Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

The report of unconscionable rebellion fell like lead weights into his buoyant spirit. Disbelief quickly turned to boiling fury. They had ruined his day. The day he’d been anxiously planning since the idea first took root. Months had passed in the interim. Months of designing, planning, and building the fantastic golden statue that would be the focal point of the day. Allegedly. In reality, Nebuchadnezzar would be the focal point. People from far and near would know his name, extol his wealth, praise his greatness, fear his power. Not that he’d actually done any of the work. He hadn’t. No. He’d left the work, the actual craftsmanship to the peons below him. But he’d worked himself to the bone these last months waiting for the statue to be built, demanding updates, and attempting to move up the completion date. He was so anxious to see his creation. And for everyone else to see it too. 

Not that anyone could miss it. They couldn’t. Not unless they had not been gifted with any form of sight. The thing was enormous. Brobdingnagian. Ninety feet tall and nine feet wide, the golden statue would rest comfortably on the plain of Dura. Everyone would see it. Everyone would know about it. Everyone would worship it. Because he said so. He’d commanded every person in his employ to be in attendance at the dedication of his statue. It was going to be a grand event, complete with every type of instrument found in the land. A day when he would gather his kingdom, cue the music, and watch in satisfaction as the people collectively fell to their faces before his creation. Because he said they would. And he was in charge. They all knew it.

At least he thought they did. From his comfortable viewing place, Nebuchadnezzar watched as the music sounded and people dropped to the ground in obeisance to his command. A grin flitted across his face. Triumph lit his eyes. Self-satisfaction had him puffing out his chest in arrogant pride at his power and authority. Until the Chaldeans’ words snapped him back to reality with their unbelievable report. A report that equally infuriated and terrified him. Apparently, he wasn’t as great as he believed himself to be. Not every person in his kingdom was held firmly in the palm of his hand. If their report was correct, he wasn’t actually in charge. Not completely. Not over everyone. Not over three Hebrew men who chose their God’s commands over Nebuchadnezzar’s decrees. He vowed to make them regret it. 

Rage raced through his veins at the report of unconscionable rebellion. Violent anger shook his frame, reddened his cheeks, and had his voice thundering out commands. The naysayers would stand before him that very moment to give account for their actions. Or inactions. Offer their excuses, if they had any. Choose life or choose death. Either way, Nebuchadnezzar deserved an explanation. He was the king. He was in charge. He was not to be trifled with or disrespected. No one was greater than him. No one held more authority. No one had more power. He would prove it. Once he had his explanation, he would have his revenge. 

Furious and raging, Nebuchadnezzar watched as Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego filed in to stand before him. They seemed unmoved, unshaken, unconcerned. Gazing down on them, anger blazing from his eyes, he reveals his knowledge. He is aware of their disobedience. He knows they defied his orders. He is violently unhappy with their behavior. But, even in his wrath, he is willing to consider the possibility of a misunderstanding. Perhaps a language barrier prevented them from comprehending the seriousness of their choice. Maybe they were out of earshot when the rules were read. Perhaps they were simply too slow-witted to remember every caveat of the memorandum. Whatever the reason for their decided disobedience, the king chooses to appear magnanimous. He offers them the opportunity to smooth his feathers and assuage his rage. He’ll give them another chance. Just one. 

It will go exactly like the first one. They will line up before the statue. The king will cue the music. The orchestra will play. And, along with everyone else in the realm, the three rebels will drop to their faces in obedience to him. If they fail to fall, they will be thrown into the furnace. Immediately. Why? Because Nebuchadnezzar has a reputation to uphold. No one gets to defy him. No one escapes unharmed if they try. And no one is greater than he is. No one else’s word is supreme. He is more powerful than anyone else in the land. Man. Beast. Or god. Cue the music. He’ll prove it. Do it now.  

Except there was no need. No need to start the music. No need to re-run the theatrics. They weren’t going to do it. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abenego weren’t going to bow. He could strike up the orchestra repeatedly, keep everyone there for days on end, offer them a thousand opportunities to obey him, it wouldn’t matter. Their decision was made. Had been made a long time ago. Before they’d come as captives to this land. Before they’d met Nebuchadnezzar. Before he’d issued this ridiculous decree. Long ago, they’d been introduced to the true God. They had chosen Him as their God. His were the commands they kept. He was the only One to whom they would bow. He could choose to show His power in deliverance or He could choose not to. It didn’t matter. They weren’t changing their minds. They were God’s. They weren’t bowing to some bizarre statue. No matter who said they should. No matter if everyone else was doing it. No matter if it cost them their lives. It wasn’t happening. “No, King, there is no need to cue the music again. Just head straight to the furnace. We aren’t bowing.” 

Boiling rage had Nebuchadnezzar leaping from his seat. This impertinence was not to be borne. No one defied him. No one refused his proffered kindness. No one told him, “No.” Stabbing a heavily jeweled finger at the nearby soldiers, he ordered the furnace to be made hotter. Seven times hotter. Hot enough to soothe his fury. These men would die for their defiance. Quickly. Their feet would never touch the blazing coals before their lungs were robbed of oxygen. They would die in the dancing flames and everyone would know who was in charge. Him. Nebuchadnezzar. He was in charge. Having gathered a full head of steam, he ordered Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego to be bound and thrown into the fire. Then he sat down to watch. (Daniel 3:1-23)

I don’t know about you, but by this point, I’m completely appalled at Nebuchadnezzar’s abject arrogance. This isn’t his first encounter with the Hebrew God. They’ve had contact before. Daniel introduced them in the previous interpretation of the king’s terrifying dream. You know the one. When Daniel told Nebuchadnezzar that God had given him power and strength and glory in all the land. He’d literally said Nebuchadnezzar was the head of gold in his dream. He’d inadvertently stroked the king’s ego with those words. Since then, that ego had grown to epic proportions. His arrogance knew no boundaries. His mind may have known the power of God, but his soul refused to admit it. In arrogance, he created a statue to exhibit his greatness. Penned a decree to outline his power. Held an event so his arrogant self could see just how great he was. And threw the most outlandish tantrum when someone dared believe that the God of Heaven was greater than a self-made god on earth. (Daniel 2:31-38)

Appallingly, there seems to be a little Nebuchadnezzar in each of us. Not the statue building, decree issuing one. The arrogant, egotistical one. The one who gets confused and thinks our way should be God’s way instead of His way ours. We elevate ourselves above God and pray as though he takes orders from us. If that’s the case, you are your own god. You worship at your own throne. Just like Nebuchadnezzar. If you read back through the account, focusing solely on King Nebuchadnezzar, you’ll see it. Nebuchadnezzar thought all gods–real or otherwise–were less powerful than him. He worshiped at his own throne. None of this mess had anything to do with worshiping anyone or anything other than himself. His arrogance ran the day. He called the shots. For the people. For their gods. For the God. At least in his own mind. 

I have an interesting time attempting to create a mental picture of Nebuchadnezzar’s face when he looked in that furnace and saw God walking around with untied, unharmed Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. My lips tend to curl up at the edges in an uncontained smile. Honestly, I don’t even try to contain it. This is truly humorous. The face that just a short time before was mottled red in rage is now blanched white in terror. He’s suddenly unsteady on his feet. He’s made an egregious mistake. His arrogance has gone a step too far. He knows it. Everyone knows it. To Nebuchadnezzar’s credit, he doesn’t try to deny it. He simply calls the men from the fire and puts the credit where it goes. Not at their feet. Not at his own feet. At the feet of the one true God, the Sovereign ruler of Heaven and earth. The One no one can stand against, whose plans cannot be thwarted. The One who always stands by those who humbly claim Him as their King. God Almighty. Maker of Heaven and earth. Their God above all gods. (Daniel 3:24-30; 4:35, 37; Psalm 135:6-7; 15:18-19; II Chronicles 20:6; Job 42:2)

The uncomfortable truth for us is this, we are all bent toward being a Nebuchadnezzar. We have no natural humility. We love to be in charge. Make the decisions. Call the shots. With people. With God. We find comfort in being in control and relish the idea that if we just firmly tell God what, how, and when to do things and follow our commands up with some strong faith, He is duty-bound to do it. He’s not. Believe me. God is not bound by duty to you or anyone else. You have simply chosen to be your own god. Good luck with that! Enjoy the illusion of being in charge while it lasts. Because it will end. Eventually. Like Nebuchadnezzar, your impotence will meet God’s power. Your ignorance will come face to face with His omniscience. Your temporal will collide with His eternal. And you will have to choose. Then. In that exact moment. God or god. So don’t wait. Choose today. Right now. God or god. Which one is yours? (Isaiah 2:11; 41:40; Psalm 10:4; Proverbs 11:2; 16:5; Romans 11:34-36; Job 41:11; 33:12; I John 3:20; Matthew 16:24; Hebrews 3:15)

There was no logical explanation for his presence in the queue. He had no reason to be there. He wasn’t one of them. For sure. He was an outsider. Long ago his treasonous self had been eternally ousted from the chorus of heavenly beings. This wasn’t his territory. Yet there he was, strutting in like he owned the place. His head was high. His back straight. His sharp eyes made piercing contact with anyone who dared look askance at his presence. His posture invited confrontation. He’d love that. His work in the world had become increasingly mundane. The people he attacked were easy targets. He was bored. He wanted more. He needed a challenge. That’s why he was there. Satan wanted permission to bully someone new. (Isaiah 14:12-15; Ezekiel 28:12-17; Luke 10:18; Job 1:6)

Nearing the front of the queue, a closely watching onlooker could see him don a facade of humility and defeat. His shoulders slumped. His gaze tracked downward. He drug his toe along the ground as if uncomfortable to be standing where he was. It was all a lie. A ploy for sympathy. Or pity. Or simply an effort to gain a longer leash. His hands were tied without the King’s permission. His entire existence sat in the palm of God’s hand. What he could do. What he couldn’t. When he could act. When he couldn’t. How far he could go. How soon he must stop. It was all up to God. One simple thought from the Almighty could immediately halt his entire evil operation. As much as he hated it, it was true. He wasn’t in charge. He needed to tread very carefully. So Satan chose false humility. It seemed to be the best track. For today. 

Approaching the throne of God, Satan dipped his head in feigned obeisance. It wasn’t effective. God wasn’t fooled. He’d never been confused by Satan’s ridiculousness. Not when he’d tried to exalt himself above God. Not when he’d infiltrated the Garden of Eden. Not in all the times he’d tried to overthrow the work of the Almighty. God had always been several strides ahead of Satan. Nothing had changed now. He wasn’t taken in by the pretense. Pity didn’t tug at His heartstrings. Sympathy didn’t creep into his voice as He began the conversation. No. Ignoring the act, God simply got straight to the point, “What have you been up to?” 

It must have been a courtesy question. God already knew the answer. He knew the evil one was looking for a new target. He’d seen him wandering around the earth, trying this scheme, testing that plan, pushing the limits, plotting his eventual coup. God didn’t have to give him the time of day. He could have immediately kicked him out. He didn’t. He asked a question. One to which He already knew the answer. The true answer. It would do no good for Satan to lie. God already knew exactly why he was there. So he answered. In a whiny tone we’ve all heard from a wheedling, cajoling child intent on manipulating us, Satan answered. He’d walked the entire earth over and over, but couldn’t find anyone to play with. There was no one fun to bother. He was bored. He needed something more challenging. Could God help him out with that? 

Maybe it’s just me, but I’m amazed at the audacity. Did Satan literally come to God, the Creator and Sustainer of all the earth who cherishes the people inhabiting it, and ask Him for someone to heckle, annoy, abuse, and bully? Seriously? Every time I read it, I feel the same level of astonishment. What has to break inside your brain to do that? What made him even give this tactic a shot? Even more astounding is the fact that it works. God gives him some direction. Tosses him a breadcrumb. Provides Satan something to do in his alleged free time. A little something to keep him busy. God sets him up to fail. Miserably. 

Donning His own cloak of innocence through which the enemy could never see, God asks if Satan has thought to bother Job. He’s faithful, upright, of perfect integrity. He fears God above all and shuns evil at every turn. He’s well-respected in his community. He’s wealthy. His pastures and barns boast thousands of camels, sheep, and goats, as well as hundreds of oxen and female donkeys. He has a faithful wife, ten children, and a host of servants to tend it all. Job has been blessed with an abundant earthly existence. He’s comfortable. Very comfortable. By society’s standards, both then and now, it is easy for Job to be such a staunch and faithful follower of God. He’s not known a lot of hardship. He’s not been touched by loss. His family and holdings have been surrounded by the protecting hand of the Almighty. Nothing has been able to touch him. Yet Satan believes that if Job were to suffer tragic loss, he’d curse God. Quit the faith. Give up his integrity. Die. He’s simply never had the opportunity to test the theory. Until now. (Job 1:1-3, 9-11)

The opportunity dangles before Satan only for the barest moment before he accepts the parameters and snatches his moment to wreak havoc. He’s happy to spare Job’s life. He’ll take everything else. Rip away his possessions. Kill his children. Blame God in the process. By the end of the week, Job will be left with nothing. His earthly possessions will be obliterated. His faith in God abandoned. It will be as easy as stealing candy from a baby. Dancing out of God’s presence, barely containing his victorious chuckle from prematurely bursting forth, Satan fails to notice what should have been obvious given what he most certainly knew about the Almighty. God never asks a question without a reason. He doesn’t need to ask questions at all. God already knows the answers. Before the evil one ever darkened His heavenly doorway, God knew where he’d been and why he’d come. God had already devised a plan. A plan of failure for the enemy. (Job 1:7-8)

As the servants rushed in on the heels of one another, bearing worsening news to Job, Satan surely stood on the sidelines watching and waiting. A smirk twisted his lips. A twinkle lit his eye. His ears were tuned to hear the words of defection fall from Job’s lips. His hands rubbed together in great anticipation. He didn’t miss the moment Job, in great distress and overwhelming grief, stood to his feet, tore his robe, and shaved his head. He also didn’t miss the next moment. The one in which Job was supposed to curse God and give up his integrity. Because it never happened. Rather than rage at God and shake his fist at the heavens, Job fell to the ground and worshiped the One who both gives and takes away. His planned moment of victory stolen, Satan’s smirk turned into a snarl. It had all been a set-up.  

It seems unlikely Satan’s demeanor was the same as he once again entered the queue for an audience with God. It is realistic to imagine tight lines around his frowning mouth. Anger steaming from his eyes. An echoing snap to his step as he approaches the Lord. Yet the second visit goes eerily like the first. The verbiage is nearly identical. Rhetorical questions. Obvious answers. Until God idly points out that Satan’s mischief lacked the desired result. Just as He knew it would. God didn’t offer Job up to be plagued and tortured and tempted because He didn’t care about him. God offered Job up because He knew exactly how Job would respond. With faithfulness. With integrity. With consistency. He knew Job wasn’t going anywhere. Ever. He might have some moments of questioning, wondering, or asking why, but Job wasn’t going to deny God. Not now. Not ever. God knew that. Amazingly, He offers Job up again. With only one caveat. Touch his body. Strike him with illness. Make him miserable. Only spare his life. Job would get through this. Alive. In body and soul.  

Had Satan even a modicum of intelligence, he wouldn’t have missed that second round of questions. The same questions as before. He’d have paused and wondered if the use of those questions indicated the fact his plans would once again fail. He’d have learned from the first experience. Job wasn’t going to quit God. Obviously, Satan had learned nothing. Hope springing eternal, Satan skipped out of his audience with God brimming with renewed hope and vigor. He was going to do it this time. He was going to strike Job with such pain and torment that he would renounce everything just to escape the torture. His wife would despise him. His friends would believe the worst of him. His fatigue would trump his faith. With any luck, God would remain silent and Satan’s taunting voice would be the only one Job heard. For weeks. His strength would give out. His heart would give up. Job would finally give in to the temptation to quit. Satan would win. It was going to be the greatest moment of Satan’s life! Except it wasn’t. 

For an unspecified amount of time, Job’s body was wracked in vicious pain. His mind was in constant torment. His heart mourned the magnificent loss of his children. He wrestled with the string of events that had brought him to this place, desperately trying to make sense of the chaos. He found no relief. Not in the words of his traumatized wife. Not in the diatribes of his fair-weather friends. Not in silence. Not in speaking. Nothing eased his suffering. Yet Job never cursed God. Never reneged. Never rescinded his faith. Never renounced his integrity. And Satan never got to do that carefully choreographed celebratory dance of victory over Job’s spiritual grave. Evil didn’t win. God did. And that, my friends, is cause for celebration. For Job then. For us now. There is hope in those words. God wins. (Job 1-31,42)  

I hope you find the faith to believe them. I hope you remain faithful in the face of tremendous battles. I hope you continue to walk uprightly. I hope you choose to live with integrity. Now. Today. In this present, disheartening age. I hope you encourage yourself with the indisputable knowledge that God wins. Now. Today. When your soul is beleaguered with temptations and trials lasting longer than you have strength to endure. When the heavens are silent and the only voice you seem to hear are the vicious taunts of the evil one hounding your soul. When the circumstances of your life shift and change, shake, and falter, I hope you can anchor yourself in that absolute promise. God wins. Not just in the back of the Book, either. In the front of the Book as He delivered His people from slavery in Egypt. In the middle of the Book as He rescued Job from afflictions in mind, body, and spirit. In the lifetime of Jesus as He freed people from demons, diseases, and spiritual death. In my lifetime. In your lifetime. You don’t have to wait until the final, glorious chapter is written to see God win. God wins now! No matter what hardship you are facing. No matter the murky waters swirling at your feet. Regardless of how daunting the task before you. Your Mighty Warrior is with you. He has never lost a battle. He is faithful to the faithful. In His time. In His way. God wins. Yesterday. Today. Forever. God wins. Every time. (James 1:12-13; Psalm 84:11; Proverbs 10:9; Titus 2:11-13; Zephaniah 3:17; I Corinthians 15:25-26; Revelation 19-20; Exodus 12:29-42; Matthew 8:28-34; Luke 8:42-48; John 4:4-42; Psalm 18:25-26; I John 5:4; Exodus 17:15; Psalm 108:13)

Frustration tinged with fear had him hitting his knees. Again. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. Similar circumstances had elicited similar conversations in the past. It was likely to happen in the future. He simply couldn’t understand, couldn’t wrap his finite mind around the apparent injustice. From where he stood, evil was winning. Handily. Living in luxury and opulence while righteousness struggled to survive. While he struggled to survive. Literally. If the powers in charge had their way, Jeremiah wouldn’t see another day. So here he was, on his knees, talking to God. Again. 

Although the words came straight from God’s lips to his ears, Jeremiah’s preaching and prophesying wasn’t garnering a lot of friendships. It didn’t come as a surprise. He’d been warned. God hadn’t hidden anything when He called Jeremiah to preach. He told him it would be exactly this way. People would fight against his words. Push back against his teachings. Plan his demise when he didn’t shut up. It happened that exact way. His words had been met with acrid distaste. Openly they rebuked him. Privately they plotted against him. Yet none of it stopped Jeremiah from doing his job. Even when they didn’t listen to his words. Even when they didn’t heed his warnings. Even when the threat of death became imminent. Jeremiah chose to obey God. Even when he didn’t understand. And there was a lot he didn’t understand. About the people to whom he ministered. About the God for whom he worked. (Jeremiah 11:18-23)

The people weren’t listening. At all. Not that they ever had been. They hadn’t. Ever. They heard the words coming out of his mouth. They understood the teachings as they crossed his lips. They comprehended the correct course of action to take. But they didn’t listen. They didn’t change. They didn’t turn from evil to good. Not when their lives were at stake. Not when their souls hung in the balance. Not when their future dangled at the end of a disturbingly frayed thread. No matter his words, whatever his warnings, nothing changed. Ever. The people heard but didn’t listen, understood but didn’t heed. Instead, they seemed to grow increasingly worse. Jeremiah didn’t understand it.  

Why do the wicked always prosper? Why do those living lives of selfish, faithlessness succeed? Why do evil, dishonest, cunning people grow wealthy and comfortable? Why are they rewarded with lives of luxury and ease? Why does there appear to be no punishment for giving God lip service, yet still following the desires of their own sin-darkened hearts? How could their physical lives be so materially blessed when their spiritual hearts were so clearly unworthy? Why were they receiving blessings and he received cursing? If God is good and righteous and just, how could one explain the disparity? (Jeremiah 12:1-4; 20:7-10)

Overwhelming his mind with their swirling barrage, his questions had the potential to be all-consuming. Unaddressed, they had the power to color his words and thoughts and actions. They had the potential to draw him away from God. Unless he addressed them with God. Alone. It would help nothing to take his complaints of injustice and unfairness to friends, neighbors or colleagues. He would find no reprieve in gathering a following of like-minded individuals to cheer him on. Not one thing would be solved or gained by angrily pacing his home, obsessing over his grievances, or comparing his circumstances to those of the ungodly. So Jeremiah wisely chose none of those options. In his frustration, in spite of all the things he could have done, Jeremiah chose to do the same thing. Every single time. Jeremiah took his questions, his grievances, his frustrations, and simply had a conversation with God. Alone. 

So did Habakkuk. His entire Old Testament book is a written account of his conversations with God. His complaints. God’s answers. From a place of frustration, Habakkuk cries out a litany of questions to God. Why were his prayers not being answered? Why was God allowing injustice to flourish? At what point did wrongdoing become tolerable? Was God blind to what was going on around him? Destruction, violence, strife and conflict flooded the land. Where is the God Habakkuk knows to be holy and righteous, pure and just? Can He not see the mess on earth? Justice had died. Wickedness was prospering. The righteous were in jeopardy. And God wasn’t doing anything. Or so it seemed. Had He forsaken His people? Would He reject them forever? Was a day coming when God would rectify the situation and redeem the wasted days? What, exactly, was the plan here? Habakkuk didn’t know, couldn’t see it, but he didn’t waste his time worrying and fretting alone in his house, discussing his concerns with friends, or accruing a group of sympathizers. Habakkuk took his frustrations, his grievances, his concerns, and simply had a conversation with God. Alone.  

The conversation didn’t change the situation. It changed Habakkuk. In the three short chapters of his book, there is no record of rejoicing over the current triumph of righteousness. No sweeping victory for Habakkuk and his people. No change in the moral fabric of society. Habakkuk doesn’t wait around for it, either. No. He begins with what he already knows. The Lord does great things. Always. He never fails. Ever. He delivers His people. Eventually. No matter how horrifying or terrifying or frustrating the situation, God always comes through. Habakkuk knows it. Believes it. Rejoices in it. Even when he can’t see it. When he could be pacing his house fretting, Habakkuk chooses to talk to God. Promises to wait patiently for God to act. He vows to find joy and strength in the knowledge that God will do so. He chooses to meditate on the character, the actions, the words of His God. When he could waste hours of the day constantly chewing on the things he can’t change, Habakkuk doesn’t. Instead, He talks to God. About God. And God changes Habakkuk. (Habakkuk 1-3)

You see, friend, something beautiful happens when we have conversations with God. Two-way conversations. Speaking and listening. On both sides. We can’t forget either. So often we do. We get so wrapped up in the Biblical pouring out of our hearts to the Lord, that we forget the other side of the conversation. We forget to listen. We forget to hear what God has to say about our situation. We skip His response, therefore forfeiting His peace. We don’t really lay our burdens down so much as we carry them along throughout the day allowing them to influence our moods, our words, our actions, and our reactions. They infiltrate our conversations. And we find ourselves in discussions with people about things that could have been shelved had we bothered to have more than a one-sided conversation with God. (Psalm 62:8; 85:8)

After our rant is over, our list of questions exhausted, our tears of frustration spent, it is imperative that we stay in God’s presence and listen. He will speak. He always does. To Jeremiah. To Habakkuk. To me. To you. It might not be the words you want to hear. It might not be an immediate rectification to your complaints. It might not even be about you at all. More often than not, it will be a redirection to God Himself. His person. His power. His plan. It’s where our minds should be focusing. It’s where our souls should be resting. It’s where our hope should be placed. It’s where our peace is found. God. Alone. That’s what the Psalmist tells us. It is excellent advice. 

From the first Psalm to the last, we are exhorted to meditate on God. Only. Focus your minds and hearts to concentrate on the things of God. His statutes. His goodness. His promise. His power. All day. Every day. Good times. Bad times. Adversity and triumph. Meditate on the things of God. Talk to God. Don’t wander your house having conversations with yourself about alleged injustices, unfairness, or personal affront. Don’t post your complaints on social media for validation. Don’t doom scroll and proclaim yourself to be correct about the impending implosion of society. Don’t sit in your feelings and sing “poor me” or call your friends to wail and moan. None of that will help. Talk. To. God. Alone. Bring your concerns, complaints, and confusion to Him.Then listen. Hear Him speak. Allow God to guide your thoughts to a place of peace and trust, hope and faith, rest and reassurance. He will. He has a history of doing so. When His people choose to eschew the earthly options and simply have a two-way conversation with God. (Psalm 1:3; 63:6; 77:10-12; 119:15, 23, 27, 97, 99, 148; 130:5-7; 143:5; 145:5; Philippians 4:6; ) 

Gazing down at the tiny bundle quietly sleeping in the crook of her arm, Sarah felt her heart leap. Her lips involuntarily curved up in a smile. A bubble of laughter burst unrestrained from her chest. He had done it. God had done it. He had kept His word. He had fulfilled His promise. He had turned her mourning into laughter. In spite of her timid faith. Regardless of her moments of despair. In spite of the dark hopelessness that had often filled her heart. God had come through. She had a son. His name was Isaac. And Sarah laughed. (Genesis 21:6)

Laughter hadn’t always flowed so easily from Sarah’s lips. Years of sitting by and watching her friends and family birth child after child while she remained barren had drained the joy from her eyes. Congratulatory lip service had slowly leeched the happiness from her heart. Tears frequently wet her pillow. Sighs punctuated her days. Sadness shrouded her being. Mourning enveloped her soul. For all she’d hoped. For all she’d planned. For all she’d dreamed.  Her praying and waiting, hoping and trusting were apparently for nothing. Her dream of motherhood seemed destined to remain just that. A dream. Unfulfilled. Impossible.

No longer could she deny the truth before her. There would be no child. No son. Ever. Long past were the days when she could conceive and bear a child. She was elderly. Abraham was old. The possibility of offspring had ceased to exist. The ache in her heart remained. The questions that plagued her mind refused to let up. In the quiet darkness of sleepless nights. In the silent busyness of her daily tasks. In the midst of pleasant moments and sweet memories. The ugly question would rear its head. Why had God kept her from having children? (Genesis 11:30; 16:1-2)

Of all the women crowding the face of the earth, why had God chosen her to be barren? What had she done to deserve this? Why was she being punished? Were her prayers not good enough? Was her faith not strong enough? Were her private tears unseen, her sobs left unheard, even by the omniscient God of the universe? Was He penalizing her for something she had done? For something she had left undone? Why, exactly, was she the current whipping boy of the Almighty? 

She had tried to do everything right. From following traditions to following her husband. When God told Abraham to leave the safe settlement of Harran and set off for parts unknown, Sarah willingly, obediently, respectfully packed her bags and followed. When entering Egypt, Moses instructed her to lie about being his wife and she ended up living in Pharaoh’s palace, Sarah staunchly held her post as the obedient spouse. When Abraham told her God had promised them a child, yet she saw no sign of that fulfilled promise, Sarah tried to keep the faith. But a long time had passed since that promise. A long, barren desert of time. Now she was too old. Her body told her so. There would be no child. Not without a miracle. And Sarah was no longer sure she believed in miracles. Not for herself, anyway. (Genesis 12; 15:1-1-6)   

It comes as no surprise that, when the men of God show up on Abraham and Sarah’s doorstep, Sarah has trouble believing their words. Eavesdropping behind the tent flap while mixing bread, she overheard the announcement of her impending pregnancy as it fell from the man’s lips. Well. That was laughable. Had they not seen her? Had they not noticed the lines of age wrinkling her face? Had they not seen Abraham’s snow-white hair, the stoop to his shoulders, or paused to calculate his age? The very idea had a rare giggle bubbling out of Sarah’s throat. One she tried to cover with a cough. This was not a time for laughter. She knew that. She knew the men were messengers from God. Clearing her throat again, she went back to her tasks, hoping no one heard her previous chuckle. Except they had. 

Nothing goes unnoticed with God. Whether physically standing in His presence or hiding behind the tent flap, He heard that chuckle. He understood the quietly spoken words of doubt. He knew their origin. He comprehended the years of waiting and hoping on which they were founded. Although the Lord asked Abraham why Sarah laughed and scoffed and doubted, He wasn’t confused about the answer. For all the decades of her life, He’d seen and heard and known the questions that plagued her mind. He knew the aching pain and hopeless despair she felt at her barrenness. He realized her humanity couldn’t comprehend the plans of His Deity. He understood her hesitancy to believe, knew her reluctance to raise her hopes. It didn’t change the facts. Sarah, at her advanced age, would conceive and bear a son. God had spoken it and it would be. Within a year’s time, her season of mourning would give way to glorious joy. A miracle would happen. A son would be born. Laughter was on the way. (Genesis 18:1-15) 

As you know, God kept His promise. In His own time. In His own way. He graciously fulfilled every word He’d spoken to Abraham and Sarah. Their joy is palpable as you read the account. Nearly as palpable as Sarah’s previous pain at being excluded from the circle of motherhood. The hurt of sitting quietly by as other women discussed first teeth, first steps, first words. The mental anguish of wondering what she’d done to cause her barrenness. The suffocating misery that robbed her soul of faith, filled it with doubt, and made her bark out a bitter guffaw at the very thought of birthing a child in her old age. The suffering that stole her joy and left her weeping courses through her words and actions. Toward Abraham when she sent him into Hagar. Toward Hagar after she conceived. Sarah’s own pain ricochets throughout her life, leaking out onto the pages of history, closely correlating with our own, yet so often we miss it. (Genesis 16:1-16; 21:1-7)

You see, friend, Sarah is just like us. Possibly more than we want to admit. When her years of desperate begging for a child came to nothing, she blamed God. Literally. She said to Abraham, “God has kept me from bearing children.” In essence, “This is God’s fault. He could change it, fix it, take away my pain. He chooses not to do so. He allows it to persist. There is no rhyme or reason behind it. But I am sad and angry and a little bitter. I want a child. For me. For you. An heir to inherit all God has promised you.” We’d be lying if we claimed to have never felt the same, however fleetingly. 

Unfortunately, Sarah then set out to right God’s alleged wrongs. Firmly believing God wasn’t doing what He should, when He should, she attempted to do it herself. Tried to secure an heir for Abraham through her maid, Hagar. It was a half-baked notion clearly concocted in a haze of grief and personal longing. It worked, but she hated it. Hated every part of it. Herself for coming up with it. Her husband for capitulating. Her maid for becoming pregnant. The resulting child for being born. Not one part of her attempt at playing God brought about the peace and wholeness she hoped it would. It never does. Not for Sarah. Not for us.

By this point, Sarah’s faith is frazzled. Fried. Forgotten. Mourning has become a way of life. She’s given up on her hopes and dreams. Accepted the harsh reality of her barrenness. The protective shell around her heart is built on year after year of dashed hopes and damaged dreams. Sarah laughs when she hears the announcement that she will bear a child because her faith hasn’t been met with sight in the past. She’s terrified it won’t be now. Afraid to believe the words because they are no longer humanly possible. In her grief and pain, Sarah forgets her God is not limited by human constraints. And we are right there with her, hopelessly staring at our inabilities, insufficiencies, and inadequacies, we forget that our God is able, sufficient, and abundantly adequate. Because we’ve not gotten the desired results in the past, we tend to commit “wait and see” faith, wholly dependent on sight. (Genesis 16:1-15; 18:10-15; 21:8-21)

According to the author of Hebrews, Sarah eventually found her faith. We know the account. At 90 years of age, Sarah miraculously gave birth to a son whom Abraham named Isaac. It’s what we remember most about her story, what we hear preached and taught most often. The miracle of birth given to a barren woman beyond childbearing age. The magnificent ending God wrote to Sarah’s mournful story. It is amazing. It is awe-inspiring. It is beyond comprehension. I would never seek to diminish that. I don’t want us to forget the amazing power of God. But I also don’t want us to miss the personal lessons and correlations we can find in Sarah’s story as a whole. The pain of unanswered prayers. The scheming. The planning. The human effort pitted against the plan of God. The edge of bitterness. The moments of faithlessness. Because we have all been there. Or are there. Or will be there in the future. (Genesis 21:6; Hebrews 11:11)

We don’t have to stay there. Sarah didn’t. It must have taken every ounce of inner fortitude she could muster, but Sarah found her faith. She found the wherewithal to believe the God who makes promises also keeps them. For her. For me. For you. Whatever part of Sarah’s story you most identify with today, know that. Believe it. God keeps His promises. Whatever He has said in the past, no matter how long ago, He will do. He hasn’t forgotten. Not you. Not His promise to you. His words spoken last year, last month, or last week still stand. It may not happen when you want it to. It may not work out the way you thought it should. But God will keep His word. He will fulfill His promise. Just as He did for Sarah, God will bring you out of mourning into a time to laugh, (Psalm 4:7; 30:11; 42:5; Isaiah 40:8; 61:3-4; Ecclesiastes 3:1-8; Genesis 46:27; Hebrews 10:23; II Corinthians 1:20: Jeremiah 29:11)

He was there again. The valley. It wasn’t unfamiliar. Frequently he found himself in that particular space. Bogged in the downs that inevitably followed the ups. Suffocated by the darkness that blocked out the light. Slogging through the days when everything that could possibly go wrong did, in fact, go wrong. Times when his flock was chased by a hungry predator. Weeks being hunted by a king intent on his death. Moments of weakness when his own traitorous heart distracted him, drew him aside, and wrapped him in a web of deceit. Hours spent at the bedside of his dying child, fasting and praying and hoping for a light to illuminate the darkness. Change the outcome. Edit the plans for that particular valley. (I Samuel 17:34-36; 23:7-24:22; II Samuel 11:1-12:19) 

Becoming king didn’t alter his frequent visits to the valley. Evil enemies came against his kingdom. Some from without. Some from within. His own son, Absolom, attempted to usurp his throne. Famine would afflict the land for years on end. Egregious errors in his own judgment would place both his land in the grip of a fatal plague. Often David would find himself on his face before God begging forgiveness, asking for mercy, seeking guidance, giving praise. Celebrating victory. Discouraged by vanquishment. In moments of calm and times of chaos. No matter the circumstances, David rested in the unshakeable knowledge that God, the great Shepherd of his soul, had everything firmly in hand. Because that’s what shepherds do. (II Samuel 15; 21:1; 24)

Experience had taught him a thousand things about being a shepherd. He knew the job. He knew every moment would be fraught with snares and traps. He realized sheep needed guidance. To food. To water. Away from poisonous, yet attractive, plants. Away from sheer drops and rocky cliffs. He understood their vulnerabilities and how dependent they were on his protection. Without arrogance, David comprehended that the sheep truly couldn’t survive without him. With great humility, he recognized the same situation in himself. Without his Shepherd, David’s soul would never survive.  

David recognized a part of himself in every member of his flock. The one who was forever distracted. The one who frequently strayed. The one who desperately needed direction. The one ever needing restoration. He knew he was the same. Exactly the same. David understood his inability to successfully chart his own course. He knew he was easily drawn aside. He realized things would come into his life, clog his path, upset his plans, leaving him with no idea where to go, what to do, or how to overcome the enveloping darkness. He understood fear and anxiety, desperation and helplessness. He acknowledged all of his glaring inadequacies, insufficiencies, and inabilities. Yet, when placing pen to paper in a message for posterity, David chose to write words pointing to the one thing he knew with unshakeable certainty. The character of his Shepherd.

The one thing David knew with absolute clarity, was the heart of God toward humanity. Toward David himself. Toward you. Toward me. He rested in the truth that he could trust his Shepherd to take care of him in every situation. The Shepherd would never lead him astray. He would never allow one of His flock to starve or dehydrate. He would protect them from the evil without and deliver them from the evil within. The Good Shepherd would never leave his flock alone to aimlessly wander dark valleys in terror. He would be with them no matter how grim the circumstances or dark the outlook. David knew he could depend on the presence and help, direction, and care of the Shepherd. Today. Tomorrow. Forever. (Psalm 23) 

It was something David clearly came back to over and over throughout his life. Dependance on his Shepherd. Constantly remembering what he knew about God from personal experience. Obeying Him. Trusting Him. Following Him. In good times and bad. Valleys and mountaintops. Fleeing his enemies or rejoicing in victory over them. When David himself couldn’t see how things would ever work out. When the enemy appeared to be winning. When life seemed to continually be going wrong. He knew his Shepherd was trustworthy. He rested in the fact God had his best interest in mind. He took comfort in the direction and chastening of the Shepherd’s rod and staff. He knew he needed that. Needed to be kept on the proper path. He knew we would need it too. So he penned the words of Psalm 23. (Psalm 73; 145:13; I Samuel 30:6; II Samuel 2:1-2; 4:9; 5:17-19; 6:21; 7:18-29; 11-12; 22; 24:10-14) 

 Confidence echoes from those beautiful words. There are no questions, no uncertainties. It overflows with words of love and care no matter life’s circumstances. When things go right. When things go wrong. When we stay. When we stray. The character of the Shepherd never changes. He is always loving and leading. He continually works in our best interest. He tirelessly draws us back into a proper relationship with Him. He is working for us, not against us. We are safe in His care no matter where we are. In lush pastures. In dark valleys. Surrounded by evil. Safely ensconced in the house of the Lord. He is with us. Everywhere.  We can trust Him. Implicitly. Forever. (Psalm 25:1-2: 36:5-6; 46; 118:6; 139:7-18)

Looking back over a lifetime of church services, camp meetings, and Bible studies, I can count on my fingers the number of times I remember hearing a message on Psalm 23. I’ve rarely even heard it read from the pulpit. Except at funerals. It seems to be a favorite then. It’s supposed to be comforting. And it is. To the living. Because Psalm 23 is for us. Now. The living. Today. In a world of turmoil and uncertainty, it is hope and peace. In times when spiritual carelessness and complacency are the norm, it reminds us of the comfort to be found in the chastening of the Shepherd. When our souls are starving, our worries mounting, our enemies hard on our heels, Psalm 23 paints the beautiful picture of the meticulously prepared feast our Good Shepherd has laid out before us. In a plush meadow. Beside a quiet, glistening pond. With all our enemies looking on. He prepares a table of victory before us and calls us to eat the Bread of Life. Draw strength from Him. For today’s struggles. For tomorrow’s battles. And all His sheep do. Because they know the Shepherd. Do you? (John 6:35; 10:11-18)