Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

He couldn’t sleep. The room wasn’t dark enough; his mind wasn’t quiet enough. The lengthening light of the spring evening slipped around the heavy drapes and stretched across his coverlet, reminding him of the season and where his troops were currently quartered. Unlike him, they weren’t enjoying the luxury of a good bed, a lavish meal, a warm bath. No. They were set up in a battle encampment, sleeping in shifts on unforgiving ground, living on unappetizing food, relentlessly plotting, planning, and strategizing how best to exterminate their enemy. He should be with them. 

Often he had been. From the moment he’d chosen those 5 stones and walked out to face a growling, mocking Goliath, David had frequently been on the battlefield. He was good at it. Excellent, really. So great was his skill and cunning that King Saul appointed him as head of the army. He thrived in that position, leading them to victory over and over again. So often, in fact, the people greeted him in the streets with chants and songs of the tens of thousands he had slain. (I Samuel 17:23-27, 18:5-7)

Eventually, David became king himself. His battle acumen did not lessen. He built a formidable army, made a name for Israel. Everyone knew their reputation. They knew God was on Israel’s side. Everyone who had ever met David on the training field, the battlefield, or the strategy board knew that being a warrior was ingrained by God into his very being. It was who he was, an integral part of his identity. So why was the warrior king fighting insomnia in a palace while his men fought a battle in a field? (II Samuel 2-10)

Perhaps that very question plagued David as well. Maybe he couldn’t quite find the answer. Maybe the evasiveness of the answer brought with it his current bout of insomnia. Perhaps it was the examination of those possible motives that had David climbing out from under his embroidered coverlet, shoving his feet in slippers, tossing a robe around his shoulders, and walking the roof in the dimming light of evening. It probably wasn’t the first time he walked the roof to gain perspective. 

The trek was habitual. The roof was his thinking ground, his solitude. It was where he went when there were more questions than answers, more war than peace, more fear than faith. Instead of calling for a cup of warm milk, a melodious harpist, a scribe to read the annals of history, David walked the roof. Surveyed the kingdom. Looked to the hills, reminding himself from where his help would come. Raised his face to the wind, remembering God’s sovereignty and power. 

Regardless of what he normally did, David should have called for a hot beverage, a musician, and a scribe that night. When he chose to walk the roof, he should have kept his eyes trained on the hills. Bracing himself, he should have tipped his face into the wind and focused on his God. He should never have looked out over the kingdom. Why? Because the evil one was walking the kingdom, looking for a way to trip up the warrior king God had chosen to lead His people. And blindly, David, that fearless leader, cunning strategist, unbeatable soldier, walked straight into a trap.   

Gaze drifting from rooftop to rooftop, mind boggled with answer-less questions, David begins his usual stroll. He’s not looking for anything in particular. He’s not focused on anything specific. Until he is. His mind empties as his eyes rest on the picture before him. A bathing woman. Completely beautiful. Wholly inappropriate. He should look away. Walk away. Run. Scrub his mind. Erase the memory. Forget it ever happened. He doesn’t. 

The evil one isn’t about to let it go. Finding a chink in the armor of God’s warrior is the proverbial icing on his dilapidated cake. Over and over again he flashes that picture before David’s mind. Desire develops. David weakens. He sets out to determine the bathing beauty’s identity, quietly inquiring among his staff to know her name and to whom she belongs.

It was not ideal news. The beauty relentlessly invading his thoughts and dreams is  Bathsheba. Uriah’s wife. Married. Committed. Not free. He should walk away. Let it go. Forget what he’d seen. Forget what he wanted. Forget he was a king whose every wish was a command. He didn’t. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t scrape together enough self-control. Ignoring the jab of conscience, he sent messengers to bring Bathsheba to him. 

Later, watching Bathsheba make her way from his palace, surely David promised his aggravated conscience it would never happen again. It was a one-and-done sin. No one would ever know. Uriah would come home from battle and pick up right where he left off. His house. His wife. His life. 

Except he doesn’t. The repercussions of sin infiltrate David’s daydream of anonymity. In desperation, he attempts a series of coverups. When all the innocuous methods fail, David turns deadly. With the power of his pen, he sends Uriah back to battle carrying his own death warrant. Then arrogantly marries Uriah’s wife. Takes over Uriah’s life. (II Samuel 11)

By the time I read the final verse of this account, I’m sick to my stomach. Incredulous that the same man who wrote the words of the Psalms fell so far so fast. Especially Psalm 101. A promise to walk in integrity–Within. His. House?! A vow to keep his vision focused on purity?! A staunch refusal of evil, slander, arrogance, and deceit?! An absolute statement of destruction for all those who are wicked and engage in iniquity! How can these be the words of the same David who engaged in visual impurity, arrogant misuse of his authority, and deceitful cunning to cover his sin? (Psalm 101)

How can they be our words? How can we walk among the ranks of the righteous singing words of love and peace and grace, but walk the trenches of the world spewing fear and pride and hate? How can we profess to know Jesus Christ yet not prove it with our actions? How can we call ourselves followers of Jesus when our following is limited to public appearances? How do our private actions affect our public witness? What do we do in secret that we will do anything to keep covered? (Titus 1:15-16; James 2:17,26)

That was David’s problem, you know. There was sin in his house. Invited sin. Harbored sin. Covered sin. And wherever sin is, Jesus isn’t. The two do not coexist. They cannot. They will not. They are diametrically opposed. Sin brings death. Jesus brings life. You cannot serve them both, and whichever one inhabits your heart will inhabit your thoughts and words and deeds. You will find your sin multiplying to cover the previous sin until your soul is covered in an avalanche of sins you can no longer keep covered. Sin is dangerous. It multiplies. And it brings death. (Ezekiel 18:20; John 10:10, 14:6; Matthew 6:24; Luke 6:45; Proverbs 28:13)

Soul death. Death no one can see. Death about which no one knows. Hidden erosion of the soul. Death that stagnates your spirit, stalemates your witness, and stunts your growth. The death from which you can only feign recovery unless you repent before Almighty God. So search your soul. Open every closet door. Knock down every cobweb. Rid yourself of any sin, every sin. Dedicate yourself to truly living for Jesus no matter where you are, who is around, or what anyone else is doing. Even when you are alone and there seems to be no accountability, live for Jesus then, too. It’s dangerous not to. Practice following Jesus in private so it will be your genuine response in public. Remembering this, if you choose to live for Jesus only in some places rather than in any place, you will eventually stop following Him in every place. Home. Work. School. Church. In any place you find yourself, may your life reflect the One you have chosen to serve in every place. (Ephesians 5:1; Joshua 1:8; Lamentations 3:40; Psalm 119:133; Deuteronomy 13:4)

Shock reverberated over the huddle of twelve men. Mouths hung agape. Astonished gazes met across the circle. This had to be a dream. It felt like deja vu. Not so long ago they had stood in another place, before another group of thousands, and heard Jesus ask them to do the same thing. Feed the people. 

The disciples were unaware they were serving a buffet. They were unprepared. They had brought nothing to eat, either. No grocery bag of snacks slung casually over a shoulder. No bottomless knapsack of breadsticks. No bursting kreel from a nearby lake. Not even a long-forgotten candy found in the deep recesses of a lint-infested pocket. How exactly were they supposed to feed the people with nothing?

Clearly believing lunch was on their tab, the disciples looked around for viable possibilities. There were a few options. The countryside was full of villages. There were food stalls and inns where they could obtain sustenance. Houses and farms where folks might be persuaded to aid in the prevention of starvation. If they dismissed immediately, the people could go find themselves something to eat. Yet, when they presented the idea to Jesus, He turned it down. 

Instead, He sent them out to find out how much bread was in the crowd. It was a tedious job. There were a lot of people. Walking among the rows turned up only a child’s lunch–five bread loaves and two fish. The result wasn’t worth the effort. The discovered groceries wouldn’t feed one grown man, let alone 5,000! Until Jesus touched it. Lifting the bread toward Heaven, Jesus blessed it, broke it, and handed it to the disciples with the same instructions He’d given before. Feed the people. And they did. (Mark 6:33-44)

But that was last time. There had been options had they needed them. Homes and towns and farms. This time, there was nothing. Not one house, one hut, one hovel. The desolation was so profound, there was absolutely nothing edible in that place. Yet Jesus asked them to do the same thing He’d asked them to do when teaching near the villages. Feed the people.  

Frustration bubbling to the top, they fire off questions and arguments in rapid succession. Was Jesus unfamiliar with their location? It was barren, the land inhospitable. Nothing edible grew there. Literally nothing. Where were they supposed to get food here? Where would anyone find food here? Any food? Enough food? From where the disciples stood, the option of sending the people home had a slightly higher survival rate. Even if they fainted on the way, perhaps someone with an extra loaf tucked in his satchel would stop to help. Here it was hopeless. 

Jesus wasn’t having it. Not the excuses. Not the questions. Not the arguments. If He wished, even for a moment, that His disciples would remember how He’d fed the 5,000 with five bread rolls and two fishes, He never mentioned it. He simply got down to business. The business He had called the disciples to do. Feeding the people. 

Seven bread loaves appeared from somewhere. A few fish were scrounged out of the bottom of someone’s sack. Seating everyone on the ground, Jesus held up the bread and blessed it. Breaking the loaves, he gave the pieces to His disciples and sent them out to do His bidding. The same bidding as before when the crowd had been larger, the resources less. Feed the people. Keep feeding them until they are full. Pick up the leftovers. Send everybody home. (Mark 8:1-9)

Why didn’t they think of that? Why didn’t the disciples, in that reminiscent moment, just ask Jesus to do it again? Why didn’t they immediately set out to count the remaining bread loaves and search for the final few fish? Why did they take time to question and argue and create bottomless excuses? Knowing what they knew of His ability. Seeing what they had seen. Hearing what they had heard. Why didn’t the disciples simply ask Jesus to do it again?  

Perhaps it is human nature. They certainly weren’t the first to come up with questions and excuses and disbelief when God set out to feed His people. Beleaguered by belligerent Israelites weeping and wailing over the lavish food they’d left behind in Egypt, Moses cried out to the Lord for strength to carry the burden of leadership. The people wanted meat. Moses didn’t have any. They were in the wilderness. There wasn’t meat. There was manna. Only manna. It was how God was feeding His people.

Angry with their complaining and the wantonness of their hearts, the ease with which they would have turned back to Egypt for a filet of fish and a cucumber leek salad, God spoke a message to Moses, “Tell the people they will eat meat tomorrow. And not just tomorrow, but the next day as well. And the next. And the next. And the next. They will eat meat for an entire month. They will eat so much meat they will be sick of it. Loathe the sight and smell. Refuse to eat it. But if meat is what they want, meat is what they will get.”

Like the New Testament disciples, Old Testament Moses sputtered out explanations, questions, concerns. Did God realize how many of them there were? Hundreds of thousands. Where was the meat coming from? Were they to slaughter all the flocks and herds? Trek to the nearest body of water and eradicate its inhabitants? How exactly did God expect Moses to make this happen at all, much less by tomorrow? Clearly Moses thought the responsibility of providing meat for several hundred thousand people was his alone.

It wasn’t. If God wished for even a moment that Moses would look back, remember all the miracles God had worked, and wait expectantly for Him to do it again, He doesn’t mention it. Patiently waiting for Moses’ litany of questions and concerns to exhaust themselves, God answers when he stops to suck in a breath, “Is there a limit to the power of the Lord? Watch and see what I will do. See if I will fulfill the words I have spoken or not.” 

He did. Standing in the center of the camp, facelifted into the wind, Moses watched God do what He always does. Feed the people. The wind snapping his cloak and blowing hair in his eyes also blew in quail from the sea. Not just a few. Not just enough for one meal. Thousands. They littered the ground. Stacked nearly knee-deep. And surely Moses wondered why he had worried and doubted in the first place. Why hadn’t he simply asked God to do it again? (Numbers 13; Exodus 8:1-9:7; 14; 16:1-7; 17:1-7)

Why don’t we? When facing an impossible, improbable, insurmountable problem, why don’t we turn to God and ask Him to do it again? Do another miracle. Make another way. Forge a path where there isn’t one. Feed our dry, desperate, decrepit souls again. Why do we grab on to God’s promises, but act like their fulfillment is up to us? Why do we worry and work as if it is up to us to do God’s job? Why do we so arrogantly think we can? (Luke 18:27; Mark 10:27; Proverbs 3:6: Matthew 17:20)

We can’t, you know. Do God’s job. And He’s not asking us to do it. He’s asking us to be obedient and willing to follow His plan, even when we can’t see the path ahead. He’s asking us to have faith in Him, even when we don’t understand how He’s going to work. He’s asking us to look back at all the things He has done, miracles He has wrought, desert moments He’s turned into springs, place our dwindling hope in Him, and trust Him to do it again.

I hope you do. I hope you take those cares and concerns, worries and fears, frustrations and doubts to God. I hope you roll it all over on Him. I long for you to latch onto the promise of Romans 8:28 and truly believe from the depths of your being that He will work all things for good. Then let Him work. Don’t try to do His job for Him, micromanage Him, instruct Him. Trust Him. Obey Him. Just bring that impossible, improbable, insurmountable request to the Father, place it in His hands, and cry, “Lord, do it again!” (Romans 8:28; Isaiah 26:3, 55:8-9; Matthew 21:21-22; Deuteronomy 8:2; Isaiah 46:9, 59:1; I Peter 5:7)

Never before had they been tasked to bring this type of message to the king. Reeking of arrogance, it played more like a dirge than an offer for peaceful surrender. Every sentence was laced with defiance. The message Eliakim, Shebna, and Joah carried to Hezekiah was clear.  They were coming to conquer Jerusalem. They had conquered every other nearby nation. Samaria had been captured. Israel led away into exile. Assyria had recently captured Judah’s fortified cities. Jerusalem was the last stronghold. There was no reason to believe they couldn’t win this war as well, the damage would be irreparable, the death toll would be astronomical, the end result would be typical. The Assyrians felt certain they would be triumphant.  

Success had made them an arrogant lot. Boasting and bragging was part of their battle strategy. When it worked, they never had to lift a sword or aim an arrow. This likely wasn’t the first time they had come against an enemy flaunting their track record and spouting their filth. It is, however, possibly the first time they so astonishingly exaggerated their endorsements. Hollering out across the land, they claimed God, the very One to whom King Hezekiah so closely clung, had sent Assyria on a mission to destroy Jerusalem. Swore they had His full approval. Vowed that nothing and no one could or would stop their destructive destiny. And in the hearts of men across Jerusalem, their verbal arrows sowed seeds of doubt and fear. Doubt that God was planning to rescue them. Fear of what would happen if He didn’t. 

As the disconcerting words and reports fell on Hezekiah’s ears, his heart seized with pain for his people. The mantle of kingly responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders. They needed a rescue. He didn’t have one. He had no idea how to defeat the Assyrian army.  But he knew Someone who did. 

In a move that must have puzzled every soul in royal employ, Hezekiah didn’t send Eliakim to call for a round table with his heads of national security. He didn’t send Shebna sprinting about with messages for generals to rally the troops. He didn’t have Asaph quietly request the presence of his most trusted advisors for a clandestine meeting to sort out the coming chaos. No. He had a more important meeting to attend. Throwing off his robe of majesty, Hezekiah donned his sackcloth of humility, entered the house of the Lord, and sent out only one message. A simple prayer request to the prophet Isaiah. 

“We stand under threat of capture and oppression at the hand of the Assyrians. They say God is behind it. He isn’t. I know better. I know God heard every blasphemous word that came from Rabshakeh’s mouth. And I am asking you, prophet of the living God, to offer a prayer of deliverance on our behalf.” 

No prayer by Isaiah is recorded. Perhaps none was necessary. Perhaps God’s anger was already so incited by the ridiculous words of Assyria that He answered before a prayer could be uttered. It doesn’t matter. Only His answer does. In words clear and concise, leaving nothing to interpretation, God’s answer came, “Don’t worry about that putrid spew of verbal vomit you just heard. You will be fine. I’ve got this.” (II Kings 19:6)

Returning to his ranks, awaiting a reply, Rabshakeh found a different situation. Instead of lying in wait for the signal to capture Jerusalem, the king of Assyria engaged in a different war. Not to be deterred, Rabshakeh dashed off a second round of reckless sputum to Hezekiah, even more blasphemous than the first. “Don’t relax. We will be back for you. You can’t trust your God to save you, no matter what He said. Here is a list of the kings we’ve defeated. Do the math. Does it really seem likely you will be spared?” (II Kings 19:8-13)

 Upon receiving the letter, Hezekiah does what we know from experience he will do. Pray. Once again, Hezekiah makes the trek to the house of the Lord. Unrolling the scroll, he meticulously smooths out the curls and wrinkles. Turning the words toward heaven, he lays that horrific letter before the Lord. Then, in calm, measured, unhurried sentences, Hezekiah begins to pray. His words are a bit surprising. They are not the expected words of a man holding a death threat. They are words of exaltation to the God who has never let Him down. Words that remind Hezekiah himself that he is talking to the One Being who is in charge of it all. Every king. Every kingdom. All of Heaven. Every inch of earth. The One who sits enthroned above the cherubim watching, acting, working on behalf of His people. 

Because Hezekiah needed to hear those words. He needed to remind himself that his requests were not falling on deaf ears. They were not knocking against brass heavens. His desperate need to salvage his people might be above his pay grade, but nothing is above God’s. In this moment of frustration, concern, consternation, and cluelessness, the God who handles the affairs of the entire universe was still Sovereign, He had not relinquished the reins, He had not abdicated His throne, and He would never, will never turn a blind eye to the discouragement and despair of His people.

Basing his words on the truth he knew about God and rooting his prayer in the depths of his faith, Hezekiah boldly brings his request to the God he has trusted, followed, clung to from the beginning of his reign. A prayer for God to hear the things Assyria was saying. Things that rained fear and worry upon the people of Jerusalem. Much of their boasting was true. The Assyrians had devastated many lands. They had a reputation for ruining and pillaging and capturing nation after nation. On the outside, their reign of terror appeared limitless. Maybe it had been. Until now. They hadn’t come up against Hezekiah’s God yet. 

Assyria’s experience with the majestic, sovereign God of the universe is clearly lacking. They have no idea what they are up against. Hezekiah does. That’s why he’s kneeling there in the Lord’s house, parchment spread before him, fervently entreating God to deliver Judah from Assyria. Not because the people deserve a break. Not even because Hezekiah has now twice sought the Lord concerning the matter. No. Hezekiah is praying that God will deliver them so that He alone will be lifted up, so every kingdom on earth, upon hearing of the salvation of Judah, will know that He is God alone. There is no one before or beside Him. The Lord is God–the only God–in Heaven and on earth, and He is alive and working on behalf of His people. 

In words that speak peace to my soul centuries after they were spoken from God to Isaiah to Hezekiah, the answer comes, “Because you prayed to Me…I have heard you.” Because you prayed before you sought human advice. Because you prayed before you tried human machinations. Because you came to God before you approached human conference tables. Those B.C. words echo into my A.D. mind as a reminder to pray first, talk later. They remind me to hit my knees before I tap the speed dial, send a text, shoot off my mouth. They constantly prod me to pray first, pray often, pray about everything. (II Kings 18-19)

Because I serve the same God Hezekiah served. The God who sits in Heaven and watches every action of every man. The God who knows the hearts and minds of every person on earth. The God who speaks and plans and promises things that no one can thwart or change or negate. The God who promised to be with us, strengthen us, help us, and uphold us. The God who, although the world seems to be spinning out of control at an alarming rate, has never relinquished His sovereign omnipotence. He is still seated on His throne. He is still listening to the cries of His people. And we can trust Him. (Isaiah 14:27, 43:13; Romans 8:28; Job 42:2; Isaiah 41:10; Psalm 47:8; Psalm 145:13; Proverbs 15:3) 

In a world where nothing is trustworthy, where sin runs rampant, where the advice of a friend is skewed to their personal opinion, where human plans and machinations fall sadly short of the mark, you can trust God. You can bring Him anything, everything. The nasty rumors someone spread. The evil words spoken against you. The things that make you feel hurt and defeated and tired. Bring them to Him. Bring it all to Him. The questionable test results. The redundancy notice. The bill that’s bigger than your bank balance. Literally lay it in front of Him. He is not surprised by any of it. He’s prepared for all of it. No weapon formed against you can prosper when you pray about it. (Philippians 4:6-7; Isaiah 41:17; Isaiah 54:17; Psalm 66:19; Psalm 102:16-17)

So lay down your cell phone. Don’t phone a friend. Don’t shoot off a text. Turn it off entirely. Lay it all aside. Take your cue from Hezekiah. Pray about it. In humility, fervency, urgency, come boldly to the throne of grace and faithfully make your requests to Almighty God. Don’t be shy. Remember who your God is. Remember His power. Remember His promises. And ask. Ask for that uncrossable river to be forded. Ask for that mountain to be removed. Ask for streams in the desert and paths through your wilderness. Ask and watch God answer. Because He will answer. It might not be the way you think it should be. It might not be the grandiose miracle for which you hoped. It might not be what you think you want. It will be what you need. Right on time. Every time. God will hear. God will answer. Because you prayed. (Jeremiah 32:17; Psalm 91:15; Mark 11:23; I Peter 3:12; I John 5:15; Psalm 32:6)

Several years ago my oldest daughter picked up a softball for the first time and set her eye on the pitcher’s circle. It was not the position I hoped she’d choose. Attempting to change her mind, I told tales of painful line drives, talked about the pressure to perform. I was hoping for a different choice. Third base sounded good. Maybe shortstop. The outfield is pretty safe. My words were wasted. She wasn’t deterred. Pitcher’s circle it was.

Scores of times she’s vowed to quit. Wailed about not being good enough. Her pitches weren’t fast enough. Her curveball didn’t curve enough. Her rise ball dropped. Her drop ball rose.  Over the years, in answer to her whines, wails, and frustrations, I’ve heard my husband repeat the same phrases. “Fundamentals. First position. Second position. Be sure you close the door.” 

It’s a series of exercises her first pitching coach would put her through at the start of her lesson. Placing a ball in her hand, he would say, “First position. Second position. Do it again.” Over and over she would go through those two motions. First position opened the door. Second position, if done correctly, closed the door. The ball would never leave her hand. She hated every minute of it. 

They were the most productive lessons she ever had. Those motions are essential for her speed and accuracy–fastball, screwball, or anything in between. Open the door. Close the door. Every time. And now, when she walks into the circle and lines her foot up on that rubber strip, she has only to think about which pitch the coach called and ensuring it sails inside, outside, or down the middle. She doesn’t have to worry about her form, her feet, or where everything will land when she is done. Why? Because the fundamentals of pitching are buried deeply in mind and muscles. She has heard and practiced them over and over until they are her first response. First position. Second position. Don’t forget to close the door.

I’ve spent my whole life learning a similar lesson. Not about playing a ballgame. About winning at spiritual warfare. First position–pray about everything. All of it. Even when it seems simple and easily decided. Even when you already know the answer. Get in the habit of including God in every choice, every decision, every plan. Even if it’s just about what to have for dinner. Get in the habit of conversing with God. Speak and listen. Learn to know His voice. Talk with Him so often that He knows yours. (I Thessalonians 5:17; Philippians 4:6; Romans 12:12; Psalm 116:1-2)

That’s what Elijah did. In I Kings 17, the miraculous work of God to restore a boy’s life through Elijah is recorded. There was no rhyme or reason to the boy’s illness. It seemed so unfair. The widow had done everything she could for Elijah. Stepped out in faith and gave him water and her last loaf of bread. Her oil and flour were never empty, but their constancy couldn’t heal her deathly ill boy. Her faith, bolstered by the ready flour and oil, died with the final breath of her boy. 

Rushing at Elijah, she railed against him, her anguish and grief pouring out in words of anger. Surely it was his fault her son had died. Why had he come to their lives in the first place? Why had he saved their lives from famine and drought only to kill her son? Was it judgment for her past iniquities? Was the whole thing an elaborate scheme to rain punishment on her head? If that was why he’d come, he could leave. She wanted nothing more to do with him. But Elijah wasn’t finished. 

Taking her son, he carried the boy to his bed, laid him there, and immediately went to first position. Prayer. Elijah didn’t understand the situation. He didn’t know why the obedient widow had lost her son. He couldn’t explain to her the intricacies of what God was about to do. He just did what he’d been doing since before God sent him to the courts of Ahab with the prophecy of drought. Elijah prayed. And God heard him. 

He already knew the voice of Elijah. Very well. They were in constant communication. And God knew Elijah was ready for the second position. Obedience. God knew that Elijah would do whatever He told Him to do. He always had. Trembling as he stood before Ahab, Elijah had straightened his spine, stiffened his knees, and prophesied a drought of epic proportions. Anxious as he headed out to the brook called Cherith, Elijah took a deep breath, chose a walking stick, and trudged on. Concerned the ravens, disgusting birds that they were, might bring him only bits and pieces of leftovers when the mood struck them, Elijah still sat patiently by the brook and daily waited for his grocery delivery. When the brook dried up and God sent Elijah off on another journey that seemed like a wild goose chase. He picked up his walking stick and traveled, said the words he was told to say, made the promises God said he should make. He did everything God told Him to do, exactly as he was told to do it. So, when God saw Elijah fall into first position on his knees and heard the voice of Elijah raised in prayer, God already knew Elijah was poised to spring into second position. Elijah was going to obey God. 

No matter what He told Him to do. No matter how crazy it sounded. No matter who made fun of him. No matter if anyone else did it or not. Elijah was going to obey God. Bowing over the child in urgency and fervency, praying from the depths of his being, Elijah begged God to return life to that boy. He’s willing to do anything for it. Anything for this widow to see that his God is real and true and trustworthy. (I Kings 17)

When the boy suddenly sucked in a breath and opened his eyes, it must have seemed like an anomaly. I wonder if Elijah was surprised. Ready to jump into action at God’s certain command, surely he was surprised when no unorthodox orders echoed back from Heaven.  Surprised or not, one fact remains, if God had asked Elijah to do something, he’d have done it. Just like he always did. It was his habit. Prayer. Obedience. Close the door. Elijah had been practicing it for years. It was second nature. An instinctive response to every situation. Prayer and obedience were how he closed the door against all the things that would draw him aside, tempt him into turning away, or turn him back from following God. They were not a certainty that he would never face those temptations or distractions, they were a surety that he knew what to do when they occurred. 

And they would occur. It is easy to read the Biblical accounts of prophets and preachers, teachers and saints, and lose sight of them as human beings. We hold them up as paragons of virtue. Because we don’t read of every temptation that accosted their minds, hearts, and bodies, we assume they were never tempted as we are. Untrue. Two chapters later we find Elijah terrified, running for his life, flopping down under a juniper tree, and asking for death. He was done. Physically exhausted. Emotionally drained. Jezebel had issued a wanted bulletin for his life–alive if necessary, preferably dead. Not one person had come running to him with offers of safety, help, or direction. He felt alone. Abandoned. He was tired in every imaginable way. He just wanted to die and be done with it. 

Yet even in that dark place, Elijah never left his fundamentals. Slouched under that tree in the dregs of exhaustion and depression, Elijah still prayed. In one short sentence, he brings before God his physical weariness, his emotional emptiness, his spiritual dryness and asks to die. He can’t do it. He doesn’t even want to anymore. The idea that he was stronger, better, more capable than all the men who had held this role before him was clearly off the mark. Please can he just die and be done now? (I Kings 19)

God wasn’t done with Elijah. He had so much more to do. Jezebel’s wanted bulletin was destined to go unfulfilled. The blade of a sword, the tip of an arrow, the hangman’s noose would never touch Elijah. He didn’t know that. He didn’t need to know it. Elijah simply needed to follow the steps, stick with the fundamentals. Pray. Obey. Close the door on the temptation to give in, give up, give over. Close the door on the mind games the evil one was playing telling him he had been abandoned by everyone, persuading him he was the only one serving God, pressing him to quit praying, quit obeying, quit living. Because that is what the evil one does. 

At every juncture, every crossroads, every possible moment he can, the evil one will slip in and attack your soul. He will come at you with the things of the world and tell you to lighten up, lower your standards, loosen your morals. He will assault your mind, and attack your relationship with God and others. He’ll tell you everyone hates you. He’ll say you are alone. He will browbeat and badger until you feel like giving in. Unless you stick to the fundamentals. Unless you hit your knees in prayer and spring to your heels in obedience. Unless you close the door. (John 8:44; Ephesians 4:26-27; I Corinthians 10:13; Mark 7:20-23)

I’ve lost track of the times I’ve seen my daughter get rattled in the circle. Not every day is her day. Sometimes the umpire puts a crick in her armor, sees a strike that looks like a ball. Sometimes she gets in her own head, compares herself to the other team’s pitcher and things go pear-shaped. In those moments, admittedly, I holler things across the field. Things she needs to hear from her Momma. “Take a deep breath. Relax. You know what to do. You can do this.” Essentially, first position. Second position. Close the stinkin’ door! 

The same applies to you. In your moments of exhaustion, frustration, fear, and self-doubt, when the enemy has found a way to sneak past all your defenses, make you feel alone, unworthy, unnecessary, when you are over it, done, ready to quit, don’t. God has heard all those prayers you’ve prayed. He has seen all those times you jumped to your feet and readily obeyed His voice when it was unpopular, unfamiliar, unpleasant. He’s watched you slam the door in the face of temptation over and over again with your faithful practice of prayer and obedience. And God is in your cheering section. He’s hollering across the terrain of your life, encouraging you not to give up, not to quit, not to be discouraged. So take a moment, quiet your soul, and do what you know works mightily against every stronghold of the enemy. First position. Second position. Prayer. Obedience. And don’t forget to shut the door! (Luke 11:28; II Corinthians 10:4; Matthew 26:41; Hebrews 4:15-16)

Perhaps your view has been different than mine, but from where I’ve been sitting the last couple of years, the triumphant passageway from earth to Heaven has become a busy thoroughfare. One by one I have watched as earthly saints put on eternal sainthood. With each passing, each memorial, each funeral, my heart sinks a bit lower. The growing ball of uncertainty in the pit of my stomach tightens even more. My mind plays back the reels of questions each homegoing underscores, wailing out each one with bone-deep distress. 

Who is going to pray for us now? Who is going to lead us? Who is going to boldly pick up the banner of holiness? Who is going to encourage us in moments of despair? Who is going to exhibit faith in the face of fear? Whose example are we going to follow since God has called so many of His children home?

A few days ago, after news of yet another homegoing, I sat in this very spot at my desk and read the beginning of Elisha’s story in II Kings 2. It is not full of amazing miracles, phenomenal answers to prayer, or moments of stalwart faith. It’s before all that. Before the widow’s debt was paid with multiplied oil. Before the barren Shunammite woman birthed a son. Before Naaman, covered in leprosy, plunged into the murky Jordan for healing. Before the borrowed axe head floated. It is while Elisha is still just Elijah’s apprentice, a prophet in training. While he is still watching, learning, hoping to someday become the kind of person his fearless leader already is. (II Kings 4-6)

Elijah’s days on earth are growing short. Elisha knows it. Every other prophet seems to know it as well. They feel the need to continually remind him. Everywhere he travels they pop out of doorways and alleys to ask if he’s heard the news. God is going to take his friend, his mentor, his spiritual pillar. He’s aware. He doesn’t need reminders. In spite of their good intentions to prepare him for the inevitable, he wishes they wouldn’t. He doesn’t need the noise. Doesn’t want the distraction. Doesn’t want to miss a moment with his mentor. Has no intention of missing the moment that transition happens. 

He’d already faced opposition in his quest. Opposition from the strangest place. Elijah himself. Three times he implored Elisha to stay behind while he traveled to the next place the Lord sent Him. Bethel. Jericho. The Jordan. Three times Elisha declined. He wasn’t staying anywhere. If Elijah was traveling, so was Elisha. Until the moment God rendered it impossible.

That moment was coming. Quickly. Soon Elisha would be left with impossibly large sandals to fill. Sandals that had boldly stood before King Ahab and declared a drought as punishment for Israel’s sins. Sandals that fled to deserted Cherith and lived by faith in God’s provisions. Sandals that walked into Zarephath and created unending oil and flour for a destitute widow and her son. Sandals that faithfully stood on Mount Carmel amid the frantic fussing of the prophets of Baal, only to calmly build an altar, saturate it with water, and with the verbiage of one carefully worded prayer, called God to light that place on fire. And He did. (I Kings 17-18)

No one could blame Elisha if he felt overwhelmed by the oncoming responsibilities. In the moment Elijah would be taken from earth, he would assume the responsibilities of God’s prophet. Him. Elisha. The guy whose expertise lay in plowing his field, not in praying down fire from Heaven. It would be an enormous task. He’d been riding in Elijah’s sidecar for a while now. He’d seen amazing things happen, but he hadn’t prayed the prayers, struck the waters, or worn the mantle of responsibility. He’d remained an onlooker. Yet now, at any moment, his onlooker status would change and he’d be the headliner. One man…plus God. 

Sometimes we forget that every person in the Bible was human. It is difficult to see Elisha as nervous, scared, worried, or concerned. It is unlikely he wasn’t. How could he be sure he was ready? Was he bold enough? Was his faith stalwart enough? Was he courageous enough? Were his prayers strong enough? What did Elijah have that Elisha needed to do the task he was being left to do? 

Elisha must have been giving it some thought. He must have spent the miles between Bethel and Jericho considering and discarding options. As they walked even more miles to the banks of the Jordan river, he must have been quietly pondering his final questions and requests. Yet, I wonder if he even realized what words would come out of his mouth in that all-important moment when Elijah posed the question, “What do you want me to do for you before I go?”

I wonder if Elisha planned to say the words that flew urgently from his lips. I wonder if it was the culmination of all the possible requests he had pondered and discarded. I wonder at what moment Elisha realized he desperately needed the spirit of Elijah in spades. Not even Elijah’s spirit exactly, but the Spirit of God that rested on, moved in, and worked through Elijah’s life. He needed God’s Spirit. So aware was Elisha of his acute deficit, from the depths of his soul erupted the words, “Please grant me a double portion of the Spirit that rests on you.” (II Kings 2:1-14)

Me too. As I read those words passing over Elisha’s lips, my soul responds in kind. As I stare at the lives of my departed friends and loved ones, my heart cries out to be so faithful, prayerful, loving, kind, forgiving. When I look within, I find a glaring deficit where courage and boldness, confidence and strength should be. The above list of questions again floods my mind bringing with it a sense of desperation. I find myself crying out with Elisha for a double portion of what those friends and mentors and religious giants had. I long for the courage and boldness and faith to stand in the gap left by their passing, to make up the hedge of godliness surrounding our families, to raise the banner and hold the line of holiness in an increasingly darkening world. 

As my pleas reach riot pitch and I’m forced to drag in a breath before continuing, the gentle voice of God speaks to me. Me–helpless, worried, mind reeling with possibilities–yet God speaks to me. His words stop me up short, ringing with truth I’m still unpacking. Not one of those people–Elijah, Elisha, my prayer warrior great aunt, or faithfully encouraging friend–had some great, unattainable spiritual gift bestowed only on them. They were simply full of the Spirit of the same God. 

The same God who rescued Noah from the punishment of his evil generation. The same God who rescued Lot from certain death in a city steeped in debauchery and sin. The exact same God who descended on Mount Carmel among a people who had deserted and disdained Him, to prove His mighty power through the prayers of one man. The same God who over and over and over again throughout the Bible, throughout history, throughout your life has proven His power. The same God who calls you to Himself, not just to salvage your eternity, but fill you with His Spirit, flow through you, flow out of you, and change the world. (Genesis 6-9; Genesis 19; I Kings 18; Jeremiah 32:17) 

See, God isn’t calling us to some multiplied form of sainted humanity. God is calling us to the same thing He called those heroes of faith to do. Be filled with the Spirit. He is calling you to come and drink in Jesus Christ. Feast on Him. Take as much as you want, as much as your soul can hold. Come back as often as possible. Saturate your soul in Him. There is no limit on how much you can have. You can have all of Jesus you want. Get a double portion. Get a triple. Be a glutton. You’ll need it out there in the murky waters of this world. (Ephesians 5:18; John 6:35; John 4:14; Galatians 5:16)

And come back often. Don’t suppose that one meal is enough. It won’t be. Immerse yourself in the Bible. Pray continually. Listen just as much. And act. Do what God tells you to do. Even if it’s standing alone against 450 false prophets. Preach the Word. Be consistent. Be faithful. Be holy. Because the glaringly obvious and terrifyingly unavoidable truth is this, you are now the leaders. You are the preachers and teachers, the prayer warriors, the encouragers, the examples of faith. You are the ones that must stand in the gap. The banner of holiness is now in your hands. What you do with it matters. Do you have enough of God’s Spirit to stand in the gap and make up the hedge for your family, your church, your land? Or do you need to tuck back into the feast? (Matthew 5:6; I Thessalonians 5:17-19; Ezekiel 22:30; I Samuel 15:22)