Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

It made no sense for them to return to Judea. Not even a little bit. Enough time had not elapsed between today and their last visit. Tempers would not have cooled. Memories would not have faded. Hate would still run strong. The same Jews who had then been breathing out threats and actively searching for reasons to let stones fly from their fingertips toward Jesus would surely have added to their ammunition pile. Going back was risky. Dangerous. Insane by every human measure. Yet still He said, “Let’s go.” It wasn’t so much a question as an invitation. There would be no vote. Majority didn’t rule. Jesus wasn’t asking for permission or input. He was going back to Judea. With or without them. (John 11:7)

Of course, they’d go too. They’d follow Him anywhere. And they got it. They understood Jesus’ desire to return, at least to Bethany. It wasn’t difficult. Word arrived two days ago informing them of Lazarus’ dire physical situation. Things clearly didn’t look good. Mary and Martha would never have sent the message for a cold, the flu, or a passing stomach virus. They understood the importance of Jesus’ ministry. They knew He had to be about His Father’s business. But the girls were worried. Anxious. Scared. Seeing that nothing else was working, they sent for Jesus, fully believing He was Lazarus’ last hope.  

Perhaps He should have left sooner. Maybe they should have walked faster, journeyed longer each day. Perhaps He should have simply spoken words of healing from the town in which He received the message. Maybe then Lazarus would still have been alive upon His arrival. He wasn’t. Instead, Martha approached. Even at a significant distance, it was impossible to miss that she was on a mission. In spite of, or possibly because of, her grief-stricken state, she was obviously a force to be reckoned with. Her tear-stained face was set in determined lines. Her steps were firm. Her back was stiff. She had things to say. She had questions to ask. She needed answers. And she would have them. 

What had taken Jesus so long to come? Was He too scared of the people who wanted to kill Him? If so, why didn’t He simply speak healing from wherever He had been? Why had He allowed Lazarus to suffer, die, be buried? Did He not care as much about Lazarus and Mary and herself as they thought He did? Was He completely untouched by their pain and grief? Why, exactly, had it taken so many days for Jesus to get here? And did He realize Lazarus had already been buried? In short, did Jesus feel her pain? Did He even care?

Trudging down that path toward Jesus, Martha lined up her questions to shoot off her lips in rapid-fire succession. Her bruised and broken heart had to know, needed to see, desperately had to hear if He really cared for them as much as she thought He did or if it was all an enormous farce, a gigantic fable, an intricate fabrication. From where she was sitting, they’d been played for fools. Stalking straight up to Jesus, Martha laid her charge at His feet. “If You had been here, if You had come when we called, my brother would still be alive!” 

The same words would cross Mary’s lips as her greeting as well. “If You’d been here, if You’d come, if You cared as much as You said, my brother would still be alive!” Essentially, “We wouldn’t be grieving. I wouldn’t cry myself to sleep every night. My yard wouldn’t constantly be filled with people weeping and wailing. The little voice whispering in my ear saying that You don’t care, don’t feel my pain, are completely unconcerned with my anguish wouldn’t be quite so tempting to believe.” If Jesus had come then, they wouldn’t be there now.  Mary and Martha wouldn’t be bereaved. The entourage of mourners wouldn’t be standing at the grave. Lazarus wouldn’t be encased in a cold, dark tomb. Surely things would be so different, if Jesus had only felt their pain and followed their plan! 

How well we know this feeling! How often we’ve cried out the same things! When life takes turns we didn’t ask for, hands us problems we can’t figure out how to solve, puts roadblocks up where we thought it would be smooth sailing, we cry out to God for a rescue. We are even so helpful as to tell Him how to do it. And when He doesn’t come through in the way we expected, hoped, or thought He should, we scream that He doesn’t love us, doesn’t care, has no idea what it’s like to be human, have emotions, feel pain. John 11:35 says differently. 

Facing a troubled Mary, flanked by a determined Martha, followed by disciples who likely had questions of their own, Jesus stood…and He felt. He felt the force of every wracking sob. The bottomless devastation, anguish, emptiness. The intense pain that speared their hearts and stole their breath. He felt their disappointment and wavering faith because it looked like He’d failed them. He felt their immeasurable grief and His heart broke too. For their sadness, their pain, their fear, their tears. Jesus looked on them, those people He loved so profoundly, and, feeling the depths of their despair, His tears flowed too. Even though He knew the outcome of the story. Even though He knew He was right on time. Even though He knew Lazarus wasn’t lying in a cave deteriorating from the inside out. Jesus wept because His heart was full of compassion for their current situation and because He cared.  About Mary and Martha. About the other mourners. About Lazarus who had to endure an illness and death. About the disciples who were likely feeling confused and conflicted. Jesus wept because they wept, they mourned, they hurt. And Jesus cared. (John 11:1-36)

This may well be one of the most difficult truths to grasp. We easily believe in salvation because we can point to Jesus’ death on the cross. We believe in lives changed by His blood because we can look back to who we were, compare it to who we are now and see the difference. We believe that Jesus loves the obviously good, clearly sainted, decades-old Christians because they seem so rooted and peaceful when the storms of life take them by surprise. But when we look at ourselves, clinging to the sides of our leaking dinghy in the middle of raging winds and high seas with no help in sight, we find it impossible to imagine Jesus cares about us. Why? Because He didn’t come flying to our rescue according to our carefully constructed script. And we always have one. Trust me, I know. 

Two weeks ago I had to have a root canal. It wasn’t a surprise. It has needed to be done for quite some time. I knew about it. Put it off. Full disclosure? I kept praying God would miraculously heal it to keep me from having to face what is one of my greatest fears. Dentistry. Seriously, I’d rather give birth on a dirt floor with no medical supplies or personnel present than go to the dentist. Abhor is the strongest word that comes to mind. If you can think of a stronger one, replace it and you’ll finally be in the right ballpark. Clearly, God didn’t follow my script. He was on a mission. A labor of love to show me that just because His script reads differently than mine doesn’t mean He is indifferent to my fears, frustrations, tears, or pain. 

Attempting to find me as much peace and support as he could, my sweet husband texted a faith-full friend asking for prayer on my behalf. The friend replied, “I Peter 5:7.” In the grocery store when my husband read the text, I immediately quoted the words, “Casting all your care on Him because He cares for you.” Overly proud of my quick uptake, my husband responded that I knew the verse by heart. In words he couldn’t know would change my life, that friend replied.

“Yes, she knows the words, but does she really KNOW them? Does she believe them? Does she know that He cares about HER? Her fears. Her cares. Her worries. Her anxieties.  Does she understand that as she feels the fears of your children and seeks to calm them, God feels her fears and seeks to calm them as well? Does Naomi know, really know, truly believe, God cares for her?” 

Well. She does now. A dentist appointment and a faithful friend nearly 3,000 miles away cleared things right up. Whatever we are going through, facing, hurting over, or scared about, God cares. Every. Single. Thing. Little things like the dentist. Big things like the stack of bills. Terrifying things. Horrifying things. Hurtful things. Jesus cares. And He wants you to bring them to Him. Not so you forget they exist. Not so you dance along happily through life as if nothing negative ever crosses your path. Not even so He can fix them. His fix probably doesn’t look like yours anyway. No. Jesus wants you to cast your cares on Him because He cares about you. (Psalm 55:22; Matthew 6:25-34; Hebrews 4:16; Psalm 27:14)

I don’t know what you are facing today. I have no idea what makes you sigh, brings tears to your eyes, or makes you want to hide. Maybe you feel alone in your place of fear. Perhaps you’re embarrassed by what hems you in. Maybe it seems no one in the world has ever been facing the mountain of things stacked up at your door. You feel deflated, dejected, depressed. As the dark ink of despair attempts to suffocate you, I hope you’ll take a deep breath and remember, Jesus cares. About you. About the things you feel. About the things that make you feel that way. I hope you truly believe it. Read it over and over again until your heart resonates with the absolute truth of the statement. Jesus cares for you! Every part of you. He does not see you as ridiculous, pathetic, or hopeless. He is not listening to you out of duty and responsibility. He is sitting on the edge of His seat, hoping you will bring your battered, weary soul to Him and cast your cares at His feet. He wants you to come! So come. Obey the words. Cast your cares. Anchor your soul in His love. And rest. Knowing this beautiful, unchangeable truth–Jesus cares for you. (Psalm 40:17; Psalm 127:2; Philippians 4:6; John 14:27; Psalm 56:3; Matthew 11:28-30; Jeremiah 33:3; I Peter 3:12; Psalm 18:6)