Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Her reign continued for six full years. Six years of anxiety, worry, and fear. A reign of terror if ever there had been one. Roiling just below her well-composed surface, violence and bloodlust strained to be unleashed. Ice ran through her veins. She would hesitate at nothing to retain her queenly status. Her stony countenance invited no questions, no opinions, no options. Her word was absolute, her judgments final. She ruled with an iron fist–the same fist with which she had stolen the throne six years ago.

Ascending the throne at the passing of his father, Ahaziah was only twenty-two when he began to reign. His time on the throne would be short-lived, however, what time he spent there, was under the steely, micromanaging eye of his mother Athaliah. From her position as the king’s counselor, she kept abreast of every decision, monitored his every move, manipulated his thoughts. Her desire to take his place, do his job is nearly palpable. It is almost as if she was just biding her time, waiting for the perfect moment to ascend the throne. And no moment was more perfect than the one in which her son was pronounced dead. 

Without so much as a momentary pause to mourn the untimely death of her son, Athaliah narrowed her dry eyes and sprang into action. The competition must be vanquished. The throne would be hers at all costs. Orders flew off her lips in rapid succession. Men raced to do her bidding. By the end of the day, she and she alone would be heir to the throne. Staring at the growing pile of royal corpses, Athaliah felt satisfaction. She had accomplished her goal. She was now queen of Judah. 

 Everyone else was dead. Rewriting a page from her husband’s acts, she’d had them all dispatched. Except she hadn’t just killed the men. She’d killed them all. Every. Single. One. Male. Female. Young. Old. Her daughters. Her sons-in-law. Her grandchildren. People she should have protected. People she should have preserved. People she should have loved more than her own life. Every member she could find was selfishly sacrificed in the pursuit of her own promotion. So desperate was the darkness of her soul that she was willing to sacrifice everyone, everything to have the one thing she wanted more than anything. Athaliah reigned over Judah.

It wouldn’t last. The task she assumed had so efficiently been undertaken had fallen short of the mark. In her haste to crown herself queen, Athaliah had failed to count the bodies stacked up at her door. She had missed one. Sheltered in the bowels of the temple, protected by a God-fearing priest, lay a little boy who would one day reclaim his rightful throne.  

Years would pass with no one being the wiser. The growing Joash would spend his time learning to obey God and walk in all His ways from the priest Jehoiada. He would purposely be raised to lead his people back into service of the one true God of heaven and earth. Their God. The God whose preserving hand they could trace throughout their own heritage. The God who had delivered them over and over again from mess after mess of their own making. The God who had never failed to keep one word of all His promises. The One who had promised to be their God if they would simply be His people. 

They had failed. Miserably. They had followed kings and leaders who were drawn aside by false gods and idol worship. They had engaged in horrific acts of spiritual whoredom. No matter how offensive they found their sitting leader, no matter how distressing their current situation, they had no one to blame but themselves. They had let evil in. They had failed to stand up against the status quo. They could have chosen as a whole to turn back to God, but their fear of the cold-blooded queen had them cowering. Man. Woman. Child. Everyone. Except the priest. 

As the seventh year of Athaliah’s reign dawned, Jehoiada knew things had to change. They couldn’t continue to live under the dark pall of royal menace and idolatry. Their souls were dying. Something must be done to turn the people back to the proper paths. Someone had to step out and eradicate the evil growing unhindered among them. Someone had to summon the courage to gather the troops, appoint a new ruler, destroy the idols, and lead the people back to the God of their fathers. 

Being the sole protector of the seven-year-old boy who was key to the mission, Jehoiada found himself in the unenviable position of leading the charge. He did not take the responsibility lightly. The situation was too grave for heroism and showboating. He would need help, men he could trust, people willing to risk it all for the sake of their souls. 

He found them in the commanders of Judah, the Levites scattered throughout the cities of the land, the priests who carried with them faith like that of Jehoiada. Men who believed God was still willing to honor His covenant with His people. Men who weren’t afraid to gather in Jerusalem, right under the callous eye of Queen Athaliah, and crown the rightful king of Judah.  Men who were so tired of the prevailing sin and evil and wickedness that they were unconcerned with the fallout. Because, should things not go according to plan, there would be fallout.  

Noting the commotion and hearing the word “king” floating on the breeze, Athaliah hurriedly walked the unfamiliar path to the house of the Lord. Her thoughts hurtled over one another. What heresy could this be? She’d killed them all, hadn’t she? How could anyone have survived that bloodbath? Yet there he was, standing beside his pillar sporting a crown. The likeness was unmistakable. Her stomach lurched and dropped to her toes. Anger shot through her veins. There had indeed been an oversight. Some inattentive dunderhead had left a child behind. 

It was an indescribable betrayal. Unexplainable treason. Everything she thought she had attained and accomplished now lay in ashes at her feet. It was over. The legacy she planned to leave was nothing now but a telltale list of “would have beens” after her death. A declaration of her impotence. What had begun with a bloodbath ended the same. The blood of Athaliah ran into the gate by the king’s house. The idols and altars and temples to Baal were obliterated, his priest killed. Burnt offerings to the Lord were re-instituted. Singing resounded throughout the land. The people rejoiced. The land was finally quiet. Why? Because the absence of sin is the presence of peace. (II Chronicles 21-23; Mark 3:22-27) 

See, nothing has changed in the intervening centuries between Athaliah’s demise and our current situation. Evil is still rampant in the world. Wickedness is alive and well. Sin is celebrated. People everywhere seem to be searching for peace. Attending retreats. Practicing yoga. Diffusing essential oils. Camping. Hiking. Unplugging from electronic devices. They are all harmless things and they may bring a semblance of peace for a time. It won’t last. Sooner rather than later you will find yourself again seeking relief from the turmoil in your soul. You can try a thousand things. There will be only one answer. Stop sinning. Destroy your selfish idols of pleasure, prosperity, and prominence. Covenant with God to follow Him alone. Knowing this truth–Peace can only reign when evil is removed. (II Chronicles 23:16; I Samuel 7:3; Joshua 24:23; Matthew 6:24; Romans 8:6) 

So why do we have so much trouble doing it? Why does it take such concerted effort for us to let go of the things that bring turmoil and upheaval into our lives? Why do we beg for peace with our mouths, but hide sin in our hearts? How can we possibly love something so much when it brings only struggle and striving and stress?

I truly don’t know; I simply know we do. I also know this. We need to stop it. Stop being silly. Stop playing around. Stop lying to ourselves. Stop looking for peace in places we know it can’t be found. We need to clean up our act, clear out our hearts, cleanse our souls in the blood of Jesus Christ. We need to eradicate sin. All of it. Large. Small. Public. Private. Every single one has to go. Only then can we know the peace that transcends all understanding, pervades every circumstance, permeates every fiber of our being. Only in the absence of sin can true peace reign. (Romans 6:12; Philippians 4:7; I Corinthians 14:33, 15:34; Colossians 3:5; Proverbs 12:20; James 4:8; Isaiah 1:16-18) 

Another frustrated sigh pushed its way from Adam’s lungs as he attacked the unforgiving ground with his makeshift shovel. He’d been at this particular project for days, struggling to eke out survival from a land to which he was unaccustomed. No fruit hung readily from trees. No vegetables grew in lush corners. No perfectly clear water bubbled joyfully in a winding stream through their dwelling place. They were struggling for every bite. The work was backbreaking. He was exhausted. And his mind simply wouldn’t let up.   

He was consumed with regret. Constantly running mental scenarios that would have ended differently. He could have stayed closer to Eve, kept her from conversing with the serpent. If he’d been there, he could have stayed her hand when she reached for the fruit. He could have been stronger, stiffened his spine, chosen not to eat the fruit himself. He’d known the truth from the beginning. As soon as Eve extended her hand to offer him that fateful bite, he’d known it was “the fruit.” The forbidden one. The one about which the command had fallen directly from God’s lips to his ear. “Do not eat fruit from the tree in the center of the garden.” No matter how hungry you are. Regardless of how good it looks. Despite who says differently. Do. Not. Eat. That. Fruit. 

In retrospect, Adam couldn’t quite remember what had made him take that fruit from Eve’s hand and sink his teeth into its perfect flesh. Was it the sheer beauty of her face? Was it her mesmerizing eyes? Was it the musical lilt to her voice that cajoled him into capitulation? Was it the eternal masculine urge to please and impress their female counterparts? Whatever it was, Adam wished it had never happened. Wished he’d had more self-control. Wished he’d doggedly followed the path he knew to be true. 

Eve wasn’t without regrets herself. The hard lifestyle was punishment enough. Scraping and working for every bit of shelter, every stitch of clothing, every bite of food. It was ridiculously difficult. Then she gave birth. Twice. No painkillers. No sterile facility. No soft beds. No doting medical staff. No promise she’d live to raise the babies she labored so hard to birth. But she did. Eve lived to tell future generations that when God said there would be pain in childbearing, He hadn’t been soft-selling one thing! When God speaks, His directions, His promises, His commands are absolute.

It had been so easy to cast blame for their current situation. The words had flown off her tongue the moment God had asked the sharply pointed question, “What have you done?” Excuses poured out in a spew of verbal retching. It was the serpent’s fault. All the serpent’s fault. He had beguiled her. Tricked her with silky tones and soothing words. Taken advantage of her obvious enchantment with the tree. Told her there would surely be no harm in eating its fruit. Tormented her with the idea that God was keeping something from her. Holding out on her. Keeping back good things. Wisdom. Knowledge. In silver-tongued descriptions only the evil one could use, he painted a vibrant picture of God as a tyrant, holding her back, pushing her down, choking out her progression as a human being. And it wasn’t fair. (Genesis 2-4)

We are often right there. Short-sightedly gazing at our imminent future, we see things we love and want. Things that look good and beautiful. Things that look like the fanciful icing to our drably decorated cake. Acceptance to that college. An offer from that job. A proposal from that man. Things we want with every fiber of our being. Our hearts long to go after them. Chase them down. But in the midst of the chasing, the still small sound of the Voice of truth speaks something different than we want to hear. “No” when we want to hear “yes.” “Wait” when we want to hear “Go.” “Stop” when we’ve ill-advisedly embarked on a venture we should never have begun. Broken-hearted, we sulk. Lay blame. Ask why. We become enraged that God would be so unfair. Not unlike Eve, we give place to the evil one. (Jeremiah 17:9; Romans 12:2; Isaiah 53:6; Psalm 14:3; Luke 6:46) 

He happily takes that place. Preening as he spouts flowery words of deceit. He tells us that if God really loved us He’d allow us to have the things we want so much. He says that if God really cared, He’d grant us that lifestyle we crave, the fame we desire, the sought-after number of zeroes on our bank balance. The evil one says love equals approval. Blanket approval. Carte blanche to do our own thing, walk our own way, chase our own dreams and still salvage our eternity. Clearly, the evil one is just as short-sighted as we are. 

But he isn’t stupid. He is slick and sly. The creator of lies and traps. His every move is intent on your spiritual demise. His favorite tool is deceit. Why? Because it works so well. We love to hear what we want to hear. As soon as we hear it, we often quit seeking true direction because we aren’t interested in the alternative. We don’t actually want to hear God speak unless He agrees with our desired course of action. So we tightly clutch our hell-manufactured answer in our grubby little hands and swear it’s the gospel. In doing so, we end up in the same place as Adam and Eve. (II Corinthians 11:3, 14; John 8:44; I Timothy 2:14; Daniel 8:25; II Corinthians 4:4)

Affronted and insulted by the perceived slight, Eve marched up close to that tree, stood on tiptoe, and indignantly snatched a glowing fruit from the branch. In arrogant defiance, she sunk her teeth into its soft flesh. The fruit was delicious! And, look at that! She wasn’t struck dead! Indeed, nothing happened except she indulged in a lovely piece of fruit. She had to tell Adam he’d been duped. He’d passed along misinformation. One could eat the fruit and live! Plucking another luscious fruit from a heavily laden branch, Eve raced off to find Adam. 

The moment she held out her forbidden offering, Adam should have turned away. He had to have recognized that fruit. He had to have realized the magnitude of the situation. He had to have known that his moment to choose obedience was right then. Yet, instead of refusing, instead of following the command of God, Adam hesitantly reached out and took the fruit. Raised it to his mouth. And ate. Even if he wasn’t hungry. Even though he knew he shouldn’t. Even knowing the consequences of his actions would be dire. Adam ate anyway. Because, in that moment, the power of suggestion from someone he loved overrode the Voice of truth that had originally spoken. Eve, quoting the misleading statements of the enemy, made Adam doubt what he knew to be true. And, in the midst of that cloud of doubt, Adam ate too. The ramifications were life-altering. (Genesis 3)

Ushered from their paradise by their own choices, they embarked on a less-than-idyllic existence. One of hard labor, difficulties, and pain. Surely many were the times they wished, if even for a moment, they had chosen to obey God. No matter what the great deceiver said. No matter if it seemed unfair. No matter if that tree had been the only food left in the Garden. Surely they wished they would have simply obeyed God.

Perhaps you are there too. Perhaps you have found yourself choosing the path of least resistance because the alternative seems too difficult, too painful, too unpleasant. It probably isn’t panning out too well. Failure to follow God never does. It reeks with constant striving, endless stress, debilitating doubt, and immense fear. The only way to find the peace and rest and contentment you seek is to follow the Voice of truth. God’s voice. His words. His commands. 

Friend, you can chase down all the things of the world. You can follow every whim and wish and dream and plan your finite mind can imagine. You can attain fame and fortune, friends and followers, but you cannot attain Heaven unless you choose to solely follow the Voice of truth. No matter who says differently. No matter what looks easier. Regardless of what offer comes your way. Choose truth. Choose obedience. Choose God. For today. For tomorrow. For forever. (Mark 10:29-31; I Samuel 15:22; James 4:7; Luke 11:28; Romans 8:28; Matthew 7:14; Ephesians 6:6)

From the first moment the softly thudding echo of his footsteps resounded in those esteemed halls of learning, Saul had been all in. Avid learner. Devout follower. Zealous enforcer. So deep was his devotion, he welcomed the orders to confront and arrest those who failed to follow the religious edicts of the high priests and elders. Gladly he went from house to house indiscriminately arresting men and women who pledged allegiance to Jesus Christ alone. Having exhausted his orders for nearby areas, he requested papers giving him permission to do the same in Damascus. Seek out those following the teachings of men like Peter and Stephen, drag them back to Jerusalem, and stand by while they were appropriately punished. (Acts 22:2-3; 8:3; 9:1-2)

He’d been there the day Stephen preached that fateful sermon. Listening. Watching. Biding his time. Inwardly he’d seethed at the words. Eagerly he’d waited for Stephen to get his due. Stoically he’d watched while stone after stone landed with ominous thuds on the unprotected head of the preacher. There was no sympathy, no remorse. The punishment was well deserved. As he strode through town after town strictly enforcing a religious law that fit the teachings he’d heard since he was a child, he was all in. Every fiber of his being believed he was enacting right and defeating wrong. It seemed nothing could change his mind. (Acts 7)

Leaving for Damascus in a cloud of snarling threats of torturous punishment and terrifying death toward the followers of the man called Christ, not one onlooker expected him to change. Ever. He’d return the same as he left, if not even more zealous. He was Saul, the devoted, driven, dangerous man who sent Christians scattering throughout Judea and Samaria, who ravaged churches and brought grown men to their knees. His horrifying reputation preceded him. No matter how evil, how ugly, how brutal he was. Hope that Saul would change seemed silly. He would never defect from his devotion. Saul would always be the scariest man in the room. Because he was all in. (Acts 9:1-4)

It must have been quite a surprise for his entourage when a brilliant light sizzled out of the heavens, bringing their fearless leader to his knees in the middle of the road to Damascus. They’d thought him invincible, untouchable. Seeing him huddled there, blind and helpless in the middle of the road carrying on a conversation with a faceless voice, forced them to re-evaluate their opinion of Saul. They had never seen him like this. Dependent. Needy. Wanting. In pity, they helped him to his feet, took his hand, and led him into the city to a house on Straight street. (Acts 9:1-4)

Strangely, we never hear of those men again. Perhaps they straggled home under cover of darkness, embarrassed that their much-hailed mission had been a bust. Maybe they raced home with tales of Saul’s demise, stories of a blinding light from heaven and a voice they didn’t recognize. Perhaps they returned, each jockeying to fill the now empty shoes in the religious realm of their world. Whatever the case, it would seem their sudden departure from the story indicates a lack of devotion to Saul and his mission. A lack of dedication to their cause. An obvious inability to remain all in when things became unsettled. 

Ananias hovered there himself. His heart longed to be all in, but his flesh knew the odds. And God was calling him to follow his heart. Normally he wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t question, wouldn’t struggle with the command. This wasn’t a normal command. This was a command to walk into likely entrapment and possible death. He knew Saul of Tarsus–at least by reputation. Anxiety compelled him to remind God how evil the man was, how much damage he had done to the body of Christ, how dangerous it was to boldly walk in and reveal his religious standing. It didn’t change the command. Nor did his anxiety, his humanity, or his alleged inferiority change his response. He went to do God’s bidding. Because no matter what it cost him, Ananias was all in. (Acts 9:10-18) 

Whatever Ananias had been expecting to see, it wasn’t the sight that greeted him. The man once labeled as evil and terrifying sat motionless, tired and unshaven, staring blankly at the wall. No threats. No anger. No danger. Slowly approaching, Ananias reached out to tentatively place his hands on Saul, speaking the words that would restore his sight, reconcile his soul, and restructure his devotion. And Saul, the once zealous persecutor of the church, was all in. (Acts 9:17-22)

It had taken three days to sort through the wreckage of destroyed beliefs he’d thought infallible and perceived truths he’d believed inerrant. Three days of darkness. Three days of fasting. Three days of introspection and questioning. Three days of silent pondering that question for which he’d originally had no answer. Why was he persecuting the people of God? What had started the vendetta? Was it a power trip? Was it the fame his thuggery had gained him? Or was it simply something to believe in? More importantly, in all the good he’d thought he was doing, had he missed the mark? Had he missed the truth of the risen Messiah? Had he been all in on single-handedly persecuting Jesus Christ, the Savior of the world? (Acts 9:4-9)

With the answers to those questions came the turning of the tables. The hunter became the hunted. The persecutor became the persecuted. The hater of the church became its biggest champion. No matter the hardship. Regardless of the abuse. In spite of the arrests and affronts.   

He would spend the rest of his life on the receiving end of ugly capers he’d been known to pull himself. It didn’t matter. Because Saul (who later chose to be called Paul) was all in. (Acts 13:9)

Five times Paul would receive 39 lashes at the hands of the Jews. Three times he would be beaten with rods. He’d suffer stoning, shipwreck, being lost at sea. Danger would come at him from every side–rivers, seas, wildernesses, cities, people he should have been able to trust, people he had no inclination to trust, people who claimed to tightly hold like faith. He would suffer toil and hardship, insomnia, starvation, and exposure to the elements. But Paul would never, no matter his circumstances, alter the message he’d been called to preach. His words would never soft-sell sin. His message would never short-sell God. There would be nothing half-hearted about his labors. Indelibly etched in his mind read the words of the prophet Jeremiah learned long ago, “Cursed is the one who half-heartedly, lazily does the work of God…”. Being thus informed, the Apostle Paul made his choice. He was all in. (Jeremiah 48:10; II Corinthians 11:24-28)

How about you? Having the same information from Jeremiah, where do you stand when it comes to Jesus Christ? Are you all in? Or are you wavering, unsteady, unstable? Are you having trouble deciding where to place your allegiance? Is it harder to choose when you are faced with making a stand that is socially unpopular, unpalatable, unpleasant? Are you tongue-tied, hesitant, reticent to stand up for the unarguable truths of Jesus Christ in today’s society? Caught as we are in the crossfire of good and evil, are you firmly rooted in the infallible word of God? Do you truly believe its inerrant truths? Tell me. If you had to choose today, right now, are you all in? (I Corinthians 10:12; James 1:8; Luke 9:57-62; Mark 10:30; Proverbs 30:5; I Peter 1:20-21; Isaiah 40:8)

In a message to his followers, Jesus said if they wanted to truly be His disciples they had to choose, every day, to take up the cross of scorn, scoffing, suffering, and follow Him alone. Days when they were tired. Days when they didn’t feel like it. Days when it seemed the whole world was against them. Days when the world really was against them. No matter what, come hell or high water, persecution, plague, or famine, they had to choose to follow Jesus. Only Jesus. They had to be all in. (Luke 9:23; Luke 14:27; Matthew 7:21-23; Matthew 10:38; Mark 12:30)

Centuries have passed since Jesus preached that message. Nothing is the same as it was then. Traditions have changed. People have changed. Society has changed. But Jesus doesn’t change. Neither do His words. They still mean the same thing they did then. They still offer the same choice. They still beg the same question. A question only you can answer. Are you all in? (Luke 21:33; Psalm 119:152; Hebrews 13:8; Hebrews 1:12)

It was a horrific end to a terrific day. A day that held such promise. His feet had barely touched the floor as he hurried through the palace, practically floating on a cloud of euphoria. He had been invited to dine with the king and queen at a special banquet. The guest list came from the queen and included only two names. King Ahasuerus. Haman. What an honor! Of all the people in service under the king, Queen Esther had chosen him. What a privilege! 

What a bragging point! Before he even arrived at the banquet, Haman was imagining how he would regale the event to his family and friends. It was the best news he’d had since his promotion from puny to pompous some time back. This would certainly secure his place in the top echelon of society. So great would be his social status that he’d have only to snap his fingers and someone would come running to do his bidding. He’d need more servants, of course. Celebrities don’t do things for themselves. He’d be too busy anyway, fulfilling whatever it was the queen desired. 

The fulfillment of the Queen’s desire turned out to be easy. She wanted dinner company again the following day. Again the list was short, containing the same names. King Ahasuerus and Haman. The king had agreed on Haman’s behalf. As if he’d ever decline. He wouldn’t. This second invitation could mean only one thing. He had found favor with the queen as well as the king. It was more than any man could ask. 

 Mind swimming with excited, arrogant tales to share with all and sundry, Haman rushed through the palace doors and headed for the gate. He had to get home. There was both bragging and celebrating to do! He hurried past groups of soldiers and clusters of servants. They all stopped their current task to bow in his presence as the king had commanded. Haman barely noticed. He usually loved it, reveled in it, encouraged it. Except today. Today his news usurped it. Today nothing could stop him, slow him down, snap him from his state of bliss. Nothing except a steely-eyed, ill-bred miscreant standing unbending near the king’s gate. His nemesis. Mordecai.

Like a well-placed pin in an airborne balloon, the sight of Mordecai standing arrow straight as he approached sucked the exaltation right out of Haman’s soul. The joy of all his blessings evaporating in the raging anger stirred by the one person who refused to appropriately exalt him. That Jew! Disrespecting his position and authority. Blatantly disobeying a direct order from the king. It was not to be borne. And even though he’d already set in motion the wheels of revenge, the day of slaughter seemed so far off. Every time he saw the insolent Mordecai, his hate and rage burned hotter. His hands clenched into fists. His mind imagined his sword piercing the heart of his enemy. Taking a deep breath, he restrained himself. He’d deal with Mordecai. Viciously. Permanently. Someday. 

Today was not that day. Today he had something else to do. Today, he reminded himself, there was something new to brag about. Stifling the suffocating wrath burning a hole in his soul, Haman forced his feet to turn toward home. At home he was greeted appropriately. His wife respected him. His children obeyed him. His friends esteemed him. So great was their respect they were willing to listen to him recount ad nauseam his magnificent wealth. Stores of gold and silver. Multiple sons. Promotions from the king. Advancements above other officials and servants. And finally, the piece de resistance, Queen Esther had taken notice of him. He had dined with her that very day and would do so again the next. Who else in the kingdom could say the same? 

It should have been enough. The wealth of his pockets, the prolific offspring, the honors and promotions, the special invitations. It should have been enough to make Haman content. He should have been happy with the things he had, the awards he’d won, the family that filled his home. Haman should have looked at his life and felt a sense of joy and contentment. He didn’t.  In spite of being blessed with everything one could desire at that time in history, Haman was quite possibly the least happy man on earth. Why? Because he placed his happiness, his determination of enough, in the obeisance of one man. Mordecai. (Esther 3-5)

Given Haman’s obvious desire to have more, do more, be more, it is difficult to believe that Mordecai’s humble bow would have been enough to slake his thirst for more position and power, more acknowledgments and accolades. It stands to reason he would have looked for something more. Something better. Something else. Another promotion. Another pay raise. Another woman. Another house. Another battle. Why? Because Haman’s desires were entirely earth-based. His concept of enough was completely exterior to the need he was desperately trying to fill in his soul. Nothing would ever be enough because the emptiness of his soul could never be filled outside of God. In spite of all his earthly wealth, Haman couldn’t be content because his happiness, his enough, was in something that could never be enough. 

 We are often in the same position. Pushed and pressed by society to live up to their standards of success, we find ourselves working and striving and hoping for things that will never be enough. There is no such thing as enough when your focus rests on money, possessions, power, or popularity. They only make you want more. More followers, more views, more likes. They will keep you racing on an exhausted search for something you will never find, because you will never find enough unless you find your enough in God. 

Ask Mordecai. Yes. I know. He isn’t exactly overflowing with elation. But he isn’t whimpering in obeisance before Haman either. When Mordecai clothes himself in mourning, it isn’t to gain personal attention or sympathy. No. His mourning is for his people and for the egregious sin being perpetrated against them. Yet no matter how deep his mourning, no matter how immense his concern, Mordecai still believed his God was enough. Enough to send a rescue. Enough to send a reprieve. Maybe it would be Esther. But even if she chose not to accept the challenge, Mordecai knows that he knows that he knows his God is enough for this current situation. God isn’t going to fail His people. He will raise up a rescue. Mordecai’s faith far outdistanced his grief because God was his enough. Not people. Not power. Not prestige. God alone. (Esther 4)

In a world continually struggling and striving, pressing and pushing you to be the next big thing, have the loudest voice, earn the corner office, make the biggest paycheck, in what is your enough? An elusive dream? A distant hope? A fond desire? Would the realization of those things bring contentment? Would they be enough to make you satisfied? Or would they leave you lacking, searching, wanting more? Is your enough strictly earthly or can it be found in things eternal? Is God enough for you? Is Jesus worth more than everything, worth more than anything? Is relationship with  Jesus Christ, truly knowing Him, enough? 

Like Haman, we’ve all spent a significant portion of our lives racing down side roads and searching every crack and crevice for the next thing to fill the crater of emptiness in our souls. We’ve found a million things. Great things. Exciting things. They were never enough. They never will be. Nothing will ever be enough until we find our enough in God alone. When we do, we will find He is everything we need. Our joy, our hope, our confidence, our strength. Our faith will rest in the blessed assurance that God is on our side and He is more than enough. Enough for today’s trials. Enough for tomorrow’s triumphs. Enough to keep us for time and eternity. Yes, friend, our God is more than enough. (Luke 1:35; Hebrews 13:6; II Corinthians 12:9; Isaiah 40:29; Nehemiah 8:10; II Chronicles 20:20; Psalm 121)

Barely audible murmurs of affirmation came from the congregation as they reverently listened to the lyrical words of their king’s prayer. Solomon was eloquent. Dropping to his knees before the Lord, he raised his hands toward Heaven and spoke words so beautifully poetic they stirred the hearts of his people like never before. Words of awe at God’s power and greatness. Words of gratitude for His faithfulness and love. Words of hope and petition for the continued presence of God among His people. Words so deeply moving they could not refrain from speaking out in confirmation. 

The prayer was achingly honest. Solomon clearly knew the people well. He knew that somewhere in the following generations there would be failures and faults, people would act rashly, take an ill-advised path, choose sin over righteousness. He knew that punishment would be incurred because of their poor choices. Drought. Famine. Pestilence. War. Captivity. He also knew God. The covenant keeping God of steadfast faithfulness and love. The One who is always ready to forgive. The One who promised to return to His people when they leave their wanderings behind and return to Him. The God who promised to be their God if they would actively choose to be His people.  And, at that moment, they did. 

Caught up in the euphoria of the breathtaking build, the enchanting words of the poet’s prayer, the awe-filled wonder of the smoke-filled house, the people could think of nothing they wanted more. Nothing they could ever want more. For that moment. Gathered wide-eyed in the observing congregation, overcome by the gripping emotion and moving words of the moment, their hearts resounded with words of consecration. They would follow God. Forever. 

Apparently, “forever” is not as long as one would think. It would not be so many decades after the people stood in the glory and presence of God that they would fall away. All of them. They would abandon the law of the Lord. Completely. And punishment would come. In spades. Shishak, the king of Egypt, his armies, his friends, his neighbors–countless throngs–came up against them armed for battle. They overtook the fortified cities and marched right up to Jerusalem’s doorstep.  It was terrifying. Defeat was certain. And King Rehoboam, their leader,  was in hiding. (II Chronicles 12:1-5)  

Sequestered away in a disconcerted group with the princes, Rehoboam was struggling to comprehend where he’d lost control. His kingdom had been strong and successful. They had been enjoying a peaceful and secure existence. God had clearly blessed his reign. Until now. Now things had fallen apart. Things were uncertain. The outlook was bleak. Death loomed on the horizon. Yet still, try as he might, Rehoboam couldn’t put his finger on the cause of their distress. 

The prophet Shemiah didn’t have that problem. He knew what the obtuse king appeared to not understand. God had told him. And he was on his way to share the knowledge, to offer the olive branch of hope and help to the terrified king. Entering their hiding place, he illuminated their understanding with words from God’s own lips, “You abandoned Me, so I abandoned you.” It was self-explanatory, really. Punishment follows sin. (II Chronicles 12:5-7)

Somewhere in the back of their woe-stricken minds, the words of Solomon prayed before the congregation echoed again. “Humble yourselves. Seek God. Turn from your sin.” Words of wisdom from the man who asked God for that very thing. Words God would later echo back to Solomon in the most solemn of vows. God’s words. For God’s people. (II Chronicles 6:1-7:22)

  Centuries later God is still speaking the same words. He is still issuing the same invitation. In the middle of our own vortex of droughts and disasters, wars and famines, diseases and pestilence, God offers the same promise. “If my people, the people who have consciously chosen me to be their God, will come before me in utter humility, admit their abject guilt, urgently seek me in prayer and permanently turn away from the sin in which they are so deeply entangled, then, and only then, I will hear and help and heal.” It is God’s promise for God’s people. (II Chronicles 7:11-14) 

Unfortunately the familiarity of the passage has softened its severity. In our modern day of self-service, it is often seen as a quick fix for unpleasant situations in our lives. It isn’t. This is not a sprinkles and unicorns promise. This is not a word to be taken lightly. This is not a vow of eternal rainbows and sunshine in exchange for an offhand prayer of repentance followed by a few days of good behavior. This is not a set of directions for manipulating God into rescuing us from our sinful, self-inflicted punishment so we can go on about our lives. This is not a fast fix for our years of slipping and sliding down the path of least resistance. No. This is a call to repentance. Not for the first time, but for the last time.  

And it is a call to the church. Today’s church. You see, the whole passage, the entire promise is predicated on people who have already vowed over and over again to follow God. To be His people. To allow Him to be their God. It is handed out to people who were crystal clear on His requirements for living. They knew His laws, His commands. They didn’t always follow them. Sometimes they cut corners, changed parameters, altered requirements, and remained purposely obtuse. Too often, the people called to be saints were busy wasting time engaging in silly business. Just like us.

Somewhere along the line, the church has gotten distracted. Our vision has become clouded with the offers of the world. Our hearing has become tuned to the siren song of self. We have strayed. We are not the stalwart, faithful, God-fearing people we were in times past. We do not live as though we believe the Scripture is the infallible, immutable Word of God. We have allowed caveats and side roads. We have blithely subscribed to “Jesus lite,” a form of godliness that is anything but godly, lacking the power and presence of God Himself. (II Timothy 3:5; II Peter 1:20-21; Matthew 24:35; Hebrews 13:8; II Chronicles 20:33) 

We have to change. The silly business has to stop. We were not called to be insipid, vapid, uninterested saints standing mutely while our society races headlong for destruction. We are called to be saints on a heavenly mission. A rescue mission. A mission to reveal God’s righteousness through our faith. It will not be easy. It will call for the speaking of hard realities. It will require the unashamed championing of God’s truth in a world all too happy to make up their own alleged truths. It will necessitate an end to the acceptance of excuses for sin, exchanges of fact for fiction, and endless blanket approval of questionable acts. It will demand an earnest humble repentance, a fervent seeking of God’s face, and an undeviated turn from sin to righteousness. It is time for the saints to stop engaging in silly business. (Romans 1; Isaiah 5:20; Malachi 3:7; Zechariah 1:3; Isaiah 44:22)

Surrounded as we are by the crescendoing echoes of all the things Solomon thought to list in his prayer, it would seem God is vigorously attempting to rally His saints. Raise them from their stupor. Revive them again. Renew their strength to continue His mission and go forward in His name. No compromise. No complacency. No silly business. (Psalm 85:6-8; Habakkuk 3:2; Zephaniah 1:12; Psalm 119:67,75; II Corinthians 12:8-10; Ephesians 5:14-21)