively hammered it to His cross. With the echoing blow of “It is finished,” Jesus gave us redemption and freedom from sin, thereby granting us the power to move out of the domain of darkness into the glorious light of the kingdom of Jesus Christ! He set us free from the bondage of sin and death! Hallelujah! Praise the Lamb! That’ll preach! (Colossians 1:12-14, 2:13-14; Romans 8:1-2; )

No matter who you are, where you are, what your resume says or how your rap sheet reads, the gospel truth remains the same. God the Father sent Jesus Christ, His Son, to die on the cross so those who qualified only for hell could qualify for Heaven. You. Me. Your friends. Your neighbors. Law-abiding citizens. Souls on death row. Whosoever will may come. All of us. No one has to permanently dwell in the domain of darkness. No one has to perpetually carry that bulky burden of sin and guilt. No one has to die in their sins. Because of God. God made a way to cancel our sin debt with all its ugly details. He turned over our list of disqualifications to Jesus Christ who nailed it to His cross. It. Is. Gone! Forever. Victory is ours through the shed blood of Christ! We don’t deserve it. Couldn’t earn it. Would never be able to afford the purchase. And we don’t have to. It’s free. Through repentance and faith in Jesus Christ, everyone has the opportunity to be a resident of the kingdom of God and share in the inheritance of Heaven. That, my friends, is the Gospel and it will absolutely preach!  (Revelation 22:17; Romans 10:13; Acts 2:21; John 3:16; John 11:25-26; Ephesians 2:8-9)

Squeezing his eyelids as tightly closed as possible, he waited a few seconds before carefully opening them again. Slow, incremental opening. Slits at first. Half-open. Full sight. It changed nothing about the scene before him. Nothing had. Not the vigorous shaking of his head. Not blinking in rapid succession. Not turning around then quickly turning back. The unfolding scene of heavenly magnificence remained unchanged. Without being told, Isaiah knew he stood in the very presence of Almighty God. 

High above him, enthroned in glory and majesty and power, sat the Lord. The train of his robe entirely filled the temple. He’d never lost a battle. Never scurried away from a skirmish. Never conceded a war. Perfect holiness surrounded Him. Seraphim sang his praises in adoring abandon. “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the entire earth is filled with His glory!” As the words left their lips, the building shuddered and shook with the intensity of that glory. Smoke filled the place. And fear filled Isaiah’s heart.  

He wasn’t certain how he had gotten here. He certainly wasn’t worthy of this amazing privilege. Perhaps the vision had been intended for someone else. Perhaps he had just been in the wrong place at the right time. Perhaps he’d been in the right place at the wrong time. It didn’t matter. As grand as this was, it couldn’t be for him. He wasn’t worthy. He knew himself. Knew who he was. Knew his past and his present. He was all too aware of the things his mind conjured, the thoughts his heart so often entertained. He knew how dark his heart had the propensity to be. He also knew where his wilful self wanted to take him. None of it was good. None of it was lovely. None of it was something he wanted to bring into the presence of a righteous, holy, powerful God. 

Falling to his knees, Isaiah did his best to explain. Pressing words past nearly numb vocal cords and over frozen lips, he found the wherewithal to cry out his worthlessness. He was lost. He knew it. Spiritually unclean. They all were. His friends. His family. His neighbors. All of them were living unsanitary lives mired in spiritual muck. He didn’t belong in God’s presence.  He wasn’t worthy to encounter God on such a deep, intimate level. Yet the sovereign God of the universe who needs nothing from anyone while giving everything to everyone, came to him. 

Bowing there in humble contrition, awaiting whatever consequences must surely be coming, Isaiah must have been enormously surprised to see one of the seraphim spring into action. Flying over to the altar, the seraphim takes tongs and carefully plucks a white hot coal from the altar. Approaching Isaiah, God’s emissary touches the coal to his mouth and speaks words straight from God’s lips to Isaiah’s heart. “You. Are. Clean. Your sin is purged. Your iniquity is gone. Your soul has been cleansed. In the courts of Heaven, the account of your guilt has been obliterated.” Although it didn’t change what people called him, it changed who Isaiah knew he was. No longer was he filthy, sinful, unworthy. He had new adjectives now. Redeemed. Forgiven. God’s. (Isaiah 6:1-7, 41:8-9, 43:1-4, 49:16)

Centuries later, Simon Peter would find Himself in a similar situation. A real situation. Not a vision. Not a dream. A life experience. Discouraged after a night of pulling up empty nets, Peter stood on the shore with his men cleaning their gear. Lines of frustration etched his face. Concern furrowed his brow. Questions raced through his brain. They needed to catch fish. What were they doing wrong? What could they do differently? Should they try a different part of the lake? Was their current spot simply overfished? Or was the issue bigger? A problem with the ecosystem? Would fishing be better tomorrow? Or was his business in irreparable trouble?

Lost in thought, the jumble of questions riding his tired mind, Simon Peter barely looked up when Jesus boarded his boat and asked him to float a little ways out from land. Mechanically, he did as he was asked. Jesus began speaking to the people, teaching them how to live their lives on earth in preparation for eternal life. Peter tuned it out. He was still worrying, agonizing over his current income debacle. Unless Jesus had fishing tips, Peter wasn’t really interested. Never mentioning his disrespectful preoccupation, Jesus ended His teachings and turned to Peter with a command. “Go out deeper. Toss in your nets. They will come back full.” Apparently, He did have some thoughts on fishing.

Simon Peter almost rolled his eyes. Everybody was a fisherman! Forcing calm respect into his tone, Peter reasonably replied, “We’ve been out all night. No fish entered our nets. Not even a tiny, inedible one. But, for You, we will give it one more shot.” Tired beyond argument and anxious to be done with this experiment so they could go home and rest, Peter and his men rowed out to the center of the lake. One by one, they tossed the nets over the side. And they filled. Overflowed, actually. First, their boat. Then their partner’s boat. Fish were everywhere. Hundreds of fish. So many fish their boats started to sink lower than made anyone comfortable. And Peter, centuries after Isaiah, fell to the ground before Jesus and cried out words of realization that echoed those of the Old Testament prophet, “I am not worthy to be in Your presence. I know who You are. I also know who and what I am. Filthy. Sinful. Unclean. So unworthy am I, it is impossible for me to even stand on my feet in Your presence. You are God alone!” 

No matter how grateful he was for the fish. No matter how relieved he was to have his business literally stay afloat. No matter whether he ever caught another fish again. Peter knew himself. He knew he wasn’t worthy. He didn’t deserve any of this. Not the boats full of fish.  Not the conversation with Jesus. Not the blessing of His presence. All Peter had were the filthy rags of his own righteousness. But Jesus was fixing to change that. Speaking words of peace and redemption, Jesus said, “Don’t be afraid. I’m going to teach you to fish for souls.” And, without even one question, Simon Peter, James, and John left their monstrous catch, their boats, and their nets behind and followed Jesus. Whoever they had been before they met Jesus was washed away. They were new creatures through the power of Jesus. They had new adjectives now. Saved. Changed. Children of God. Ambassadors for Christ. (Luke 5:1-11)

It is often so difficult for us to see the prophets and disciples of the Bible as people just like us. Plagued by the evil one. Tired. Worried. Scared. Susceptible to bad days. Blindsided by unexpected circumstances. We seem to think they were all pillars of unbending, unfailing virtue and faith. We overlook their temptations and failures. We find it so hard to believe that Isaiah, Peter, James or John could ever have had a moment when the memories of who they were before Christ seemed to block out who they had become in Christ. Peter would absolutely argue with you. 

Bent low with grief, pain, and humiliation over the enormity of the betrayal he swore he would never make, ragged sobs and broken prayers of repentance racked Peter’s body. He buried his face in his hands, mentally thrashing himself with every beat of his broken heart. Why had he done that? Why hadn’t he been stronger? What had happened to his resolve to follow Jesus anywhere…even to death? As the questions beat upon his ravaged soul, the evil one would have followed up with unfiltered accusations intent on negating Peter’s repentance. Points of guilt. Words of discouragement. Jabs and jibes meant to destroy every particle of who Peter knew himself to be. He’d have called him names, questioned his relationship to Jesus. Maybe Peter questioned it too. Maybe he wondered who he was now. Was he the person he was before Jesus stepped onto his boat? Was he the same man he was when Jesus stepped off the boat? There was clearly a choice to be made at that moment. A heavy choice with eternal consequences. And if Peter hadn’t known who he was in Christ, he might have botched it. Thank God he didn’t. (Luke 22:31-34, 54-62)

Sometimes, in the busyness and boisterousness of the world, we feel lost and start to forget who we are. We find ourselves drifting from our moorings and edging closer to the pretty baubles of earth. As our souls brush against the temptations we have tried so hard to resist, the evil one will swoop in, reminding us of who we were before we met Jesus Christ, attempting to trick us into capitulation. He’ll tell you nothing has changed. He’ll say your transformation was just a figment of your overzealous imagination. He’ll say some preacher talked you into it, someone’s well-worded speech emotionally inspired you to agree to it. He’ll call you names. Spiritually worthless. Hopelessly lost. Destined for eternal death. He’ll be dead wrong. (John 8:44; I Peter 5:8)

If you have met Jesus Christ and repented of your sin, you are a new creature in Him. The evil one doesn’t even know you anymore. None of the names his ugly voice speaks apply to you! Not even one. Your name has changed. You have new adjectives now. You are redeemed. Chosen. Changed. Child of God. Sojourner on earth. Resident of Heaven. Know it. Believe it. Own it. When the evil one comes against you with threats and hate, temptation and intimidation, fear and anxiety, throw what you know in his face. He’s got nothing on you. Can never have anything on you. He’ll never be what you are. Beloved of God. Saved by grace. Quickened by the Word. Called to be a saint. That is who you are in Christ! I hope you believe it! I hope you own it! I hope every part of your life resonates with who you became when you met Jesus! And I hope, with every fiber of my being, that you peacefully rest and daily live in the blessed knowledge of who you are in Him! (Song of Solomon 6:3; Romans 1:7; Ephesians 2:1-9; Romans 8:11; I John 3:1; I Corinthians 6:11; Hebrews 11:13, 13:14; I Peter 2:9-11)