Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Because my oldest daughter plays softball with a local league, I spend a lot of time around sports fields. Bleachers, dugouts, batting cages. I talk to a lot of people. Umpires, coaches, players, parents. I do a lot of listening, a lot of hearing. So much of what I hear makes me cringe, some of it breaks my heart, all of it deepens my understanding of James’ words. “The tongue is a fire…no one can tame it….” (James 3:6-8)

From my spot near the dugout entrance, I’ve heard many parent-to-child conversations. Most are encouraging. Some are not. Children have been called names, sworn at, told they were an embarrassment. I’ve sat beside them as they cried, their hearts shattered at the words that told them they were not enough. Not enough to waste time watching the game. Not enough to make their parents proud. Not enough for anything. I’ve seen the fear when they strike out, miss a pop fly, get tagged out at second. Fear of the coming words reiterating what they have already heard. They have failed. They are not enough. The damage breaks my heart.  

I’ve stood and talked to coaches who tell me how they go to church and dream of taking their family on overseas mission trips. It’s a lovely thought, a great idea, all called into question as that same coach violently curses the umpire, causing their own ejection from the game. Their words then in stark juxtaposition to their previous declarations. The words of James again echo in the back of my mind, “With it (that tongue of raging, destroying fire) we both praise God the Creator and curse man whom He created in His likeness. Blessing and cursing come from the same tongue, but it’s not supposed to be this way.” (James 3:9-10)

More than a decade of my life was lived at the end of a gravel road nestled up against the base of a mountain in Montana. At the four-way stop, where a right turn would bring you down our little lane, sat an imposing mountain with a handful of houses and pastures at its foot. It was not a particularly beautiful mountain, not as high or well-treed as some of its surrounding counterparts. There was no green, grassy top above the treeline. It was quite unremarkable, really. We called it Cinderella. 

One year, we had a particularly bad fire season. Seemed we were surrounded by fires. Mountains and gulches lit up in rapid succession. Fire camps were set up for round-the-clock firefighter rotations and filled with out-of-state aid. Aircraft dropping retardant or water was a regular sighting. Although we kept track of what was burning and how close it was, as long as there were no fires on our road, we felt comfortably safe.  

When word came that the backside of Cinderella was on fire, we became diligently vigilant. As forest fires go, it wasn’t so far away. No highways to jump or rivers to cross. Only a small creek surrounded by vegetation, houses, and pastures. In an effort to remain calm, we told ourselves we’d worry when it crested the peak. We worried anyway. Watched and worried. 

Fire is an amazing site, when it’s far away from you, at least. I remember watching the flames lick up the ground, flash up trees, and move on to the next living thing. It sucked the life right out of Cinderella. Crested the peak. Came down our side about halfway. They finally got it under control, but the damage was done. The mountain was littered with burned tree trunks and scarred, blackened earth. It would take years for the vegetation to grow back. The people below would live with the visual reminder of what almost happened to their homes. Life would go on, but it wouldn’t be the same. Neither is the life of someone whose heart has been scorched by the blazing torch of the uncontrolled tongue. 

See, every time you speak, your words kindle something in another person’s heart. The words you choose have the power to inspire peace, joy, strength, and encouragement or evoke anger, fear, bitterness, and self-loathing. You can make someone’s day or ruin their week with just one phrase. You can lead someone to Christ or turn them from Him in one short exchange. And in that one phrase or short exchange, you will tell the whole watching world what is in your heart, because your tongue only says what your heart thinks. (Luke 6:45; Proverbs 15:4, 16:24; Matthew 15:18)

And what does your heart think? What’s lurking in the dark, cobwebby corners of your soul? Do you know? Or do you refuse to acknowledge what’s there? Whether you choose to see or own the contents in the darkest corners of your heart, everyone else knows it. They can’t help but know. It’s spewing out of your mouth every time you speak. Every kindness. Every critique. Every congratulation. Every condescension. Every caustic word. (Proverbs 4:23)

There are a lot of caustic words floating around our world. Even our churches. We call it sarcasm. We think it’s funny. We call it acceptable. After all, a growing contingent of church attendees and religious leaders have decided Jesus was sarcastic. Maybe He was. Maybe He wasn’t. I’m not about to argue it out with anyone. I don’t know. I wasn’t there. Neither were you. I do know this. Whatever Jesus said or did, He is God and His heart and intentions for humanity were always good. (Psalm 34:8; James 1:17)

I also know this. You are not God. On a good day, your intentions are dicey. On a bad day, you’d rather not be held responsible for them. So using Jesus’ alleged sarcasm as a way to excuse your own caustic words to denigrate or decimate the people He meticulously crafted in His likeness is an incredibly poor choice and places you squarely in the congregation depicted in James 1:26, “If you claim to be religious, yet can’t control your tongue, your religion is worthless.” 

Which begs the question, if your religion is worthless, where, exactly, does that leave you? Where does your relationship with God stand? How does your eternity look? In Matthew 12:36-37, Jesus tells us every idle word will be judged–the good, the bad, the ugly. On that day, in Heaven’s courtroom, we will stand before Him, the record will be read back, and we will be asked to give account then for every word that crosses our lips now. In fact, we’ll be judged by them. Perhaps some of us should stop speaking altogether!  (Romans 11:22)

The truth is, we have so much to learn. We have so much business to do with God about our words and the hearts from which they spring. We desperately need to listen to Him before we speak. Our humanity tends to speak first and think later. We need to change, learn a new way. Learn that our need to speak is less important than how those unedited words will affect the hearer. Above the raging melee of our humanity, we must learn to hear God as He patiently, constantly reminds us that our words have consequences. For ourselves. For others. We must train ourselves to ruthlessly reject the ill-tempered need to cut, jab, and scar others with words in an effort to make ourselves feel wiser, stronger, better. We must staunchly refuse to jeopardize our soul’s eternity by placating our finite humanity. (Romans 12:2; Hebrews 12:14)

It’s a monumental task, but there’s a lot riding on it. Your soul health, your life witness, and your eternal destiny are at stake. So allow God to cleanse, purify and fill your heart with Himself. Seek His kingdom first–for yourself and for others. Constantly pray the words of Psalm 19:14, “May my public words and my private meditations be pure and holy before You, Lord.” Guard your heart. Know what is there. Call out the sin. Remove it. Allow your heart to be Christ’s home and let His rivers of living water flow through and out of you to a hopeless world that is longing for just a taste of the goodness of God. (Matthew 6:33)

It took Cinderella mountain years to recover. There was nothing we could do but wait for the vegetation to grow back. Fire does that. Scars things. Destroys things. Not everything can be repaired, sometimes we have to completely rebuild. Your words are like fire. Raging, searing, scarring, damaging the hearts of the people on whom you sharpen your tongue. The damage can’t always be repaired with an apology. Some scars take years to heal. Some never really heal at all. So choose your words wisely, graciously. Be kind or just be quiet. In light of the heavenly accounting you will have to give, put your humanity aside, guard your words and save your soul. (Proverbs 13:3; Psalm 141:3; Proverbs 10:19; Ephesians 4:29; Colossians 4:6)

Last week I had the privilege of visiting with a gentleman from the Philippines. After several twists and turns, the conversation landed on fishing. With a longing glint in his eye, he described the water there as being so clear you can see the fish swimming through it. I’m not a fisherman, but I’ve seen water like that before. Not in the Philippines. In the mountains. Creeks, streams, even rivers so clear you can see the rocks at the bottom, know where to place your foot, be assured you won’t fall on slippery moss or unseat an unsuspecting snake. It’s a comfortable feeling to see and know what’s ahead. No faith required. You can see exactly where you are going. The water is clear. The path straight before you. Clear water is as good as it gets. 

It’s most certainly the type of water Naaman wished was flowing in the Jordan River. Clear, cool, obvious stepping stones. A perfect path to recovery. It was not to be. As he rides up to Elisha’s home expecting at least moderate bowing and scraping, he is shocked to be approached by one single servant bearing a less than pleasant message. “Go dip in the Jordan river seven times.” (II Kings 5:1-10)

Personally, I like to think if I had been in Naaman’s shoes, I’d have mounted my horse and ridden hell-for-leather to the Jordan river and plunged right in. Sharp rocks? Dirty water? Snakes? A drop-off? Who cares? Healing is apparently under the waters of that river! The cure for a cureless disease is somewhere in that river bed. I’d be intent on finding it!

Not so Naaman. Angry no one made a fuss and disgusted someone would ask him to dip his clearly superior posterior into that muck they call a river, Naaman stalks off. He’s going home. There are rivers there too. Clean rivers. Rivers in which he was unafraid to dip his disease-ridden flesh. Why did they send him to dip in that mud stream? Seven times at that! He’d be lucky to live through it once! No. He’d just head home. He had clearly wasted a trip. 

In the middle of Naaman’s tantrum, as he’s about to wheel out of Elisha’s yard, his servants make one last impassioned plea. Just try it. Give it a chance. “If he had asked you to do something great and awe-inspiring, even dangerous, you would have done it. This is simple. Why don’t you just give this a shot?” (II Kings 5:13) Really. Why not? 

He had nothing to lose. He would get worse if he went home with no cure. He would get worse if the Jordan mud bath didn’t work. Either way, the only risk was one of staying the same or being healed. We chalk it up to arrogance, pride, social status. We deride him for all manner of evils. I have to ask, is it possible that buried under all the blustering arrogance that makes us gag there was an enormous boulder of fear weighing Naaman down? Was hope just too hard?  He’d probably tried a hundred cures already. Nothing else had worked. Why should he believe this crazy idea had merit? Was Naaman really afraid of dirty water, or was he afraid to step in where he couldn’t see the landing, couldn’t trace the future, couldn’t ensure the outcome? 

Whether arrogance, fear or a bit of both, the servant’s words broke through Naaman’s fog. He truly has nothing to lose. So off to the murky Jordan he goes. Cautiously he wades in and slips beneath the surface. Once. Twice. Three times. By the seventh dip he was probably hoping he didn’t come out with something even more severe than his current condition. As his head breaks back through the river’s surface for the seventh time, Naaman looks down to watch his arms appear and sees his meager faith become sight. Skin. Clean. Disease-free. It had all been worth it. Blind faith. Murky waters. Everything. Healed by following a plan that didn’t add up by human standards, but made perfect sense in Heaven’s calculations. (II Kings 5:14)

Elisha knew the benefits of blind faith. He’d watched Elijah practice it for a long time. He wasn’t new to situations where only faith in God’s prevailing sovereignty would pull him through. God’s prophets were constantly threatened. Someone was always seeking to take his life. He wasn’t worried. Even when Elisha couldn’t see how things were going to shake out, he calmly placed his faith in the sovereign God of the universe who constantly looks after His own, and kept walking. (II Kings 6:8-16)

Perhaps that was why he sent Naaman off to the river without ever speaking to him. Elisha knew it wasn’t the cleanliness of the water or the power of his presence that could heal Naaman. His healing would only happen if he laid everything else aside, exhibited blind faith, and stepped into the muddy current. The rivers of Damascus would never have had the same effect. Why? Because God’s requirement is blind faith. Placing his feet where only God could see the next step, even if his foot landed in muck. (Hebrews 11:6)

Elisha had to teach his servant the same lesson. Rising early, the servant stepped outside their Dothan dwelling to find the city surrounded by soldiers, horses, and chariots, a threatening gift from the king of Aram. In a panic, he rushed to Elisha crying, “What are we going to do?” Elisha didn’t fall to his knees and cry out to God for deliverance, a host of avenging angels, or a raging fire. He didn’t need to. He knew the God who had proven Himself to be Deliverer over and over again would come through. He knew His God was bigger. He believed without physical evidence or some grand event the world could see. Elisha believed God would care for them. And He did. 

Turns out the hills around the city were teeming with a heavenly host of horses and chariots of fire there to fight for them. There were more with them than could ever come against them. They were never in any danger. God already had the situation in hand. Elisha knew that because his faith was safely placed in the knowledge that even if you can’t trace the hand of God marking the path ahead, you can always trust God’s heart of love and care for His people. (II Kings 6:8-17)

Jesus took time to teach Simon Peter the same lesson. They’d come in empty-handed from a long, useless night of fishing. Not for lack of trying. They’d cast their nets a dozen times. Nothing. Not even a minnow. Back on shore, disappointed, exhausted, and with nets still to clean, Simon sees Jesus walk onto his boat. He asks Simon to push out a bit from the shore and cast anchor. Simon obliges. As they sit there, bobbing on the water, Jesus teaches the people. He wants them to know things. True things. Things about Himself, His kingdom, His laws. I bet Simon wondered why Jesus chose that morning to teach from the water and that boat to be His stage. 

When He finished speaking, Jesus startled Simon by saying, “Let’s go out to the deep part of the lake and catch some fish.” You can almost audibly hear Simon groan. He’s tired. He’s literally just been out there. If there were schools of fish worthy of a net, surely he’d have seen or caught them when he’d been there. All. Night. Long. But Jesus is asking. So, sucking in a fortifying breath, Simon replied, “We’ve been out there all night. We haven’t seen one fish, certainly not enough to put out a net. However, if You say it, I’ll do it.” (Luke 5:1-5)

If the fish were sleeping before, they were schooling now! Simon was about to be schooled too. Those fish swam in so fast the nets could barely hold them! When they realized their nets were beginning to tear, the men frantically signaled their buddies on shore to come and help. Even after dividing the catch between the boats, they were so full of fish they almost sank. Simon Peter hadn’t been able to see the fish. He didn’t think there were any there. He didn’t have faith for a great catch. He didn’t see a reason to row back out there. When he didn’t see the point, didn’t know the outcome, he still blindly took that step. The reward was certainly worth it. (Luke 5:6-7)

Sometimes everything around us looks murky and suspect. We can’t see the next step, find the next foothold. Sometimes we can’t see what God is doing, how He is working, where He is leading. We are tempted to sit still, hunker down, wait it out. Before you do, hear this. Just because the waters of your life are too murky to see the next step, when you can’t figure out how walking through the deep waters of now will bring victory then, when you can’t put the pieces together and determine the destination before you take the first step–still take that step! 

Keep following God. Even when you can’t see the next flat rock. Especially when you can’t see the next flat rock! Cast your faith in the God who has proven Himself over and over and over again. Throw your gear in the boat, pick up the oars and start rowing with Simon. Brace yourself and edge your toes into the muddy, silt-laden waters with Naaman. Stand outside your doorway, lift up your eyes to the hills, above all the things of earth that batter your faith, and know from where your help is coming. Just step out in faith and let God do what He does best–care for and lead His people. His promise of continued presence wasn’t just for the Old Testament Israelites or New Testament disciples. It is for you. It is for me. It is for everyone who chooses to place their faith in the great God of the universe who holds all things together, through whom all things occur and exist, and whom you can trust with your very life. (Psalm 121; Isaiah 41:10; Colossians 1:17; Ecclesiastes 3:11-14; Hebrews 2:10)

So do it. Trust Him. When doubt stirs up the waters of your soul, swirling silt and mud to obstruct your view, don’t let it stop you from taking the next step. Don’t let murky waters keep you from following the path God is asking you to take. Don’t be rattled by what you can’t see–the next step, the next win, the next school of fish. Instead, blindly place your faith in the One you know is Sovereign over all, who never stops caring for His children. Boldly place your hand in His and walk courageously into the plan perfectly crafted for you. It will be worth it. Faith in God always is. (James 1:6; Proverbs 3:5-6; Romans 8:28; Psalm 9:10; Psalm 112:11; Hebrews 11:6; John 14:1)

With Lent 2021 solidly in the rearview mirror, I find myself wondering how many folks woke up Easter morning with their own cry of, “It is finished.” How many coffee cups sitting empty since Ash Wednesday were filled first thing Easter morning? How many had donuts for breakfast? Who made certain to pencil in time for binge watching that show they eschewed for Lent? Who quietly rejoiced at no more midweek fasts, extra prayer time, or extended Bible study? How many of us woke up Sunday morning, checked the Lent box on our religious to-do list, and straightaway picked up the habit we’d laid down? How many of us stepped back on the throne of our lives the very moment we sang “He Lives”?

Unfortunately, the transition from Lent to life as we previously lived it, is ridiculously easy. With little to no conscious thought, we slip away from new practices, drifting back into old habits. Within a matter of days, we will have forgotten we even celebrated the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ as we fight through the endless race for earthly gain, human praise, social notoriety. Of course, we are still interested in going to Heaven! We are still thankful for the death and resurrection of Jesus giving us the opportunity of eternal life. We are happy to have Him live in our hearts. It’s our lives we aren’t certain we want Him indwelling. (Luke 24:45-47)

We aren’t so interested in purposefully dwelling in the constant awareness of Jesus Christ as resurrected, living, and active in our lives. We aren’t always comfortable having Him hear all our conversations, watch all our actions, or go all the places we go. We would rather not weigh our words, consider our emotions, evaluate our tantrums. In fact, many are more than happy to leave Jesus at home to collect dust with their seldom-used Bibles. They will call if they need Him.  

Jesus’ disciples would stand in jaw-dropped amazement at our blase attitudes. Whether before or after His resurrection, they would likely have some choice words for us. Words of condemnation, disbelief, disgust. I’m sure they would question our devotion to the Savior. It would be within their purview.

They were blessed to spend every day in the physical presence of Jesus. They traveled with Him, ate lunch with Him, served with Him. They watched His miracles, listened to His teachings, presumably lived according to what He taught. Their sainthood seems certain. Their heavenly mansions reserved. Because of my lofty opinion of those men, I find myself reeling in shock when one of them begs Jesus, “Teach us to pray!”  (Luke 11:1)

What?! How can they possibly need to be taught how to pray? Their Example is right in front of them. They’ve been listening to and learning from Him for a while now and they are asking to learn to pray? Jesus doesn’t blink an eye or pause for a second, He starts their lesson immediately. Proper salutations. Proper place. Proper authority. In Heaven. On earth. Now and then. “May your kingdom come. May your will be done. Not just in Heaven where you dwell, but here, now, on earth.” Help us, whether You are here in the body or present only in spirit, to live in the constant awareness of the presence of Jesus Christ as risen and alive. And, Father, help us to act like it. (Matthew 6:9-10; Luke 11:1-2)

Easter Sunday, when you sat in church and sang songs about serving a risen Savior who lives in your heart, this is what you were saying. As you waved your hands, looked toward the heavens, and fervently intoned those words, you were affirming that the kingdom of God lives in you, reigns in your heart, rules your life, and that His will is done in and through you, just the way things are done in Heaven. Your heart is God’s home. His word is the final authority. On that day, as you celebrated the resurrected Savior who is alive and working in your life and world today, as you loudly acclaimed and proclaimed Jesus as your King, this is what you were claiming. Did your life reflect those words on Monday?

It is not enough to observe 40 days of Lent sacrificing coffee and donuts and television if it doesn’t deepen your desire to be God’s kingdom on earth. It is not enough to spend one Friday a year reflecting on the horror of the cross if it doesn’t strengthen your resolve to follow in Jesus’ footsteps and do the Father’s will. It is not enough to rejoice in triumphant Easter celebrations proclaiming He lives if you are going to live every other day as if He is still in the tomb. 

It is so easy to forget. We so quickly forget He is living and moving among us today. His death and resurrection happened so long ago. We’ve heard the account so often. It’s such a staple of our belief system, we forget the astonishment, the amazement at finding an empty tomb. We forget the staggering awe, the unmitigated joy of Mary Magdalene as a living, breathing, newly resurrected Jesus called her by name. We give little thought to the burning hearts of the men on their road to Emmaus. We have only passing knowledge of the mixture of disbelief and joy that flooded the hearts of the Eleven as Jesus stood among them, showed them His wounds, and asked for a bite to eat. Because we limit His resurrection to one day a year, we miss out on the awe of the awareness of a living Savior the rest of the time. We forget to be His kingdom. We decline to do His will. Is it possible for us to miss Heaven because we forgot the resurrection? (John 20:1-16; Luke 24:19-42)

In a captivating conversation with Martha, Jesus states, “I am the resurrection and life. Everyone who believes in me will live. Always. They will never die.” (John 11:25) He wasn’t saying everyone who claimed Jesus as their Savior would physically live forever. He was promising eternal life to the ones who knew Him, believed in Him, and lived for Him. Why make the distinction? Because you can know all about Jesus and believe He exists, but if you have not had a life-changing encounter with the resurrected Savior, if you are not living every day as His kingdom where His will is done, you must certainly ask yourself if you truly serve that Savior you so sincerely sang of on Easter Sunday. Do you truly believe in your dependency on His death and resurrection for your soul’s salvation, or is that just something tradition demands, not something your heart resounds? (Acts 4:11-12; Matthew 7:21; James 1:22; Hebrews 10:36; Mark 3:35)

In Heaven, the kingdom of God, His will is the only thing that is ever done. It is perfect. It is flawless. It is absolute. There are no other options. On earth, the place we treat as our own, there are myriad options, mostly disreputable. Down here, we have to choose to be God’s kingdom. We must choose to do God’s will. It is rarely easy. It is never popular. It is always necessary. You’ll be tempted not to participate. When you are, I hope you remember Easter. Remember Jesus wasn’t thrilled to be participating in that gruesome crucifixion even though He knew the outcome was the resurrection. Remember He, through drops of blood, prayed, “Not my will, but Yours.” (Luke 22:42) Remember He did it anyway. Remember He rose from the dead. Remember He is alive and interceding for you, pulling for you to make the choice be God’s kingdom, do God’s will. (Romans 8:34) Remember Easter. Every day. Remember Jesus’ death. Remember His resurrection. Remember it was all to give you eternal life. Remember that eternal life doesn’t start when you die. Eternal life starts the moment you place your faith in Jesus’ Christ, choose to be His kingdom, delight to do His will. Daily remember Easter and live like it. (John 6:47; John 17:3; Psalm 40:8; Romans 14:17)

When I was a child, we used to play a game we called, “king of the hill.” There weren’t a lot of rules. Or any, if it comes to it. One person, dubbed the king, would stand atop a mound of dirt, rise in the land, or actual hilltop. The rest of us would race up and attempt to remove them from their position by force. Pushing. Pulling. Dragging. Lots of laughter. You get the idea. It wasn’t a particularly serious or competitive event. In retrospect, I have no idea why we did it. It wasn’t really fun. It didn’t serve a specific purpose. It wasn’t incredibly athletic. There was no prize for winning, no special recognition, no granting of authority. It seems the only point of playing the game was to gain the title of “king” for a moment.

 Apparently, the chief priests and leaders of Jesus’ day were playing a similar game. Similar because they were all jockeying for a specific position. Different in every other way. Absolute authority and prestige were at the top of their hill. Being always right and allegedly indisputable came with that top of the hill territory. They didn’t rush the hill with pushes and shoves and shrieks of laughter. Their assault was much more serious, more stealthy. Their opening salvos words of dissent, disgust, diversion. Their game had unwritten rules only a select few knew. Their game was fixed. Their force was deadly. Their stakes unmatched. At the end of the game, someone would die and someone would become king. 

Never, in their wildest dreams, did they imagine it would be the same person. They hadn’t thought it possible. Death of the One claiming they were seeking to eradicate would certainly be the end of it. They would find another king. Someone who would forcefully put people in their place and rule with the iron fist of a powerful leader. Maybe it would even be one of them. A man could certainly dream. 

They laid their groundwork. Struck a deal with Judas. Collected an armed mob to go make the arrest. Brought Jesus to stand trial before their cohorts, the Sanhedrin, twisted His words, made up lies. Spit. Slapped. Punched. Lightened by the clear progress they were making in claiming the hill, they organized His death. Pulled Him before Pilate. But Pilate couldn’t find justification for a death sentence. They thought they were losing ground. So they went out and accosted the crowd, convincing them to demand the death of Jesus. And so it was, Pilate failed to stand for justice, the fickle people failed to remember mercy, the chief priests and elders got their way. Jesus was to be crucified. It looked like they had won. (Matthew 26-27)

I wonder if they went out to celebrate. I wonder if that is why they were surprised by the sign Pilate dictated for the top of Jesus’ cross. Perhaps they forgot about its necessity. Pilate made those signs all the time. Actual and alleged guilt scrawled on a plaque for all the world to see. Few really cared what he wrote. Too late, the purported winners in this vicious “king of the hill” game realized they did care. While they were off celebrating their victory (or plotting their next game), Pilate had declared a winner. In an astounding victory, the truth screamed out from the top of the cross, “Jesus the Nazarene. King of the Jews.” King on the hill. (John 19:19)

And Jesus owned that win. Not by strutting down the streets of Jerusalem, shaking hands and kissing babies. Not by buying a round at the local watering hole. Not with press conferences, edicts, or delusions of grandeur. Not in any way we or his opponents would celebrate such a victory. No. In celebration, Jesus willingly laid down on a cross, stretched out His arms, and let them do their worst. 

In truth, enough had already been done. The mocking and bullying had been intense. The beating had left ribbons of flesh hanging from his back, dripping blood and drawing flies. The humiliation of standing naked before a room of soldiers to be scorned and scoffed was nearly unbearable. The pain of thorns plunging into the tender flesh of His brow, the blood flowing into His eyes, stinging, burning pain upon pain upon pain. Yes, enough had already been done. It is difficult to imagine worse. 

Worse was coming. As the guiltless, sinless Son of God lay down on that cross and stretched out His arms, those burly soldiers gathered sledges and spikes. The ring of sledge to spike sounded out across the valley as they drove nails through the flesh of His hands and feet, tearing skin, bursting veins, inflicting unbearable pain. One would think it would be enough, they’d be done by now. They aren’t. The cross was then lifted and set upright, jostling the Savior, the nails tearing at ripped flesh as He hung suspended by hands and feet from a rough, splinter-shedding cross. There are no words to help us explain or comprehend the enormity of the Savior’s pain. 

The horror boggles my mind. My stomach turns, tries to rebel. I hate contemplating the atrocities of that hellacious day. My mind wants to shy away from it, skim the accounts quickly, not think too deeply. My heart knows I have to stay. I need to stay. I need to look. I must carefully read the accounts. I must purposefully remember. I need to let my imagination creatively conjure up the sights and sounds of mocking, beating, torture, hammering, and death. I need to smell the blood and sweat. I need to hear the weeping of His mother, His aunt, and Mary Magdalene. I need my heart to break at their loss. I need to hear the echo of His final cry, “It is finished.” Why? Because I need to remember what it looks like to win. (John 18-19; Luke 22-23; Mark 14-15; Matthew 26-27)

For Jesus, winning looked like hanging on a cross, bruised and beaten, so the people who abused, derided, and deleted Him could find forgiveness and peace for their souls through His blood shed on the cross. The thief beside Him. The priests. The scribes. The Pharisees. Jews and Gentiles. Disciples and doubters. Betrayers. Sinners. Pilate. Judas. Peter. Thomas. You. Me. 

We are all lined up at the foot of that cross. Every single one of us. We are all filthy, sinful beggars of grace. Losers. So deeply steeped in sin those mocking words, pounding fists, scourging strikes, and hammering nails might as well have come directly from our hands. And they do. Every time we choose sin over salvation, self over the Savior, we hammer another nail, throw another punch, spit in His face once again. In our sin-ridden state, we look at that cross and see losing. (I Corinthians 1:18; Matthew 7:13-14)

It wasn’t. The cross was the only way for humanity to win. God knew that. We are all dead, eternally so, in our trespasses and sins. On our own, we are hopelessly lost. We can’t save ourselves. We can’t change our own eternity by human machinations. But God, in breathtaking love, sent Jesus, His only Son, to change our ending. It is only through the blood of Jesus painfully, atrociously shed on the cross that we might find repentance, forgiveness, and remission of sins. You only have to ask. Losing in the eyes of the world was the only way to provide salvation for lost humanity. It was the only way for us to win. And Jesus did so, as He hung there, our King on the hill. (John 3:16; Luke 24:46-47; Colossians 2:14; Ephesians 2:8; Hebrews 9:22; I Peter 2:24-25; II Corinthians 5:21)

If you miss all the other celebrations of Holy Week, I hope you don’t miss Friday. We selfishly call it good. I doubt it felt good for Jesus’ followers at the scene. I know it was horrible for Mary to watch her son die. There is no question it was incomparable in pain and suffering for the Savior. So don’t gloss over it. Read every account. Slowly. Picture the scenes in your mind. Feel the pathos. Don’t gloss over Friday “because Sunday is coming.” You can’t afford to skip Friday. Without Friday, your soul would lose for all eternity. With it, you have the opportunity for an eternal win. It’s your choice. Your King hung on a hill to give you options. Life or death. Heaven or hell. Win or lose. (Acts 4:12; John 3:36, 8:24; I John 5:11-12)

We are all standing at the foot of the cross. You. Me. The soldiers that pounded the nails and pierced His side. The mockers, scorners, spitters. We have all sinned and fallen so far short of God’s glory that we are clearly losing Heaven. But this is our moment. This is our opportunity. This is our chance to choose. Now is the time, the day, the moment of salvation. You have only to ask. It will change your life. What we do at the cross today will make all the difference in every tomorrow. It will determine our eternity. It’s up to you. Win or lose. You choose. (Romans 3:23, 6:23; Joshua 24:15)

My oldest daughter loves Palm Sunday. With the exception of Easter, it is her favorite. It seems to stem from a heart-warming and impactful experience at a church we attended in North Carolina. She would have been in elementary school then, serving as an acolyte and accustomed to the morning procession of carrying the light into and out of the service. The morning that changed her perspective of Palm Sunday, she was part of a different type of procession. 

On this particular Palm Sunday, as the children came from their respective classes, our pastor’s wife gathered them outside the swinging doors at the back of the sanctuary. They were a motley crew, ranging from preschool to grade five, clothed as varied as their ages. It made no difference. Each child was given a palm branch and placed in line. The instructions were simple. As I played the processional music, the acolyte would walk up the aisle carrying the light, and the children would join the pastor in his procession up the aisle, waving their palm branches. Our own Palm Sunday Parade of praise. 

Watching from the piano, I couldn’t stop a smile from stealing across my face. Our God-fearing, people-loving pastor who could both raise the roof and quietly plead with the people, came slowly down the aisle, his face wreathed in delight, surrounded by children of every size. Some were actually waving their palm branches. Some held them at half-mast while sucking a thumb. Some marched stoically along with their friends; others beamed and waved like royalty. Most finished the procession to the altar rail. Some dropped off in the middle. A few went straight to their parents as soon as they reached their pew. It didn’t go off without a hitch, but it is indelibly etched in our memories. Our praise parade to the King.

No matter how our rag-tag bunch fared in recreating the great procession from Bethany to Jerusalem, we didn’t have a patch on the actual one. It must have been glorious! The donkey,  draped in the robes of Jesus’ disciples, carrying the Messiah, the Savior of the world! The two-mile stretch of road from Bethany to Jerusalem colorfully covered in the robes of the crowd as they threw them before Him. Hastily cut tree branches thrown atop the robes in an effort to add honor upon honor to the One riding upon the donkey. Some led, some followed, but all shouted the same message, “Hosanna to the king!” (Matthew 21:7-11; Mark 11:6-10; Luke 19:35-44; John 12:12-19; Zechariah 9:9)

One has to wonder how long the crowd followed Jesus. Did they watch Him unceremoniously cleanse the Temple and applaud His powerful display of authority? Did they stick around to listen to His teachings, hear His parables, learn His commands? Were they intent on spending every possible moment in His presence, doing every day with Jesus? If so, where were they when the rabid, angry mob cried, “Crucify Him”? (Matthew 21:12-13; 21:28-22:14; 22:34-40; 27:22-25)

What happened to those followers between the “Hosanna” and the “Crucify Him”? Why weren’t they there to decry His guilt? Did they simply need to get home for Passover? Or did they dislike His teachings? Were they disappointed because He didn’t violently overthrow the Roman government and institute His own rule? Or did the days between the triumphant ride and the deathly verdict give the religious leaders of that day time to whisper lies and half-truths in their ears, persuading them to switch their allegiance? 

I don’t know. It’s a conundrum to which we have no answer. No one does. Perhaps I am wrong to think none of the crowd hung about. Perhaps a few of them were present, but their voices of dissent were covered by the bellows of “Crucify Him!” Maybe frustration with Jesus’ methods really did cause some to change sides of the aisle. Perhaps they were upset Jesus didn’t work the way they expected. Maybe they grew tired of waiting to see His kingdom come. I  don’t know what happened to them. I don’t know what happens to us either. I know only this, the lives of many church-attending, self-proclaimed Christians of our day echo the contrasting cries of theirs. 

Somewhere between the Sunday morning sanctuary and the Monday morning commute, our cries also change from “Hosanna” to “Crucify Him.” We don’t like to admit it. We push it aside, refuse to consider it. It is no less true. Following hard on the heels of the beauty and presence, glory and holiness of Sunday morning worship, comes the rush of the world, the pleasure of sin, the care of this life. We find ourselves at a crossroads, determining who Jesus truly is to us. Is He King for a day or King for always? (Mark 4:19)

Sunday morning is easy. We collectively gather with the congregation of the righteous. We attend morning Bible classes. We greet our fellow parishioners as we make our way to the sanctuary for worship. As we find our seats, strains of beautiful music float from the organ, the band plays, or some canned music floats over the speakers. Some of us recite creeds and pray The Lord’s Prayer, reminding ourselves what we believe, why we believe it, and through Whom it is all possible. Our souls are hushed and quieted. We become introspective. 

The music begins, sometimes congregational, sometimes choral. Sometimes hymns, sometimes contemporary. As it flows, the music works our emotions. In that moment, we are convinced we have crowned Jesus King for always. The sermon is preached. We nod our heads, take notes, underline Bible passages. We tell ourselves we’ll remember it all because Jesus is certainly King. We partake of communion, bow for the final prayer, and exit the church with our hearts singing, “Hosanna to Jesus, the King!”

But it’s Monday morning now. Meticulously dressed and coiffed for the office, you grab your keys, briefcase, and coffee mug, and race out the door. You furiously honk your horn at the car that cut you off, flipping a single-fingered wave at the driver as you fly past on the other side. You delve into the dodgy deal you are working and fervently hope for its success. Your much-desired promotion rests on it. That promotion is everything. You’ll do anything to get it, the raise it brings, the prestigious job title, the corner office. Yesterday your lips cried “Hosanna”, but your actions today cry, “Crucify Him!” 

As you wolf down your lunch and scroll through your phone, what links do you choose? Are you reading articles, watching videos that edify your soul or crucify Christ? At the end of the day when you drop down on the couch and mindlessly turn on the television, what programs do you select? Is the language objectionable, the subject matter offensive, the treatment of humanity crude? Do the advertisements encourage you to crown Jesus King or crucify Him again? If you picked up a book, could you read it aloud? Would you offer Jesus a place on the couch or only a spot on a cross? (Psalm 101:3)

When payday comes and the bills are paid, what plans do you have for God’s money? Do you pray over each penny or spend indiscriminately on the things that are passing away? And how do you choose to spend the time you call your own? With Christ the King in prayer and Bible study and service or by sleeping late and lounging by the pool? Is Jesus truly King of your spending, be it time or money, or simply Lord of your leftovers? (Deuteronomy 15:7)

What do you do with your multitude of words? Can you, could you, would you invite Jesus into your conversations, text messages, and social media posts? Caught up in the vicious cycle of perceived popularity, is Jesus King of your thoughts and comments then? When a neighbor, co-worker, or stranger on the street curses you, belittles you, offends you, does your response prove that Jesus is King, or do you crucify Him afresh with your words? Are you the prudent soul of Proverbs 10:19, or are your words your own, is self your king?

See, there are a million moments every week to choose your anthem. “Hosanna” or “Crucify Him.” It is in every choice you make, every deal you write, every word you say, every post you “like”. It’s in your budget, your books, your blogs. It’s how you treat your neighbor, the homeless man on the street corner, the child with a dirty face and constantly running nose. It’s in your diatribe on drug abuse, homosexuality, and homelessness. It is in your private sins and public transgressions. Who you have truly chosen to be your King today will show up in every action and reaction, every moment, every day, every week. You have to choose your king every single second. (I Kings 18:21; Micah 4:5; I John 2:3: Luke 6:45; Matthew 7:16-20)

I don’t know what changes your anthem song from “Hosanna” to “Crucify Him.” I don’t know what besetting sin makes you crucify Jesus over and over and over again. I don’t know what voices whisper in your ear to draw you aside. I do know this. Jesus cannot be your King for just a day. Jesus must be the Lord of your lifetime. It’s an all or nothing commitment. You can’t walk with Jesus and look fondly back at sin. You can’t serve God and money or anything else. There can be no idols. Not money, prestige, honor, fame, leisure, power, or press coverage. The throne of your heart must be occupied by Jesus only. Always. (Exodus 20:3-5; I John 2:15-17; Luke 9:62)

In Deuteronomy, Moses told the people of Israel, “Today life and death are set before you. Life if you serve God and follow His commands. Death if you choose not to. Choose life for yourself, your family, your descendants.” Joshua told the people to choose that day, right then who they would serve. Paul, in a letter to the Corinthian church, said, “Now is the time to choose Jesus, to choose salvation.” Although not a pastor, priest, or prophet, I would echo their words. Today is the day, right now is the time to choose, “Hosanna” or “Crucify Him!” Is Jesus your King for a day or have you chosen Him to be your King always? (Deuteronomy 30:11-20; Joshua 24:15; II Corinthians 6:2 )