Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

The servants looked at one another in bewildered dismay as the final drop drained from the wine cask. Palpable panic set in. The wedding supper was hours from being over. How had such an oversight happened? Running out of wine was an enormous embarrassment. And which of them would be tasked with reporting the poor planning? Who was brave enough to walk up to the host and say, “Apparently we underestimated the popularity of the newly wedded couple and failed to stock enough wine for the supper”? Anyone? No one?

As they discuss who will sacrifice themselves by explaining the delicate circumstance to the host, a lady approaches and hears their frantic whispers. A little smile quirks up the side of her mouth. Perhaps she can help. Or at least her Son can. So she finds Him and explains the servants’ plight. At first, He seems disinclined to help, but Mary knows the caring, compassionate heart of her Son would never leave a desperate soul in trouble and, turning to the servants, she says, “Whatever He says you should do, don’t question it. Just do it.” (John 2:5)

Skeptical but desperate, the servants stand at attention, awaiting directions. Jesus, calm in spite of the panicked undercurrent, points to the six stone purification jars, and says, “Put water in those jars.” Eyebrows raise. Questioning glances meet one another. Bewildered shrugs pass between them, but they start hauling water. When all the jars are full, Jesus gives them one more direction, “Pour a glass from one of those jars and take it to the host.” Already raised eyebrows creep just a touch higher. Really? Is He sure? They just put water in those jars?!

There are no other options. It must be done. Taking a deep breath, one brave servant tentatively steps forward, takes a goblet, fills it from the water jar. Odd. It looks a lot like wine. Bracing himself for a scolding, he cautiously offers the cup to the host for tasting. The servant steps back, hands folded, head bowed, awaiting his fate. The scolding never comes. The host takes one sip, then another. His face wreaths in surprised delight. “This wine is better than the first.” Relief fills the servants’ hearts. They were saved! Saved by a man they didn’t know, doing a miracle they didn’t believe possible, through actions they didn’t think were wise. In retrospect, they were so glad they had obeyed, so honored to have been asked to participate. (John 2:1-10)

It wouldn’t be the last time Jesus would use human obedience to perform a miracle. The man in John 9 comes to mind. Blind from birth, he finds himself in unenviable circumstances. Opportunities for the blind simply did not exist in his day. Furthermore, people seemed to think it was either his or his parents’ fault that he had been born with this disabling infirmity. He surely wished he could see, wished he could care for himself beyond begging. Wished he could do something to change his situation. But what could a blind man do?

Plenty apparently. At least when Jesus is involved. There is no record that the blind man even asked for Jesus’ help. Yet Jesus comes to him, spits on the ground, makes mud, and smears it on the blind man’s eyes. Then, He tells him to go wash it off in the pool of Siloam. 

 I wonder what the man thought when that happened. Surely he heard the sound of spitting. It likely wasn’t an unfamiliar sound considering his outcast social status. But to have spit mud wiped on his face? Yuck! He had to wash it off. No one wants mud caked to their face. So he makes his way to Siloam and washes. As muddy water sluiced off his face, the strangest thing happened. He saw a man looking back at him from the glimmering surface of the pool.  

Startled, he moves side to side. The man in the water moved too. Can it be? Is it real? He looked around. He could see people, buildings, trees, animals! He began walking–without feeling his way! It was a miracle! His very own miracle, performed by a man he didn’t know. A miracle that didn’t seem possible, accomplished through actions he didn’t think helpful. He was so glad he obeyed, so humbled to have been part of the ministry of the Messiah. (John 9:1-6)

Over and over throughout His earthly ministry, Jesus asks people to do things. He called Zaccheus to come down out of his tree, had the paralyzed man take up his cot and walk, told Simon to cast his nets in deeper waters, and called the 4-day-old corpse of Lazarus to walk out of his tomb. (Luke 5:1-6, 17-25; Luke 19:1-10; John 11:38-44) They didn’t have to do those things. They could have said, “No.” The rich young ruler of Mark 10 did. Jesus asked him to get rid of his earthly possessions and come follow Him. He didn’t do it. He chose to go about his life the way it was. (Mark 10:17-22) He didn’t recognize the honor he had just received. The honor of being asked to do something for, be a part of, the ministry of Jesus Christ. 

Today, beyond the boisterous noise of the world, beyond the pull of the crowd, Jesus is asking you to do something too. Jesus is always asking us to do something. Not because He can’t do things without us, but because He chooses to honor us by asking for our help. Jesus could have flicked a finger and the wine been replenished with no effort on the servants’ part. He could have healed the blind man simply by speaking, no gritty spit mud involved. He could have changed Zaccheus’ heart without him coming down out of the tree. And He can change the world without our help. Yet still He asks.

Sometimes I wonder why He does that. Asking us to work for His kingdom. I’ve read the account of Creation. I’ve read the chapters in Job extolling God’s power, wisdom, and excellence. (Job 36-40) Not only did He establish the universe and everything in it, He maintains it without the help of humanity. So why does the amazing God of the universe who simply speaks intricate organisms into existence, ask me–lowly, human, sinful, mentally frail me–to write words that may never be read, love others who may never respond, pray prayers I might never see answered, speak words that could be misunderstood? 

Because that same great God who spoke the world into existence and keeps the earth spinning at a tolerable rate, uses our obedience to show others His power and spread His message to others. People who haven’t heard, don’t know, won’t listen, don’t seem to care. People who desperately need to meet the God who threw the universe into orbit, the God who longs to be an intricate part of their lives. The God who seeks to know each soul individually, personally, intimately. The God who is love. (Genesis 1; I John 3:1; John 3:16; Romans 5:8)

 A few years ago I wrote devotionals for a ladies’ Bible study group. More than once I would write one, sit back and say, “Why am I taking this to these ladies? They know Jesus. This doesn’t seem to fit.” It seemed silly to tell them Jesus loved them when they already knew. It seemed ridiculous to speak salvation to ladies who had already experienced that grace. Obediently I would go and share, often telling them I had no idea why I was bringing them that message. Later I would find they had taken it and shared it with someone else who needed to hear it. Sometimes it would speak to a situation in their families. So I continue to write words God puts in my mind that often seem unnecessary for the readership, seem like things they already know, reminding myself continually that God’s words do not return to Him void. (Isaiah 55:11) No matter the outcome, I am deeply honored and greatly humbled to be asked to work for Jesus.

Like the servants in Cana, the blind man and the mud, Zaccheus, and Lazarus’ corpse, Jesus is asking you to do something too. Something to display the power and glory of God. Something to share the love and grace of the Savior. Something you might not be so keen on doing. Something that seems as ridiculous as pouring water with the same flourish as wine. Something that seems as far-fetched as calling a dead man to walk out of a tomb. The evil one whispers in your ear, “That’s ridiculous. He can’t mean for you to do that!” 

Don’t believe that for a minute. Nothing God does or asks you to do is ever ridiculous, worthless, useless, or in vain. God is not in the habit of doing things that do not work out His purpose. He will never ask you to do something He isn’t going to work through. The work you do for Jesus is never pointless. (I Corinthians 15:58) It is always profitable, even if you never see the outcome. So do it. Do whatever He asks. No questions. No arguments. No caveats. No tweaks. Do it. 

See, it is not just me. Not just preachers and teachers. Not just the people in the Bible. Not just the servants at the wedding in Cana. It is bankers and lawyers, servers and stockboys, students and teammates. Jesus calls each one of us out of our comfort zones into the thicket, the briars, the bush to share His message with those lost and entangled in sin. Jesus is asking you too. I don’t know what your job is. I don’t need to know how He is going to use you, but whatever He is asking you to do, do it. In so doing you will find, there is no higher accolade, no greater reward, no more distinguished honor than that of being asked to serve Jesus. (I Corinthians 3:9; Matthew 9:37; Luke 14:23; Mark 16:15)

It is likely unsurprising that I have an avid interest in the Biblical accounts of Jesus interacting with women. Given the patriarchal society of the day, I’m sure it was an unpopular choice–especially the type of women with whom He often chose to interact. Women without social standing. Women others rejected. Women stuck in bad situations. Women who needed forgiveness, grace, a miracle. Women like the adulterous woman in John 8. 

Dragged from her bed of debauchery, surrounded by a group of angry men with a point to prove, she stands accused and guilty before the ultimate Judge. Her clothing is askew. Her hair bedraggled and hanging around her face. She doesn’t even attempt to meet Jesus’ gaze. Her embarrassment is too acute. Regardless of what she was caught doing, having her sin exposed for all to see is more humiliation than she cares to endure. Her face is averted, her eyes cast down. She doesn’t need to see her accusers to hear their nasty insults. She can’t ignore them, but she doesn’t have to acknowledge them. Shame engulfs her like a heavy mantle. The coming punishment couldn’t feel worse than she felt at that moment.  

Had she not been swimming in her own cesspool of disgrace, she’d have noticed the nearly comical scene around her. Grown men clutching stones and banging on like tattling children in a relentless diatribe about catching her in the very act of adultery (alone, apparently, as no man is on trial with her) and what should be done because of it. Each man is attempting to be the loudest, most intelligent, most authoritative, most impressive voice in the melee. Each hoping to be the one to trip up the great Teacher. That’s what it was really about. 

“Do you know what the law says about that? We can quote it for you. Don’t you agree she should be stoned like it says? Shouldn’t our sanctimonious selves be the ones to do it?” they ask.

Then the trick questions, “Are you going to defy the law, our saving grace? What do you think should be done about this situation, Jesus?”  

And the exasperated voices as they realize Jesus is squatted down, calmly writing in the dirt, “Are you even listening? Why are you writing in the dirt at a time like this? We’re talking to you! Whatcha gonna do, Jesus??” 

Undergoing a barrage of verbal insults and facing a volley of very real stones, the charged woman is not looking at the scene around her. She’s not searching the crowd for someone to speak on her behalf. She’s not crazy enough to think someone will. No one stands up on behalf of lawbreakers. No one befriends sinners. No one can negate another’s punishment. No one loves anyone enough to even try. Hopeless and helpless, she’s enduring the humiliation, berating herself for her actions, wishing there was a way of escaping the consequences, yet resigning herself to the inevitable. Her head is bowed. Her eyes fixed on the ground. The very ground upon which Jesus is writing. 

Jesus, who was listening to the Pharisaical blathering all along, finally had enough of the bluster. He stops writing, unfolds from his stooped position, and simply says, “If you’ve never sinned, aren’t currently sinning, and foresee a personal future of sinless uprightness, go ahead and throw some stones.” (John 8:7) Stooping again, He resumes His sand sermon. 

As she stands there bracing herself for the impact of the first stone, the woman instead hears a soft thump as a scribe drops his rock and slinks away. Another thump on her other side, and a Pharisee slips off through the crowd as inconspicuously as possible. One by one, each eager executioner drops their weapon of choice and quietly disappears. She doesn’t move a muscle. She hardly dares to breathe. Perhaps she’s afraid. Perhaps she’s uncertain. Perhaps she’s immersed in the sermon written in the dirt at her feet. 

Whatever her reason, John 8:10 tells us Jesus finally stood up, looked around at the decidedly uncrowded area around them, and asked, “Where are your accusers? Did they change their minds?” Bewildered at what is happening, she admits no one has stayed behind to mete out the intended punishment. And Jesus says, “I hold nothing against you. You are forgiven. Go and live like it.” (John 8:11)  

So what was Jesus writing in the sand? The Bible doesn’t tell us, but my curiosity is piqued and my imagination is overactive. I want to know–or at least speculate. What could have been so important, so necessary that He decided to write it then and there? And who was intended to read it? Was anyone? Was everyone?

For interest’s sake, I asked three preachers from three different denominations what they thought. Although their answers differed, they all seemed to think the writing was aimed at the male accusers. Perhaps it was a list of sins. Perhaps it was a list of saints. Perhaps it wasn’t a list at all, but the law. Perhaps it’s unimportant because it’s message wasn’t recorded.  

 But I wonder…Perhaps it wasn’t intended to accuse the accusers. Perhaps it was intended to redeem the accused. Perhaps it was an olive branch extended to “whosoever will”. (Revelation 22:17, Romans 10:13) Perhaps it was a message that would reduce the law to a schoolmaster (Galatians 3:24-25) and promote grace to a position of power. Perhaps it was a love letter, authored by Jesus, written in the sand. 

Perhaps it started with the words of Isaiah 43:1 and ended with the promise of John 3:16-17. Maybe it said something like this, “I am the Lord. Don’t be afraid. I’ve already paid the price for you. You are redeemed. I have called you by your name, a name I know, because you are mine. In spite of the mess you have made of your life, God still loves you so much He is willing to sacrifice His greatest treasure to ensure your redemption. All you have to do is believe.  Believe I love you. Believe God sent Me. Believe that Someone loves you enough to take your punishment and spare your life.” 

The words instill hope. Hope that someone does stand up on behalf of lawbreakers, someone does befriend sinners, someone loves less than desirable humanity enough to reduce, even revoke, their deserved punishment. The litany of offenses is erased by the sacrifice of Jesus Christ.  (Colossians 2:14) 

 In a moment of transparency, I admit I am right there with her. Not the adultery part, the sin part. The list of “Shalt not’s” I’ve broken is longer than the list of “Thou shalt’s” I’ve kept. Satan, the Pharisee, takes enormous pleasure in parading my sins before me like so much dirty laundry. Some days I fall for it. My stringently judgmental self fires off a barrage of disparaging remarks at my weatherbeaten soul. “How could God love you? You are a mess. You can’t do anything right for very long. Everyone else is lovable, but you? Not so much. You are useless, worthless, unlovable.” And the coup de grace, “You might as well be spiritually stoned and left for dead.”  

Embarrassed by the reality of past indiscretions and concerned there’s more truth than error in the railing accusations, I stand with my face and soul downcast. Awaiting judgment, I stare at the ground in front of me. Tears cloud my vision. As I blink them away, I see it. The love letter Jesus left me. Possibly the same message He wrote for the adulterous woman in John 8.  

Inscribed in the dirt at my feet, my shame-filled eyes see words from Isaiah 43:1, “You are mine.”  Created by His hand, constantly being molded into the person He wants me to be, I am His. No matter what else I am–sinner, saint, snob, sweetheart–I am His. And He calls me by my name. The same name He has tattooed on His hand. (Isaiah 49:16)   

As I continue to read, He says my sins are blotted out by a thick, inky cloud. He says I’m redeemed. (Isaiah 44:22) Sin has no control over me anymore. (Romans 6:14) There’s no need to fear. He’s going to be with me. Now and always. Come hell or high water. He’s never going to leave. (Isaiah 43:2,5)  And when I finally get the courage to look up into His face, He says to me what He said to that woman so long ago, “I hold nothing against you. You are forgiven. Go and live like it.” (John 8:11)

Admittedly, I don’t know what Jesus was writing or drawing in the dirt. No one does. It’s all speculation. Maybe it was for the men. Maybe it was for that woman. Maybe it was for anyone who would take the time to read it. I don’t know. But I do know this. No one is outside the realm of God’s grace, forgiveness, and love. The woman caught in her sins is no different than you and me.  We are all doomed to death because of our sin. (Ephesians 2:1) We deserve no less. But God’s grace, in the form of Jesus, steps in and changes the laws. We don’t have to die. We can choose life. (Deuteronomy 30:19) Abundant life. Lived to the fullest. (John 10:10)

I don’t know what your past looks like.  I can’t see your present soul. Perhaps you feel broken, worthless, insignificant. Maybe you think God is ignoring you. He’s not. He’s writing you a love letter in the dirt around your feet.  No matter where you are, where you’ve been, or what you’ve done, His words are the same. For you, for me, for the person you’ve wronged and the one who has wronged you, His message stands. So take the hand He holds out to you, the one inscribed with your name, and hear Jesus say, “I hold nothing against you. You are redeemed. You are mine.” Then go, and live like it.

They were doing so well. The inspiring words of their fearless leader echoed in their ears even after he had departed for his mountaintop business meeting. They had listened intently to his guidance, referred often to the words Moses had written down. They weren’t just Moses’ words, they were the laws and commandments God had given them. Commands with promise. Promises that God would fight for them. He would deliver them. They would be victorious. (Exodus 23:20-33) Who wouldn’t obey commands that came with such great rewards? 

At first they were fastidious. Their dedication was relentless. Time went by. Days. Weeks. They hadn’t expected him to be gone so long. Every day they watched that mountain, thinking this would surely be the day Moses came back to lead them to the Promised Land. Every day they were disappointed. Their hope began to waver. Questions started to flit through their minds. Questions born of boredom, anxiety, irritation. 

Who would do a thing like this? Who would lead a group of people out into a wilderness under the pretense of leading them to a land of perfection, then leave them alone? What kind of person makes others wholly dependent on their leadership, then abandons them? Had they traded food and housing in Egypt (albeit as slaves) for certain death in an unfamiliar wilderness? Had they been duped? Was Moses even going to come back? 

 It had been weeks since Moses deserted them to go up the mountain and talk to God. What if he got up there and reneged on the leadership contract? What if he changed his mind? Maybe he found a way down off the back of that mountain and escaped to claim the land of milk and honey for himself? He didn’t seem the type to run away since he’d led them this far, but what if their complaining, arguing, and whining had worn his patience thin? Would it really be a big surprise if he’d run away?

But what if he hadn’t run away? At what point should they start worrying? Worrying Moses had met with an unfortunate accident. Worrying he had encountered a ravenous wild animal or sneaky serpent. Wondering how to find their way out of this mess if he didn’t turn up. No one wanted to set up housekeeping here. This was clearly not the land of plenty they’d been sold before leaving Egypt. Where was Moses anyway? He was supposed to be leading this expedition. Why hadn’t he come back? What was taking so long up on that mountain?

They were tired of waiting. Tired of being in one place. Tired of feeling like idiots for following a guy who rescued them only to abandon them to death in the wilderness. At least they had been busy in Egypt while waiting for their rescue. This waiting was getting tedious. They were bored. They were restless. They needed something to do, something exciting. They needed a party. Food, fun, fellowship. 

So they approached Aaron with their gripes and grievances. The waiting was driving everyone crazy. Moses was gone, either dead or defected. They wanted a new leader. They want someone to follow, something to worship, a place to cast their emaciated faith. He listened. Perhaps he secretly agreed. Perhaps Aaron, too, had lost the fervency he felt when he heard Moses preach that last sermon. It has been a while since he heard a sermon. In a moment of weakness possibly spurred by idle waiting, Aaron came up with a plan. Taking donations of all the gold jewelry the people could find, he tossed it all in a melting pot and, if Aaron’s very interesting account is to be believed, out popped a golden calf. (Exodus 32:24) 

The people were elated. There would be a festival! Something to plan. Something to do. Something to celebrate. Something to help them forget that deserter, Moses. Something to take their minds off their doubts and questions. Something that dulled the memory of their miraculous deliverance from slavery. Something that made them forget the vow they had made to keep God’s commandments. (Exodus 24:3,7) Something less. Something earthly. Something sin. 

And party they did! Sacrifices. Eating. Drinking. Dancing. Playing. It was everything they wanted, everything they thought they needed. They had made their own fabulous land, if only for a day. Maybe they called it “blooming where they were planted.” Maybe they called it being positive. Maybe they called it a morale builder. Whatever they called it, God looked down on that disastrous celebration, saw their idol and their broken vow to obey all His commands, and God called it sin. (Exodus 32:1-24)

It is easy to read the story of the children of Israel worshipping the golden calf and shake our heads in disbelief. We wonder how they could get so far off course when they had been the recipients of such amazing miraculous efforts. We question their lost devotion. We shake our heads in dismay that they would choose an inanimate, inactive god over the highly active, deeply effective God who had worked tirelessly on their behalf. We sigh at the conundrum. We would surely never do anything so silly. 

Or would we? For thousands of years we have been hearing Jesus’ teachings, reading our Bibles, listening to sermons, learning His commands. We know them well. We have heard them often. We have read and heard and believed that Jesus is coming back to earth to catch up those who follow Him and transport them to Heaven. We’ve heard it preached. We’ve read the passages. We know they are true. When we read about Jesus’ return or hear an inspiring sermon expounding on Heaven’s glory, our resolve to follow God and obey His commands is concrete. We follow Him with fervent dedication. We accept nothing less than the fullness of His presence. 

Sadly, it hasn’t lasted. We’ve all read the stories, heard the sermons of how Jesus will return to earth someday. He said He’d go prepare a place for us and then come back to get us. (John 14:3) It’s been a long time since He spoke those words. We’ve been waiting a while. At first we were attentive, watching, waiting, working for God. Over time we’ve lost our fervor. We’ve gotten distracted, swept away by the changes society has made. Drawn aside by the desires of our human hearts, we’ve idolized earthly gain and minimized Heaven’s business. We are modern-day Israelites wandering around in a spiritual wilderness, failing to keep the commandments we swore we’d keep, whining because there is nothing to entertain us while we wait for the rapture. 

We are the servants of the parable in Luke 19, blessed with gifts from God to be used for furthering His kingdom. He has gone away and left us with one command, “Work for me until I return.” (Luke 19:13) One would think we could manage to obey. It is with heaviness of heart I read this passage and know many of us have not followed this command. We have gotten caught up in our lives, our situations, our desires, buried our God-given talents, and sought ways to pass the time until either death or the rapture catches us up. We have failed to be about the Father’s business. We call it living our lives. God calls it sin. 

God’s people are not called to padded church pews and sermons that stir our emotions but don’t change our hearts. We are not called to concert-style worship that doesn’t call us out and induce in us an urgent desire to follow Jesus. We are not called to minister only when time permits or funds are available. We are not called to be convenience Christians. We are called to be consistent Christians. Day in and day out. Easy or difficult. Popular or not. We are called to consistently serve God until Jesus comes back.

But brace yourself, engaging in the work of Heaven might not look the way you think it will. There’s a misconception that working for God is preaching, teaching, singing, and foreign missions. Maybe for some. Not for everyone. Maybe Heaven’s business looks more like occupying while you wait. Maybe it’s a lifestyle, not a career. Maybe it looks identical to the list in Romans 12:9-21. Be an authentic, diligent, fervent God follower, guarding against sin in all its forms. Love others–fellow believers and those who are not. Rejoice. Endure. Pray. Constantly pray. Persistently pray. Don’t stop praying. Be kind, humble, honorable, peaceable. Don’t let the evil, ugly attitudes and ideas of the world tarnish your soul. Represent Jesus Christ in every part of your life so every soul you greet also meets the Water of Life flowing from your heart to theirs. Urgently live out Jesus Christ every minute of every day as if the moment of His appearing will occur with your next breath. (I Timothy 4:14) Love God. Follow God. Live like it. 

Jesus is coming back someday. The Bible says it, so we know it is true. (John 14:3) We don’t know when. We aren’t supposed to know. The Bible says that too. (Matthew 24:36) What we do know is this, before Jesus went away He commanded us, “Be about the Father’s business while you wait for me to come back.” (Luke 19:13) Don’t sleep. Don’t be idle. Be vigilant. Be busy. Occupy every waiting hour with Heavenly business. When a million voices from the world call and try to drag your attention away, remember this–Jesus is coming. When He does, will He find you partying and celebrating the things of the world or will He find you occupied with Heaven’s business while you wait?

In loving memory of Reverend Ray, husband, father, grandfather, pastor, friend, Jesus follower, hope whisperer.

It has been 13 years since my sweet Grandfather passed away. It took me years to accept the fact he was gone. He was wonderful. I have beautiful memories of him. His goofy jokes. How much he loved to chat. The way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled are forever etched in my memory. The echoes of his scratchy singing voice belting out a hymn will forever resound in my ears. He loved to sing. He loved his grandchildren. He loved his God. 

We used to spend time at his house in the summers when we made the trek East. It was an old home with oddly shaped rooms. The living room was cluttered, too much furniture in a too-small room, more long and narrow than is generally useful for conversation. A couch and multiple chairs were split up by various end tables and lamps. The tables were littered with all manner of religious reading material. Magazines, pamphlets, books, Bibles. At the far end of the room was an old upright piano. It wasn’t always completely in tune. There was music to choose from, mostly hymnals with an occasional piece of sheet music thrown in. The piano bench was often my seat. It wasn’t a hardship. 

Always happy to play from books I didn’t have at home, I’d sit and flip through pages until I found something I hadn’t heard for a while or was a favorite hymn. Grandpa would sit in his easy chair, perusing his reading material. Sometimes he’d just listen. Sometimes he’d hum along. He’d ask what I was playing if he didn’t recognize it. Eventually, his request would come, “Can you play “Whispering Hope”? 

I could, in fact, play “Whispering Hope”. I did not enjoy it. The music did not lend itself well to added trills and runs. I found it boring. I played it every time. I would never deny him the pleasure of those simple notes. Often, he’d come either to stand behind or sit on the bench beside me as I played. If he managed to stay silent for a few measures, it was infrequent. By at least the first chorus, his scratchy voice would join the tinny notes from the not tuned piano as he sang the words of what was apparently one of his favorite songs, “Whispering hope…”.

It has never been my favorite, yet, from time to time, I find myself singing the words of that same song. Maybe I liked it better than I thought. Maybe I need to remember to listen to words of hope whispered to my soul. Maybe I’m more like Grandpa than I realized. I must be. I picked up another of his habits. One I love. One that takes me back to a million places and leads me to the One Source I need most. A habit that regularly has me whispering, “Jesus, help us.” 

Grandpa used to whisper those words all the time. Pouring milk on his breakfast cereal. Dropping into a chair to read the newspaper. Sitting still in contemplation. Always, “Jesus, help us.” Admittedly, it seemed odd. Fixing breakfast cereal required no special aid. He needed no assistance sitting down. It took me years to realize, Grandpa was whispering hope. Hope in the God who had never let him down. Hope in the only safe place to cast his faith. Hope when situations seemed out of control. Hope for everything that troubled his heart or threatened his peace. Hope in God, whispered in the words, “Jesus, help us.” (Psalm 42)

Today I find myself desperately needing that same hope. As the storms of life beat on my soul, I often find myself lost for words and whispering, “Jesus, help us.” My energy is sapped, my ingenuity is tapped, my ability is eclipsed, yet still, I know my Source of hope is overflowing. My faith is not misguided. My trust is not misplaced. My hope comes from God, the Creator of Heaven and earth. His power is limitless. His unfailing love is forever. In my abject weakness, I scrape together my meager strength and whisper the only words I can think to speak, “Jesus, help us.” I have found it is enough. 

Like the Canaanite woman who came to Jesus, continually crying out to him, hoping he would save her daughter, I continually cry out in hope for my children. (Matthew 15:21-28) Hope that my children will walk in truth. (III John 1:4) Hope they always choose Jesus even when it is unpopular. Hope that they remember all the things I’ve tried to instill in them, the lessons I’ve taught, the verses they have memorized, the ones I’ve prayed over them. (Deuteronomy 6:5-9) Hope that they grow up to be strong God followers who never depart from His ways. (Proverbs 22:6)

Reading the words of Daniel as he cries out in hope for salvation and restoration for wandering Israel, I see the parallel of our world today. We, too, have rebelled and turned from God. We have not listened to solid preaching. We have not adhered to sound doctrine. In the midst of the chaos brought about by our own wayward hearts, I hopefully cry, “Jesus, help us,” (Daniel 9:4-19) It is all I can do. I cannot choose spiritual life over death for others. (Romans 6:23) I cannot mitigate the pull of the world on the soul that chooses to be distracted. (I John 2:15) But I can cry out in hope for the lost around me. It is all I can do. It is enough.  

When I watch the listless worship on Sunday and it feels as if all the hope has been sucked out of the church, I whisper my hope again. Hope that our God-following is more than skin deep. (Matthew 23:25-28) Hope that the church will straighten its spine and stand up for true godliness. Hope that it doesn’t fall prey to adding or subtracting from God’s Word. (Jude 1:3) Hope that our pastors will preach truth and truth alone. (II Timothy 4:2) Hope that the church of God will be the church of God! (Colossians 1:18)

In the middle of enormous trials that test my faith to its very limits, when my spirit is so broken the words to pray won’t come, burgeoning hope within me still whispers, “Jesus, help us.” Hope that brings strength into my situation. (Romans 5:5) Hope that comes from the God of the universe, the God who holds all things together. (Psalm 121:1; Colossians 1:16-17) Hope in the God who has proven He is always near, always on time, always watching over me. (Hebrews 13:5; Ecclesiastes 3:11; Psalm 34:15) Hope in my God. The God who rides a cloud to come to my aid, Who is my dwelling place, Who holds me in His everlasting arms. (Deuteronomy 33:26-27) That’s my God. That’s my Hope. My heart cries, “Jesus, help us.” It is always more than enough. 

I don’t know your situation right now. I don’t know where you are in life. Maybe you feel hopeless right now. When you dare to look out the window of your soul the storm clouds are so dark, so threatening, so insurmountable you can’t imagine how you’ll ever make it through. I may not know what has brought you to this place, but I do know this, God is close to those who are brokenhearted. He listens to the minimal words you are able to squeeze past the lump in your throat from the threatening tears. He hears the whispered hope of your heart. And God delivers. (Psalm 34:15, 17-19) 

Still skeptical? Ask Hannah. Desperate and broken over her inability to conceive, she bundles her hope into driving tears and whispered anguish. She stands, convulsing in sobs, quietly praying in the temple, begging God to bring her hope to life. Eli, the priest, thought she was drunk. She wasn’t. She was pouring out her hope to God. Hope that didn’t go unanswered. God remembered Hannah. He sent her a son. A son born from a sprig of hope springing out of a desolate, ravaged, broken heart that dared to gather the last vestiges of hope and whisper for help. It was enough. (I Samuel 1) 

So many of us are right there with Hannah. Broken, ravaged hearts nearly devoid of hope. Things have been going wrong so often. The outlook is terrifying. It feels like we haven’t had a win in forever. We are tired. We are frazzled. We feel defeated. We need Grandpa, his song, and his whispered words of hope. Hope that carried him through a crippling stroke, through Grandma losing her battle with cancer, through trials I didn’t begin to understand until much later in life. Hope in God who never fails. Whispers of hope through the brightest days and the darkest nights. Always. “Jesus, help us.” 

No matter where you find yourself, no matter what life has handed you, no matter how hard the evil one is beating on your soul, from the bottom of your beleaguered heart, whisper out your hope. Hope in the God who is always by your side. Hope in the faithful promises of the God who has never failed His people. Hope that transcends the fury of every storm. “Jesus, help us.” May you find He is more than enough. (Zephaniah 3:17; Joshua 21:45)

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.