Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Entering through the least crowded entrance, she paused in the shadows assessing the situation, attempting to ascertain the least conspicuous path to the offering box. She had no desire to be seen. Not that there was anything to look at. Not anymore. Years ago, when she’d been young and her husband was still alive, she’d looked so much better, had so much more. Then, her offering would be confidently made after standing in the queue with her peers. His death had changed her life. Nothing was the same. Although combed and clean, her face bore worry lines and anxious wrinkles. Her hands were chapped and worn from hours of hard work. Secondhand clothes hung off her gaunt frame, worn and threadbare, patched in mismatched fabric. It was all she had. As were the two coins clutched tightly in her hand. 

There was nothing else. Nothing tucked in the back corner of a drawer for a rainy day. No stash of mad money for going out with friends. Those two coins were the only ones of their kind inhabiting her tiny hovel. They were all she had for food and necessities until the next job came through. The next load of laundry. The next floor to scrub. The next batch of mending. Until it did, she’d be begging for scraps, accepting handouts, asking for leftovers. And she was fine with that. Because these last two coins were designated elsewhere. They were going into service for her Lord. 

She wasn’t the only one there to donate. It must have been payday all over the city. The place was teeming with people. Every class and station seemed to have turned up. Most notably, the wealthy. Unlike her, they meant to be seen. By everyone. They had dressed in their finest clothing and draped themselves in their most impressive jewelry. Their entrance had been at the most congested place, the one where everyone would see them. Tilting their heads at what they deemed an aristocratic angle, they condescendingly strutted to the front of the queue, convinced standing in line was beneath their station. Having gained the attention of the entire room, they paraded up to the giving place, and, with much ado, carelessly tossed in enormous amounts the poor widow could only begin to imagine owning. 

Whispers ran through the crowd. Excitement at being in the presence of celebrity. Awe over the amount so thoughtlessly given. Interest in this height of fashion that was surely all the rage in the upper echelon. In the midst of the crowd’s distraction, she saw her moment. Wasting not one second of the diversion, the spry widow unobtrusively slipped to the front of the queue, dodged up to the offering receptacle and tossed in her beggarly contribution. Wheeling around on worn-out sandals, she melted into the exiting crowd. 

Her heart pounded. Her anxious breath came fast. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one noticed her, visibly relaxing when she saw the people were staring with rapt attention at the next approaching aristocrat. She’d made it. No one had seen her. No one had turned their back as she approached. No one had wrinkled their nose at her clothes or elbowed their neighbor to whisper disparaging things about her tiny gift. No one had noticed her flight, nor had she wanted them to. The gift wasn’t for praise or glory or notoriety. It wasn’t for the people haughtily waving their fortunes about. She didn’t need their praise or attention. Her gift was for God alone. 

The casual observer would have missed her daring stunt. Distracted by the arrival, departure and generous public giving of the wealthy, a tiny, destitute widow wouldn’t have registered on their radar. But Jesus wasn’t a casual observer. Some time ago, He’d sat down across from the offering place to do some people-watching. Humanity was intriguing. Such interesting beings. Complex yet simple. Humble but proud. Giving yet selfish. Free will had them pulled in different directions, their hearts yearning to be good and pure and selfless, but their humanity tugging them toward selfish ambitions, worldly possessions, treasures stored up on earth. Except the widow. He’d seen her the moment she approached. Neat but clearly poor. Hesitant yet intent. Seeking privacy not prominence. He hadn’t taken His eyes off her. 

Intrigued by her reticence, He’d watched intently as the event unfolded. Had seen every move. Known the moment she saw her opening. A gentle, congratulatory smile turned up the corners of His mouth as she hurried to complete her task and make good her escape. The urge to audibly applaud her success nearly overtook Him. He didn’t want to deflate her joy. She was convinced no one had noticed her. And no one had. Except Jesus. And what a beautiful thing He’d seen!

Watching her ragged self approach the crowd, Jesus had seen beyond the patched clothes and worn-out sandals to the glorious, selfless intent of her heart. He’d known all along what was clutched in her white-knuckled fist. He also knew there wasn’t anything else. No cupboard full of filling food. No extra oil for the lamps. No bulging piggy bank of emergency funds. There were just two coins. The giving could unpleasantly impact every aspect of her life. She knew that. Knew all the risks. Yet still she gave. 

Impressed with the stunning beauty of her heart, Jesus called His disciples to gather around. Maybe they had seen her. Maybe they hadn’t. It didn’t matter. Jesus was going to make sure they knew about her. He wanted them to know her contribution, no matter how small, was not to be discounted. He wanted to contrast the selfishness of those who had much with the selflessness of the woman who had nothing. He wanted them to know that although everyone there was giving something, some were giving everything. Just like they had. (John 12:41-44; Luke 21:1-4)

Called from their boats, nets, and tax booths, the disciples left everything to follow Jesus. Not just employment and financial security. Everything. Family. Friends. Dreams. Plans. They’d missed things. Important things. Births. Deaths. Lives. Loves. Yet they’d willingly given it up, believing the cause of Jesus more important than the call of the world. Having nothing else to give, the widow had sacrificed the one thing she had. Her coins. Sustenance for her body. Oil for her lamp. Medication for her ills. In so doing, she’d willingly destined herself to more back-breaking tasks, staunchly believing the cause of Christ to be more important than food or clothes or creature comforts. Different in type, but the same in measure, her gift matched that of the disciples. A gift willingly given from a heart that absolutely believed it was worth all she had. (Mark 1:16-20; Matthew 4:18-22, 9:9-13; Luke 5:2-11; John 1:40-51)

Not everyone could say the same. Racing up to Jesus, the wealthy young man asked what he could do to gain eternal life. He’d kept all the commandments, been kind to his neighbor, and showed respect to his parents. If simply obeying the law would earn him eternal life, he had already arrived. Except it wouldn’t. There was an enormous heap of material must-haves, worldly prestige, and earthly comforts in the way. Perhaps he could have parted with some of them. Maybe he could have donated more funds, cleaned out more things. But Jesus asked for everything. The man couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t do it. His possessions, his power, his prestige were more important to him than the cause of Christ or eternal life. The disciples surely stood in shocked silence as he hung his head and walked away, willing to give something, but unwilling to give everything. (Mark 10:17-22)

Nothing has ever sounded more familiar. In a society constantly screaming for more money, more things, more power, more fame, no one is talking about sacrifice. The concept is largely forgotten. Unless there’s some notoriety that goes along with the check you write. Unless there’s a celebrity name as the face of the charity. Unless you need another tax shelter. Even then, giving looks like donating a small portion of your excess. It doesn’t pinch. It doesn’t hurt. You don’t even notice it’s gone. 

Among the churched, giving looks a lot like ten percent, judiciously figured to the penny and carefully scraped off the top of your paycheck to appease your conscience. It looks like 10-day mission trips to destitute places from which you can return to your comfortable homes with photos and stories to garner praise at your alleged selflessness. It looks like warming a pew expecting to be served and blessed but never offering to bless or serve others yourself. It doesn’t look like sacrifice. It doesn’t look like self-denial. It doesn’t look like humbly “esteeming others better than yourself.” (Psalm 126:6; Romans 12:6-13; Philippians 2:3-11; Proverbs 11:25)

It should. Why? Because giving it isn’t just about money. It’s not about cutting a bigger check for charity. It’s not about dropping more in the church collection plate. It’s not about handing a couple dollars to the guy standing on the corner with a “please help” sign. It’s about giving everything. Yourself. Your time. Your talents. It’s about holding onto the things of the world so loosely. Parting with the unused portion of your overfilled closet. Generously dispensing from your bulging pantry. It’s about sacrificing your television binge to volunteer at the local shelter, lead a Bible study, or open your home for a small group. It’s about honestly offering God all of you, not just the extra bits. It’s about believing, like the poor widow woman, that the cause of Christ is worth anything, worth everything. (Mark 10:17-22; Matthew 6:21, 16:24; Luke 14:25-33; Mark 8:35; Proverbs 28:27)

So do you? At a time when it’s so easy to throw a few dollars in the collection plate and tell ourselves we’ve given enough, do you truly believe the cause of Christ is worth everything you can possibly give? Time. Talent. Treasure. If you weigh what you’ve given against what you have, would you find you are someone who has given something or are you someone who has given it all? (I Corinthians 10:23-33; Philippians 3:8-21; II Corinthians 9:6-8; Luke 6:38; Hebrews 13:16; Deuteronomy 15:10; Proverbs 21:26)

Irritation hit an all-time high as the men rifled through bags, turned out pockets, and searched through their belongings. It was no use. There was nothing there. Not even a crumbled, lint-covered crust waiting to be rescued from the dark recesses of a hidden pocket. They’d left it all behind. All seven baskets. Not one loaf of bread or filet of fish had found its way onto the boat. No one had stashed a slice in their backpack for later. No one had remembered to grab a doggie bag on his way to the dock. No. Laser-focused on the next part of their journey, they’d forgotten to bring a basic necessity. Food. And they were hungry. Now. And Jesus was talking about yeast, which made them think of bread, which made their stomachs grumble and their thoughts turn once again to the fact they had left every scrap of food behind.

Except Jesus wasn’t talking about food. Or actual yeast. Or bread. They needed to pay better attention to what He was saying than the noise of their complaining stomachs. Had they been listening when Jesus first spoke, they wouldn’t have made complete dolts of themselves by thinking He was just as hungry as they were. Or that He was actually talking about baking. He wasn’t.

Jesus’ words had nothing to do with yeast or bread or baking. No. His words had to do with the half-baked silliness coming out of the mouths of the Pharisees and Sadducees. Each side had dressed it up to sound intelligent. Using million-dollar words, education, and authority, they spun their own special brand of religion so well it sounded to the untrained ear as if it must surely be accurate. That was the problem. It was this deception that concerned Jesus. Not because the disciples were untrained. They weren’t. In fact, by now they had spent a great deal of time listening to Jesus teach the truth. If they stopped for just a moment to listen to what was being said, to compare it to the words Jesus had spoken in their hearing, to measure it against what He’d taught them, they would see the errors. If they didn’t, if they rushed it, if they were caught in a susceptible moment, they could easily be drawn aside by the beautifully eloquent false teachings swirling around them. Hence, Jesus’ urgent warning. “Guard your hearts and minds against the “facts” the Pharisees and Sadducees are selling.” Be wary. Be wise. Know Me. Know the truth. (Matthew 15:36-37, 16:5-12)

It wasn’t the first time Jesus had spoken words along these lines. Wrapping up His mountainside sermon, Jesus issued a stark command to be on guard against false prophets. He said they’d sneak in among the believers with new enlightenments, tricky translations and cunning verbiage meant to draw people away from the truth. The true believers would need to know Jesus’ words, be familiar with His teachings, recognize His traits and watch for them in those who came around selling their sordid wares. The truth would come out. Their words wouldn’t hold up to His teachings. Their actions would fall short of the mark. They would know the false teachers. But only if they truly knew Him. (Matthew 7:15-20) 

So important was this topic, Jesus would address it again before His fateful trek to Golgotha. Approached by the Sadducees, who didn’t even believe in the resurrection, with an exhausting rigamarole about marrying and burying and remarrying and who would get to claim the clearly unlucky woman as their wife in the resurrection, Jesus rescues the imaginary wife by explaining there will be no marriage in the resurrection, but not before He sharply rebukes their ridiculousness. Their error wasn’t in wondering whose wife she would be for eternity. It was in not knowing the Scriptures, in not recognizing the power of God to discern the motives of their hearts when they came to Him. They had clearly added their own twist to what God sent down through the words of Old Testament prophets and historical accounts. They obviously had taken all Jesus’ teachings with a grain of salt. They knew who He was, but didn’t really know Him. And they absolutely didn’t know the Book. (Matthew 22:23-33)

It didn’t end there. False teachers and prophets would continue to arise and infiltrate the church. In the tiny second letter of John, one of Jesus’ disciples who knew Him in the flesh, who walked with Him, learned from Him, left all to follow Him, writes to the church about the seriousness of walking in the teachings of Christ. Only the teachings of Christ. Not the alleged new revelations. Not the most recent interpretations. Not the twisted words of those attempting to make His teachings fit their lifestyles. No. They had to pattern their lives after Jesus. Live Christ’s teachings alone. It was the only way to achieve their main goal–Christ in them. John didn’t stop there, though. He gave strict instructions for handling false teachers. Don’t welcome them among you. Don’t entertain them. Don’t listen to them. You don’t need to. You know Jesus. You know the Book. It’s not going to change. God’s word never does. (II John 2:8-10; Matthew 24:35) 

Nothing has changed in the ensuing centuries since Jesus and John issued their warnings. False teachers are still busy worming their way among believers, attempting to sow the seeds of corruption. Their words are eloquent, their tone soothing, their manner self-assured. They catch a lot of people unaware. People who are only acquainted with Jesus. People who don’t know the Book. People who ignorantly follow, happy to place their faith in an attractive, stylish doctrine regardless of its regrettable lack of substance. (II Timothy 4:3-4; Acts 20:28-30)

It won’t work. Not eternally. Those who follow false teachers will find themselves in the same position as those depicted by Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount. There, He says many will approach Him intent on entering the kingdom of Heaven, alleging they know Him, listing many things they have done in His name, but there will be no grand entrance into eternal glory. He sends them away. He doesn’t know them at all. Why? Because they never took the time to truly know Him. They didn’t know His Book. Instead, they were swept away by false doctrines, false teachings, false facts that filled their hearts with false assurance of a fantastic eternity. (Matthew 7:21-23)

At a time when we are inundated with silver-tongued pundits and articulate prophets claiming new revelations, alleging clearer insights, touting more modern interpretations of Scripture, it is imperative that we follow the guidance of Jesus alone. Know the Book. Measure everything against it. Weigh each ebb and flow of moral standards and ethical boundaries against the words of the Book. Hold every new teaching, new idea, new spiritual theory against the immutable truths of God’s Word. Pick up your Bible. Read it. Cover to cover. Again and again. Until you know its words and feel the hesitancy in your spirit the very moment a teaching goes sideways. And pray. Daily. Hourly. Always. Don’t stop. Get to know the Author. Personally. Deeply. Intimately. Because when you know the Author, when you know the Book, you won’t be caught up in the silly, half-baked ideas of false teachers. You’ll know the truth. You’ll walk in it. You’ll be able to distinguish between the truth and the lies. And, when it comes, your eternal entrance will be punctuated by the words, “Well, done!” You knew the Author. You knew the Book. And you lived like it. (II Timothy 3:16-17; II Peter 1:21; I Thessalonians 5:17; Psalm 119:105; John 17:3; Galatians 4:8-11, 17-20; Jeremiah 14:14; Matthew 24:24)

Deafening silence blanketed the once chattering crowd as the question burst from the back of the crowd. Eyes widened. Brows furrowed. Concerned gazes collided. No one spoke. No one moved. They barely breathed. Shifting their own unanswered questions to the mental back burner and leaning forward in the tense silence, they waited. Each one urgently eager to hear the answer. Desperately anxious to know the truth. Hoping against hope the next words would be what they wanted to hear. A palatable answer to an unpleasant question. 

Questions weren’t unusual in the crowds following Jesus. He was bombarded daily with them. Honest questions. Clarifying questions. Test questions. Trick questions. Everyone expected questions. They had a few of their own. Just not like this one. This one was startling. It wriggled into their minds and settled in their hearts, making them want to hear this answer above the answers to their own meager questions. They hadn’t thought of it. Wouldn’t have had the nerve to ask it. Would never have shouted it out in the middle of a crowd if they had. Taken completely by surprise, they still wanted to know the answer. Needed to know it. Found their hearts echoing the question asked by the brave soul in the back, “Lord, how many people are truly going to Heaven?” A lot? A little? Anyone? Everyone? What’s the actual criteria and how many of us are on the right track? (Luke 13:22-24)

It was an honest question. They likely hadn’t been there when Jesus gave the Sermon on the Mount. They hadn’t heard His urgent admonition to carefully enter the small gate and keep to the narrow roadway. They didn’t yet understand that there wasn’t room to carry a rucksack of extracurriculars down the road with them. They wouldn’t even fit through the gate loaded down with baggage. No. The road to eternal life would cost them. They’d have to make sacrifices. They’d need to let some things go, lay some things down, cast some things aside, if their intention was to enter through the small door. (Matthew 7:13-14)

Springboarding from His previous message, Jesus gave them the same answer. Use the narrow door. No matter what it costs. No matter what you have to sacrifice. Cast off your pride. Give up your affinity for things of the world. Put aside your social affiliations. Weed out all the insignificant tripe and replace it with a relationship with Jesus Christ.  It’s the only way in. There is no other way to gain eternal life. You have to know Him. And He has to know you. Intimately.

 In the ensuing story, Jesus would tell the people that a passing acquaintance wouldn’t work. They couldn’t have had dinner together one time. Attended the same church. Spoken politely in passing. That wouldn’t cut it. They had to have a relationship. They had to know one another. Likes. Dislikes. Loves. Hates. Temptations. Faults. Failures. To find eternal life, they would have to lay aside all the things that held their attention and captivated their hearts, and dedicated the space for Jesus Christ to be the Owner, Leader, Lord of their lives. (Luke 13:25-27)

Many people wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t bring themselves to make the necessary sacrifices. Sitting at the fork in the road meticulously going through their pile of earthly goods, accolades, financial stores and social acceptances, many would choose to hold on to the things only earth gives and sacrifice the things only heaven offers. Others would refuse to part with long-held grudges, deeply rooted bitterness, old hurts, anger and hate. Gathering the things they loved most in their arms, they would choose to enter the wide gate. Step onto the wide path. Their trolley of temporal luggage would roll easily behind them. It would cost them nothing to travel this road. It would gain them nothing, either.  

Few would make the sacrifices necessary to enter the small door. Rifling through their piles of earthly treasures, they would find nothing meaningful enough to trump the promise of His continual presence, His guidance on earth, His acceptance into eternal life. Money hadn’t bought happiness. Success hadn’t brought peace. Status hadn’t given joy. Power hadn’t offered security. Stockpiling past pain, current insecurities, frequent deficiencies and utter fiascos had cost more effort and sapped more strength than they were prepared to give. They’d gained nothing from it but heartache and grief. It was all useless, worthless when weighed against the promise of eternal life. With few tears and rarely a backward glance, they sacrificially laid it all down and freely entered the small door, taking nothing but Jesus with them.  (Luke 14:26-27,33)

He was all they needed. They didn’t even miss the things they’d laid down to walk through the small door. The gain had eclipsed the alleged sacrifice. On the narrow path they had found what their hearts had been forever seeking yet never finding. Heart peace. Deeply flowing, calm, impenetrable. Soul safety. Protection from and ammunition against the frequent barrage of fiery darts, the carefully hidden snares, the tricky traps and the alluring temptations of the evil one. Fullness of joy. Overwhelming gladness. Persistent joy found in the constant presence of Jesus. It all makes one wonder why anyone would choose the wide gate at all. (John 14:27; Isaiah 26:3-4; Ephesians 6:16; Psalm 121:7; Psalm 16:11) 

What makes us hold on to the things that disrupt our peace? What makes us jealously retain the things that cause us unrest? Why do we constantly run after the things of the world when we know from previous experience they can’t possibly give us the things for which our souls long? Why waste your time on a side trip down a wide road certain to end in death when you have the opportunity to travel the narrow road with Jesus? Why hide from Him, run from Him, when you have the opportunity to know Him? Personally. Intimately. And find joy in His presence. 

At the dawn of this new year, perhaps you find yourself standing at the crossroads, forced to once and for all make the choice of entering at the wide gate or the narrow one. Your bulging suitcase of worldly attractions rests by your feet. Your ragged rucksack of unforgiveness, unrest, resentment, and fear hangs from your back. Your hand grips the worn handle of the briefcase holding all your earthly dreams. Your head swivels from one road to the other, weighing the differences. Small. Large. Narrow. Wide. Rocky. Smooth. Life. Death. Many. Few. One thing keeps tripping you up, stalling your decision. Sacrifice. To enter the narrow gate that leads to life, you have to leave all the baggage behind. Everything. Give it all up. It’s the only way to find and know Jesus Christ. And knowing Jesus, truly knowing Him, is the only way to gain eternal life. 

So what will you choose? Will you snatch up your baggage, set your chin, and stride determinedly through the wide gate self-righteously believing you can make the paths merge before reaching your eternal destination? Or are you willing to make the sacrifice? Lay it all down to enter the small door. Give it all up that you might gain Christ. Sacrifice everything that you might know Him, not just about Him. Risk everything to experience the power of His resurrection, the joy of His presence, the peace that surpasses all human comprehension. There’s nothing in that baggage, nothing in the world worth more than your soul. It’s up to you. The choice is yours. Are you ready to make the small door sacrifices? (Philippians 3:7-10; Mark 8:34-38; Matthew 6:33; Matthew 10:32-39)

As I have every December for the last several years, it was my distinct delight to again read the book of Luke. I love every part of it. It’s full of the impossible, the improbable, the inconceivable. Announcements of unexpected pregnancies. An account of unconventional birth. A host of unbelievable healings, unimaginable vanquishment of evil spirits, and unparalleled teachings of love and forgiveness and grace. It’s beautiful, hopeful, joyous. Until chapter 22. 

It takes a decided turn there. The beautiful beginning is almost swallowed up by the horrific ending. The final chapters of Luke are nearly unbearable as everything seems to unravel. Judas defects. Peter betrays. Jesus dies. The disciples hide. The wonderful, heart-warming story that’s been building since the Bethlehem stable deteriorates to a horrific scene of gory crucifixion, death and fear. Until chapter 24. 

On the eve of Christmas, I read the final chapter of Luke. Perhaps you know it. Its triumph. Its comfort. Its joy. You likely remember its resounding words stating death had been eternally defeated, “He is not here. He is risen.” Maybe you remember Peter racing to the tomb, firmly believing faith is good, but sight is better. Perhaps you’ve pondered the Emmaus Road discourse, or felt the twinge of jealousy as Jesus appeared in the flesh to eat a meal of broiled fish with his disciples. You’ve probably heard a dozen sermons preached about His commissioning words. Maybe, as you’ve read the final verses depicting His ascension into Heaven, your heart has pinched with a sense of loss. You wish you could have been there. Touched His hand. Heard His voice. Felt Him brush your heart. I know. I feel those things too. (Luke 24:5,12, 17-31, 36-52) 

This year, however, as I read the final chapter of Luke, I also read Isaiah chapter 40. It’s another favorite for me, though possibly not as familiar to others. The chapter begins with the words, “Comfort, comfort my people,” says the Lord.” And the writer proceeds to do just that. With broad strokes of vibrant verbiage, he paints a picture of our triumphant Lord. The magnificent Creator of the universe. The One whose word endures forever. The sovereign, tireless, omnipotent Lord of all the earth. The Good Shepherd who meticulously tends His flock, protects His lambs, and leads them in green pastures by still waters. The One who gives strength to our exhausted souls, who draws our wandering hearts to Himself, who replaces our fear with His courage. The only wise God who sent His only Son to save His people from their sins. (Isaiah 40; Psalm 23; John 3:16; Matthew 1:21)   

Immaculately dovetailing with the accounts described by Luke, the words of Isaiah ring out the promise of a God who sees our despair, our weakness, our weariness, our sin and comes to do something about it. Comes to triumph over it. Comes to die so those dead in trespasses and sins can find abundant, eternal life. But He doesn’t stay dead! Shaking off the burial linens and rubbing the sleep of death from His eyes, Jesus rose and left behind an empty tomb. He ascended to Heaven and took His seat at the right hand of the Father where He prays for us. For me. For you. For our weakness, our weariness, our sin. For the things that trouble and terrorize us. For all that unsettles and destabilizes us. We might not have been there to put our fingers in His wounds, feel His hand brush ours, or sit at His feet while He taught, yet still He is here with us. Always. Our Emmanuel. Our source of comfort. Our fountain of joy. God is with us. (Matthew 1:23; Isaiah 41:10, 17; Luke 24; Ephesians 2:1-10; Revelation 1:18; Nehemiah 8:10)

As we turn the calendar page to a new year, I can think of no better news. God is with us. Always. May we rest in that immutable truth. Our God is alive and He is present. Today. Tomorrow. Until the end of the age. May we take comfort in the knowledge. May we find joy in His presence. May we exuberantly share the news in good tidings of immense comfort and fantastic joy! (Psalm 139:7; Psalm 16:11; Matthew 28:20; II Corinthians 1:3-4)

The fantastic story piqued their curiosity. It was an incredible tale. Too incredible. Too phenomenal. Nearly unbelievable. The guy had been living wild for years. Roaming the caves. Haunting the beach. Unexpectedly turning up at inopportune moments. Everyone knew about him. No one knew how to help him. They’d tried. Lured him into the jail. Clothed him. Chained him. Set a guard to prevent escape. It had all been to no avail. The evil hold on him was far stronger than anything they could combat. Invariably, he’d pop the cuffs, break the chains, terrify the guards, and race back to his caves. Eventually, they quit trying to help him. Their impotence against the evil spirits made it dangerous to even try. They left him alone. Alone to wander the caves. Alone to tend to his needs. Alone with the demons that haunted his every step. 

A necessary edict followed their admission of defeat. The caves and surrounding areas were strictly off-limits. No one was to venture there. Ever. Not avid spelunkers. Not curious teenagers. Not hardened criminals. It simply wasn’t safe. For anyone. In an effort to protect their citizens, town leaders posted signs against trespassing. Parents sternly warned their children. Guides strictly forbade tourists. Everyone was barred from the caves, but no one was banned from the shore. 

He lurked there, too. Solemnly watching newcomers. Curiously watching sailors. Scaring the general public. He was an alarming spectacle to behold. Scruffy matted hair hung past his shoulders to blend with his messy beard. Dirt crusted his bare feet. Covered all of him, actually. It was all he wore. Not one scrap of clothing graced his wretched self. His fingernails were long and unkept. Debris was caked beneath them. Remnants of his last meal, his most recent maniacal digging, his incessant scratching built up in a most repulsive way. He stunk. Revoltingly. Repellingly. Horrifically. His eyes were vacuous holes in a destitute soul. His presence at the dock was normally punctuated by horrified shrieks and irate verbal onslaughts. People raced and scurried to avoid contact with him. No one made eye contact. Most pretended he didn’t exist. Regulars had learned to ignore him. Dock workers had learned to skillfully avoid him. No one seemed able to do anything about him. No one but Jesus.

Stepping off his recently moored boat, Jesus had barely placed His sandal in the sand before the man rushed forward to confront Him. He knew this Guy. Or rather, the guys who had taken up residence in him knew Him. Jesus. Son of God. His reputation preceded Him. His power frightened them. His name alone dropped them on trembling knees. Not one of them questioned what would happen next. They knew they were moving. They couldn’t stay where they were. He wouldn’t allow it. With a few quick words He would dispatch them. Destroy them. Cast them out. Send them packing. Throw them back to the pit of hell. It was just a matter of time. He would evict them. They knew it. And they were scared.

Casting about for some resting place other than the pit of hell, they chose a nearby lot of swine. Daring to speak to the One whose power astronomically eclipsed their own, they begged to go there instead. Inhabiting pigs had to be better than inhabiting hell. For reasons we cannot possibly understand, Jesus agreed. The demons left the man, entered the pigs, drove them off a cliff, into the lake, and to their death. Because that is what evil does. It kills and destroys. It wrecks and ruins. It keeps everything in an uproar of discomfiture and distress, consternation and contempt, fear and anguish. Evil is the antithesis of peace. And we all long for peace. 

Surrounded as we are with the swirling eddy of incessant news feeds, social media output, radio broadcasters, podcasters, and alleged experts exhibiting questionable expertise, what our hearts long for, what our souls crave, what we would pay the most to find is peace. Real peace. True peace. Unshakeable peace. Peace that permeates the very core of our being no matter the chaos and turmoil around us. Peace that saturates our minds and hearts to such a depth it cannot be shaken by the most recent crises, the most terrifying predictions, the most furious backlash, the most unpredictable social storm. Peace that surpasses all comprehension. Peace that comes only from God above. (Philippians 4:7)

It’s what this poor possessed man craved too. Peace. Relief from the frenzy of fear that had him running and hiding, racing around naked, outcast by society, alone, lonely, hopeless, helpless, lost. For what other reason would he have gone boldly striding up to Jesus that day? If he enjoyed his lifestyle, surely he’d have stayed away. He didn’t. He boldly came forward. Searching. Seeking. Desperately hoping to find peace. And he found Him. The One who came to save all people from sin, from fear, from the terrorizing grip of evil. Jesus. Savior. Prince of Peace. (Matthew 1:21)

The meeting changed his life. No longer would he roam the caves, moaning and howling, searching for something he couldn’t find. He wouldn’t haunt the shore, lurk in the shadows, or hide in the alleys bringing fear to his fellow citizens. No. He’d met Jesus and it changed his life. Jesus wasn’t afraid of the demons that ravaged his soul, brutalized his mind and damaged his body. Jesus didn’t even flinch when he approached. It was almost as if he’d come specifically for him. To bring him peace. To change his life. And He did. With commanding words of rebuke and deliverance, Jesus salvaged the wreck of his life from the iron grasp of the evil one. With compassionate words full of love and kindness, Jesus healed his aching soul. In irrevocable words of blessing, Jesus gifted him with peace surpassing every dream he’d ever had. Peace that rescued his soul and changed his life. Peace that radiated from his now clean countenance. The peace of God that surpasses all understanding. (Isaiah 26:3)

That’s how they found him. Sitting calmly. Sane and clothed. Eyes clear. Hair combed. Face clean. Listening to Jesus teach. The shopkeepers, town leaders, and religious authorities couldn’t believe it. They had written him off as impossible. Yet there he was. Just as the pig farmers had said. It was all true. Into the darkness and fear and evil of the possessed man’s life stepped Jesus, the Prince of Peace. Their minds whirled. Their hearts rebelled. Their souls filled with fear. I don’t know why. I don’t know what they were afraid of. His power? His Peace? It doesn’t really matter now. In the absence of their own peace, they let fear rule and asked Him to leave. Go. Before He could perform any other miracles. Before they could hear His words. Before they could feel His love. 

Jesus boarded His boat and withdrew from their town, but He left them something. A memento of His visit. A token of His love. A man, once demon-possessed, running the tombs, terrorizing the town, now walked civilly among them, a living testimony of the promised deliverance from evil and the gift of transcendent peace. An epic example of the change that occurs when the Prince of Peace steps into the turmoil and chaos, brokenness and distress inflicted by the prince of darkness. Jesus left him to be an emissary of God’s peace. And He calls us to be the same. (Luke 8:26-39; Colossians 1:13)

You see, we all have a story. It may not include running naked through caves, breaking out of chains, or skulking around docks, but, if you have met Jesus, your story absolutely includes deliverance from the terror of evil by the Prince of Peace. You know Him. Personally. His power. His presence. His peace. You are a living, breathing testimony of triumph over the powers of darkness invading our world. You are a witness to the truth that no matter what is going on around us–wars, rumors of war, hate, fear, corruption, contempt–we can have peace through Jesus Christ. It’s the reason He came. It’s all in His name. Wonderful Counselor. Mighty God. Prince of Peace. (Isaiah 9:6, 26:3; John 14:27, 16:3; Ephesians 2:14,17; Philippians 4:6-7; Psalm 119:165; Colossians 1:20)