Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

The entire thing was outrageous! Unbelievable. Ridiculous. A set up from the start. Yet here he was, stitched up for a crime he didn’t commit. Would never have committed. No matter the circumstances. Beautiful woman. Perfect timing. Persistent temptation. He wouldn’t have taken advantage of the situation. Ever. Hadn’t done so now. He’d run. Fast enough to leave his outer cloak behind. Unfortunately, his integrity had been his undoing. Now here he sat on the edge of an uncomfortable prison cot, listening to the key turn in the lock. Incarcerated for not violating his boss’s wife. (Genesis 39:7-20)

It wasn’t the first time he’d ended up somewhere he shouldn’t be because of another’s actions. Joseph had only left Canaan and his father’s house because his brothers shipped him off. Sold him for a handful of silver coins. Twenty, to be exact. His life hadn’t been worth more to them. Admittedly, he’d been a bit of a thorn in the side. Maybe even more so than most younger brothers. He’d poked and prodded, annoyed and infuriated. Not that what he’d said was wrong. He’d had those dreams, seen those visions. Retrospectively, he wasn’t duty-bound to share them. He’d done that of his own volition. A little braggadocio. Still. It didn’t justify them selling their own flesh and blood into slavery. (Genesis 37:1-28)

Ending up in Egypt hadn’t been his choice, either. It was merely a convenient place for the Midianites to shift their load and recoup their expenditures. With a quick exchange of coins, Joseph had been handed off to Potiphar like so much baggage. But God was in Egypt, too. His faithful love surrounded Joseph in the midst of uncertainty. And Potiphar liked Joseph. Respected him. Trusted him. A lot. Enough to put Joseph as overseer of all he owned. It wasn’t the same as living among his brothers and raising his own family, but it wasn’t a bad situation. Until it was. Until the fateful day Potiphar’s fickle wife noticed Joseph’s muscular frame and chiseled features. She tried to get him alone, seduce him. He refused. His devotion to God required no less. It was all to no avail. In his haste to do right, he’d left his cloak behind and she’d used it to get her revenge. Now here he sat. Imprisoned. For running from sin. (Genesis 39:1-20; II Timothy 2:22) 

 Undoubtedly, Joseph felt the unfairness of the situation. He shouldn’t even be in this prison. Shouldn’t be in Egypt. Shouldn’t have been sold by his brothers. Shouldn’t have been hated by them. He shouldn’t be anywhere except back in Canaan with his father, reaping the benefits of being the favored son. Yet here he was. In prison. And it was hard. Hard to be here under these circumstances. Hard to be alone with his thoughts. Hard to see the hand of God, the love of God, the faithfulness of God through the mess of his life. Although Joseph only had the love of his father to go by, his list of trials and current circumstances certainly didn’t look like love at all. But it was. 

During his ordained incarceration, God was working. Joseph earned a place of trust with the prison warden. He was able to mingle with other prisoners and, when the time came, Joseph was given the interpretation for the dreams of the baker and cupbearer. One would die. One would live. It all came to pass. Just as God told Joseph it would. But memories are short and fickle and selfish. The cupbearer forgot to mention Joseph’s plight to Pharaoh. For two long years Joseph waited and hoped. Until Pharaoh was plagued by a dream. 

At the cupbearer’s sudden burst of memory, Pharaoh sent for Joseph to gain the interpretation of his dream. It wasn’t encouraging news. Desperate times were coming. But there was hope. For Pharaoh. For Egypt. For Joseph. God’s faithful love was still at work. It had been all along. Had Joseph stayed in Potiphar’s house, he’d never have met the cupbearer. Never interpreted the dreams. There would have been no reason for Pharaoh to call Joseph forward for his own interpretation. When Joseph was in prison wondering how any of his circumstances reflected the love of God, God was lovingly bringing about a grand opportunity for Joseph. An opportunity to reunite with his father and brothers. An opportunity for forgiveness and healing. An opportunity to provide for them when famine was sweeping the land. Even when it seemed like the love of God had gotten a bit sideways, when it felt like His love wasn’t faithful, when it didn’t look the way Joseph thought it should or act in the timeframe he thought was appropriate, God’s love was still faithful. Because sometimes God’s love looks like protection from sin, provision for the future, and the possibility of personal growth. (Genesis 39:21-45:28; Lamentations 3:22-23)

Admittedly, we aren’t big fans of the personal growth part. We’d much rather have a lifetime of promised butterflies and fields of flowers. It would be so much more comfortable if love looked only like blessings and abundance. But true love isn’t like that. It can’t be. True love is not permissive and blase. True love cares too much to let you go on blindly in your sins. So does God’s love. In faithful love meant to protect you from sin, provide a way of escape from temptation, and grow the fortitude of your soul, God speaks. We don’t always want to hear what He has to say. He still speaks. Hard truths. Firm “no’s.” Words of correction and reproof. Things spoken in love without the desire to hurt or harm, but to build up and improve your soul. Sometimes love looks like correction. (Hebrews 4:12; Proverbs 3:11-12)

 David learned that lesson the hard way. Unlike Joseph, David failed to ignore the beautiful woman before him. Not that she was trying to get his attention. She wasn’t. Probably didn’t even know he’d seen her taking an evening bath. But he had. And David was distracted. His desire to have the woman overrode both his morals and common sense. He sent for her. A command she was unable, in the constraints of that day, to deny. She had no choice but to show up and do as the king desired. The inevitable ensued. Bathsheba, Uriah’s wife, became pregnant to the king who chose to allow his desires to control him instead of the other way round. 

As sin is wont to do, it didn’t end with taking someone else’s wife. Rather than divulge his sin and repent of his actions, David set about attempting to cover his transgression. Sending for Uriah, he gave every opportunity for the man to go be with his wife. Uriah declined. His personal standards were too high. He wouldn’t go about enjoying himself when his soldiers were camping in the fields, not knowing when the enemy might attack and they would be called to sacrifice their lives. Things didn’t go according to David’s plan. Uriah didn’t even go visit Bathsheba. Not once. The cover-up wasn’t working. So David formulated a secondary plan. (Proverbs 28:16)

Dismissing Uriah back to the battle, David gave him a written message for his commanding officer. He knew Uriah could be trusted not to read it on the way. It’s a good thing he didn’t. He might not have returned. In his hand, signed with the king’s signet ring, Uriah carried his own death warrant. At the next battle, Uriah was shoved into the fiercest fighting and left to die by enemy hands. Murder by battle. No one would question it. No one would know. No one but David. Or so he thought. Until Nathan came to visit. (II Samuel 11)

In faithful love aligned with His character, God sent Nathan to confront David about his sin. David gives no indication of concern or conviction when Nathan’s presence is announced. Indeed, it seems he was wholly unperturbed by the visit, as if everything in his life was perfectly aligned with God’s teachings. As if he hadn’t recently broken multiple commandments. In fact, David is horrified and outraged at the story Nathan shares. His anger boils. His sense of justice comes to the fore. He’s ready to pronounce swift and certain judgment on the man who thought he could steal a poor man’s pet lamb. Yet Nathan’s reply stopped the decree as it fell from David’s lips. “You’re the guy.” (II Samuel 12:1-7)

David was the man in Nathan’s story. He was the man who stole from someone. He was the murderer who took Uriah’s life and stole Bathsheba’s husband because of the lust in his own heart. He was an adulterer. He was a murderer. His judgment would rest on his own head. The baby Bathsheba carried would die. The halls of his palace would be filled with mourning and grief. It seems an extravagant price to pay. It feels like God’s love has abandoned him. It hadn’t. The depths of God’s love for humanity does not negate the consequences of one’s actions. Rather, the faithful love of God comes in correction to those who have purposely strayed, accidentally become distracted, or unwittingly been drawn into sin. The love of God in the form of correction comes to reconcile the straying soul to God. Because God is faithful and His heart of love makes every effort to draw all humanity into a proper relationship with Himself and keep them there. Sometimes God’s love looks like direction. (II Samuel 12:7-15)

Over and again throughout the Bible, God has laid out directions to Heaven. In love, He has placed rules and laws and directives meant to keep you safe from sin and temptation. He’s concerned about your soul. He’s hoping to safeguard it. His greatest desire is not to control or manipulate, but to protect and preserve. That’s how true love looks. He also knows that humanity is bent toward self-destruction. We aren’t good at making proper decisions. Our minds are too finite. We choose things based on our current feelings, our circumstances, or the influence of those around us. But God’s directions are timeless. They transcend everything we think we know and all the useless advice we are given. And they come from a place of love. Pure love. True love. Love that has only your best interest in mind. Because that’s how true love looks. (Exodus 20:1-17: II Corinthians 5:21; Matthew 5:20; I John 2:5-6)

You see, friend, God’s love cannot be measured by the things we have, the car we drive, or the zeroes in our bank balance. It has nothing to do with magnificent rescues, miraculous recoveries, or magnanimous handouts. Although those things may happen, they may not. Their presence or the lack thereof is not an accurate barometer of God’s love. You won’t find it in those things. Stop looking there. God is not some big Santa Claus in the sky throwing giant handfuls of lollies out of one hand, dumping sunshine with the other, and pretending you never do anything wrong. He loves you too much for that. God loves you too much to let you settle in your sin and die there. So, in the faithful love that is the hallmark of His character, God comes to you with direction, in correction, offering protection from the sin that so easily besets and ensnares your soul.  It’s all free. It’s all for you. It’s the look of love from the God whose character defies Him to do anything else. For God is love. (I John 4:16; Isaiah 54:10; Psalm 119:75; Revelation 3:19; Job 2:10; Colossians 3:12-14; Romans 8:31-39; I Corinthians 10:13)

It was a trick. A trap. The men should have recognized it immediately. The Gileadites had password-protected the ford. The place where they used to cross the river and be on their way was now a snare for those attempting to run. Guards stood watch over the place. Armed guards. Demanding answers to rapidly fired questions. Who are you? Where have you come from? What is your lineage? Are you an Ephraimite? If it had been simply a litany of questions to answer, they could have easily lied their way across the Jordan. There was nothing conspicuously different about their faces, hair or robes to indicate their heritage. But it wasn’t just questions. Nor was it easy. Their enemies had instituted a test. A pronunciation password. A method by which they could suss out the Ephraimites attempting to pass over. A two-word command on which safe passage rested. “Say ‘Shibboleth’.”

They couldn’t do it. Couldn’t correctly repeat that simple word. Not for lack of trying. Each man put forth his best effort. It didn’t help. Didn’t happen. Try as they might, the word never came out right. Practice hadn’t helped. In the tension of the moment, they’d slip back into old habits, learned behaviors, the dialect of home. They would say, “Sibboleth.” In that moment, their true identity would be revealed. They couldn’t hide it or lie about it. They were Ephraimites. Everyone would know it. Not because they dressed differently. Not because they looked differently. Not because the guards were tricked by the answers to their previous questions. No. None of that mattered. What mattered in that exact moment was what came out of their mouths. It spoke the truth of who they were, where they had come from, to which tribe they belonged. In those fateful moments, at the ford of the Jordan, the future of every Ephraimite man attempting to cross was decided, based solely on the word that came out of his mouth. “Shibboleth” or death.  (Judges 12:1-6)

Admittedly, the passage seems quite obscure and a bit insignificant in the grand scheme of the entire Bible. A handful of verses tucked between the glorious accounts of Gideon and Sampson are easy to miss. Gloss over. Skip entirely. But what if we paused there? What if we sit along the side of the Jordan River, by the ford the Ephraimites used for crossing, and try to pick them out before a word crosses their lips? Could we do it? Would we have been able to tell, based strictly on outward appearance and overhearing a brief conversation, who was Gileadite, who was Ephraimite, and who was just a sojourner passing through? And what would we learn from listening? What could we learn from sitting in the passage longer than the 60 seconds it takes to read the words?

I’d never actually done that. Stayed there. Sat in that moment. Pondered the words and possible implications. I’ve read the words more times than I remember, but I’ve never stayed there. And I wouldn’t have stayed there this time either. I wasn’t even reading Judges. I was reading Philippians. You know the letter. Four little chapters situated near the back of the Book. Authored by Paul. It’s an inspiring read from start to finish! An echoing challenge issued by Paul to truly know and walk in Christ. Advance the Gospel by exhibiting godly behaviors. Among fellow believers. Among non-believers. Reflect Jesus. Represent the kingdom. Because you are a citizen of heaven. 

Somewhere, in the days following my reading of Philippians 1:27, where Paul calls the addressees “citizens of heaven,” God brought the Judges account to my mind. I spent days pondering it. Analyzing it. Overthinking it. Until I came to this conclusion, the account doesn’t stretch any other way for me. Just as the citizenship of those men was indicated by their speech, so is ours. Not our physical homeland. Our spiritual one. It’s a sobering thought. (Philippians 1:27)

You see, friends, you can do a lot of things to make people believe you are a citizen of heaven. Good things. Attend church. Give to the poor. Go on mission trips. Volunteer at a soup kitchen. You can eschew all manner of things you consider unsavory. Facial piercings. Tattoos. Imbibing. You can pontificate on Scripture, pretend to have special dispensation, preside over Bible studies and home groups. You can even speak “Christianese”, say all the right phrases, use all the right words, lift your hands at all the right places during the music, and be the loudest “Amen” resounding from the congregation. It doesn’t matter. What does matter, what counts the most, are the words that spring from your lips in less-than-desirable circumstances. Your co-worker botches a project. Your child doesn’t immediately respond to your request. Your spouse hasn’t had time to do the “one thing” you asked them to do. Your neighbor, fellow parishioner, friend, or acquaintance makes a less-than-stellar life decision. How you respond, what you say and to whom you say it, is a billboard sign depicting your citizenship. Not physically. Spiritually. The thought should shake you to your core. (James 1:26; Proverbs 6:16-19; Psalm 101:5; Leviticus 19:16)

It should stir you to action. That’s what Paul was trying to do to the Philippians. Stir them to action. He calls them to live as citizens of heaven. Live worthy of the gospel. His words echo those of John the Baptist. Well before Paul’s time, John encouraged the people to live lives that showed they had repented, been redeemed, were changed. Paul is saying the same thing. Live as citizens of heaven in a way the entire world will know who you are, not just in public displays of love and devotion, but in private words at times of disappointment, discouragement, aggravation, and loss. Keep your heart in such a way that, when things go pear-shaped, the words that come from your lips about the situation and the people involved reflect your citizenship. Essentially, remember Whose you are and Who you represent. Practice living like a citizen of heaven. (Matthew 3:8; Proverbs 12:18; James 3:5; I Peter 4:15)

Unfortunately, it is much easier said than done. In the heat of the moment, when frustration is rampant and tempers are high, we often have an enormous problem holding our tongues. We strike it off as human nature. Act like it’s no big deal. But it is. It’s not how we learned Christ. It’s not how we put on Him. It isn’t the appropriate way for a citizen of heaven to respond. Paul told us that, too. In Ephesians. He said those who had learned to be like Christ, true Christians, citizens of heaven, would speak truth. Their anger and upset would not be allowed to carry them into sin. Their words would not be useless and derogatory. They wouldn’t be given to angry outbursts or slanderous remarks. Instead, their carefully chosen words would build up, encourage, and extend grace to others. All others. Those you love. Those you don’t. Because words matter. They identify you. As citizens of earth or citizens of heaven. (Ephesians 4:20-31; Colossians 4:6; Proverbs 10:19; Psalm 141:3)

Jesus, in words leaving no room for confusion, speaks the truth of the matter for us. Whatever is in your heart comes out your mouth. Good. Evil. Love. Hate. In unguarded moments, flashes of anger, flares of irritation, the unfiltered verbiage that flows from your lips is a verbal eruption of what’s in your heart. It’s a sign to those around you. Your family at home. Your friends in the world. Your colleagues in the workplace. It tells them where your citizenship lies. In Heaven or on earth. (Luke 6:43-45; Matthew 15:18) 

So. Citizens of Heaven. What do your words say about you? Are you guilty of gossip and slander, vile words, derogatory remarks? Do the words that spring from your lips in moments of upset, anger, and irritation ring of heaven or earth? Is your life an honest indication of where your citizenship lies or do you simply dress the part? When things go sideways, when hard times come, when unpleasantness blindsides you, what does your verbal response indicate about the abundance of your heart? Are you living like an inhabitant of earth or a citizen of heaven? Does your speech confirm or deny your response? (Matthew 12:36; Psalm 19:14; Ephesians 5:4; Proverbs 17:27-28; Titus 3:2)

He was talking in riddles. Again. They should be used to it by now. They weren’t. The disciples listened attentively to the words, but ended up just as confused as the people around them. It was frustrating. They wanted so badly to understand. Comprehend. Hear the words and simultaneously deduce the meaning. It hadn’t happened. As the copious parts of the parable unfolded, they’d found themselves caught up in all the information. The sower. The seeds. The ground. The choking thorns, stubborn rocks, and devouring birds. Try as they might, the disciples couldn’t straighten everything out into the life lesson they knew it must certainly be. They couldn’t see the connection. Couldn’t puzzle out what seeds and soil had to do with salvation. 

Gathering around Jesus after the crowd had finally dissipated, the disciples plied Him with questions. What was with all the parables? Seriously. Couldn’t He just speak plainly, in verbiage they could readily understand? Because they really wanted to understand. They did. But somehow, they were missing it. Every. Single. Time. They didn’t want it to be like that. They didn’t want to miss a thing. Not the parable. Not the meaning. They needed to know it. Needed Jesus to speak the lesson to them in easily understood words. Because they knew the enemy of their souls was everywhere. Waiting. Lurking. Watching for the moment he could lead them astray. They also knew their only available safety lay in knowing and following the words of Jesus. 

Sighing a little, Jesus began to explain the parable of the sower to His disciples in plain speech, easily understood by anyone who has ever grown a lima bean in a plastic bag in elementary school. There was one Farmer who planted the seeds. It was Him. Jesus. He planted the seeds. In every available space. Pathways. Rocky ground. Thorny patches. Loamy, rich, freshly plowed fields. No space is exempt from the sowing. The Farmer plants everywhere regardless of the likelihood of growth. Every soil gets the same opportunity. Every soil also has the same enemy. A vicious, duplicitous enemy seeking to prevent the seeds from taking root. One who seeks to steal and kill and destroy every effort made by the Farmer to grow healthy, fruitful plants. The enemy is the devil. He’s everywhere. Like a chameleon, he’s constantly changing tactics and adapting to his surroundings in an effort to appear harmless, patiently waiting for the perfect moment to destroy the seeds, the soil, the plants before they can grow up and take root in Christ. (Mark 4:1-20; John 10:10)

It wasn’t a new concept. Since nearly the dawn of time, in one way or another, to one person or another, God has been saying the same thing. The enemy of your soul is out to get you. He places sin within reach, makes it look enticing, acts like your friend, tries to be your confidant. He sets traps to ensnare you, does tricks to distract you. You have to be aware, on guard, pay attention, so you don’t fall for his lies. So you don’t give him the opportunity to overtake your soul. It was a conversation God had with Cain way back in Genesis.

Firstborn son of the very first humans God placed on the earth, Cain was a farmer. Literally. He worked the ground. Sowed the seeds. Tended the plants until they yielded beautiful vegetables. It was an arduous process. A destructive enemy could come along at any time. Blight. Bugs. Blossom end rot. Any given morning, Cain could go out to his garden and find his hard work had been in vain, the enemy had found a way in. But, if he was meticulous in his gardening, he could produce the most fantastic vegetables. Vegetables he believed would surely be worthy of God’s blessing. Except they weren’t. For reasons which, centuries later, scholars will still argue over, God did not find Cain’s offering acceptable. Perhaps it was the state of his heart when he offered. Maybe he lacked faith. Maybe he already hated his brother. Maybe the seeds of bitterness had already taken root and grown inside Cain’s heart. Whatever the case, God refused the offering. But He didn’t stop talking to Cain. 

God didn’t leave Cain sitting beside his pile of vegetables, wondering what had happened and how it could be rectified. He told him. Warned him. He needed to overhaul his heart, not just his sacrifice. Sin was crouching at the door. The enemy of his soul was lying in wait for the perfect moment to strike. It was sitting there, salivating in excitement over the exact minute it could overtake Cain’s heart. But it didn’t have to be that way. Cain could choose. He could decide not to let it have him. Choose not to be a slave to the ugly desires of his own heart. The choice was his. He could have chosen any one of a dozen options. He chose the worst one. In a towering rage, Cain lured his brother out into the field and killed him, irrevocably altering his own life. (Genesis 4:1-16)

One wonders if Simon Peter wouldn’t have chosen a similar path–not the murder part, the sin part–had it not been for Jesus. In a strange conversation that must surely have caught Peter off guard, Jesus warns him that Satan is after him. The evil one himself has approached God, asking for him by name. Begged to ransack his soul. Break him. Tear him apart. Dismantle his faith. He’s carefully setting up a set of circumstances in which Peter will be forced to choose between his faith and his fear. Faced with the decision to admit or deny being acquainted with Jesus, Peter will choose to deny it. It could be the moment of failure for Peter. It could be that time when Peter walks away to the detriment of his soul. It’s not. Because Jesus prayed for him. For Peter. Interceded to His Father. Pleaded with God to strengthen Peter so that when things went sideways, when he strayed off course, when he was faced with trials and tribulations, he would always choose to return to his first love. And Peter did. (Luke 22:31-34)

In a timeless warning of the evils abounding around us, Jesus cautioned first his disciples, then the crowds gathered around Him, to be wary of false teachers and teachings. The leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees. The motives of the scribes and Pharisees. Don’t fall for every teaching that comes across your path. Know the commands of God. Remember Jesus’ teachings. Follow them. Don’t turn away after things that simply sound good, people who seem more persuasive, or options that cater to your own heart’s desires. Don’t be carried away by everyone else’s opinion of Jesus following. Know Jesus yourself. Know His teachings. Follow them. Don’t be confused by the evil influences around you, the snares set to draw your heart away from truly following Jesus. Be careful. Be wary. Because your enemies are everywhere. (Matthew 16:1-12; 23:1-36; I Peter 5:8)

We require the same admonitions. Perhaps even more than the people of Jesus day. We need to remember that sin is crouching at our door, waiting for the exact moment to take advantage of our weakness, our fear, our pain. We need to know that the evil one is always seeking to have us, to sift us, to jostle our souls and jangle our resolve. We need to realize that evil influences surround us. They are everywhere. In places we expect and places we don’t. We need to know ourselves. Know that the normal worries and cares of life, the human desire for more, the worldly pressure to get and have and be are all tools of distraction and distortion the enemy uses to trap our souls. And we need to pray the words of the Psalmist when he asked God to lead him in the path of righteousness and put the way of the Lord straight before him, because of his enemies. (Psalm 5:8; 27:11)

In Psalm 23:5, there is a beautiful word picture of this exact thing. You know the words well. “You prepare a meal for me in the presence of my enemies…” Because the enemies of your soul are always going to be there. They aren’t leaving. There are no scheduled vacations, no sick days, no business trips. You’ll never have privacy from them. There’s not going to be one day the devil takes a break. But. God doesn’t take breaks either. He never sleeps. Never takes His eyes off His children. And He’s always busy. Busy preparing a beautiful spread of strengthening, encouraging hope and help right where you are. Right in the middle of your enemies. (Psalm 23)

So pray the words. Pray for direction, protection, deliverance. Sit at the table. Feed your soul on His word. Learn God’s attributes, His character, His commands. Hear His promises. Trust His heart. When the way is foggy or rocky or otherwise treacherous and you are tempted to take a left turn on an easier trail, don’t. Stay the course. Have faith in God. He has prepared your pathway. He has put it straight before you. He will provide the courage and strength necessary to walk it. He will be with you. In good times. In bad times. Every time. God will walk it with you. And you’ll need to rely on Him. Because of your enemies. (Psalm 16:8; 25:1-5; 119:105; Ephesians 6:10-18; Proverbs 3:5-6; Matthew 17:20-21; Leviticus 26:12; Joshua 1;9; James 4:7; Romans 12:2)

There was a school shooting last week. Another one. In Georgia. You probably heard about it, read the articles flooding your phone. I have. I’ve hardly been able to keep myself from reading every horrifying word as the story and backstory unfold. My heart is shattered at the senseless loss of life. I am sobered and saddened on behalf of the children and adults who will now struggle through every day they have to spend walking the corridors where those terrifying moments occurred. I ache for the parents and families who suffered such unimaginable loss. I can almost physically feel their pain. My mother’s heart, while fully acknowledging the abhorrent and unacceptable nature of the vicious attack, still weeps over the fact that a child felt so lost, so isolated, so helpless, so alone that they chose such a horrific and permanent end to a temporary situation. 

My children’s school held a lockdown drill the day after the shooting occurred, a necessity in spite of the locked facility, guarded campus, and multiple school safety officers. It was previously planned and impossible to move, but the exercise more firmly cemented the unsettling truth of our country’s downward spiral. There’s a hovering sense of anxiety in the air. It’s made me check my phone more often, looking for emails, texts, calls, reports. It has me praying even more than usual. Praying constantly. Praying earnestly. Praying without ceasing. For my children. For your children. For the children out there who feel so unloved, so unheard they believe their only recourse is to scream their inner pain through a firearm’s blast. 

Not everyone shares my sentiments. For some, the event in Georgia was simply a platform to further their own cause, push their own promotion. You’ve probably noticed that too. Everyone has. It’s an election year in America. Presidential. It’s a mess. They call it campaigning, the list of lies they tell, the pile of promises they’ll never keep, the finger-pointing and mudslinging. It’s worse than usual this time. Evil saturates the entire event. It’s palpable. Abject hate. Vitriolic rage. It’s not about the people. It’s about the party. It’s about control. It’s about pushing an agenda that pacifies some, satisfies no one, and damages everyone. It’s about greed and power. It’s not about me. It’s not about you. It’s about a handful of people involved in the upper echelons of political society. The whole scene is disheartening, wreaking havoc on hearts and minds across the nation. Playing an enormous part in the lack of equilibrium our young people feel. Adding to their social and emotional turmoil. Causing heightened mental illness and outrageous acting out. It has me praying more than usual. For my community. For my city. For our country.

A short scroll through the rest of the news page offers no consolation. Things aren’t better in other places. Wars are raging around the world. Artillery and words volley between nations in a relentless effort to tip the scale of power. Greed abounds. Hate runs rampant. Crime fills the streets, penetrates even the forces meant to enforce laws and uphold safety. Clamoring after the next big story, the media excitedly eats it all up and spits it out as if every injustice, every hateful crime, every heinous act is just a sideshow for their economic enrichment and personal enjoyment. It’s not. Fear grips our society in icy talons. We are helpless to know how things will play out. The stories we read and hear in the news have us holding our breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, the next crisis to come, the final implosion to detonate. While we stand by, waiting for things to even out, but rapidly losing hope they will, prayers rise to our lips. Desperate prayers. Pleading prayers. Prayers for hope and help and peace. I know. I get it. I’m there too. Every time I read the news. 

Last week, however, along with the news, I also read Job 19. Wracked with excruciating pain and still scraping oozing sores, Job sketches a picture of how bleak and hopeless his situation has become. His friends are accusing him of sin he didn’t commit. God seems so far away. The heavens are like brass. His cries appear to go unheard. They definitely remain unanswered. His former friends and acquaintances seem to have forgotten him. His wife hates him. His family is repulsed by his appearance. Children see him as an object for ridicule. He feels alone, abandoned. He’s not. He knows it. In the middle of it all, when his miserable existence seems futile, when the future appears long and his endurance short, when he’d rather die than simply keep existing, Job spoke three words that stopped me in my tracks and halted the words of bemoaning on my own lips. He simply said, “But. I. Know…” (Job 19:25)

They must have been the hardest words to say in those circumstances. There was so much Job didn’t know. He had no logical reason for the suffocating pain, relentless suffering, unexplainable tragedies, unimaginable loss, hopelessness, helplessness, discouragement, and despair. Job wasn’t there for that. He wasn’t there to continually wallow in the things he didn’t know. He was there for what he knew. What he believed. What he had tested and tried and found to be unquestionably absolute. Job chose to lift his mind off the things he didn’t know and focus on the things he did. Things about His God. Job knew His living, active, moving, working  Redeemer was sovereign and eternal. He believed that when it was all said and done, he would stand before God as gold forged in the furnace of hardship and affliction. No matter how disgraceful or unpleasant his circumstances, Job refused to let the darkness destroy him. He chose to hope, to trust, to place his faith in what he knew. And Job knew His Redeemer. (Job 19; 23:10, 13, 17)

So did David. Turns out, being chosen as King Saul’s successor had significant drawbacks. Not that it hadn’t started well. It had. The beginning had been all victory songs, harp playing, and marriage to the king’s daughter. It hadn’t stayed that way. Saul had become jealous and agitated. There were fewer things he wanted more than David’s head on a platter. David’s life became littered with treacherous flights and narrow escapes. He spent years running from Saul before finally settling down to carve out his own existence on a little piece of land in Philistine territory, called Ziklag, from where he forayed out to raid the regions around him. (I Samuel 27)

He was very good at his job. The raids went amazingly well. He brought home flocks and herds and clothing. He gained the trust of Achish, king of Gath. So great was the trust between them, that Achish took David and his men to go into battle with them. The rest of the Philistine leaders weren’t having it. There was no way they were putting their trust in David. They knew who he was. They didn’t believe his defection was true. They weren’t about to put their lives in his hands. Unable to change their minds, Achish was forced to send David and his men home. (I Samuel 29) 

Arriving back in Ziklag after 3 days of travel, David and his men found their encampment had been raided and ravaged by the Amelekites. Ziklag was burned to the ground. The women and children had been kidnapped. Not killed. Kidnapped. Anything could be happening to their wives and daughters even as they stood there assessing the mayhem. The men were gutted. Many dropped to their knees, crying out in grief until their voices were raspy and tears would no longer flow. David wept with them. He’d lost too. Both of his wives, Ahinoam and Abigail, were gone. That wasn’t all. With what little voices they had left, the men were talking of stoning him. They were convinced this was his fault. They needed someone to blame for the loss of their beloved families. They wanted revenge. They were coming for him. David knew it. His life was on the line.

Not one of us would fault David had he attempted to talk those men out of their plans. We wouldn’t criticize his choice had he run away, hidden himself, found safety in a cave. There would be no surprise in any of that. He’d done it all before. But not this time. This time David chose to stay.  With no idea how to remedy the situation, no options for moving forward, no strategies for reclaiming their loved ones, David did the one thing he knew to do. He turned to his God. He drew strength from the One who had always been his refuge and strength in times of trouble. He encouraged himself in the God who had stood by him in every struggle and trial and dangerous situation throughout his life. He rested in the God who offered him protection from all evil. David turned to the God he knew for comfort, for strength, for advice. Because David knew what Job knew and what I am learning, no matter the season of your life, regardless of the mess in the world around you, in good times and bad, you can rest your battered soul and tattered faith in the unarguable truths you know about the sovereign, eternal, omnipotent God of the universe. Your living Redeemer. (I Samuel 30:1-8; Psalm 46:1; Psalm 18:2; I Samuel 17:37-51; Job 19:25)

 So often we read the Biblical accounts of men like David and Job and sit in awe of their spiritual stamina. We see men who never fought fear or worry or doubt. We see the end of their stories and forget the middle, the part where they were scared, angry, frustrated, tempted to quit.   We talk in grandiose terms of their faith and courage, but diminish their humanity, the times when they were stymied and stricken with confusion and grief, illness and pain. We forget they were just like us. Human. Needy. Daily surviving by forcing themselves to focus not on the harrowing circumstances around them or the unknown future in front of them, but on the God who is right beside them. The God they know they can trust. The living, active God of yesterday, today and forever.(Psalm 102:27; Hebrews 13:8; II Corinthians 4:16-18; John 5:17)

Overwhelmed by the continuous flow of life-sucking news stories highlighting the injustice, indecency, and inhumanity suffocating our society, we are often left to wonder what is next. What will happen in our country? Our world? How do we fight off the encroaching darkness? How can we keep ourselves, our families, our schools safe? As the questions swirl around our minds, we are struck with the gut-wrenching truth that we have no answers. None. We simply don’t know. I get it. I’m there too. But. I know this. Our God is sovereign. He has not abdicated His throne or relinquished His authority. He is God. Of all. Over all. In heaven and on earth. He is our Redeemer. Our Sustainer. Our Strength for whatever comes next. And He is eternal. His years have no end. For what we are walking through right now and what we will traverse in the future, He will be there. He will never let us down. Our Redeemer lives! He reigns! I know it! Do you? (Isaiah 45:7-9; Job 42:2; Lamentations 3:37-39; Acts 17:24-28; Psalm 90:2; Deuteronomy 31:8; Psalm 78;35; I Peter 2:6)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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