Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Admittedly, his mind was wandering. Not in a disrespectful way. He wasn’t imagining his next fishing expedition, contemplating dinner plans, or fretting over his decided lack of income. He was actually still listening to the preaching. Partially. Half of his mind was running down a different trail not entirely far from what Jesus was preaching. His directives about removing sin from among the body of believers had Peter thinking some thoughts, asking some questions, wondering what, exactly, the etiquette was for the ones injured by those sins. Really. How many times was one required to forgive those who wronged, hurt, or abused them? What would be enough? At what point, if any, was forgiveness no longer available to those who continued on in their own selfishness, hurting and offending others, yet never changing their behavior? Forgiving the first offense could be difficult enough. It seemed unfair that a repeat offender should receive the same response multiple times. Having pondered the options and come up with a distinctly generous number, Peter posed his question to Jesus. How many times should one forgive another who sins against them? If one were to keep track of absolutions, would seven be a respectable number? 

Calculators work differently in Heaven, it seems. Jesus’ equations computed a shockingly different number. Without taking into account the type of sin, the level of damage, the amount of offenses, He threw out a staggeringly high number. He multiplied. Enormously. Seventy times seven. Four hundred and ninety. More times than a person would ever spend the energy to track. Then he launched into an explanation by way of a parable about money that had nothing to do with finances and everything to do with what’s in the heart. 

A man once owed a king ten thousand bags of gold, but found himself unable to pay. The king, desiring to recoup his money, called the man before him, only to learn he was overextended and remained unable to repay the loan. As was the normal process of the time, it was ordered that the man and his entire family be sold to pay his debt. In great distress at the pronouncement, the man fell to his knees, begging for mercy. If he could just be given time to make some adjustments, he could repay everything. Surprisingly, the king capitulated. In a moment of amazing compassion and enormous mercy, the gracious king chose to cancel the debt entirely, allowing the man and his family to go free. 

Joyously tripping away from the confrontation, the man left the king’s presence only to go out and confront a man who owed him one hundred silver coins, a mere fraction of the debt he’d just had dissolved. Grabbing the man by the throat, he raged at him to pay what he owed. Right here. Right now. Cough it up! Like the first man, this one couldn’t pay, either. He needed time. In a nearly mirror image to the man who had just received grace, the second man fell to his knees and begged for mercy. Unfortunately, he wasn’t kneeling before the king whose heart was full of grace and compassion. No. He was begging a man whose heart was full of rage and greed. Rather than extend the same forgiveness he had received, the dark-hearted man called for the debtor to be thrown in prison until he could pay every last cent. 

Appalled by the course of events, nearby workers carried the story of injustice back to the king. He was not amused. His mercy had been flouted. His forgiveness taken for granted. Calling the original debtor back before him, he required a full account for his actions. There was no excuse. As a recipient of mercy, he should have extended mercy in return. His failure rained misery on his own head. His debt was reinstated. He was turned over to the jailers until he could pay everything he owed in full. Then Jesus tacked an ominous warning to the end of His parable. This type of treatment should be expected by all those who refuse to forgive others in the same way God forgives them. From their hearts. The parable about money wasn’t actually about money. It was about what’s in your heart. (Matthew 18:21-35)

Ananias and Sapphira could have learned something from the underlying message of Jesus’ parable. Not about forgiveness. About how what is in your heart leaks out through your life. How what you love most controls your thoughts and decisions. How your heart needs to focus on something besides money. At a time when the believers were of one heart and mind and sharing their possessions and finances, some chose to sell property and donate the proceeds for use among the community of believers. It wasn’t a rule. No one was under compulsion to sell or donate. Nor does it appear to have been an expectation. No record indicates Peter was preaching the sale and donation as a prerequisite of Heaven. It was simply a choice some people were making. The givers were not promised better seating, higher standing, or greater authority in the congregation. There is no indication of any perks accompanying the generosity. Except in the minds of Ananias and Sapphira. 

In what can only be explained as a quest to gain the alleged status and accolades for themselves, Ananias and Sapphira chose to sell a piece of property. It was a cash sale. The smooth coolness of the coins felt so good in their hands. The weight in their pockets reminded them of all that could be done with the amount. As they hunkered over their kitchen table stacking and recounting the small fortune before them, their hearts turned toward the things they loved most. The things that filled their hearts. Money. They loved it. They wanted it. They also loved status and accolades. They wanted both. Wanted to be perceived as people of means who gave heavily to the Christian community. More concerned with the perception of their peers than being honest before God, they concocted a plan to trick everyone. Including God. 

Why they believed they could trick God remains a mystery. It wasn’t something they would have heard from the lips of the apostles. They didn’t get it from Sunday school or church. The Bible study leaders never taught the concept. The only place it could have originated is the darkness of their sin-filled hearts. Talking in hushed tones, they plotted and planned. How much to give. How much to keep. What lie to tell Peter yet still attain the status they desired. How to look good, seem holy. Appear as wealthy benefactors. Gracious donors. They also decided Ananias should go alone to make their donation. And so he did. 

Gathering their chosen allotment together, Ananias traveled to where the apostles were gathered and laid the portion at their feet, declaring it the entire amount. Immediately Peter knew he was lying. Maybe Ananias faltered on the verbiage. Perhaps his gaze shifted to the left as he spoke. Maybe he seemed nervous, antsy. More likely, God gave Peter the discernment to know a lie when he saw one. Calling Ananias out, Peter incredulously questioned the purpose of the deception. Why would he attempt such a thing? They were under no compulsion to sell the property at all. Once sold, there was no law or rule or obligation to donate the money to the church. The choices they made were theirs and theirs alone. They chose to sell. They chose to divide the funds. They chose to lie. To the apostles. To Peter. To God. 

Both Ananias and Sapphira would pay the ultimate price for that lie. Their sin would cause their demise right there at the apostles’ feet. First Ananias. Then Sapphira. The things their hearts loved the most were their undoing. They sacrificed everything to gain nothing. Died for a lie they didn’t even have to tell. Because their deceitful hearts loved money and status more than anything, valued them above everything, even honesty before the God who knows every secret of the human heart. (Acts 5:1-11 Mark 2:8; I Samuel 16:7; Luke 16:15)

Perhaps you haven’t noticed it before, but neither of these lessons is about money. We read them and get all wrapped up in the money and numbers. We think they are about our bank balances and the donation line on our tax documents. They aren’t. At all. They are about your heart. What’s there? What isn’t. What should be. The lessons aren’t about the size of the house you inhabit. The type of car you drive. The number of zeroes in your paycheck. The balance in your mutual funds or the amount you donated to charity last year. Those things are all earthly. They stay here. The point of every one of these events is that the desires of your heart, the emphasis you put on money or things or status or self, will draw you away from Jesus Christ. You won’t follow Him as hard as you should. You won’t spend as much time with Him as you could. Your focus on earthly things will cost you eternal treasures. It’s the message in both of these lessons. And it’s not about the money at all. (James 1:13-15)

In the Gospel of Luke, Jesus speaks another parable to a man who was desperate to make his brother share the inheritance with him. He tells of a man who has done very well for himself, to the point he has nowhere to store his wealth and must build larger spaces to hold it. Lulled to spiritual complacency by his store of earthly goods, the man forgets that God is the Giver and Sustainer of life. With or without the money, God is sovereign. His life and times are in God’s hands. So focused on the earthly things his heart loves, he finds himself rich on earth but bankrupt in eternity. Again, the parable isn’t about money, it’s about the content of your heart. (Luke 12:13-21; Psalm 31:14-15; Hebrews 1:3; Psalm 139:14)

You see, friend, there is nothing more important than what is in your heart. What you love. What you hate. What you eschew. What you condone. The things that inhabit your heart affect every part of your life. They show when you think they don’t. They impact your decisions, your actions, your words. They choose your eternity. So check your heart. Know what’s there. Earthly accounts or eternal savings. Then seek the things that are above, the things not of this world. Seek the things of Heaven. Chase down the things of God. Follow hard after Him. Know that the wealth of your eternal treasure chest is worth more than the numbers in your earthly portfolio. Because it’s not about the money. It’s about your heart. (Matthew 6:19-20, 33; Luke 6:45; Proverbs 4:23; Psalm 63:8)

Deliberately placing one foot in front of the other, he slowly began the trek up the mountain. Not for lack of strength. At the age of 120, he still had all the vim and vigor of a young man in his prime. His eyesight was good. His body was well. His mind was sharp. The climb would not be physically taxing, but emotionally so. It would be his final climb. Up any mountain. Anywhere. He would die here. He wasn’t excited about it. Those were simply the facts. He was spending the hike silently reminiscing about the fantastic journey of his life. It had been an amazing span of years. A lifetime of once-in-a-lifetime experiences. (Exodus 32:48-52; 34:1-8)

There had been a thousand of them. Unique experiences. Royal rescues. Palace visits. Threats of death. He’d seen amazing miracles. Fire that didn’t consume. Dust turned into gnats. Blood that halted the death angel in his tracks. He’d seen a lot of miraculous water rescues. Water turned to blood. Waves rolled back like scrolls. Drinking water flowing from solid rock. He’d done things he never thought he would. Stood up to Pharaoh. Led a group of recalcitrant people. Talked to God. Literally. To God. Himself. Personally. Words directly from God’s lips to Moses’ ears. He’d made mistakes along the way. Left the people with Aaron while he went up Mt. Sinai. Believed they would learn from their punishments. Thunked a rock with the staff when he should have spoken to it. The last one was the kicker. The biggest one. The most regrettable. Of all the things he’d seen, done, and walked through, he wished he could change that one. (Exodus 2-20, 31:12-34; Numbers 20:1-13)

The people had gotten to him. He’d let them. He was just so tired of their whining and complaining, the injustice of their allegations against him. They’d been at it practically since leaving Egypt. He’d tried to be long-suffering, enduring the verbal assault. Unfortunately, he’d had enough. He was over it. Over them. Done. Pulsating with frustration, Moses snatched up Aaron’s staff, stalked up to the rock, and smacked it. Water gushed out. Drinkable water for the people. Bitter drink for Moses. He had disobeyed God and it was going to cost him. He wouldn’t be entering the Promised Land. Wouldn’t get to enjoy the bountiful fruits, lush fields, and glorious harvests. He would get a peek from a distance, but his feet would never walk the streets. (Numbers 20:12)

It was a bitter pill to swallow. He’d done so much for God, for His people. He’d followed faithfully despite the pushback from the crowd. Up until this moment, he’d practiced singular obedience to God even when disobedience would have been easier. To be handed this sentence for one slip-up surely made Moses feel dissed and dismissed, like his work had been in vain. A lesser man would have quit on the spot. Thrown up their hands. Tossed the staff and crowd control over to Aaron. Stormed off in a rage at the unfairness. Not Moses. He wasn’t in this for the short time. He was there for the long haul. He was there to complete his God-given mission. He was going to stay the course, lead the people, and gain an eternal reward. Earthly rewards weren’t made to last. Moses knew that. Only eternal things have true longevity. Moses knew that, too. Most importantly, Moses knew his God was full of love and mercy, grace and forgiveness, power and strength. He knew his God was sovereign. He had witnessed the evidence throughout his life. He remembered it well. (Hebrews 11:24-29; Deuteronomy 3:23-27; Numbers 20:12)

Moses had a long memory. Looking back over his life, he could see the hand of God protecting, leading, guiding, nudging, pushing, prodding. From the bulrushes to the palace, God was there. During the flight to the desert, the tending of the flock, God was there. When the bush caught fire and God sent him on a different mission, the presence of God never left his side. He’d watched the miraculous hand of the Almighty move and work, preserve and provide over and over again through the decades of his life. He’d watched God write his story and knew He was the author and orchestrator of every event both good and bad. He knew the truth of the words that would later be penned by a New Testament writer. God works through every circumstance and situation to bring about good for His people. Moses knew it. He’d seen it.  He remembered it well. (Romans 8:28)

Every guiding moment. Every protective hand. Every rule and law and command made to preserve his soul. Moses knew them all. Remembered them well. Had shared them with his people. Knowing he wouldn’t always be there to tell them right from wrong, to remind them of God’s work on their behalf, to send them into battle or command them to withdraw. Realizing he wouldn’t always be around to communicate with God for them, speak His blessings over them, or reiterate His promises to them. Understanding the people would forget or disregard the things he’d taught them, Moses had stood up before them and given them a message before embarking on this final hike. An important message. An urgent message. One they would need to repeat to their children and their grandchildren. Remember well. Everything. Every miracle. Every rescue. Every provision and promise. Hone your memories. Remember who God is and how He has supported you throughout your lives. Remember how He has narrated your story. And trust Him to continue the book. (Deuteronomy 7:17-21; 31:24-29)

They were going to need to remember it. Moses would no longer be there steering them back into the paths of righteousness when discomfort led to discontent. He wouldn’t be there when the sunlight gave way to shadows, the expected victory was actual defeat, the group of defectors was greater than the group of dedicated followers. He wouldn’t be there to encourage them. They would have to encourage one another. From here on out, they would need to rely on their own memories of God’s greatness, His power, His authority. They would need to remember His promises and trust Him to never fail, never change, never leave. They would also need to remember to do their part. Keep their covenant with God. Be obedient. Remember what happened when they didn’t. Remember that obedience is better than sacrifice. 

It was a truth they should have known. Very well. Their straying and covenant-breaking had cost them more than once. Their grumbling against Moses and Aaron cost 14,700 lives to a plague. Their speaking out against God and Moses brought venomous snakes and death into their camp. Their broken covenant, immorality, and aligning themselves with foreign gods brought down yet another plague costing more than 20,000 lives. These people were not ignorant of the high cost of disobedience. They knew it well. Remembered it. They also knew the blessing of full obedience, blind following, complete trust in the sovereignty of their God. As He led them out of captivity in Egypt, faith had kept them trudging. Walking between frighteningly high water walls. Utterly dependent on Him for sustenance. Completely at the mercy of His guiding fire and cloud. They knew it was only by His might and power they safely stood where they were that day. And they needed to remember it well.  (Numbers 16:41-50; 21:4-7; 25:1-9; I Corinthians 10:8-10)  

Times were coming when they would need to rely on what they knew about their God to bolster their faith and strengthen their resolve. Temptations and trials would plague their paths. Their traitorous hearts would long for the things of the world. Some of them would slip away, fall into sin. The only way to preserve their souls and gain the eternal reward Moses would soon attain was to remember what they knew about God. Remember His faithfulness. Remember that He answers when they call. Remember that He rushes to their aid when they are in trouble, trial, distress, dismay. Remember that He saves them. From their enemies. From themselves. Remember His magnificent mercy. Remember that His love is steadfast. It doesn’t change. Ever. Neither does His word. It is always the same. He doesn’t say things He doesn’t mean. He doesn’t make promises He doesn’t keep. He never fails or forgets His people. He is God. He is Sovereign. They belong to Him. They needed to remember it well. (II Thessalonians 3:3; Psalm 18:3; 36:5; 100:3; 102:27; Lamentation 3:22-23; Deuteronomy 7:9; 33:26-27; Proverbs 30:5-6)

So do you. You, too, will face trials and tribulations, hardships and havoc that beat against your soul tempting you to turn back, turn aside, turn away from following God. In the middle of the darkness that threatens to capsize your soul, you need to remember your God. Remember all the times He’s brought you through the desert, the wilderness, the dry land where it seemed there was nothing to feed your soul. Remember how He sustained you, fed you, hydrated your drought-ridden heart. Remember the unwinnable battlefields onto which He stepped and brought you victory. Remember the times He’s carried you, sustained you, protected you, provided for you. Remember that His love never fails. Ever. His grace is sufficient. Always. His strength is perfect and available. Every moment of every day. Remember His presence is continual, His promises are trustworthy, His power cannot be defeated. Remember that you are His. His child. His sheep. Treasured. Precious. He delights in you. He will never leave you alone to figure out the journey. He’s your God, your Father. You can trust Him. Remember it well. (I Corinthians 10:12-13; Psalm 23; 36:5,7,9-10; 145:13-14; II Corinthians 1:20; 12:9; Matthew 28:20; Isaiah 14:27; 64:7; I John 4:4; Zephaniah 3:17)

He shouldn’t have been there. At all. Had no reason to be. Had no occasion demanding he wander among the Philistine towns in search of trouble. He didn’t need to look for it. Trouble would come without his searching. It always did. The Philistine men were forever dragging trouble to his doorstep, acting as if they were invincible. It was a dangerous game they so carelessly played. Not that Samson minded. He didn’t. He enjoyed the retaliation of his strength against their impotence. He savored the revenge of their evil deeds raining down on their heads. He had been unable to keep the grin off his face as those foxes lit their wheatfields on fire. A full blown laugh erupted when their rejoicing at his bound arrival turned to wailing as he broke his bonds, took up the jawbone of a donkey, and slaughtered a thousand men. Still, for all their prodding, Samson had no business wandering around the Philistine towns casting a wandering eye at their women. Yet there he was. Walking the streets. Lurking in the alleys. Supposedly spying on well-trained warriors. Easily distracted by well-built maidens his people had long ago been commanded to eschew. (Judges 15; Deuteronomy 7:1-4)

That was how he found her. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She’d briefly stepped into his periphery, drew his eyes away, and quickly derailed his spying mission. He hadn’t had the power to look away. Her beauty hit him like a punch in the gut. She was gorgeous. Had he been a poet, Samson would surely have written words similar to those recorded in the Song of Solomon concerning her. Alabaster skin. Dark eyes. Bewitching smile. Captivating figure. Sultry voice. Delilah was everything any man could ever desire. Certainly everything he desired. Perfect in every way. Except for one. She was a Philistine. (Judges 16:4)

Such had been the heritage of his first wife. Their marriage had been a debacle from start to short-lived end. Against his better judgment, his parents’ pleading, the well-known command to abstain from intermarrying with foreign women, Samson couldn’t help himself. He married her anyway. It was a poor choice. Hardly had they spoken their vows before she showed herself to be a traitor. She didn’t love him. Didn’t have his back. Wasn’t on his side. Her heart wasn’t his. It still belonged to her people. Rather than coming to Samson with the threats made against her family and allowing him to handle it with brute strength, she threw herself at him in teary manipulation. Day after day she treated him to tears and tantrums, accusations and hate until, exasperated, he finally revealed the answer to the riddle he’d posed to her people. Armed with the information, she dried her crocodile tears and told the men what they wanted to know. The result was atrocious. For everyone.

Knowing that answer cost thirty Philistine men their lives. It cost Samson his wife. Allegedly believing Samson hated his daughter, the father-in-law gave her to another man. The marriage was over. Done. Caput. In far less time than he’d hoped. Samson should have learned his lesson then. Should have known not one Philistine could be trusted. Should have admitted the women weren’t marriage material. Should have spent more time studying God’s laws and less time staring at the ladies. Maybe then he would have learned from his error. God commanded them to abstain from marrying foreign women with foreign gods for a reason. If they didn’t, those women would turn their attention from the God who had powerfully protected and preserved their people for generations, and force their focus on the demands of gods whose impotence far exceeded their ridiculous requirements. If they didn’t keep the foreign women out of their homes, the women would keep them out of God’s house. It was a fact. (Judges 14-15:2)

The object lesson didn’t keep Samson’s wandering eyes in Israel. He wasn’t attracted to the nice girls around his own town. Not the ones his mother invited over for dinner. Not those his father thought would make wonderful daughters-in-law. Not the ones brought around by fathers eager to marry them off to a man of his social stature. As lovely as some of the women at home were, they didn’t meet his demanding criteria. Their voices didn’t make his heart jump. Their faces didn’t make his lips smile. Their presence didn’t lift his spirits and lighten his mood. He wasn’t interested in a nice, Israelite girl. No. His mind was fixed. His heart was set. He only had eyes for Philistine women. One in particular. Delilah. 

She wasn’t attracted to him. At all. Not as a suitor. Not as a secret lover. Not as a husband. His brute strength and penchant for violence was off putting. What she did find attractive, however, was the enormously large sum of silver the Philistine leaders offered her to unmask the secret of his strength. The amount would make her independant. She wouldn’t need a husband. Wouldn’t have to depend on her father, uncle, brother, or cousin. Wouldn’t have to work a day in her life. Would never again need to do anything she didn’t want to do. Her answer required no pondering. The offer was far too good to refuse.     

Accepting both the offer from the Philistine leaders and Samson’s suit, Delilah wasted no time in beginning her endeavor. Immediately she began firing off questions. Bold questions. Obvious inquiries. She made no attempt to conceal her curiosity. She didn’t use deception to gain her answers. She wanted to know things. Things about Samson. Things about his strength, his power. Things about how to thwart that strength, harness that power, make him weak and force him to do her bidding. Things that would destroy him and make her rich at the same time.   

It wasn’t as easy as she hoped it would be. Her pleas for knowledge were answered with a string of pranks. Samson’s responses  would never work, a fact Delilah would have known if she’d stopped to reminisce for only a minute. His reputation should have preceded him. How could she have possibly believed his herculean strength might be vanquished by seven fresh bowstrings, a handful of new ropes, or weaving his hair into the fabric on a weaver’s loom? Still, she tried them all. Every single one. Not one worked. Every time she brought in her Philistine friends and cried out to Samson that he was about to be attacked, he rose and shook off the bonds as if they were mere threads. And, every time, Delilah looked like a fool. 

So did Samson. It is impossible to believe he missed her blatant interest in besting his strength. It is ridiculous to imagine he was unaware of the game she played. After the second attempt, he should have understood she was going to keep trying, keep testing, keep begging and nagging until she got what she wanted. So blinded was Samson by his attraction to Delilah that he chose to stay. Chose to keep himself in a place of danger. Chose to allow his fickle feelings to bind him to a feckless woman who would do everything she could to learn his secret and use it to destroy him. Eventually, she did.   

Day after day of whining and manipulation finally took their toll. In a moment of extreme weakness, Samson revealed the secret to Delilah. He couldn’t cut his hair. Ever. It was the secret to his strength. It was the answer to his demise. If he cut his hair, his strength would leave with it. This time, Delilah knew it was true. Hiding his enemies in her home, she lured Samson in to sleep on her knees. While he slept, she shaved his head, then called her Philistine friends to attack. Rising to fight them off as before, Samson found both his hair and his strength were missing. The power of God with which he’d wreaked mayhem on the Philistines was no longer with him. He couldn’t fight them anymore. Couldn’t fight anything or anyone. Helplessly standing at the mercy of his enemies, far too late to rectify the problem, Samson was forced to admit that the sin he’d failed to conquer, had conquered him instead. (Judges 16)

Centuries and civilizations later, nothing has changed. The temptation you don’t conquer, the sin you don’t eradicate, the thoughts you don’t bring into captivity, the words you fail to harness will all come back to trip you up, cause you trouble, trash your soul. It’s been true since the dawn of time. It’s been stated over and over again throughout the Bible. Exemplified by people who thought they could control the little sin they loved, yet found themselves completely controlled by that same sin. Sampson. David. Solomon. None ever seemed to learn the lesson they’d so carefully been taught. Sin, left alone to fester and spread, will necrotize your soul and lead to spiritual death. It will bring ugly, painful consequences. You can’t keep your sin and save your soul. It has to be eradicated. Completely. Driven out. Continually. Destroyed. Permanently. If you don’t defeat it, it will most assuredly defeat you. (Deuteronomy 13:5; 20:16-18; Numbers 33:55; II Corinthians 10:5; James 1:14-16, 26; 3:1-12; 4:17; Romans 6:23)

Sin doesn’t have to win. God didn’t write it that way. He wrote the possibility of victory into everyone’s story through obedience to His Word. Complete obedience. No caveats. No excuses. No exemptions. Complete obedience to God results in complete victory over sin. No matter what you are wrestling with, fighting against, or struggling over, know this with stunning surety. If you don’t conquer it, it will undoubtedly conquer you. (Romans 6:12-14; 8:12-13; I John 3:6-7; I Corinthians 15:57; John 16:33; 14:15; Acts 5:29; Matthew 26:41: I Peter 1:14; Deuteronomy 11:1) 

It should have been a joyous occasion. A reunion of brothers. A time of catching up, reminiscing, laughter and fun. It started that way. It didn’t end as such. Somewhere between the back-slapping hug of greeting and the humor-inducing recollections, Nehemiah asked a question that turned the conversation down a solemn path. As much as he was enjoying their banter, he couldn’t stop himself from asking about the things that were constantly on his mind. How were the surviving exiles, his people who had been able to return home? And how was home? What did Jerusalem look like? Were things getting back to normal back home? 

The answer broke his heart. Shattered it, really. Some of the people were back, but they were not recovered. They were in desperate straits. Despised by neighboring kingdoms. Rejected by adjacent towns. No one to come to their aid, lift them up, help them out. Jerusalem itself was in distressing disrepair. The wall surrounding it had crumbled in places. Sections lay in utter ruin. It hadn’t been rebuilt since its destruction more than a century before. Parts previously left standing had fallen of their own volition. Age and neglect had taken their toll. It offered no security. Nor did the city gates. They were non-existent. Burned to ashes by one invasion or another. They could keep no one in. They would keep no enemy out. The entire city with its struggling group of ragtag survivors were easy targets for any king looking to extend their victories.

Profoundly saddened by the shocking news, Nehemiah’s knees gave way. Sinking to the ground, he wept. His shoulders shook. Tears flowed. It seemed his very soul was broken. His heart mourned. His body fasted. Every fiber of his being wanted to be in Jerusalem, organizing, directing, rebuilding, creating a more secure space in which they could live. He would have thrown some necessities in a bag and raced to their rescue if he could. He couldn’t. He was stuck. As the king’s cupbearer, he wasn’t free to come and go. There were no vacation days to burn, no leave of absence to enact. Nehemiah’s presence was required right there in the citadel of Susa. Knowing his trip to Jerusalem could only come about by an act of God, Nehemiah stayed on his knees and did the only thing he could. Nehemiah prayed. 

Overwhelmed by the tidal wave of new, negative information, Nehemiah reminded himself of what He knew about his God. His greatness. His power. His constancy. He understood God as One who keeps all His promises, those of blessing and those of retribution. Nehemiah also knew his people. And himself. He knew they were sinners. All of them. Himself and his family as well as the others. They hadn’t held up their end of the covenant. They hadn’t remained committed to God’s commands. As a people, they had failed to keep the laws and decrees handed down through Moses, forcing God to keep His promise, allowing their disobedience to scatter them from their homes. He also knew that wasn’t the end of the promise. God had added a caveat, a rescue, an escape clause. If they would turn back to Him in repentance and obedience, He would bring the scattered people back home.

Nehemiah never doubted God would do it. He would fulfill either promise the Israelites chose. Unfortunately, their foolish hearts first chose disobedience. And they were scattered. Just as He said. Now, it seems, they were making an attempt at turning back toward God. Some of the scattered people had been reunited in Jerusalem. The people God had miraculously rescued by his strength and power were back, but they needed help. They needed a leader, an organizer. Someone to make sense of the staggering chaos. Nehemiah desperately wanted to be that person. But how could he? How could he convince King Artaxerxes that his presence there was more necessary than his presence here? He couldn’t. Not on his own. Nehemiah needed God to go before him. So Nehemiah prayed. (Nehemiah 1)

Walking into the king’s presence, Nehemiah gripped the king’s wine glass so hard his knuckles turned white. His hand trembled slightly. His knees felt weak. His stomach jangled with nerves. Everything part of this day was so important. Every expression. Every word. Every action. The burden he carried for his people was heavy. The enormity of his ask triggered his doubt. Waiting for the right moment was a strenuous exercise in patience. Sitting back and letting God be God was much more difficult than Nehemiah hoped. But then God did what God chose to do. With no help from Nehemiah, God directed the king’s focus from himself and his duties to the troubled countenance of his cupbearer, miraculously paving the way for an explanation and a request.   

Seizing the moment, Nehemiah respectfully laid before the king the dire news he’d received from home. His heart was in turmoil. His city was ruined. The gates were destroyed by fire. The people were without leadership, vulnerable to attack on every side. They needed help. They needed him. He needed to go rebuild the wall, reset the gates, encourage the people to fully turn back to God, follow His ways, and allow Him to bless them as He’d promised. The words stirred the king’s heart. He offered up a leave of absence. Wrote letters to secure Nehemiah’s passage. Why? Because, before Nehemiah walked into what could have been a verbal sparring, he went to His God and asked Him to direct His path. And God did. (Nehemiah 2:1-9)

As victorious as that moment was, trouble was on its heels. Sanballat, Tobiah and Geshem were angry that someone would come take up for the Israelites in Jerusalem. They rather preferred them as helpless, hopeless targets. Enemies of the people and all who offered them aid, they came against Nehemiah’s efforts with mocking, ridicule and accusations. Not deterred, Nehemiah armed himself with faith in God, staunchly asserting that his success would come from God. It didn’t change their taunts. Didn’t stop their pestering. Didn’t alter their attacks. And Nehemiah followed his tried and tested strategy for war. Nehemiah prayed. Continued with their plans, and encouraged his people to do the same. (Nehemiah 2:10,19-20)

Every day would be a battle. Their enemies would plot against them to fight and stir up trouble, constantly attempting to end the repairs on the walls. They would threaten to sneak among the workers, kill them, and stop their work. The constant threat required the men of Israel to remain armed and alert, ready for any form of trouble from their enemies. Guards were posted. Men held their ready weapon in one hand and carried supplies with the other. They worked relentlessly, but not tirelessly. They grew weary. Became easier targets. But Nehemiah knew the art of their war. He knew the winning strategy and he used it. God was on their side. 

They had to remember that. Keep it front and center in their minds. Encourage themselves with the truth of who their God was. The great and awesome God of the universe who had delivered His people over and over again. He was mighty in battle. A valiant warrior. No one who had ever come against Him had prevailed. And He hadn’t changed. He was still the same God. Their God. And He was on their side.No matter how tired they were, how difficult the work, how terrifying the enemy threats, how ugly the menacing and ridicule, not once did Nehemiah let them forget that their God would fight for them if they just kept following Him, doing His work, praying and trusting Him for deliverance. Total reliance on the God of Heaven was the best weapon they had. It was their only unbeatable weapon. The strategy was simple. Stay armed. Stay alert. Stay ready. Use your weapons if necessary. But don’t stop following your God. (Nehemiah 4)

Centuries later, the Apostle Paul would concisely reiterate the concepts put forth by Nehemiah. Writing to the church in Ephesus, he would direct them to put on the entire armor of God. Every. Single. Piece. Why? Because their enemy, the evil one, was constantly lurking, looking for weakness, tiredness, laxness. Tirelessly searching for a way to win the war for their souls. They didn’t have to lose to him. They could be strong in their God, trusting His mighty power to fight for them. Clothe themselves with the truth of God’s promises. Cover themselves with God’s righteousness. Keep their feet firmly grounded in the Word of God, faithfully following Him in the face of every attack. Grab up the shield of faith. Use it to rest in Christ alone. Allow Him to protect their souls and extinguish the flaming torches of doubt and unbelief the wicked one would throw at them. Cover their minds. Put on the helmet of salvation to repel the silent missiles of fear and temptation attempting to infiltrate their thoughts. Stay armed. Pick up the sword of the spirit. Wield it often. Don’t let the evil one have space in their heads, their hearts, their souls. Battle back with the words of Scripture. Fight with the promises of God. And pray. Always. In every situation. Pray to remain steadfast, valiant, faithful. Then stand. Fight. They would win. So long as they used God’s strategies to fight their war. (Ephesians 6:10-18; Psalm 60:12; II Corinthians 10:3-5; I Corinthians 15:58)

Not unlike Nehemiah and his wall-builders, every day of your life is a battle. For your mind. For your heart. For your soul. Even when you’ve had the best, easiest day on the planet, you don’t dare let your guard down. The enemy is always stalking you, watching for a weakness, looking for a space to infiltrate. You know his tactics. You know what words he uses. You know the thoughts he plants. You know the things he drops in your path to distract you, distress you, disturb your peace. You know you have to fight against them. And you know how. You have the ultimate playbook. The strategy guide. The Bible. Everything you need to win the war against the evil one is there. Victory is in its pages. You just have to follow it. Read it. Obey it. Know it. Arm yourself with its words. Boldly speak them against the forces of evil that attack your mind and soul. Stand firm on God’s unchanging promises. Trust Him to always have your back. Know that this battle, every battle, is His alone. He will bring victory. He will give strength to stand, to fight, to win. It’s God’s war, so follow His strategies. Call on Him, rest your faith in His promises, stand firm, and let Him fight for you. If you follow His strategies, you can’t lose. He built them with you in mind. Stand firm. Trust. Fight. And let God bring the victory. (Ephesians 6:12; II Corinthians 2:11; I Peter 5:8; James 4:7; Isaiah 54:7)

The outlook was terrifying. Appalling. Horrifying. It literally stopped him in his tracks, raised the tiny hairs on the back of his neck, sent chills ricocheting down his spine, and tightened the fingers of panic clawing at his throat. He’d seen them almost immediately. Their presence was so obvious it would have been impossible to miss. They were brazen. Fearless. Clearly on a mission. His stomach sank. His heart raced. His eyes told him the house was surrounded. Soldiers, horses, and chariots had lined up on every side, a determined, reckoning force. The king of Aram’s wrath would soon be assuaged. Both servant and master were surely going to die. They had no defense. No guard. No army. No weapons. They were alone. Sitting ducks on a deceptively placid pond, hunted by skilled marksmen, destined for death.  

Spinning on his heel, the servant rushed back indoors urgently calling for Elisha. Surely the prophet of God who had known every move the king of Aram made before he made it would have some special insight now. Surely God would protect him the way he had used his foreknowledge to protect the king of Israel. Surely this wasn’t how it all ended. Elisha’s predecessor, Elijah, had been taken up to Heaven in a chariot of fire. Surely Elisha deserved something more than death at the hands of an angry king. And surely, after all his service, the man who served him deserved a less torturous death than being struck through by a sword, beheaded, or torn limb from limb. 

Appearing in answer to his servant’s desperate cry, Elisha responded with the peace and calm of one whose gaze is constantly trained above rather than on the things of earth. There was no need to fear. They weren’t actually alone. His servant simply needed to look up. Elisha prayed for such a moment. An immediate opening of his servant’s eyes, an elevation of his gaze, a window through which he could see what Elisha saw. And God answered. Lifting the chin of Elisha’s servant, He trained his eyes on the encircling hillside.The army surrounding them was also surrounded. By God’s army. Horses pulling chariots of fire. Nothing was getting past God’s army to harm His people. The servant would have known it from the beginning. If only he’d been looking up. (II Kings 6:15-17) 

King Saul’s army found themselves in similar circumstances. The outlook from their encampment in the Valley of Elah was petrifying. The roar of the giant seemed to shake the ground beneath their feet. Twice a day the enormous ogre came lumbering out to offer his arrogant challenge. The sight alone made them hide in terror. Nine feet tall. Thighs the size of full-grown tree trunks. Arms resembling the thickest branches. His spear appeared to weigh a hundred pounds, yet he lifted it as though it were a child’s toy. His face, what you could see around the wildly ill-kempt beard, was pockmarked and scarred. His laugh was raucous and evil. His venomous words coupled with his astounding size struck abject horror in even the strongest warrior’s heart. Instead of lining up in battle array and going out to fight, they milled about in quickly erected campsites discussing the options, raising suggestions, and casting ideas aside. 

David found them like that. Worriedly whispering in small groups. Discussing what would happen to themselves, their families, their people as a whole, if they couldn’t find a way to dispatch this giant. Young David was appalled by their cowardice. He’d expected better. Of soldiers in general, but most certainly of his brothers stationed among them. Why weren’t they doing anything? Why were they all frozen in fear, staring at Goliath, listening to his mocking diatribe, and shaking in their shoes? Why didn’t someone stop him? Shut him up. Permanently. Stop listening. Stop giving him space in their heads. Stop worrying about the outcome. Why didn’t they stop staring at the giant, look up, and focus on God instead?

It would have been impossible for him to simply deliver his parcel and head for home. He had experience fighting off daunting creatures larger and stronger than himself. He wasn’t just a silly shepherd boy. He was a warrior in his own right. With his own bare hands and the power of his God, David had dispatched both a lion and a bear when they had unwisely attempted to attack his flock. This situation was really no different. These people, his people, were God’s people. God’s sheep. God’s flock. That giant roaring in their faces was really just another lion marking his territory, another bear looking for a little lunch. But David knew, from previous experience, that the God who had given him strength to dispatch the enemies of his flock then, absolutely held the power to delete the enemy of His own flock now. But they had to get their eyes off the giant in front of them, the army facing them, and look up to the God who could rescue them. (Psalm 100:3; Exodus 6:7)

Only God could deliver them. David knew that. He knew all human strength would be useless against that giant. David also knew his God. Knew His power. Understood His might. Recognized His sovereignty over all things. Impossible giants included. Nothing was too difficult for God. He boldly said as much to King Saul. Volunteered his services. Listed his accomplishments. Gave credit to His God. Israel’s God. The God they could trust to deliver them. If they would just look up. (Jeremiah 32:17; Psalm 103:19)

Desperate times require desperate measures. Against his better judgment, Saul gave David his blessing to go into battle. It worried the king. The boy wasn’t an acknowledged soldier, was too small for any available armor, had only a handful of stones and a homemade slingshot for weapons. It was possible his stories of defeating a lion and bear with his hands were all figments of an imagination made overactive by too much time alone with sheep. But the kid was the only one who seemed unfazed by the massive man, the hurtling insults, the ridiculously large spear. David was the only one whose eyes were fixed on things above rather than things on the earth. He was the only one brave enough to trust God when things on earth were decidedly dicey. 

We all know how the story ends. David verbally spars with the giant. Points to the God of Heaven on Whom he has fixed his hope, and slings a rock right between Goliath’s eyeballs. Pressed by the hand of God, that one stone sinks through skin and flesh and bone, dropping the giant of Gath to the ground, defeated in death. Seeing their greatest warrior dead, the rest of the Philistines turned tail and ran. The Israelite army gave chase, leaving a trail of slain enemies and a plundered enemy camp in their wake. We tend to remember the awful giant, the kid swimming in someone else’s armor, the five stones, and the handcrafted slingshot. We talk about the soldier’s fear, Saul’s doubt, and David’s faith. We sigh and wish for faith so great. But to have faith like the shepherd boy, we have to choose to do what David did. Just look up. (I Samuel 17:1-33)  

Excitedly flipping his leg over the side of their boat, Peter pivoted on his seat, pulled his other leg over and slid down to stand on the water. It held. Amazingly. Locking his eyes on Jesus’ face, he carefully stepped toward Him. One step. Two. Then three. He’d nearly forgotten about the boat, the water, the waves, and the impossibility of what he was doing when a gust of wind whipped his robe around his ankles. Glancing down, the reality of his surroundings flooded back into his brain. Terrified by the elements, Peter’s fear capsized his faith. Water crept up his ankles. He started to sink. Was forced to cry out to Jesus for a rescue. I wonder how long Peter would have walked on water if he’d just kept looking up. (Matthew 14:28-30)

Seated on the unforgiving floor of a prison cell, backs cut and bleeding from an undeserved beating, feet uncomfortably locked in stocks, Paul and Silas gazed at one another in silence. The outlook was decidedly dim. It would be so easy to focus on their discomfort, the mildewed stone of the prison walls, the insane cries of another prisoner, the clank of chains, the clunk of the lock turning in the door. It was tempting. But it wasn’t for them. They weren’t men of this world. They were men of Heaven. God’s men. His people. The sheep of His pasture. Their eyes weren’t fixed on things of the earth, they were steadfastly set on things above. In spite of their disgusting circumstances, the disconcerting noise around them, the discouraging turn their mission trip had taken, their focus wasn’t on those things. It was on God. They were busy looking up.  

Their voices exhibited as much With a sparkling gleam of unspeakable joy in their eyes, those bruised and aching men lifted their souls above the mess their bodies were in. Songs of praise flowed from their lips. Joyful noise to God on whom their focus rested. If they’d looked around them, they’d have been wallowing in discouragement and distress. But they didn’t. They chose to look up. To God. The One from whom their help would come. And it did. In a glorious act of almighty power, God shook the earth. Rattled the prison. Flung the doors wide. Loosened chains. Freed the prisoners. Brought salvation to the jailer and his entire household. An event everyone would have missed if Paul and Silas hadn’t chosen to just look up. (Acts 16:22-28)

As society slips and slides into the abyss of spiritual decline and moral decay, the outlook around us is decidedly dark. If you choose to focus on current events, social trends, or worldwide disasters, you will find yourself drowning in a pit of worry, despair, anxiety, and fear. You don’t have to do that. There’s no reason to. You can simply look up. To Jesus. He’s both the Author and the Finisher of your faith. He wrote the beginning and the ending of the story. Your story. My story. The story of time. Nothing catches Him by surprise. He’s already walked these pages of time. He knows what’s going to happen tomorrow, next month, next year. And He’s already there. No matter the ugliness of your circumstances, the complexity of your situation, or the darkness of the world around you, Jesus is already there. He knows your needs, your fears, your cares. He has the answers. When you are tempted to be distracted by the news, the pundits, the local fearmongers, don’t give in. Straighten your spine. Lift your head. Remember Who wrote the story. And just look up. (Hebrews 12:2; Romans 15:13; Proverbs 19:21; II Corinthians 4:17-18; Isaiah 46:9-10; Psalm 90:2; Revelation 1:8; Colossians 3:2)