Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

I grew up in dresses. We wore them all the time. Gardening, hiking, sledding, biking. I’m a firm believer that one can do almost anything in a dress. I’ve done a lot of things that way. Climbing trees, jumping fences, playing volleyball…especially climbing trees. I had quite an affinity for climbing trees. Preferably the big, old, welcoming willow out back with its sweeping, vine-like branches nearly touching the ground. There weren’t a lot of other good climbing trees. Pine trees aren’t climber friendly. Fruit trees aren’t for climbing. Except the young cherry tree beside the house. 

I shouldn’t have climbed that tree. Really. I shouldn’t have. I should have used a ladder. I thought there were cherries at the top. I have an affinity for cherries. I was impatient. So I climbed the tree in my favorite, most comfortable, black calico dress with little pink flowers. I shouldn’t have done that. I should have known it would end badly. I should have known that even a tiny, little branch could keep my skirt from following me back down the tree. 

Which is exactly what happened. As I perched on the lowest branch of the tree, ready to make my exit, I checked my skirt to make sure it wasn’t caught on some nefarious branch. Apparently I didn’t check well enough. As I made the short jump from the tree to the ground, my skirt failed to completely follow. Some of it stayed up there. I yanked urgently. The skirt ripped. It was irreparable. The situation was unfortunate. I was empty-handed. There had been no fruit to pick. I had torn the dress but had nothing to show for it. 

The cherry tree incident reminds me of all the people in the Old Testament who tore their clothes to exhibit grief and angst. I can’t remember how many souls traded perfectly good clothing for shredded rags. Sinful? Tear your clothes. (I Kings 21:20-27) Sickness? Tear your clothes. (Leviticus 13:45) Sadness? Tear your clothes. (Genesis 37:34) I always wonder about that tearing. What was the point of such a violent outward act? It didn’t change their circumstances to run around in ruined clothing. It wasn’t the tearing of their robes that brought change. Only the rending of their hearts could do that. 

Remember Nineveh? Desperately wicked and woefully sinful, they had a horrible reputation. Jonah, the prophet God’s mercy called on to warn them of the coming devastation, was more inclined to book a room in the belly of a fish than go preach to such a savage, unsalvageable society. Fortunately for the Ninevites, Jonah did some soul searching down in that fish and, when his reservation there ended, he headed off to preach in Nineveh. On his first day of the three-day journey through the city, Jonah began to warn them of the wrath to come, delivering an eviction notice that read “40 days”. (Jonah 1-3)

The men of Nineveh took immediate action. Following suit with all those before them, they did the first thing everyone in the Old Testament seems to do when faced with God’s judgment–changed their garments. When the message reached Nineveh’s king, he immediately commanded all people and animals to wear sackcloth and fast. But that wasn’t all. He added the element that would actually save them, the only element that would save them. “Stop sinning and cry out to God.” (Jonah 3:8) By royal decree, stop doing evil and repent so perhaps God would see them as better than Sodom and Gomorrah, that God would relent and save them from His wrath. (Jonah 3:4-9)

I wonder at the sackcloth and ashes. I wonder why everyone seems to believe those are the things that will save them. “Change your outward appearance,” they say. “Look penitent,” they cry. Why? That has no effect on God. Neither of those things made God turn his wrath aside. No. God heard their heart-rending cries, looked on the inside of their dirty, sinful hearts, and saw true repentance and turning from evil. It was the repentance that changed things. It was the rending of their hearts that brought the reward. (Jonah 3:10) 

It is the same for us. We can put on an act of repentance, use the right words, but if our hearts are still harboring sin, we’ve missed the brief. We have missed the message the Prophet Joel so vigorously cried out, “Stop tearing your clothes and tear the evil from your hearts instead.” (Joel 2:12-13) Empty your hearts before God. Let God empty them for you. Be honest about the evil infesting your heart and come back to God in rending, repentance, reconsecration. Tearing your clothes means nothing. Rending your heart means everything. Because God isn’t interested in how you look on the outside. God cares only what your heart looks like. (I Samuel 16:7)

It is always only the rending of our hearts that brings about the desired change. We tend to think it isn’t so. We seem to think God looks at us and judges us like we judge those around us. We have some silly notion that God looks down and sees the spotlessly dressed, perfectly coiffed, paragon of virtue we show everyone else–and that He believes the pretense. He doesn’t. He’s not looking at the brand name of your handbag or the cut of your jeans. He’s not judging His children on how they present themselves in public. No. God is judging His children on what is in their hearts. 

And let’s be honest, what’s in our hearts isn’t always that great. There’s a bunch of stuff in there. Crammed down deep under a layer of superficial love, is a layer of anger that’s been breeding hate. Maybe there’s a touch of bitterness over a real or imagined slight that tries to rear its head every now and again. There’s some pride, unforgiveness, ill will. We know we should rend our hearts, but instead, we push it down, dress ourselves up, say all the right phrases, quote all the right Scriptures, and keep going like nothing is wrong.  

Everything is wrong. We’ve quit rending our hearts. We’ve quit falling down before God at an altar, a living room chair, beside our beds and crying out, “Search me, Lord, know my heart! Tell me what you find offensive. Change me.” (Psalm 139:23-24) The truth is, we don’t want to be searched. We already know what’s down there. Searching would be uncomfortable. We have monumental dislike for the results. We don’t want to change. 

We desperately need to change. We urgently need to rend our hearts. We need the results of God’s searching. Our homes, our workplaces, our churches, our world, need the change that comes when we throw ourselves before God and cry out for a clean heart. (Psalm 51:10) A heart that has nothing to hide. A heart that is guiltless, sinless, and blameless before the great Judge of the universe. A heart that is broken by its sin and humble in its repentance is the only thing God asks. (Psalm 51:16-17)

I hope we respond. In spite of the discomfort, no matter what God finds, I hope we rend our hearts. I hope we become a people so in tune with God that our hearts are constantly open before Him, that nothing ever has a moment to fester, no spot of bitterness springs up and troubles us. (Hebrews 12:15) I want us to reap the reward. I want us to enjoy the showers of blessings. Showers of God’s love and mercy and grace. But there’s only one way to get them, rending our hearts in repentance, returning, and renewal. It might be unpleasant. There might be some hard moments. It will be worth it. True rending that leads to repentance brings a reward of lasting righteousness and peace. (Hebrews 12:11) May we rend our hearts and find the reward is worth the rending.

There are several things I find wanting from the evolving American church of today. Hymns. Altar services. Prayer meetings. I deeply miss prayer meetings. Real ones. Not the civilized, polite, pre-written prayers quietly uttered in a hushed room before the sermon or at service dismissal. I miss the prayer meetings of 30 years ago. Heart-wrenching, gut-twisting, soul-changing prayers cried out in one accord for repentance, revival, and renewal, altering the course of lives for time and eternity. I miss those prayer services. 

I can still picture the gathering of prayer warriors around church and camp meeting altars. Just as I can hear the four-part harmony of “Amazing Grace” echoing through the camp tabernacle, I hear the mild roar of saints calling on the God they knew could do above and beyond anything they could ask or think. (Jeremiah 33:3) I can see the ladies gathered in my great-aunt’s living room for Sunday afternoon prayer. I still hear their voices raised in praise, penitence, and petition to the God who promised to hear when we call. (Jeremiah 29:12-13) I can picture the faces of pastors agonizing over their flocks. Indelibly etched in my memory is the image of my Dad, kneeling beside the pulpit of a little basement church in Montana, tears flowing, voice broken, crying out with his whole being words from Isaiah 64:1, “Oh, that thou wouldest rend the heavens and come down!” I miss those times. I miss those prayers. I miss the results. 

As much as we needed those results then, we need them even more today. It takes only a glimpse of news to recognize our society for the morally bankrupt, spiritually desolate place it has become. God’s words, spoken through the weeping prophet Jeremiah, echo down to us in a  resounding proclamation applicable to our day, possibly more so than the day in which they were spoken, “God’s people have traded the power and presence and glory of God to go and worship idols.” (Jeremiah 2:11) It is true. This is us. We are happy to play at being followers of God, but we aren’t serious about it. We idolize our things, our fun, our lives too much. We enjoy our power and status. We fail to realize that true power comes from bowing low at Jesus’ feet.  

We don’t bow there anymore. We pray on the run, asking God for a list of things we want, a miracle we’d like to see, but the plight of our souls never crosses our lips. We have quit begging God to rend the heavens and come down. We don’t really want Him here. We don’t accept His authority. We don’t like His rules. We don’t want His will.  We don’t want to make changes in our lives that might set us apart from the world. We want to live just as close to the world as possible, yet still claim Heaven. We don’t want our willfully ignorant bubble burst by God’s words, God’s plans, God’s will. We are content with our form of godliness. We want nothing more. (II Timothy 3:1-5)

 It shows. Both in our lives and our churches. It is evident in our lackluster singing. It is obvious in our non-existent praise. It is unmistakable in our lethargic prayers. It is indisputable in our ungodly lives. As we chase down our own opinions, desires, and ideas, we embody the words of Jeremiah 3:3, “The showers haven’t come, the spring rain has been withheld, because you continue in your sin and feel you need not be ashamed.” How long will we keep going this way? How long can we continue without a reformation?

October 31, 1517, must have been an amazing day. I can only imagine how it felt to actually watch Martin Luther nail his Ninety-Five Theses to the door of Castle Church in Wittenberg, Germany, forever altering the course of Christendom. I can only guess how it felt for him as he stood in the Diet of Worms defending the beliefs he knew to be true. Beliefs that were based on the authority of Scripture as God’s infallible Word, and the absolute knowledge that justification from sin comes only through repentance and faith in Christ’s work on the cross, not from good works. You can’t work your way into Heaven. No one on earth can forgive sins. You can’t buy advance tickets, box seats, or special dispensations. Only Jesus’ blood and righteousness can get you there. Not one of those truths has changed over the last 500 years. 

We act like they have. We live like the Ten Commandments are negotiable unless they fit our purpose. There appears to be some deep-seated idea that God doesn’t mean what He inspired all those people to write. (II Peter 1:21) We treat the Bible like the produce section of the grocery store. Feeling, squeezing,  smelling, and judging. Taking only what we like and leaving the rest. We have clearly forgotten that the mark of a true follower of God is keeping His commandments with a heart happy to do so. (I John 5:3; Isaiah 64:5) 

Like the 16th century church, we desperately need a reformation. We need change. Like Jeremiah’s audience, we need to go back to the ancient paths. Go back to following God. Go back to doing what we know is right. (Jeremiah 6:16) The true church of Christ is withering and dying. We need to do something. But what? Would a list of grievances tacked to the church door bring revival? Not likely. Would a blazing sermon on eternal damnation bring people rushing back to God? Doubtful. So how do we do it? How do we make change happen? How do we bring spiritual reformation, rejuvenation to a society so happy to speak Jesus with their mouths but reject Him with their lives? 

It’s time for prayer meeting. It’s time to beg God to intervene. It’s time to intercede for heaven rending help from the God whose saving hand isn’t shortened, whose hearing isn’t dull. (Isaiah 59:1) It’s time to pray. There is nothing else we can do. No amount of preaching, proselytizing, or prophesying can accomplish what prayer can. When the people of God come humbly before Him in repentance and reformation, seeking His face continually, earnestly, urgently, God answers. (II Chronicles 7:14) Prayer is the best we can do. Prayer is all we can do. It is all we need. 

Over the last year or so it seems I’ve seen beloved saints pass on to their eternal reward with alarming frequency. Saints who knew how to touch Heaven in prayer. With each report of their passing, my heart has questioned, “Who will pray for us now? Who will stand in the gap? Who will hold the line? Who will keep the faith? Who will show us how to follow God wholeheartedly?” More sobering is the fact that, as each saint has crossed the golden threshold, they have handed back a baton. A baton labeled “old paths”. A baton labeled “prayer”. A baton and a battle cry, “Lord, rend the heavens and come down!” 

Frightening realization grips me as I gaze in the mirror and know with certainty those batons have been handed to me, to you. We shouldn’t be surprised. We are. As the old guard passes, the new guard must take their place. And we are the new guard. Their batons rest firmly in our hands. It is our responsibility to pray, to seek the face of God. It is our responsibility to stand in the gap, keep the faith, and live like it. It is our responsibility to raise the battle cry, “Lord, rend the heavens and come down!”

As terrified as I am to ask, I find myself duty-bound to do so. What are we doing with those batons?  Have we grasped them firmly like the God-given responsibility they are and prayed like we haven’t prayed in years? Are we inspiring our children to follow God, not just in actions, but to bombard Heaven with their prayers? Will they grow up remembering prayer meetings? Or are we so wrapped up in our lives, our jobs, our friends, our fun that we can take only a few minutes to pray? Are we too distracted to seek the Lord? Are our churches too busy for prayer meetings? Are we simply too lazy, too complacent, too apathetic to cry out the words, “Oh, that thou wouldest rend the heavens and come down”? Do we even care if He does?

My heart is shattered to think we don’t. Crushed to think we have so distanced ourselves from the power of prayer that we are not starving for an outpouring of God’s spirit, sweeping change into our families, our churches, our society, our world. My soul weeps because we care more about the things of the world, its pleasures and passions, than imploring God to send His spirit flowing among us. I am broken that the cry of our selfish hearts is more prevalent than the repentant cry for renewal, revival, reformation. I am troubled that we take it so lightly because I know, in the depths of my soul, that rending the Heavens is our only hope. 

Knowing that, I feel compelled to ask, what are you doing with your baton? Have you laid it aside, mislaid it? Did you fail to take it seriously? Do you realize the future of your children, your church, your country rests in passing that baton? Maybe you have no memories of prayer meetings from days gone by. Maybe you’ve never knelt before God and cried out to Him in desperation, believing what He said He would do. (Romans 4:21) This is your moment. This is your opportunity to weed through the meaningless drivel and wasted moments of your life, toss out the things that mean so much less than the presence of God, and take time to fall before Him in prayer. This is your time to join the saints who have gone before us, the saints who are soon to cross, and those who are currently carrying the baton of prayer and boldly cry out, “Oh, that thou wouldest rend the heavens and come down!” This cry is the best thing we can do. Prayer is all we can do. Rending the heavens is our only hope. (Hebrews 4:16)

Being the parents of four children, my husband and I have heard nearly every excuse in the book. When they were little, their excuses were fantastic! George, the former imaginary friend of child number 3, has shouldered the blame for more than his share of very imaginative offenses. As the children aged, the excuses became much less inventive and lost all their humor. They weren’t thinking. They forgot. Someone else started the fracas. Their brother dared them to do it. A friend said it was a good idea. Everyone else is doing it, saying it, wearing it, watching it. Sigh.

Thankfully, my children aren’t the inventors of excuses. Adam and Eve showed amazing proclivity for excusing themselves too.  We wonder why they put themselves in a position to need an excuse. Their life seems so simple. The answers appear easy and obvious. If you live in a perfect, peaceful garden replete with every conceivable resource and only one rule, why break it? Seriously. It’s one tree. 

And what was Eve doing loitering around that tree anyway? Was she admiring its beauty? Wondering at its forbidden status? Wishing she could taste just one exquisite fruit? What was she doing hanging about when temptation was out? And temptation was certainly out. The serpent, lurking nearby, strolls up and conversationally leads Eve straight into sin.  

The serpent’s question was rhetorical, he didn’t need an answer. He knew God had commanded them to leave that tree alone. The serpent snorts in derision. Then, weaving his web of evil deceit, he entices Eve to eat with a series of promises that sound golden but reverberate with doom. You won’t die. You’ll be wise. You will know good from evil, just like God does. And Eve, taken in by the lyrical hiss of his voice and the human desire to drift, wanders down the primrose path. She eats the fruit, gives some to Adam, and alters humanity for eternity. 

The fruit takes effect. Adam and Eve find themselves aware of things they were blissfully unaware of before. It’s unsettling. Racked with the guilt of their disobedience and knowing everything is laid bare before God, they hide when He comes to the garden to visit. He calls them. They don’t come running. Instead, Adam calls back from behind an enormous, blossoming rhododendron. They were hiding. They were afraid. They had sinned. They were naked.

Nothing catches God by surprise. He knew all of this, yet still He came to visit, to chat, to walk with them. He could have come up with a million excuses not to come. He knew what they had done. They had disobeyed. They had sinned. He still came. He asks questions, offering the opportunity to confess their sins. Who told them they were naked? Did they disobey the rule? Did they eat of the tree they were told to avoid? Double yes. Neither Adam nor Eve actually answers the question directly. They just start flinging excuses. Reasons to hide. Reasons to be afraid. Reasons not to come out and walk with God.  

Adam blames Eve. She’s weak. She gave in to temptation. She pressed him to eat. Surely it is all Eve’s fault! Eve blames the serpent. He tricked her. He lied. It is all the serpent’s fault. Their excuses aren’t hard to imagine. We use similar ones. We can identify with their fear, their urge to hide. It is terrifying to stand before the great God of the universe, Creator of land, sea, and space, omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent Lord and admit our guilt, our failures, our sin. Excuses and hiding are easy. Facing God in the middle of our mess is not. The same fear that hounded Adam and Eve chases us down too. (Genesis 3:1-13)

We shouldn’t let it. We have nothing to fear. The fear that makes you hide when God calls you is unnecessary. The excuses you have drummed up are superfluous. God is the God of forgiveness. God already knows your sin, your heart, yet still He calls. He knows the ugliness within, the damage sin has caused, yet still He wants to walk with you. He knows the serpent has fed you a bundle of lies wrapped up like a beautiful fruit, yet still He longs to be your friend, to be in relationship with you. There’s a litany of excuses God could use to drop us and leave us alone. He doesn’t. Regardless who you are, where you are, or the unclean condition of your soul, He comes to visit you. 

Ask the leper in Luke 5. Abandoned by friends and family, his life is effectively over. No one wants to be around him. According to Levitical law, no one is allowed to be around him. If someone so much as heads in his direction, he is required to yell, “Unclean!” (Leviticus 13) But Jesus came through town. He ignores the cries of, “Unclean!” He doesn’t look at the deformed hand, the missing ear, the ugly skin. Jesus doesn’t see any of that. Ignoring Levitical law, He reaches out, lays His hands on the leper, and says, “Be clean.” Jesus could have made a million excuses to ignore that leper, he could have used the law as a way to escape the ugliness, but He didn’t. Because Jesus wants to be friends with ugly worthless humanity. (Luke 5:12-13)

It’s what He has always wanted. Zaccheus will attest to that. Doomed by his own greed, hiding up in a tree, he never expected Jesus to call his name. But He did. Jesus could have made a million excuses to ignore the little guy in the tree. There were a lot of people. Zaccheus was small. He had other people to see, heal, help. Jesus didn’t make one excuse. He changed Zaccheus’ life. Because Jesus came to seek and save the lost. (Luke 19:1-10) 

The woman at the well in Samaria never dreamed a Jewish man would speak to or engage her in conversation, especially if he knew her past indiscretions and current lifestyle. Jesus did more than speak. He changed her life. A life others deemed worthless, wasted. He could have made a million excuses to get up and walk away. She was a Samaritan. They didn’t associate. Her life was ridiculously messy. He stayed to talk. Because Jesus came to offer salvation to sinners. (John 4:4-26; Luke 5:32) 

The Biblical accounts go on and on. Jesus was constantly seeking to create friendships with sinners. The cross didn’t stop His calling. The grave couldn’t muffle His voice. Today, He sits at the right hand of God making intercession for us. (Romans 8:34) Hoping we won’t harden our hearts. Hoping we will hear His voice. (Hebrews 3:15) Hoping we will choose rich, beneficial friendship with Jesus over cheap, superficial friendship with the world. (Proverbs 18:24; James 4:4) He doesn’t have to do that. He could make a million excuses to forget about us. We have forgotten Him. Our busyness has pushed Him aside, edged Him out. We have hidden from His call. Like the parable of the rich fool, we get up early and stay up late worshipping at the altar of material things, but we ignore the most important thing–friendship with Jesus. (Luke 12: 13-21; Psalm 127:2) He knows it all, yet still He calls. 

I don’t know where you are hiding right now. I don’t know your excuses. I do know you don’t need either one. You simply need to listen. Jesus is calling. Calling you away from the sin that bogs you down. Calling you from the questionable haunts, the undesirable hangouts. Calling you from the bitterness, jealousy, anger of past rejections, confrontations, situations. Calling the complacent, the tired, the distracted. Calling you back to Him. Calling you to cast your cares, anxieties, burdens, sins on His shoulders, and find rest and peace in Jesus. (I Peter 5:7; John 14:27; Matthew 11:28-29)

So put down your excuses and come out of your hiding place. Whatever you look like, wherever you’ve been, wherever you are, or whatever you’ve done, Jesus is calling. He knows all about you, yet still He calls, offering forgiveness, freedom, and friendship. Jesus is calling. Hear His voice of love. Let your heart respond. Come meet the One who can tell you everything you’ve ever done, yet loves you still. I know. You could offer a million excuses not to come. Or you can come and find a million reasons to stay. (Isaiah 1:18; Lamentations 3: 22-23)

It was a perfect place to rest, sleep even. The garden was calm and peaceful. The olive trees were swaying in a gentle breeze. The soft scent of flowers floated in the air. There were few other visitors. Dusk had fallen. The disciples had just celebrated Passover with Jesus. There had been some interesting conversations at dinner. Conversations about desertion and denial. Conversations about Jesus’ departure. Finally, they had sung a hymn together and headed to the Mount of Olives. 

It had already been an emotionally draining evening. There was so much to digest. Not food. Information. Overwhelming amounts of information. Incomprehensible, unbelievable, unpleasant information. So perhaps it was a combination, both the calm garden and the mental exhaustion, that made the disciples fall asleep when Jesus asked them to watch and pray. Pray for Him. Pray for themselves. Pray for the future. They failed. They didn’t pray. They slept. (Mark 14:27-31)

Walking farther into the garden to be alone with the Father, Jesus didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. His mind wouldn’t relent. His spirit wouldn’t settle. His humanity was at war with His Deity. He knew His mission, the end as well as the beginning. He knew he was headed to the cross. It would be a treacherous trip. As awful as death would be, the journey to the cross would be worse. He already knew what was coming. Every. Single. Detail. His humanity cringed, recoiled at the thought. The urgency of His mission pressed Him forward. 

Riddled with anxiety, crushed with grief, alone in the darkened garden, He falls to the ground as His humanity begs the Father to let Him off the hook. Isn’t there another way? Can’t we change the plan? Send someone else. Use an angel. Wave a hand. Speak a word. Something. Anything. Then His Deity steps in, His unfathomable love for lost humanity has Him saying, “But if none of those things will have the desired effect, if salvation for humanity cannot be purchased any other way, not my will, but yours be done.” (Mark 14:35)

Not once, but twice this battle rages. A struggle that would determine the fate of all humanity. His anguish is palpable. His prayer is intense. His sweat runs rivulets of blood down His face, dripping off His chin to stain the grass and soil. The Heavens are silent. The Father doesn’t speak. The angels don’t come wafting in with a rescue. The original plan stands. There will be no substitutions. There can’t be. The result wouldn’t be the same. (Mark 14:32-42; Luke 22:39-45)

And so it was. Judas arrived. The betrayal kiss occurred. Jesus was led away. The disciples scattered. (Mark 14:66-72) Jesus was truly alone now, at the mercy of those who hated Him. The sin of humanity would be laid on His back. Centuries of sin. Sin He didn’t commit, but chose to bear so every soul could inherit eternal life. 

He was bound and led before Pilate. Vicious accusations rang through the air. Palpable hate-filled the room. Jesus stood quietly, allowed the raging, the railing, saying nothing in His own defense. The prayer in the garden had strengthened Him for this moment. He wasn’t there to change God’s plan, simply fulfill it. Pilate realizes the trial is ludicrous. He doesn’t want this decision on his hands. He doesn’t want to lose his rank or status, either. In a move rank with political intention, Pilate places the responsibility for Jesus’ future on the people. Who do they want on the middle cross? Barabbas or Jesus? Criminal or Savior.

The answer was a deafening roar, “Crucify Him!” The very people Jesus had come to seek, to save, to help, to heal were chanting, screaming, demanding His death. The soldiers were all too happy to comply. Taking a whip, they beat him. Not just a few times. Not halfheartedly. They didn’t stop when the first blood appeared. They beat Him until the flesh of His back was torn and bleeding. Then, in one last mocking gesture, they wove a crown of thorny vines and crammed it down on His head. Pain. Agony. Disgrace. 

The soldiers didn’t care. Brutality was their job. They were just getting started. They take Jesus outside, lay a heavy, wooden cross on His shoulder and force Him to begin the trek up the hill of crucifixion. No attention was paid to the blood oozing from His thorn pierced brow. No one cared about His bruised, bloodied back. No one stopped the procession as Jesus struggled to make the climb. No one came to His defense. No one offered to die in His place. 

As they reached the top of the hill, laid the cross on the ground and forced the Savior to stretch out on it, no one tried to intervene. No one on earth. No one in Heaven. The echo of hammer to nail rings out across the hillside. Nails tearing skin and flesh as they pierce hands that have only ever healed and helped. Surely the people standing around had to look away. Surely their hearts weren’t so hardened as to be able to watch without horror. Then the cross was lifted and thumped into the ground. Jesus hangs, attached by nails to a cross, beaten, bruised, bleeding. Dying for the people there and for those who would come after them. Dying for you, for me. 

Speculation causes us to wonder what was going on in Heaven through all of this. Did God weep? Were angels, with tears streaming down their faces, poised on the edge of a cloud waiting for the command of rescue? Were they all hoping the Father would change His mind? The command would never come. The Father didn’t send angels swooping in to rescue the Son. He didn’t step in to change the scene for the weeping women watching in anguish as Jesus breathed His last. No matter how much the Father loved the Son, there could be no substitutions if humanity was to be rescued. 

Darkness falls. Hours of darkness. Jesus cries out to the Father, “Why did you forsake me?” The Heavens remain silent, but a storm of change is brewing. With His final breath, Jesus cries, “It is finished.” Those final words ring out in a victorious chorus for those standing there that day and for those every soul walking in sin throughout history and even today. With those words, Jesus’ earthly work was done. He had accomplished the mission. The veil in the temple is triumphantly torn in half allowing us to approach the Father with boldness. Sin is defeated. Salvation is available to all who believe. There is hope for the desperate messiness of our sin-filled hearts. Only because Jesus died for us. No substitution could have loved us enough to endure the torture, the brutality, the abandonment so our sins could be erased. (Matthew 26-27; Mark 14-15; Luke 22-23; John 18-19)

Oddly, this is not our favorite Biblical account. It should be. We desperately need to spend time carefully reading and absorbing the events of the cross. We need to ponder them. We need to listen to the angry mocking cries of people just like us. We need to feel the pull of arm muscles as that whip is swung over and over again. We need to stand at the foot of the cross, gaze up at the anguished Savior, and know that He died on behalf of our sins. We need to admit we put Him there. We need to let it sink deeply into our hearts, our minds. We need to understand the act of relentless love that provided exceptionally worthless humanity with an altered eternity. 

Then we need to do something. We need to put Jesus in His rightful place in our lives. His place is not on a cross, crucified over and over again. His place is the throne of our hearts, the center of our lives. Without Jesus, without His unbelievable sacrifice on the cross, we are nothing. Our filthy, sinful souls deserve hell. We have made a mockery of His sacrifice, His suffering, His death. We have loved the world more than Jesus. We have allowed our busyness, our responsibilities, our pleasures, our friends to take precedence over Jesus Christ. (I Peter 2:24; II Timothy 4:10)

We should be ashamed. Ashamed at what we have forgotten, what we have let slip, how far we have drifted away, how many substitutes we have accepted over true relationship with Jesus Christ. Apparently, we have forgotten that nothing is more important, more vital to our spiritual survival, than Jesus. Nothing is more necessary than spending every day in His presence. Nothing is more extravagant than the blessing of His peace. Nothing is more integral to our daily existence than constant communication with Christ.

So take a moment, quiet your heart, and remember. Remember the angry mob. Remember the beating. Remember the thorns. Remember that trek up Golgotha. Remember the nails. Allow the cries and echoes to reverberate in your soul. Remember it was for you. Remember where you would be without His sacrifice. Remember Jesus. Remember your first love. Remember how much you need His presence. And always, always remember this–in a world of substitution, where you can replace anything you want with something new, something different, there is absolutely no substitute for Jesus.

I started taking piano lessons in the fourth grade. I’ve been playing ever since. Recitals, church services, funerals, a wedding, a handful of ceremonies. As part of my musical education, my Great Aunt and I used to attend recitals at the university where professional musicians played the piano, organ, and harpsichord. They were lovely. Peaceful, calming melodies skillfully played by an unobtrusive musician who allowed the notes to speak for themselves. People who, without a spoken word, nurtured and encouraged the love of music in my teenage heart.

In spite of that love, there are some instruments I would gladly forego. Instruments that don’t carry a melody, don’t harmonize. Cymbals. Gongs. The abrasive instruments. They seem to get carried away, as if venting frustration at their small part in the score. There’s never a gong solo or a cymbal quartet. So when their part comes up, the player hammers away as if it’s the last worthy thing they’ll ever do. Maybe that is the intended use. I don’t know. I do know their banging often severs the beauty of the melody and detracts from the piece.

 Apparently the Apostle Paul and I share these feelings concerning gongs and cymbals. He didn’t seem to love the percussion section either. In a wildly unflattering comparison, he called those who claim to love others, who do all the right actions but don’t have the right spirit to be noisy, abrasive gongs and cymbals. (I Corinthians 13:1) He says you can do a host of good things, be ridiculously intelligent, prophesy, move mountains with your faith, even sacrifice your body, but if you don’t love others, your percussion section is out of hand. (I Corinthians 13:1-3)

We’ve been hearing a lot about loving others lately. “Love your neighbor” is society’s latest mantra. I want to believe they mean well, but I’m concerned about their definition. Their measuring stick of love is a permissive validation of sin. It is blanket approval. It shows preference. It allows for angry tantrums and outbursts. It does not exhibit self-control. It justifies unforgiveness. The love of which society speaks is an outward act to hide the inward ugliness and anyone can do it, even while their hearts are teeming with hate. 

It has taken me several readings of I Corinthians 13 to get what Paul was really saying. It wasn’t actually about the things you do physically. Loving your neighbor has nothing to do with salving your conscience, impressing church leaders, or padding your resume. It’s about your heart. It’s about making a beautiful melody for God with your life. Loving others is not a list of outward acts. It is an inward work. True love for your neighbor speaks strictly to the state of your heart. 

It is to that state of heart Jesus is referring when he tells the parable of the Good Samaritan in Luke 10. A Jewish man is travelling along a road when robbers jump out and stop him. Their attack leaves him beaten, stripped, and possibly dying on the side of the road. A priest is travelling the same road. He sees the lump of abused humanity. He feels no compunction to stop even to check for signs of life. Unwilling to sully his robe or dirty his hands, he crosses to the other side of the road and keeps travelling. A Levite, possibly an assistant in the Temple, comes along. Maybe he took a moment to look, assess the situation. Deeming the broken man unworthy of his valuable time, he too, crosses to the other side of the road and passes by. 

Eventually, a Samaritan man comes down the road. He sees the man, just like the first two travelers. He could easily have passed by also. The Jews and Samaritans didn’t associate. Society would frown on the interaction. But the heart of the Samaritan man was different. He wasn’t bound by society’s ideology. His heart is moved with compassion. He doesn’t stop just to have a look. He stops to help. He cleans and bandages the best he can. Then he loads him on his donkey, books him in the inn to recover, and pays the bill in advance. No checking to make sure the news crews were in place to cover it. No making certain the Jewish man could pay him back. No fanfare. No clanging cymbals or resounding gongs. Only compassion and help for a needy fellow traveler. (Luke 10: 29-37)

I grew up watching this love at work–in a church parsonage. I’ve entered the dining room to find we had company for breakfast. Company I didn’t know. Company that just needed a meal. Single adults. Families. Over the course of my growing up years, it seems we served breakfast to more strangers than friends. People with a story and a need. Even when we had next to nothing ourselves, Dad would come in with people who needed help and, the next thing I knew, Mom was cooking eggs for a crowd. They would leave. We’d never see them again, but those travelers would always carry with them the memory of a preacher’s family that listened to their story, fed them, and prayed over them. Compassion and help for needy fellow travelers.

You see, true love for others doesn’t check to see if they are on the “safe to socialize” list. It does not allow social opinions or pressure to determine neighborly compassion. It doesn’t bang a gong before helping. It doesn’t take videos to post online as it does its good works. Love doesn’t see photo ops. It simply sees need, feels compassion, and acts to meet that need. 

We aren’t naturally wired that way, so how do we get there? How do we get from just doing good works because they are expected to doing good works because we feel deep compassion for others? It goes back to Luke 10:27. The first phrase. “Love God with all your heart, soul, strength and mind.” It goes back to being First Commandment People. People that are in such a deep relationship, deep friendship with God that His love fills us and flows out of our lives to touch those around us. It is that deep friendship that teaches us how to love others. We’d be lying if we said God is not continually patient, kind, selfless, and forgiving. If He wasn’t we’d have stopped being friends long ago. He calls us to do the same, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” (Luke 10:27)

Loving your neighbor doesn’t always look the way the world thinks it does. It isn’t always monetary. It’s not always volunteering for an organization. Loving your neighbor is often small, simple everyday things. Patience. Kindness. Forgiveness even when there’s no apology. Selflessness. There won’t be a lot of fanfare. There won’t be a press release. No one will pat you on the back. No cymbals or gongs. But there will be beautiful music made when you allow Jesus’ love to change your heart and help you touch the lives of others.

About a year ago, the Lord spoke to me about grace, unmerited favor bestowed on us because of God’s love for humanity. He said every moment of our lives is a moment to give or receive grace. I began repeating it over and over to my children. “Every moment of every day is a moment to give or receive grace.” I wanted them to recognize the touch of grace in their lives. More than that, I wanted them to give grace, show love to others. Those who wronged them. Those who need help. People in wheelchairs. Children alone on the playground. I wasn’t sure it was sinking in. Then one day, my youngest daughter bought her sister an iced tea at the coffee shop using her own money. I was telling her how proud I was of her kindness when her offhand remark brought me to tears, “Every moment of every day is a moment to give or receive grace.” And so it is. Every moment of every day is a moment to, in grace, reach out in love to someone around you. 

Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is unselfish. Love is not proud, boastful, envious, or angry. Love forgives. Love never ends. It keeps reaching out in compassion to meet needs physically, emotionally, spiritually. Not for the praise of men. Not for attention. Not only after banging a gong or clanging a cymbal. Expecting no reward. True love for your neighbor comes from a first commandment heart in deep relationship with Jesus Christ, overflowing with His love, and playing a second commandment melody that soothes, comforts, calms, and cures. (Matthew 10:8)