Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

She recognized them the moment they slipped through the door. No one snuck into her establishment without her knowledge. They kept to the sidelines, clearly hoping to deflect unnecessary attention. Quietly, they waited their turn to acquire lodgings. Instincts on high alert. Eyes sharply focused. Ears finely tuned. Men on a mission. City assessors. Army evaluators. Spies. Israelites.

Their obvious belief that they had entered Jericho unbeknownst to the king was mildly humorous. The king had eyes and ears everywhere. The whole city was on alert. Reports had poured in from far and wide of the Israelite exit from Egypt. The parting of the Red Sea. The defeat of the Amorite kings Sihon and Og. He had no intention of allowing such mayhem to reign in his city. These spies hadn’t slipped in under the king’s radar. He knew they were there. He knew where they were. He was just giving them time to settle in, relax, and tip their hand.  

Apparently he felt Rahab’s lodging house was just the place for such activities. Everyone would have thought so. Marginalized originally by her gender alone, her career reputation only exacerbated the communities’ opinions. It was not a secret what the king believed was going on with the Israelites. He believed they were easy prey once they entered her door. So he sent his men to collect them, never once believing they wouldn’t be ensconced in her best room awaiting service. 

Oddly, they weren’t there. The exhaustive search came up empty. Every room. Every cupboard. Every closet. Nothing. Just like Rahab said. They must have missed it. Been looking elsewhere when the Israelites snuck out. Perhaps they went through a window, found a side door, slipped out among a group of other travelers. Whatever the case, they had an impressive head start. It would take effort to catch up to them, but they would. They would find them. Bring them back. Deliver them to the king. Be the first city to thwart the Israelite conquerors. They had to. Their lives depended on it. 

They never found them. Mostly because they hadn’t left. One should never judge a scarlet woman by her alleged career choice. Rahab was no one’s fool. She couldn’t be bought. She was intelligent. Wily. Inventive. Brave. She hadn’t fallen into frenzied distress when the king’s men knocked on her door. She hadn’t batted an eye as she urgently sent those soldiers on a wild goose chase. And she couldn’t afford to waver one iota as she began bartering with the men who now owed her their lives. It was time to play hardball.    

Meeting their eyes directly, Rahab laid out what she knew, what she’d done, and what she wanted in return.  She knew who they were and why they had come. They weren’t average travelers. They had no interest in tourism. They were not inclined to make use of her proffered goods. They were spies, plain and simple. Scoping out Jericho. Weighing the obstacles. Measuring the opposition. The city was firmly in their sights. Destruction was coming. 

She wasn’t interested in hanging about for the inevitable onslaught. As much as she loved her city, she didn’t want to go down with the town. She wanted a future, a life. Not just for herself, but for her parents, her siblings, and all who were in their house. She wanted safety. For all of them. Her bargain read that way. She had saved them. They owed her. She required a pledge of surety in exchange for her continued asylum, ingenuity, and safe escape.

They had to give it. The woman wasn’t wrong. They owed her. Israel owed her. And she wasn’t really asking much. Safety when their marauding horde came calling. They could do that. But there had to be parameters. They couldn’t promise to search every crevice and hidey-hole in town looking for extended family before their swords became active. They couldn’t deliver a calling card two days prior. It would be impossible to send up a signal in time. The family would need to assemble now. The house would have to be immediately marked. The woman would have to keep their secret. And, when the time came, this woman who liked to manage situations herself, would have to sit in her house and trust men she didn’t know to keep a promise held together by spit and a handshake. The bargain must read as follows, “Tie the cord. Gather your family. Keep our secret. Trust us.” 

Even as she made the vow, Rahab had to know the final promise would be the hardest to keep. Tying a scarlet cord in the window was easy. Gathering her family would be simple. Holding her tongue required minimal effort when her life depended on silence. But trust them? It was huge. A herculean task for a woman in her occupation. She was not just a lodgekeeper. She was a harlot. A scarlet woman. A prostitute. Her knowledge might be lacking in many arenas, but she knew men. From experience, she knew they were prone to deceit. Often dishonorable. Rarely trustworthy. Her jaundiced opinion of the opposite sex nearly had her pulling back her hand, pulling out of the deal. Her limited options gave her no choice. She had to agree if she wanted to live. She had to make the deal and hope her faith wasn’t sorely misplaced. 

A line of concern must have creased Rahab’s brow as those men slipped out her window and down the wall into the darkness. Her stomach must have twisted with anxiety as she obediently tied that scarlet cord in the window of her home. Questions surely bombarded her mind. What if she’d just been played? What if they were as sneaky as their storied battle tactics? What if they forgot or denied their promise? Worse yet, what if they had never meant to keep it? What if they were just as untrustworthy as she knew most men to be? Had they looked at her, an unworthy roadhouse harlot, and deemed her dispensable, their mission more important than her life? Only time would tell. 

She had more of it than she thought. Time, that is. Fearing an immediate attack, she’d tied the scarlet cord as soon as the men slipped out of sight. She’d gathered her family and households as quickly as possible, telling them only what she had to tell for them to stay. She’d been quiet. Even when the soldiers pursuing the men came back empty-handed and cast suspicious glances in her direction, she’d held her tongue. And she’d been waiting. They had all been waiting. She thought they would be here by now. (Joshua 2)

The Israelites were nowhere in sight. They were busy with other endeavors. Crossing the Jordan. Laying memorial stones. Engaging in a second circumcision. A number of days must have passed before they finally settled within sight of Jericho. Long days. Hard days. Not just for the Israelites. For Rahab. (Joshua 3-5)

Anxiously waiting for her faith to become sight, Rahab’s heart was taking a beating. Every day she gazed out the window past the scarlet cord to see if her rescue was coming. Every day she tuned out the noise of the inn to listen for the sound of battle. Every day her eyes were met with scrub brush and sand, her ears heard only silence. Every day she wondered if her faith was hopelessly misplaced. Yet she never moved the cord, never sent her family home, never spilled the secret. She never gave up. No. Rahab always kept the faith. 

Why? Because her faith wasn’t placed in the shallow men of earth. It was firmly placed in the grand God of Heaven who she knew in her heart to be Lord of the entire universe. She’d already decided who she trusted. She had already cast her lot on God’s side. When things got rocky and it seemed like maybe those men wouldn’t come through, when the evil one whispered she’d never get out of Jericho alive, when the first moan of that battle horn sounded and she hadn’t yet been rescued, Rahab didn’t panic one bit. She kept the faith! She knew she could.  Because Rahab’s faith wasn’t in those spies or their promise. Her faith was in the God who always keeps His promises. And He did. (Joshua 2:11-14; 6:17)

When the rams’ horns sounded their mournful wail announcing the impending doom of Jericho, Rahab had not one worry. As the parade surrounded the city for the seventh time on the seventh day, she felt no fear. She was covered. Just like the Israelites who painted their door frames with the scarlet blood of the sacrificial lamb to save the members of their household from the plague of death, the scarlet cord in Rahab’s window saved everyone in her house. No matter who they were, where they came from, or what their past entailed. It didn’t matter. Everyone inside the house laden with scarlet was saved. Every. Single. One.(Exodus 12:13-28; Joshua 6:22-25; Hebrews 11:31; James 2:25)

You can be too. No matter what twists and turns you’ve taken to get to the place you currently are, regardless who says what about you or what you think of yourself, the scarlet blood of the Sacrificial Lamb of Calvary flows down to save every soul destined for destruction. You. Me. Everyone. It proves that the great God who keeps the earth spinning in space, is not too busy to keep His promises. It proves that every soul who comes in faith believing God will keep His word, will not walk away drooping in disappointment. It proves that, when God promised redemption, a rescue, a ransom for every hopeless, hellbent soul, He wasn’t just shaking hands and kissing babies. The blood of Calvary proves you can trust Him to keep His word. Every. Single. Time. (John 3:16; II Corinthians 5:15; Romans 4:21; Hebrews 10:23)

So. Do you? Do you trust Him? Really trust Him to rescue your disastrous life from destruction? Have you trusted Him enough to cast your messy soul into the scarlet, cleansing blood of the Sacrificial Lamb of Calvary?  Are the doorposts of your heart painted scarlet in testament to the cleansing work of Jesus Christ? Is a scarlet cord of faith hanging in the window of your soul? Do you trust Him? Really trust Him?  Is your faith in the finite, fallible, failing words of earthly men? Or is it firmly resting in the infinite, infallible, unfailing Lord who is God in heaven and on earth? (Psalm 103:4; Psalm 118:8; Hebrews 13:8; Jeremiah 17:7; Revelation 22:7)

They were quite a motley crew marching across the land heralded by the continual wailing cry of the rams’ horns. Brawny warriors, fully arrayed in battle gear, boldly led the procession. Sunlight glinted off hilts and blades of freshly cleaned weaponry. Inscrutable faces set like stone gave no indication of their plan. The silent lines of their lips were firmly closed as if they knew that even a breath of verbiage would alter the outcome of their battle. 

Behind them came the noisy lot. Priests. Seven of them. Unspeaking but not silent. Their hands cupped rams’ horns. Their lips pressed to the tips. Every effort engaged in creating the deep, earthy, moaning sound currently echoing through the hillsides. Constantly. It didn’t stop. Not from the moment the shoe of the first warrior hit the ground marching. It cried continually. An obvious battle cry. An announcement of reckoning. A warning of destruction for enemies. A promise of safety to Rahab. A statement of victory before any battle had ever begun. Israel was coming.

 And their God was coming with them. He was among them. Living. Dwelling. Leading. Doubters had simply to look at the oncoming procession to see the stark reality. Quiet priests followed the noisy ones. Hands and shoulders bent to the task of transportation. Sunlight sparkled and glittered off their precious cargo. It would be Israel’s ark. The presence of their God who traveled with them, went before them, fought their battles, and granted victory. The sight was unsettling, its silent presence a loud pronouncement of what was to come. Without one raised sword, Israel had already signed the termination of Jericho’s earthly lease. If the horns were a warning, the ark was a sign. Destruction was coming.  

Yet the strange parade wasn’t finished. More men marched behind the ark. More warriors. More polished weapons hanging at their sides. More solemn faces. More silent lips. Their thudding footsteps echoed beneath the now strident call of the horns. Forward they came to walk a full circle around the city walls and head back to their own encampment. As far as declarations of war went, it was by far the strangest those watching from the wall had ever seen. So far off from the usual ambushments of the day, the warriors inside Jericho began to have second thoughts, reassess their security measures. Perhaps they didn’t need to worry after all. 

The city was a veritable fortress. Tiers of stone walls effectively closing out the outside world. Gates shut and locked. Citizens and travelers trapped within. No one could enter. No one could leave. No one thought they needed to do so. Surely they were safe inside the formidable walls of Jericho. They were prepared to endure isolation. At least for a time. Certainly for as long as the Israelites needed to determine if they were going to launch an assault or not. They simply had to obey the rules. Keep the gates tightly closed. No one in. No one out. Keep a weather eye on the parading Israelites. It should be easy.  

Except it wasn’t. This was like nothing they had seen before. Their silent siege went on longer than anyone imagined it could. Six days the Israelites had formed the same parade and done the same walk. From their camp to Jericho, around the city walls, back to home base. Only the sound of rams horns accompanied them. No threats had been issued. No spears had been lifted. No missives of negotiation had been launched over the wall. This was a type of warfare they had never seen, had no idea how to combat. They were trained and prepared and skilled for vicious, brutal physical battles. But this? No training could ever have prepared the men of Jericho to fight off a parade.

It would have been much easier if there had been some chit-chat between the non-musical priests. Some conversation on which to eavesdrop. Snippets of news to take back to the king. They would have known how to respond appropriately if the leading warriors had tossed up some snide remarks or shook a spear at a watching guard. They had their own arsenal of inflaming words and each was quite eager to show off his agility with a spear. A strategy could have been intelligently formed if, in response to their own hurled insults, the rearguard had offered up some venomous verbiage of their own. But the silence was deafening. And bewildering. What army announces its arrival into battle with raucous noise, makes no verbal utterances while circling its enemy, then trails back the way it came without lobbing a stone? How do you even fight an enemy like that? Is it still a battle if one side is silently refusing to use their weapons? 

It absolutely is. The hardest battle you will ever fight. The one where you practice complete obedience to your Commanding Officer. The battle in which you choose to exhibit self-control. The choice to bite your tongue when it is teeming with responses and excuses, deflections and comebacks, accusations and barbs. The battle to speak only the words God says to speak in the moment He says to speak them. The battle to control your tongue. (Proverbs 23:21)

As amazed as I am that the walls of Jericho fell flat without a dropping missile or exploding bomb, I am even more amazed that a horde of people marched twelve times around a city in complete silence. No one said anything. Not. One. Word. No warrior complained about the absurdity of carrying his weapons with no intention of engaging. No trumpeter dropped his horn to bemoan his lack of breath. No priest laden with the ark of the covenant cried out a need to rest. No one griped about the blister their sandal was causing. No one exclaimed over an ankle twisted on an obnoxious rock. Not one rearguard soldier waxed eloquent concerning the looks of the ladies within Jericho’s walls. No. With the exception of the resounding rams’ horns, utter silence reigned. Why? Because God said so. (Joshua 6)

Well. That’s right there, isn’t it? Right in that spot we are all inhabiting. The place where our words are racing and leaping over one another attempting to find the most express route from our brains to our lips. The place where we listen the least. The place where the outcome of our choice is determined. Silent victory. Speaking defeat. The same place the Israelites were. Had just one person chosen to whisper just one word as they made the fifth trek around Jericho’s walls, the outcome would most certainly be different. It was imperative for them to obey God. It was imperative for them to stay silent. Until it was time to speak. (Joshua 6:16; Psalm 141:3; Romans 2:6-8; Luke 11:28)

Then let it rip! Shout! Scream! Holler! Praise! Lift up your voice to the God who is rewarding your obedience, your silence. Exalt in God who brought you to this place of hard-earned victory. Shout about your God and watch the walls fall down, your enemies crumble before your eyes. The silent obedience was excruciating, but the jubilant shout of victory is worth it. Every moment of biting your tongue. Every day of marching in silence through blisters and turned ankles. Every second of waiting for God to say, “Shout!” Controlling their tongues was absolutely worth it! 

In a world where we are encouraged to speak our minds, share our opinions, spout our alleged wisdom, score social points, and straighten our own crowns, we need to remember Jesus’ warnings about our words. He said we need to watch them. Watch your mouth. Guard your tongue. Measure your words. Because your words are measuring you, telling the world what is stored in your heart. Good. Evil. Hatred. Love. Fear. Peace. Whatever is there comes out in every careless conversation, every private discussion, every public debate. And it determines your victory. (Matthew 12:33-37; Psalm 19:14; Ecclesiastes 10:11-14; James 3; Matthew 15:18)

It is impossible to imagine the disappointment had the Israelites marched around Jericho for 6 days only to have someone prematurely whisper a word on the seventh and alter the course of their battle. It is equally impossible to imagine the moment when we stand before God and give account for every word we have ever spoken. Kind words. Careless words. Lying words. Honest words. Words that break down. Words that build up. Yet we will do so. Every single word will be accounted for. Every single time God said, “Keep silent,” yet we chose to speak. Every time He said, “Speak,” yet we chose to keep silent. Every response to every moment of potential obedience will be brought to light. How will you fare on that day? (Proverbs 18:21; Matthew 12:36; Proverbs 13:3; I Thessalonians 5:11; James 1:26)

Perhaps it’s time to make some changes. Time to weigh your words. Time to check your tongue. Time to stop spreading your opinion. Time to pause before you respond to accusations, character assassinations, and blatant lies. Time to ask God for His timing and His words. Time to keep silent and let Him fight your battles. Time to let Him win. Time to wildly shout, extravagantly celebrate, reverently worship your God for the victory wrought by silent obedience to Him. (Psalm 39:1; Proverbs 15:28; Colossians 4:6; Psalm 71:24; Psalm 60:12; Psalm 20:5-7; I Samuel 15:22)

Our youngest daughter has quite an impressive green thumb with flowers. Perhaps it is her love for the final results, her unmitigated delight over the beauty of fully blooming marigolds and dahlias, violas and pansies, begonias and geraniums. She has planted all of the above (and a few others) somewhere on our property. Nearly every available pot, bed, and planter is filled with her obvious joy in the glorious riot of color they add to the landscape. 

It was this joy that had her heart leaping, her eyes dancing as we entered the garden department of a local home improvement store and heard the words, “Everything on these two racks is free. Take it straight to your car.” A thousand oxen couldn’t have pulled her away from those racks. Careful to leave some for others, we filled our hands with her choices. Two decent-looking begonias. A handful of salvageable dahlias. And an entire flat of quickly dying violas. 

Reviving them was going to be a monumental task. Especially those violas. They had only a few blossoms, a little green foliage, and a liberal amount of shriveling brown leaves. So incredibly sad looking were those plants, I felt it necessary to warn her they might not make it. Her efforts might be all for naught. She was undeterred. She believed they could be revived.  

Unfortunately, it rained heavily for the next couple of days. Weather unfit for planting anything. The violas sat in the garage an extra day or two with no sunlight. They looked sadder still. Hope for their survival diminished. When the weather lightened, she planted those flowers. Mixing special potting soil with older soil, she carefully set the plants and filled the dirt around them. Then she watered them. Not with plain water from the garden hose. No. She mixed multiple watering cans of plant food and water, walked all around the house and gardens, and fed all her plants–flourishing or dying–water that would keep them alive and cause them to grow and blossom and bloom in a gorgeous display of resurrection. 

Only one of those dying plants succumbed. The rest survived. Flourished. Grew. Blossomed. Bloomed. Until the deer came. Under the cover of darkness, in spite of the abundant grass and hay growing on our property, the deer came in and ate nearly all the flowers off a large pot of violas. The other pots were next. We did everything we could. Replanting. Watering. Feeding. Hanging flash tape. Setting out marigolds. Walking the dog around the property to spread her scent. Nothing really seemed to work. 

The deer continue to visit. Nightly they arrive in the back pasture innocuously grazing on the tall grasses. When complete darkness falls and the humans and canines inhabiting the house sleep, they venture closer to eat the plants sitting by the porch. It is discouraging, yet still she faithfully works. Water. Plant food. Patience. Hope. Some days she feels frustrated, but never throws in the towel, never uproots the plant to toss it in the bin. No. She just keeps doing what she knows to do and leaves the rest to the Master Gardener.    

It’s a good thing, too. As easy as it would be to worry and fret about those deer, she would gain nothing for the effort. She’d lose the sleep she needs to gain the energy it takes to persevere in faithfully cultivating plants that flourish. She’d look at neighboring gardens with higher fences and more menacing dogs and find herself enviously comparing their efforts and results with her own. She’d grow angry and frustrated at the alleged waste of her time and may be tempted to stop working, stop trying, stop being faithful. She’d do all the things she shouldn’t do if she wants her gardens–both physical and spiritual–to grow successfully. I know this because the Psalmist said so.

Earlier this month, I read the words of Psalm 37:1-9. It was not the first time I’ve read them. Not even the first time this year. I’ve read them three times in the past twelve months. I’ve underscored parts of them. Apparently, it took some shriveled-up plants and a tenacious teen to teach me what God was trying to say through David all along. Don’t fret. Don’t worry. Don’t look around you at what is going on in society or at people who prosper through evil means, and allow envy, frustration, and anger to build. Don’t get distracted by the things of the world. Focus on God. Cultivate faithfulness. 

The Bible translation I am currently reading literally translates Psalm 37:3 with those words. “Cultivate faithfulness.” Work at it. Plant it. Water it. Nurture it. Encourage it. Grow it. Faithfulness doesn’t happen overnight. Some days it might not happen at all. So get up the next day and work at it some more. Don’t stop. Don’t give up. Don’t look around and measure yourself by your neighbor, your pastor, your mentor, your friend. Keep your nose in your own garden. Weed it. Tend it. Carefully, constantly cultivate faithfulness to Jesus Christ alone. (II Corinthians 10:12)

It will not be easy. There will always be something to draw you aside. Something you wish you had. Something you wish you could do. Some blessing someone else received that causes a twinge of envy. Some days you will question why evil so frequently trumps good. You might be tempted to give it a go yourself. Your wandering gaze will encourage your heart to fret over the present, worry over the future, be angry, upset, and agitated with the earthly success of evildoers. Stop it. Stop looking around. That’s not your job. (Proverbs 23:17, 24:19;   

Your job is to cultivate faithfulness. Your job is to do what you know is right to do and leave everything else in the capable hands of the Master Gardener. Trust Him. Trust the Lord even when it seems safer to trust something you can see and touch and manipulate. Trust Him enough to purposely do good. Always. Even when no one else is doing it. Especially when no one else is doing it. Commit all your ways to Him. Everything. Past. Present. Future. Give it all to Him. Keep your meddling hands to yourself! Trust doesn’t take things back. It leaves them alone. It believes that He will do what is in your best interest. Always. It delights itself in pleasing God. So settle in. Rest in Him. Be patient. Allow yourself to dwell where God has placed you, put down roots, and determinedly work every day to cultivate faithfulness to the One who never fails to be faithful and true. (Psalm 37:1-9, 16-19, 27-28,34; Proverbs 3:5-6; Isaiah 12:2, 26:3; Psalm 9:10; Psalm 33:4)

It will be worth it. Immensely! Amazingly! Overwhelmingly worth it! The constant tending and nurturing will keep your soul alive in every storm of temptation, make it thrive in a world of spiritual dryness and death, and flourish when it seems like only evil wins. It will keep your gaze Heavenward amid the world’s theatrics. It will keep your life rooted and grounded in soil you can trust to strengthen and feed your soul no matter what comes. Peace louder than chaos. Faith stronger than fear. Focused faithfulness to the God who has never let His people down. (Proverbs 4:23; Matthew 12:35; Matthew 7:24-27; Psalm 91:14-15; Joshua 21:45)

There are hanging pots of petunias gently swinging in the breeze outside my window as I write this. By the back porch steps sit planters of thriving marigolds and salvia. Near the raspberry patch stands an old wooden wagon filled with snapdragons and marigolds. Around the front porch light and in front of the woodshed violas and dahlias and begonias dance in the breeze. Indoors is my tired, but happy daughter. Her hard work, her faithfulness has come to fruition. Against the odds, in spite of relentless rain, marauding deer, a recent bout of ridiculous heat, and myriad other frustrations and annoyances, her consistency has paid off.  It has all been worth it. Every moment of concern and irritation. Every ounce of energy. Every hour of tending and cultivating has culminated in the beautiful riot of blooms visible from nearly every window of our home. Her time and effort have unequivocally been worth it.

Yours will be too. As you spend time cultivating faithfulness in trusting and resting in Christ, your soul will become a peaceful, beautiful paradise. A safe haven from the raging weirdness of the world. A calm refuge from the storms of life. Your heart, your mind, your soul will rest, completely rest, in the peace of Christ that surpasses all comprehension of man. And, when things go pear-shaped–and they will–that faithful trust in the God who never fails will be rewarded as He preserves your soul from all evil. He will sustain you. He will delight in you. He will hold your hand. He will help you, deliver you, strengthen you. He will never allow your steps to slip. You can trust Him. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. His response to your faithfulness will never change. So settle down, settle in. Rest in God. Trust Him. In the big things. In the small things. In everything. Practice faithfulness. Grow it. Cultivate it…and leave everything else to Him! (Psalm 37:17,23-24,28, 31, 39-40; Psalm 121; Hebrews 13:8; Psalm 46:1)

In the grand scheme of life, it was incredibly small. Ridiculously small. Or just ridiculous. Clearly the prophet had jokes. Or pranks. It was difficult to tell the difference since the aforementioned individual had deemed it unnecessary to exit the house and greet his esteemed visitor. He’d simply sent a servant with the laughable message, “Go dunk yourself in the Jordan river seven times.” 

Seriously? No prophet hurried out meticulously bowing and scraping in obeisance. No grand invitation to enter the prophet’s chambers was issued. No miraculous hands were laid on his leprous skin. No flowery words of prayer rang out to Heaven. No instantaneous healing occurred. The whole trip had been a waste of time. His presence was completely superfluous. He could have sent a messenger to get this information. Or non-information. He had no intention of dipping in the sluggish, muddy, disgusting stream they called the Jordan River. Not now. Not ever. 

Wheeling about, Naaman stomped toward his steed, mounted in one fluid motion, and gestured for his men to follow. They were leaving. His disappointment was acute. He regretted making the trip. He hated the waste of time. His blood boiled that it hadn’t turned out the way the little servant girl said it would. Dip himself in the Jordan? Never! He was going home!

His men had other ideas. At least some of them. Carefully approaching their angry leader, his servants cautiously made their logical appeal. If the prophet Elisha had asked him to single-handedly ride into battle and show off his magnificent fighting skills, he’d have done it. If he’d been asked to gather an army of cowards and inspire them to boldly walk into battle, he’d surely have accepted the task. If Elisha’s message had been to do something huge that would gain attention and garner glory, Naaman would have jumped at the chance. So what would it hurt to do something small, something insignificant, something easy? 

Nothing. It would hurt nothing to try this one little thing. If the treatment failed, he would be no worse for trying. But if it worked, if it cleansed his skin from the disease that baffled every physician and medical scholar he had seen, it would all be worth it. The journey. The offhand treatment. The mud bath. Wouldn’t it all be worth it if he could just be healed? 

Their powers of persuasion must have been fantastic because it worked. Their carefully aimed arrows of logic found a chink in the arrogant armor of the physically plagued warrior. He had to admit they were right. He didn’t really need more fame, fans, or awards. He needed healing. Even if it meant doing something ridiculous. His desire for wholeness overriding his annoyance and skepticism, Naaman grudgingly adjusted his hold on the reins and set out for the banks of the Jordan. 

I wonder how long it took him to dismount. How long did he stand on the riverbank and stare at the revolting sludge before him? What was going through his mind? Fear. Worry. Anxiety. Revenge. Was he reminding himself of his wife and family at home who needed him to be well and whole? Was he assessing his expectations and attempting to mitigate possible disappointment? Was he mentally arranging Elisha’s painful demise should this treatment not have the desired effect? Whatever it was, he took from it his motivation and, in true warrior style, slogged into the disgusting Jordan river. 

He should have brought a change of clothes. This was disgusting. Muddy water sluiced over his head and ran down his shoulders. Grit got in his eyes. How many more times was he supposed to do this? Five? Six? He didn’t see a difference. His skin was still a mess. But now he was determined to see it through. He’d been covered in worse things, endured messier battles. This was easy. Dip three. Dip four. He checked again. Still no improvement. Anxiety busily built a knot in his stomach. His nerves jangled. A relentless voice in his head taunted him with every dip underwater, every taste of grime. What if it was useless? What if this really was a waste of time? What if he didn’t come out changed, healed, whole? 

Sucking in a deep breath, Naaman plunged again under the water. Dip seven. The final one. His exit this time would be the last. In less than a minute, he would know if soaking in filth had worked. He would know if Elisha was a prankster or a prophet. The suspense was terrible. 

Rising slowly from the water and wiping dirt off his face, he braced himself for whatever might lie ahead. Good. Bad. Neutral. He was almost afraid to look. Afraid to believe something small and simple could yield amazing, lasting results. He couldn’t wait forever. Couldn’t stand in the shallow waters of the Jordan, hesitating for days on end. He didn’t have time for that. Drawing in a fortifying breath, he held out his arm and slowly lowered his gaze to inspect the skin. 

Except there was nothing to inspect. No blemishes. No lesions. No discolored patches. Nothing. His skin hadn’t been this clean, this clear, this perfect since infancy! His wife might not even recognize him when he walked into the house. He was changed. He was different. He was new. Made so by simple obedience to a simple command to do a simple act that simply changed his life. (II Kings 5:1-14)

What would have happened if he hadn’t? What would have happened if Naaman had chosen to go home in a tantrum because he hadn’t been greeted with fanfare, been blessed by powerful hands, been healed at the utterance of a beautiful phrase? More importantly, what would have happened if his servants hadn’t stepped in, hadn’t spoken up? What if those men had been too afraid to intervene? What would have happened to Naaman? 

Deformities. Disfigurement. Disability. That and more would have happened to Naaman. The proud warrior would have disintegrated in body and spirit before their very eyes. Had he walked away, his life would have essentially been over. Little by little he would have lost his ability to do the things his title demanded. He would have been demoted, downgraded, deleted. But those men courageously came with gentle words of logic and wisdom in an intervention that ultimately changed the trajectory of Naaman’s life. 

Naaman’s servants were his heroes that day. Heroes of small things. A small choice to listen to the small voice in their heads and engage in a small conversation that led to a small change in plans, opening the way to a grand exhibition of God’s great love, grace, mercy, and power. Naaman would have missed his healing if they had missed their cue. He was headed home to draw the shades and weep in despair. He didn’t have to, because his heroes stepped in, spoke up, and encouraged him to do what God commanded. 

I don’t know who needs you to step up for them today. I don’t know who needs to hear words of wisdom and encouragement from your lips. I know someone does. Someone you love. Someone you know. Someone you are about to meet. Someone you pass in the grocery aisle. Someone bogged down in the sandpit of depression. Someone mired in worry and care. Someone struggling with sin and resentment. Someone needs you to look beyond the edges of your own struggle, your own soul, your own world, follow the command of Jesus to feed his sheep, and speak words of love and grace to their weatherbeaten soul. Someone needs you to be a hero. (John 21:15-17; I Thessalonians 5:11; Hebrews 3:13, 10:24-25; Romans 14:19; Ephesians 4:15-16)

What would happen if you did? What would happen if you obeyed every single small command Jesus tells you to do? Immediately. Before the opportunity passes. Before the person walks away. Before you have time to evaluate the options, consider the results, or talk yourself out of action. Give the gift. Speak the words. Be faithful in the small things. Whose life could be changed because you cared, you prayed, you loved like Jesus? Maybe you will never know. Maybe they will never remember your name, recognize your face, or broadcast your work. Your name may never be up in lights. You might never speak your words to millions. Does it matter so long as someone, just one person, meets Jesus? 

It shouldn’t. Being a hero isn’t about the glory, it’s about the faithfulness. In big things. In small things. Every day. No matter what. Just like Jesus preached in the New Testament. He said whoever would follow Him, whoever wanted to truly be His disciple, must lay aside themselves, their comforts, their desires, their wishes, take up their cross and follow Him. Daily. Not just when their mood was right. Not only when it was easy. Not simply when the people needing ministry were clean and wealthy. Not because of the fame it brought their name. He said, “Daily.” Rain. Shine. Sickness. Health. Good times. Bad times. Fame or obscurity. Don’t wait for only the big, flashy, public moments. Constantly be faithful to be busy doing the Father’s business. Be sensitive to the Spirit. Be someone’s hero by doing the small things that matter. Stand up. Step up. Speak up. (Luke 9:23; Matthew 10:38; Mark 8:34; John 2:5; Luke 16:10; Philippians 2:3-4)

They hadn’t intended to spend the night here. Well, maybe in this town. Not this hotel. The accommodations were significantly less than desirable. Unyielding, uncomfortable floors holding up drab gray walls without a stitch of color. Limited lighting due to an unfortunate incident resulting in the builder forgetting to install a window. A trickle of water from an earlier rain ran down the inside of the wall. Apparently, that counted as the necessary facilities. The furniture was sparse. Nearly nonexistent. No sofa. No chair. No bed. Of course, it is difficult to lie down when one’s feet are locked in stocks. 

It began as such a normal week. Logically locating the place people would assemble to pray. Preaching Jesus to the women gathered there. Baptizing Lydia and her family. All normal “apostle” things to do. Things they did in every town they visited as the opportunity arose. Preach. Pray. Baptize. Occasionally the necessity to confront evil spirits arose. Some came or were brought by concerned friends or family. People who desperately wanted to be free from bondage. People who knew the power of God was mightier than the thing that held them in its grip. People who hoped, believed, prayed that the God Paul and Silas preached would be the One to release their souls. No one was asking this time. 

For days a young girl with a spirit of divination followed them around town. It is difficult to state exactly why. Perhaps her owners, a couple of men using her dubious skills as a money-making endeavor, sent her to see if the visitors would indulge in a reading. Maybe she was bored. Maybe she was curious. Perhaps some inner part of her soul knew Paul and Silas could help her find freedom from evil enslavement. Whatever the reason, she followed them constantly, periodically calling out, “As bondservants of the Most High God, these men are here to talk to you about salvation.” It was a bit like having their own herald. 

They didn’t need one. Neither Paul nor Silas felt the desire to be announced as they traveled from house to house, establishment to establishment. Especially Paul. He had quickly grown weary of the added attention. Day after day his annoyance grew. Day after day he dutifully held his tongue. At least for a bit. Eventually, annoyance won out. Turning to the girl, he rebuked the spirit and cast it out in the name of Jesus Christ, forever releasing the girl to live in freedom. It should have been a day of rejoicing. It probably was. For the girl, at least. 

Her handlers were far from elated. They didn’t see freedom and peace and rest. Didn’t care if she’d been miserable in their employ. They only saw descending dollar signs. And with every dropping dollar came a rising tide of rage. Gone was their easy income. Gone was their lazy living. Gone were their mellow personalities. Greed and rage overtaking them, they sought revenge. 

Grabbing the arms of Paul and Silas, they marched them straight to the authorities. Stopping before the chief magistrates, the mouths of the mercenaries spewed forth unrepentant lies with ferocious speed. “These men are stirring up the city. Confusing people! Causing dissension! Commanding people to violate Roman customs!” The fervor with which the accusations flew stirred up the attending crowd. As the mob rallied against Paul and Silas, the magistrates vaulted into action. Ripping the robes from the apostles’ backs, they ordered them beaten with rods and threw them into prison, reminding the jailor that his life depended on keeping those men securely locked away. 

It was how they had ended up in this less than 1-star hotel. Locked in the innermost part of the prison, devoid of light and fresh air, their feet tightly secured in stocks. As the sun dropped behind the hills and darkness crept across the sky, their prison room grew even darker. Suffocatingly so. The loss of sight heightened their other senses. Increased the sounds of racing rodents searching for food. Enhanced the scent of unsanitary facilities. Encouraged their imaginations to gaze at their current circumstances, see the horror, and dip a toe in the pond of self-pity. 

We wouldn’t blame them had they dived in head first. If Paul and Silas had tilted back their heads, sucked in a breath of stench-laden air, and cried out to God in upset frustration, irritation, anger, and pain, we wouldn’t have a single word to say against them. We wouldn’t dare judge them. How could we? We do it all the time. Stuck in the dark recesses of our unpalatable situation, we throw back our heads and scream at God, “Why me?  Why is this happening? Why are You allowing this? Don’t You care? Don’t You love me? Why don’t You just fix it? Where’s my miracle?” We justify our ranting as a normal human response to adversity. Maybe it is…for us. 

Not for Paul and Silas. Stuck in the last place they would choose to be, locked in stocks, beaten and bruised, untended wounds oozing on their backs, they threw back their heads and cried out to the heavens. Not with complaints and whining. Not with arguments and frustrations. Not with accusations about God’s love or questions about His sovereignty. No. At the midnight hour, when their situation had no possibility of becoming any less favorable, they lifted their spirits by raising their voices in prayer and praise to God. (Acts 16:13-40)

I wonder what words they sang that night. From where I’m sitting, they had few earthly things for which to be thankful. An undeserved arrest? A vicious beating? A dank prison cell? But the passage doesn’t say they were giving thanks to God. It says they were praising God. They were joyfully singing commendation, laud, and honor from hearts full of awe for who and what God is, for His character, His purity, His sovereignty. Their words that night had nothing to do with themselves and everything to do with their God. And other prisoners noticed. 

As the words of God’s greatness echoed through the dark recesses of that prison, all groaning, grumbling, cursing, and crying stopped. One by one the men fell silent, dumbstruck that someone locked away in the deepest part of the dungeon could find the courage, the strength, the joy to look beyond their dire circumstances and light up the night with songs of praise to their God. Encouraged to know that somewhere out there was a God who was real and true and deserving of awe and reverence and praise. Not because He’d miraculously rescued them, but simply because He was worthy. 

He is, you know. Worthy. God is worthy of all praise and glory and adoration. In Psalm 145-149, depicted in words far more beautiful than I could ever dream of penning, the psalmist expounds on the unsearchable, unfathomable greatness of our God. Glorious in splendor and majesty. Mighty in acts and powerful in works. Abundant in goodness. Gracious. Merciful. Loving and kind. Righteous and just. Creator, Sustainer, Redeemer, King. Go read those Psalms. The words alone will make your heart soar, your confidence rise. Unless you are caught in the darkness of midnight with the evil one relentlessly riding you to dive headfirst into the pool of pity. 

In the dark night of your soul, when calamity and casualties and commotion surround you, the evil one, that professional liar, will say the words aren’t true for you. He’ll say God loves other people more than you. He’ll say the Psalmist, unlike you, was perfect and clearly one of God’s favorites. He’ll question what you have to sing about. He’ll get your eyes so focused on yourself and your circumstances that you forget how great, how awesome, how powerful is your God. Even if He chooses not to miraculously remove your untenable situation, the fact you serve a God who undeniably has the power to do so should make your lips burst forth in jubilant song. The evil one will do anything to silence you. You’ll have to fight back. Make a choice. Take a stand. (John 8:44; II Corinthians 11:3; Matthew 16:23; James 4:7; I Peter 5:8-9)

You’ll need Psalm 150 then. Not just to read. To obey. It has to be what Paul and Silas were doing. In words of praise issued as a final command, the Psalmist says, “Praise the Lord!” Everywhere. In church, in the coffee shop, in the hospital, in the hay fields, in the depths of your soul. Praise Him for everything He is and does, His character, His power, His wisdom, His sovereignty. Praise Him out loud in every possible way. Play an instrument. Dance. Crash some cymbals. Sing. Speak. Don’t stop. Ever. Not when things are perfect and beautiful. Not when things are out of control and going awry. Not in the midnight hour of your life when you feel locked in a prison not of your own making. Sing out even then. Especially then. Turn your tear-drenched face upward, lift your heavy heart heavenward, and raise your voice in praise to God for Who He is and what He’s done. Praise Him because He is worthy of glory, honor, reverence, and awe. (Psalm 95:1-11; Hebrews 13:8,15; Psalm 103; Isaiah 25:1; Exodus 15:2; Ephesians 5:19; Deuteronomy 10:21)

And people will notice. Friends. Family. Acquaintances. Strangers. As you encourage yourself with songs of praise and words of exaltation to God regardless of your circumstances, people will notice. They will see your attitude, your positive response to a negative situation, your strength in the midst of an enormous storm, and they will take notice. Not of you. Of your God. And they will be drawn to Him. Drawn to the God who travels every valley, weathers every storm, and endures every hardship right beside the children He loves with an everlasting, unwavering, infrangible love. You. Me. And everyone who dares to utter a midnight cry of praise. (Jeremiah 31:3; Matthew 5:16; James 5:13; Colossians 3:16-17; Psalm 115:1)