Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Another slab of wood sailed into the rapidly increasing pile of rejects. The measurements were wrong. Again. He really needed to focus! But how do you focus on measuring boards when your mind is reeling, your stomach churning, your heart aching? How do you make sense of work when you can’t make sense of the bewildering events in your own life? How do you believe a story with absolutely no foundation, no evidence, no logic? How do you separate the truth from a lie? How do you make a choice when it seems you are missing half the facts? 

Heaving a sigh of frustration, Joseph dropped heavily into a chair, the conversation with Mary running on repeat in his mind. She was pregnant. It wasn’t his. Couldn’t possibly be. She claimed it was God’s. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. If it was, this was the greatest moment, the most significant pregnancy, the most important baby to grace the annals of history. If it wasn’t, well, that would be mortifying. He’d be forced to admit, if only to himself, that he had been swindled by a pair of gorgeous eyes and a brilliant smile. If it wasn’t true and he believed it, that would make him something he’d never been before–a fool. The title didn’t sit well.  

Choosing a course of action was a horrific conundrum. How do you make such a choice when you don’t know truth from error? By law, he could divorce her. It would follow the societal norm. Every other man he knew would file that in an instant. No one wanted to be saddled with an unfaithful woman. But Joseph was fond of Mary. And he wasn’t completely certain she was lying. Publicly setting her aside didn’t feel right. He wouldn’t choose to have her humiliated in such a way. He’d rather save her from disgrace. Quietly sending her away would be a better idea. Surely there was somewhere she could go. In time the rumors would fade, some other scandal would entertain the town gossips, and he would find another wife. A faithful woman. Someone he could trust.

His decision made, the day done, Joseph focused on rectifying the mess he’d made of his woodshop. He cleaned up the pile of inaccurately cut wood, organized the tools his frustration had tossed hither and yon and headed to bed. He wouldn’t head out to start the process tonight. Tomorrow was a new day. Tomorrow would be soon enough to get started on the dissolution. He’d procrastinate a little longer. Contemplate his decision overnight. Savor the memory of the relationship while he could. Think of Mary as the innocent to whom he’d been betrothed. Ponder his choice. Question it, because somehow, a dissolution didn’t feel like a solution at all. 

It is certainly a good thing Joseph didn’t immediately strike out to have a word with Mary’s father. The next day would have been a bit embarrassing. There would have been a lot of back and forth, hemming and hawing, rescinding and re-offering if he had. He would have lost face. Could have been labeled double-minded. It turned out Mary hadn’t concocted the most elaborate tale of all time from her treasure trove of girlhood dreams. It wasn’t an epic fairy tale at all. It was God-breathed truth. 

When his mind finally settled enough to fall asleep, Joseph had his own Heavenly visit. An angel came, called him by name, and asked him to do something unheard of. Go ahead and take the pregnant-to-someone-besides-him Mary as his wife. She had not been unfaithful. She had not been dishonest. She truly was carrying a child conceived by the Holy Spirit. A Son. The promised Messiah. Jesus. Savior. Emmanuel. And Joseph, a simple carpenter with no grand accolades, no great accomplishments, no fabulous following, was being asked to be His earthly father. The pleasure was all his. (Matthew 1:18-25)

I wonder what would have happened if Joseph had refused. He stood to benefit not at all from the arrangement. He would not become popular because his Son turned water to wine. He wouldn’t mingle with the disciples, trading stories of eventful moments in Jesus’ childhood. He wouldn’t stand at the foot of the cross as Jesus bequeathed his care to John. There would be no great monetary gain, no social standing, no sainthood. He wouldn’t be called to speak to thousands crammed into concert halls, recounting his life as the father of the Messiah. There would be no book deals, no media coverage. Indeed, his name would fade from the Gospels as if his importance was insignificant. If Joseph was basing his decision to marry Mary on how he would benefit, he’d surely have declined.  (John 2:1-11; John 19:26-27)

For all intents and purposes, Joseph was simply a placeholder, the guy that stood between Mary and complete social destruction. Without him, her Child would be illegitimate. She would no longer be accepted in polite society. Her alleged reputation would precede her. No other man would want her. She wouldn’t have been at the wedding in Cana to prompt the beginning of Jesus’ miraculous mission. She wouldn’t have spoken the command for the servants to do Jesus’ bidding. She’d have been unwelcome, uninvited. And people would have missed the miraculous because, tainted by his mother’s reputation, Jesus possibly wouldn’t have been there either. 

And what would we miss by not hearing those words echoing down through history, “Whatever He tells you to do, do it”? Who better to speak those words than Mary? She had done it herself. The words Gabriel had spoken to her seemed as improbable, impossible as water miraculously becoming wine. Yet still she accepted. Her husband had done it, too. His obedience was even more impressive than her own. He couldn’t claim the Child as his, would benefit nothing from the birth, the raising, the miraculous, yet still he obeyed. Because, thirty-odd years before the words would leave Mary’s lips, Joseph understood the worth of doing whatever God tells you to do. (John 2:5)

Enormous things. Giant donations. Epic moves. Fantastic speeches. Tiny things. Whispered prayers. Silent support. Wordless hugs. Not everything God asks you to do will set off the bells and whistles of society. Not every word you speak, song you sing, or prayer you pray is meant to be plastered over the Internet for all and sundry. You might never see the end result of your obedience. That’s okay. Joseph didn’t.  (Matthew 6:1-8)

According to many individuals more scholarly than I, Joseph never saw Jesus’ miracles. He never heard the stories of his alleged Son feeding the multitudes, healing the blind, or raising the dead. He’d likely have enjoyed hearing them. He didn’t stand and watch redemptive blood flow down Calvary’s hill, hear the rending of the Temple veil echo on the silent air, or visit an empty tomb. Surely his heart would have overflowed had he seen them. He didn’t get to. Apparently, Joseph passed away before those things happened. (Matthew 14:13-21; Mark 10:46-52; Mark 5:21-43; Luke 23-24; Matthew 27:51)

From his Heavenly vantage point, leaning over the edge of a cloud, perhaps Joseph watched those things with vision only those who have transitioned to glory can have. Explanatory vision. Comprehensive vision. Vision that, as the veil split, the stone rolled away, and the Holy Spirit descended, allowed Joseph to smile to himself and exclaim, “It was worth it!” Worth it to obey without a promised reward. Worth it to be in the background credited with nothing more than marrying Mary. Worth it, overwhelmingly so, to be just a bit player in the grand love story of God. (Matthew 27:51; Luke 24:2; Acts 2:1-13)

Do you find it so? When God comes and asks you to do something small, something no one will notice, something that won’t get your name in lights, do you jump at the chance? Or are you too busy waiting for the crowds to gather round, the stage lights to come on, the millionth follower to join your page? Do you see the things God asks you to do in the light of eternity or examine how they will look in the lights of this world? When God asks you to do something, anything, do you find obedience to be worth it? (I Samuel 15:22; Acts 5:29) 

I hope you do. I hope you find instant obedience to Jesus to be worth it. No matter what He is calling you to do, I hope you do it. I hope you leave the flamboyant applause, monumental recognition, extravagant praise of the world behind, and revel in the abject joy of obedience to God. Whatever He is asking you to do, I hope you do it. Adventurous. Safe. Epic. Insignificant. Insanely public or intensely private. Do it. There are no small roles in God’s kingdom. Not one of His children is superfluous. Everything He asks is imperative to His kingdom. Leading preachers. Supportive prayers. God is offering you a part in His grand love story. I hope you accept. I hope you do whatever He asks. Big role or bit player. “Whatever He tells you to do, do it.” (Colossians 3:23; Ephesians 6:6-7)

What, exactly, had she just agreed to do?! 

The question spun about in Mary’s mind as the haze of the surreal moment abated. She’d been so caught up in the wonder, the amazement, the astonishment of conversing with an actual angel, that the possible ramifications of her agreement were only now dawning on her consciousness. Now that they were, now that she was considering the possible costs, she had to ask herself another question. Would it be worth it? Would the possible outrage from her family, rejection by her betrothed, and shunning by society change her decision? If it should require everything, was this opportunity, this privilege, worth it? 

 Her answer was a resounding, “Yes!” The privilege to carry, birth, and raise the Messiah, be part of the grand plan of God would be worth whatever she lost. And there could easily be costs. She could lose everything she held dear. Family, fiancee, friends. Gabriel had made no promises of ease or glamour. He said nothing about ready acceptance among the people. There was no mention of her family reacting positively to the news. He said nothing about faithful friends and a supportive community. Most importantly, Gabriel said nothing about Joseph. (Luke 1:26-38)

What was she supposed to do about Joseph? What would she say? How could she explain? How would he react? Was his faith strong enough to see the possibility of the impossible? Would he understand she had been chosen by God for a task greater than either of them? Would he be able to look past the inconvenience and accept the importance of the mission to which they had been called? Or would he divorce her, set her aside like so much baggage? (Matthew 1:19)

He could choose that option. If Joseph were to decide her story was too far-fetched, too imaginative, or just a downright lie, the options were all his. He could end the betrothal. Call for a divorce. The news would spread through their little town like wildfire. Everyone would know about it. Everyone would assume they knew the reason. Everyone would talk.      

It would be social suicide. She’d be painted a harlot. Loose with her favors. She’d be scorned. Rejected. Outcast. Abused. The truth wouldn’t matter. No one would believe her. The telling would only bring more bullying, more scoffing, more virulent criticism. They’d call it a sham. Deem it the most creative lie they’d ever heard. Judge it an elaborate cover-up. She’d never walk the streets of town without feeling judgmental stares. She’d never visit the market without hearing vicious insults. She’d never again draw water from the well without feeling the harsh rebuff of her one-time friends. 

Her family wouldn’t fare much better. They would feel the sting of her decision as well. Even if they chose to believe she was carrying the Christ child, they would not escape the wrath of the skeptics and unbelievers. The outcome could tarnish her father’s name. His business could falter. Her mother would shed tears of pain and sorrow, worry and fear over the future of her daughter charged with such an atrocious offense. Her siblings might never forgive her for jeopardizing their business relationships, current social standings, and future marriages.

As wonderful as it was to be chosen, after considering the possible ramifications, one would think Mary might be inclined to decline. Yet there is never any indication that she does. Graciously accepting the challenge of a lifetime, Mary replies to Gabriel, with the ancient equivalent of the modern-day, “Let’s do this!”  She said, “I am God’s servant. May it be so.” Instinctively knowing and immediately accepting the answer to the question we now take days and weeks, months and years to answer–Is Jesus worth it? 

Is Jesus worth laying aside yourself, your dreams, your wants, your wishes? Is Jesus worth extricating yourself from your comfortable life with all its conveniences and heading out into the uncomfortable, inconvenient places of the world to share His story, His love, His grace? Is Jesus worth missing the ball game, the movie, the night out with friends to sit with the hurting, serve the homeless, rescue the helpless? Is He worth a decrease in income and social status if it will advance His name? Is He worth the scorn of society in an effort to further His kingdom? Is Jesus worth your undying devotion, your faithful following, your absolute obedience? Is obeying Jesus, being part of His plan, worth anything? Is it worth everything? You know Jesus is worthy. But for you, personally, right now, in this moment–Is Jesus worth it?

Mary was not the only person who found God’s call to the outrageous worth following. Abraham left everything, home, family, friends, to go on a journey with no map, no foreseeable destination, no proof of provision, only a promise on which to place his faith. Peter, Andrew, James, and John all unquestioningly answered Jesus’ call, leaving nets and boats, careers, and family behind for the incredible opportunity to follow Him. Matthew did too. When Jesus called him from his tax collection booth, he didn’t even hesitate. Leaving his ledger and coin purse, station, and job behind, Matthew deemed nothing worthy except following Jesus Christ. For these souls and many more throughout the Bible, it took only seconds for them to know Jesus was worth anything, worth everything. Jesus was absolutely worth it. (Genesis 12:1-4; Matthew 4:18-22; Luke 5:27-28)

They went to their death believing it. Pillars of the faith who silently fell asleep. Martyrs violently abused, beheaded, stoned, forced to sleep in Jesus. They all gave up everything earthly to be part of something Heavenly, knowing that nothing would ever compare with the joy of following Jesus. No matter how they arrived there, natural causes, or a deviant’s choices, Heaven resounds with the affirmation of their shouts, “Jesus is worth it.” Just as Mary’s choice echoes through time in the blood of Jesus shed for our sins, the shouted choice of saints and martyrs echo from the sacred halls of Heaven as a reminder that nothing on earth is more important, more worthwhile, more worthy than Jesus. They gave up everything for Him. They have no regrets. Jesus was indisputably worth it. (Revelation 4:11; 5:12; Romans 8:8)

Unfortunately, not everyone found it so. The Gospels recount the story of a young man who clearly knew Jesus was worthy, yet he found the price of following too steep. His possessions were too precious. He couldn’t let them go. Apparently, no matter what his head knew, his heart was unconvinced that following Jesus was worth it. (Mark 10:17-22; Matthew 19:16-22)

Every time I read that account, I wish he’d made a different choice. I wish he’d have thrown everything down and sprinted after Jesus. I wish that rich young man would have listened to his head and followed Jesus regardless of the cost. I wish he’d have answered a resounding, “Yes.” I wish he’d have found Jesus worthy of anything, of everything. I wish he’d have deemed Jesus to be absolutely worth it. 

The same heart that desperately wishes that for the rich young man of the New Testament, achingly hopes it for you too. I hope you find Jesus worth it. Whatever the cost. Whatever is required of you. Whatever it takes to follow Him. I hope you hold on to the accolades and achievements and affirmations of this world loosely, because you know in your heart and believe with all your soul that Jesus is worth infinitely more than anything the world has on offer. It is a question only you can answer. How important is Jesus to you?  Is He simply worthy or absolutely worth it? (John 21:15-17; Mark 8:34-38; Matthew 16:24; Philippians 3:8)

Decades ago, before seat belt laws and booster chairs for children, my family was making road trips across the United States. East to West. West to East. Northward. Rarely Southward. We meticulously packed our suitcases, loaded the cooler with sandwich ingredients, filled the snack bag and water thermoses, and set it all out for Dad to puzzle piece into the back of our station wagon.  

Our order of travel was always the same. Rise earlier than any human should. Grab all the last-minute items. Load up and pull out before sunrise. I’ve watched more sunrises from the middle of the back seat than anywhere else. It was my designated spot. The middle of the back seat, squeezed between my siblings. There wasn’t a lot of room back there. Not for my purse and teddy bear and coloring book. Not for their things either. Sometimes I would sit on the floor and rest my head on the seat to take a nap, or use the seat as a desk to color. Sometimes we played travel games, spying what was green or searching billboards for letters of the alphabet. Between sleep, play, and excitement, the first few hours of the trip went well. The next few hours would be a different story.   

Eventually, the newness and excitement would wear off. Someone would grow uncomfortable or bored. Elbows would hit rib cages. Sometimes unintentionally. Sometimes not. The young beings in the backseat would grow irritable and snarky. They would start picking at one another. My sister would grow annoyed with my brother leaning up over the edge of the driver’s seat. The older two would tire of my kneeling on the seat so I could better see out the windscreen.  Accusations would be thrown. Someone was taking more than their share of the seat. Someone else was kicking. Words would grow heated. Things would grow tense. At least one child would end up pouting, and one or both of our parents would sternly remind us that there was to be no fighting in the back seat!

As often as I heard the words from them, it came as an enormous surprise to find they were not the original authors! Joseph, having revealed his identity to his brothers, prepares to send them back to collect their families and belongings. He watches their caravan fall into line. Loaded wagons. Donkeys laden with grain and bread and supplies. His brothers in the new clothes he had gifted them. Before they mount donkeys and climb aboard wagons to leave on their journey, Joseph has one more stern command,  “Don’t quarrel on the journey!” (Genesis 45:21-24)

It seems such an odd thing to say to the band of adult brothers who had exhibited enough unity to covertly ship him off to a foreign country and neatly cover their tracks. There had been little enough discord surrounding that decision! They had managed to successfully make the journey to and from Egypt more than once without throwing anyone else in a trench and shipping home a blood-soaked tunic. There isn’t any record of them even being tempted to sell another sibling into slavery. Benjamin never seemed to find himself the object of their jealousy and irritation. In fact, they are all quite of one mind in this situation. Starvation and famine was all around them. It wasn’t getting better. Food was in Egypt, a land that had just been freely opened to them. Why would they ever argue about the move? 

Clearly, Joseph knew the way of siblings well. The move would be long and arduous. There would be squabbles and disagreements. Perhaps Reuben and Simeon would each believe they knew the best way to load the wagons. Maybe Levi and Judah would argue over the best route back to Egypt. The journey would be difficult enough without Dan and Asher arguing over who would care for the elderly, ailing Jacob. Their fighting and fussing would delay the trip. Their discord would make it a horrendous journey. It would slow them down. Someone might well end up in another trench. Joseph didn’t want that. He didn’t want them wasting time arguing over little, inconsequential things. He wasn’t interested in stroking egos. He needed them to lay themselves aside and join together in solidarity. The troublesome journey would be more bearable if they would work together and help one another without the nitpicking and quarreling.  

The Apostle Paul wanted the same thing. In his first letter to the church at Corinth, Paul specifically points out that there are quarrels and divisions among them. He says they have to cease. There can’t be any divisions in the church of Christ. If you are all children of God, why are you arguing among yourselves? Stop it! Don’t boast in the person who baptized you, in the church you attend, or the catchy phrases you use. If you are going to boast, boast in God’s goodness, know that we have all received goodness of the same fount, and treat one another as if you believe it! (I Corinthians 1:10-31)

Peter has a similar message for the dispersed exiles scattered across Asia.  Evidently, they were struggling to uphold the fervent love for one another so desperately necessary to unify believers. Things had gone a bit pear-shaped. Envious hearts had loosened tongues to speak unkind words against one another. ill-concealed irritation and ill will for one another created schisms and chasms in what was once a cohesive group. Their fleshly desires, human wishes, selfish wants came in and chipped away at the unity. Eroded the love. Destroyed the very things that held the people together in times of trial and tribulation; things they would so tremendously need if they were going to remain a cohesive community of believers. (I Peter 1:22-2:11)

Fighting on the journey will do that. Quarreling over little, inconsequential things will stall spiritual progress. Fractures in the body of Christ over perceived slights, alleged affronts, purported insults. Frustration, irritation, aggravation chafe and rub away at your soul, creating a breeding ground for strife, anger, bitterness, division. Envy, anger, disgust with fellow sojourners will fester and bring decay. Words will be said. Rumors will be spread. Friendships will become strained. Relationships will fall apart. The community of believers will shrivel. Fellowship and unity will die an untimely death at the hands of the evil one’s greatest weapon against the community of believers–fighting, bickering, quarreling on the journey. 

James speaks strong words concerning quarreling on the journey. He says those quarrels and fights, murmurings, and disingenuous mutterings, all stem from the same place–the filthy, selfish lusts of your own sin-bent heart. He says it is a desire to remain friends with the world that causes us to make allowances for such reprehensible behavior. He also says we can’t stay in step with the world and remain in harmony with God. It isn’t possible. God requires our whole hearts. It takes our whole hearts, completely devoted to God, to overlook the shortcomings in our fellow travelers that make us sigh, cringe, or grit our teeth. It takes complete infiltration by His spirit, His grace to stamp out the squabbles that make the journey unpleasant, the trip untenable. (James 4:1-6)

Thankfully, James didn’t leave us to figure it out by ourselves. He left detailed instructions. A step-by-step plan. Simple words. Hard choices. Submit to God. Resist the evil one. Absolutely refuse to be drawn aside by whatever he dangles in front of you or whispers in your ear. Draw near to God. Get just as close to Jesus as you can. Don’t leave room for anything between your soul and His heart. Cleanse your hands and purify your hearts in the shed blood of Jesus Christ. Mourn your sin. Weep over it. Be broken to the point of never going back to those sins again. Humble yourself before God and let Him do the rest. (James 4:7-10; Isaiah 1:16-17; I Peter 5:6; Proverbs 22:4)

Then, in newness of heart filled with the grace of Jesus Christ, shut your mouth! Don’t take part in gossip or backbiting. Don’t say things that don’t need to be said. Don’t let the look on your face say them, either! Remember that God is the Judge. Not only of the person who is wearing on your nerves, He’s your Judge too. Remember that. Carry it with you everywhere you go. Know it. Live like it. Treat your fellow travelers like you believe it. And remember, there can be absolutely no fighting on the journey! (James 4:11-12; Psalm 75:7; Isaiah 11:3-5; Romans 12:16; Titus 3:1-15; Ephesians 4:29-31; Luke 6:37)

If you were to ask me the thing for which I am most thankful, my answer would most assuredly be grace. Calvary’s grace. I am unendingly grateful that God sent Jesus to die for my sin. My heart is filled with wonder and amazement that God would count me worthwhile enough for such a sacrifice. I am unequivocally thankful that the veil in the Temple was torn and we were given access to God the Father. That He doesn’t mind hearing my incessant chatter is such a long-suffering gift! I am blessed beyond measure and ecstatically pleased that my salvation, my eternity no longer rests on the slaughtering of animals, the mixing of flour, oil, and frankincense, and the burning of each in turn. Thank You, Jesus!(Leviticus 1,2)

Reading Leviticus heightens my gratitude. It completely engages my senses. I picture innocent sheep being led to slaughter, pulling against their leads as if they know what fate awaits them. I can hear their bleating, begging to stay in their warm stable. My mind’s eye can see the pull of the knife, envision the spurt of blood. The detestable scent of burning animal flesh fills my nostrils. I picture the altar. The place of redemption. Unchecked rivulets of bloodstream down to pool around its base. Sacrifice after sacrifice. Slaughter. Butcher. Burn. Repeat. Somewhere between the unblemished lamb and the turtle doves, my stomach turns, my gag reflex triggers, and I find myself immensely grateful that Jesus Christ died once for all the sins of the entire world. For this, I am truly grateful. (Hebrews 7:22-27)

Once my stomach has calmed and my mind can again focus, I find my mind brimming with questions. How did they keep all those sacrifices straight? How did they know what to bring for each sin? Were multiple sacrifices needed for multiple sins? What if they brought the wrong sacrifice? How could they know their sacrifice was acceptable before they offered it? There were no lists magnetically posted on refrigerators. There was no tablet of paper in a dedicated spot for scribbling reminders. There was no Google to question, no Alexa to ask, no Siri to implore. How, exactly, did they remember what and how many, where, and how a sacrifice was supposed to be made?

Honestly, I don’t know. I have been unable to find an answer to my question. Perhaps it is as it appears. Perhaps they memorized them. Taught them to their children. Recited the parameters over and over again. It would make sense. They wouldn’t want to forget them. Couldn’t afford to forget them. This knowledge was too important. It was their lifeline. They needed to meticulously observe those guidelines. They had no other options. Their salvation, their eternity depended on the integrity of those sacrifices. 

I would like to believe they were incredibly grateful. I want to think they were thrilled to have a way, any way, for their transgressions to be erased. My mind wants so badly to be convinced they realized how blessed they were to have a way of escaping a lost eternity. My overzealous imagination desperately attempts to convince my heart that they walked away from those sacrifices with hearts full of praise for the meaning behind the sacrifice. 

Unfortunately for my hopes, I have read the rest of the Old Testament. The people stray. They welcome idols. They follow heathen practices. They live lifestyles unapproved by God. The sacrifices become rote and meaningless. Their sin becomes so much a part of their lives it causes Isaiah to prophesy woe against them, Jeremiah to weep over them, and me to wonder what was so important that they were unwilling to put it on the altar as a sacrifice to God. What was so important they would rather keep it, carry it and sacrifice peace, rest, and joy?

It is so easy to sit in judgment on a generation centuries past. It is so simple to read someone else’s story and emphatically denounce their actions. It requires little effort to imagine ourselves as paragons of virtue and towers of strength, bursting with internal fortitude. Unless we decide to be honest. Uncomfortably honest. Judgment day honesty as we ask ourselves what it is that we are willing to hold onto, to hide away, to carry in our hearts that causes us to sacrifice our peace, forfeit our rest, surrender our joy? What keeps your heart so engaged that it impedes your ability to praise the Lord? Anger? Bitterness? Hate? What impinges your ability to freely rejoice in the blessings of God? Worry? Anxiety? Fear? What do you need to lay on the sacrificial altar so you can live in a state of constant praise to God? Pride? Selfishness? Striving? And what is it, exactly, that prevents you from making the sacrifice? (Hebrews 13:15)

Although I know a handful of people who seem to be veritable fountains of praise no matter their circumstances, most of us do not find praise instinctive. Our eyes open in the morning to count our aches and pains instead of our blessings. We do not walk blithely through life’s unpleasantness dancing to the beautiful songs of praise reverberating in our souls. Rarely do we face uncertainty, infirmity, anxiety while making a melodious sound of praise. Our moods are much more somber, our demeanor more subdued, our soul in tremendous turmoil considering and re-considering the things we cannot change. Sadly, praise is not our first reaction, it is our last resort.

In the middle of trials and tests, tricks and tribulation meant to irreparably infiltrate our souls, we initially tend to succumb. We wallow in self-pity. We stamp our feet in righteous indignation. The battle cry of every beleaguered soul resounds through our territory. “Why me?!” Gathering our sympathetic friends around us like a shroud, we whimper and worry, fuss and fume. Unrestrained, the ugliness festers, seeps through our souls, stifles our joy, snuffs out our praise, suffocates our gratitude.

The truth is, we have so much for which to be thankful. Material things being immaterial, take a moment to count your blessings. The real ones. The ones that count. The eternal instead of the temporal. God–His grace, His goodness. Jesus–His life, His sacrifice. The Holy Spirit–His patience, His guidance. Salvation. Heaven. If none of those things evoke a spirit of praise in your heart, you need to go back and read the Bible again. Cover to cover. Look at how God created the world, the beauty of nature, you. Watch how He carefully crafted human society, raised up a people who would someday birth a little girl destined to become the mother of Jesus Christ. Remember the humble birth, far below His station. The moderate upbringing. The misunderstandings, the naysayers, the temptations. Ultimately, remember Jesus’ death–beaten, bruised, bleeding before He even reached the cross. Hear the taunts. Watch His pain. Feel the last breath leave His body. Know that it was for you. It was all for you. All so that, when you stand before the judgment seat of God, you can rest assured of a Heavenly eternity. If you can truly imagine it, really feel it, your heart can do nothing but fall prostrate in adoration and praise. There will be room for nothing else. And nothing else will matter. 

Eons ago in a class called Wisdom Literature, a professor told his class that their main purpose on earth was to glorify God. I might have doubted him then. I don’t question it now. When I sacrifice all the things that limit my ability to praise Jesus, I find a song in my soul that flows out of my lips. My outlook changes. My relationships change. My interactions with strangers change. Through my heart full of praise, Jesus is lifted up and glorified. Like Moses’ statue serpent in the wilderness, I become a place where others can look and find the path to eternal life. The joy of the Lord becomes my strength. It fills me. There is room for nothing else. Nothing else matters. (Numbers 21:4-9; Isaiah 43:7; Nehemiah 8:10; Psalm 86:12; John 12:32)I don’t know what you need to lay down today. I don’t know what plagues your soul in the wee hours of the morning. I don’t know what secrets you hide, what sins you coddle. I do know this with absolute surety, you need to lay them down. You need to toss those joy impingers on the altar of sacrifice, burn them up and let God pour over your soul the oil of joy. Let Him clothe you in His exquisite garment of praise. Let Him rejoice over you. Love you. Fill your heart with peace, rest, and joy. Find your strength in Him and discover the release of joy that comes from sacrificing everything for an attitude of praise. (Ephesians 5:18-20; Psalm 50:23; Psalm 69:30-31; Isaiah 61:3; Zephaniah 3:17; Philippians 4:7-9; Psalm 16:11)

I don’t know what you need to lay down today. I don’t know what plagues your soul in the wee hours of the morning. I don’t know what secrets you hide, what sins you coddle. I do know this with absolute surety, you need to lay them down. You need to toss those joy impingers on the altar of sacrifice, burn them up, and let God pour over your soul the oil of joy. Let Him clothe you in His exquisite garment of praise. Let Him rejoice over you. Love you. Fill your heart with peace, rest, and joy. Find your strength in Him and discover the release of joy that comes from sacrificing everything for an attitude of praise. (Ephesians 5:18-20; Psalm 50:23; Psalm 69:30-31; Isaiah 61:3; Zephaniah 3:17; Philippians 4:7-9; Psalm 16:11) 

There are eight Bibles in my office. Eight covers. Eight styles. Eight translations. Today I opened every single one up to the first page of Genesis. The first line read the same in each one. “In the beginning God…” (Genesis 1:1)  In six of them, I had underlined the words. In two of them, I had made notes. In one of them, I had written these words, “God is the beginning of every story. In Him, we find our start, our place, our home.” 

Only vaguely do I remember inscribing those words in my margin. It is my newest Bible, purchased at my birthday for this year’s spiritual trek through its sacred pages. My fifth annual journey through Genesis. I am embarrassed it took me so long to see it. I stand in humble amazement at the magnificent meaning of those words. In the beginning–of me, of you, of everything–is God.

It is a story that never ceases to astound me. Creation. The dark bleakness of the empty universe stirring God to an act of redemption bringing light, introducing color, creating life. The concepts of planets and stars, sun and moon all set in their own part of space boggle my mind. The multitude of fish in the sea, birds of the air, and animals on land are beyond human imagination, even before we consider all their individual types. The plants and trees, flowers, and shrubs far exceed what human minds can enumerate. We think it magnificent. We dub it miraculous. We often fail to realize it was an extravagance Heaven afforded because the most fantastic part of Creation was still to come. (Genesis 1)

God created man. And woman. By hand. Words alone were enough to establish day and night. Simple instructions divided the oceans with land. One command cemented the sun and moon in the sky. The words of His mouth called out fish and birds, animals and plants. Every part of land and sky and sea came about because God spoke and it was so. Every part except humanity. 

Words would miserably fail to describe what God was about to do. He was done speaking things into existence. What He now had to create was far too important. Gently, carefully, powerful hands reached down to scoop dust from His newly created earth. Using Himself as a pattern, those hands shaped and formed that dust into the body, head, hands, and feet that would become known as humanity. When his newly formed creation hung from His hand, limp and lifeless, its lungs starving for oxygen, God lowered His head and breathed into man the breath of life. (Genesis 2:7)

In great omniscience, God created woman. Not from dust. He’d done that already. No, He chose an even smaller medium with which to work. One rib. One delicate, brittle, small rib. Bending to His task, He skillfully crafted more than 200 bones and over 70 organs. All from one bone! I shouldn’t be surprised. I shouldn’t feel astonished. I’ve heard the account dozens of times. Yet still, I sit in awestruck wonder that God, who had no need to dirty His hands molding and shaping teeth and tongue, skin and hair, would readily do that very thing, so great was His love for humanity. (Genesis 2:21-23)

God didn’t stop creating at the end of Genesis 2. He hasn’t rested since. Before anyone knew you were sequestered beneath your mother’s heart, God planned for you to be. He carefully created that place for you to live and grow and develop. As you grew and your presence became known, God was there, too, carefully shaping, meticulously crafting, ingeniously developing your internal organs–brain, spinal cord, and heart. By the time human science was willing to refer to you as a fetus, holy science was already busily forming your nose, carving out your lips, and shaping your ears. When the sound of your heartbeat finally echoed through the machines in the doctor’s office, God had been jubilantly rejoicing over its musical sound for weeks. As family and friends anxiously waited to meet you, see your smile, decide whose eyes you got, God was indulgently chuckling in joy as He formed your tiny hands and feet with painstaking precision. And as all the careful forming and growing and shaping was fulfilled, God prepared you for your miraculous journey into the world. However it was to be, God knew. He was there. He has been there from your beginning.

Unfortunately, as you have grown and matured, your choices have not always reflected His presence. You were distracted by the things of the world, the baubles, the pleasures, the fun. You walked away from God, His will, His work. You frolicked through life squandering your time, your talents, your resources. Eventually, the talents and resources played out. The things the world saw in you dimmed. They lost interest in your company. Alone, in despair, you remembered God and wondered what happened to Him. Had He changed at all since you left? Was He still love and mercy and grace? Was He still interested in having you work for Him? What would He say if you just came back home?

Your questions are answered by Jesus in His parable of the prodigal son. Like you, the boy got distracted by the apparent excitement the world offered. Dazzled at the thought of money and pleasure, he asked for his inheritance early. Unwilling to hold his son against his will, the father complied. A few days later, the son set out to seek the promised worldly pleasures in a faraway town. 

Upon arrival, the son quickly became popular. He spent like the money was endless, lived as if he’d never die. Whiskey. Women. Pleasure. Fun. Until the money ran out. His friends deserted him. His fun dried up. He found himself destitute on the streets of a city that wasn’t home. Desperate for work, food, warmth, and love. 

Eventually, he found work as a swine sitter. Slop hauler. Muck wader. There were no benefits, no amenities. No one cared for him. No one fed him. His meals came from the same place the pigs ate. Depressed, discouraged, disheartened, he realized his father’s servants had better lives than he did. With nothing to lose, he decided to haul his bedraggled self back home, offer an apology, and apply for a job as his father’s servant. 

The prodigal son must have had a twitter of trepidation as he walked that road toward home. He had no idea what would happen when he arrived. Surely he had questions much like yours. Would his apology be enough? Was there a job opening? Was his father still kind and gracious and loving? What would he say, how would he feel, when he realized his wandering, squandering son had come back home? 

The wait wasn’t as long as he thought it would be. When he was still so far from home the human eye could only distinguish a small dot moving down the road, his father saw him. Always watchful, always hoping for the return of his son, the father stepped to the edge of the porch, leaned over the railing, and squinted his eyes to see. He didn’t need to see, though. His father’s heart knew. That was his son! His boy was coming home!

Nothing could have kept that father waiting at the house. No. He jumped off the porch and dashed down the walk. By the time he reached the road, he was at an all-out sprint. As he reached his son, he grabbed that soiled, smelly, starving kid up in his arms and kissed his filthy cheek. None of the mess mattered. None of the past mattered. His son was home! Let the celebration begin! (Luke 15:11-24)

We all see ourselves in this parable. We are all prodigals, ragamuffins, runaways who left the God of our beginning attempting to find something better in the world. We wasted entire swaths of our lives on things we thought would fill the void in our souls. It was a fool’s errand. Nothing satisfies. Nothing meets our needs. Nothing, no one but Jesus. (Romans 3:23; Psalm 107:9)

Finding ourselves in untenable situations, we have all had to drag our dirty, disheveled selves back to Heaven’s doorstep. Once there, we each discovered the exact same thing. No matter how you come, He will welcome you. Prodigal. Poor. Perplexed. Promiscuous. The mess doesn’t matter. The past doesn’t matter. God doesn’t care what you look like when you arrive. There is no dress code, no special handshake, no secret password. He just wants you to come back home! (I John 1:9; Revelation 22:17; Isaiah 55:1)

There is a place for you there. You belong. You are part of God’s family. God’s child. Lovingly, meticulously created in His image. Your soul will find the rest for which it longs. His promise never to leave you will be proven true. The God who was present in your beginning will fill your earthly days and, finally, transport you to eternal glory. He will be your Alpha through to Omega. Your beginning. Your middle. Your end. That is what will happen if you just came back home. Will you come? (Revelation 1:8; Matthew 11:28-30; Titus 2:11; I Timothy 2:4; Luke 15:7, 10; Zephaniah 3:17)