Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Gathered around a small, smoldering fire, their sheep peacefully ruminating and chewing their cud, the shepherds relaxed to the quiet sounds of their flocks settling for the night. The quiet click and crunch of grass being snipped and chewed. The gentle huffs and sighs of sheep drifting off to sleep. The rustle of wrestling as a couple young rams argued over the spot nearest the prettiest ewe. Sounds of calm and safety. Sounds of trust. Sounds that echoed the confidence each sheep felt in the protection of the shepherds. The men had set up a perimeter. Stationed themselves at the most likely exit or entrance route. Designated a schedule for watchmen to walk among and around the herd throughout the dark hours, ensuring safety from nocturnal dangers. It was all routine. A checklist of sorts. Safety. Settle. Sleep. At the ticking of the final box, those whose watch hour had yet to come slouched against nearby tree trunks to catch up on much-needed rest. The lambs would need chasing again tomorrow. 

Men on watch duty sat closer to the fire, talking in hushed tones, recounting the day’s escapades. The wild animal they’d driven off. The lamb they’d rescued from a thicket. The ewe that could drop her baby at any time. Eventually, the conversation would turn homeward as they wondered aloud what their family was doing, how their siblings were faring, if the pretty girl next door missed them. It was lonely out here. Lonely and a little boring. It was easy to wish for something to break up the predictable monotony. Something to stop that one guy from playing his flute every night. Something to end the familiar jokes. Something exciting to brag about if they ever got to visit home again. Something amazing. Something fantastic. Something unbelievable. 

Not one of them actually expected anything.  It was all dreams and wishes. They weren’t confused about the insignificance of their town. There was really nothing to recommend it. Never had been, apparently. Centuries ago the prophet Micah had called it small. Nothing had changed in the ensuing years. Nobody famous visited their little town. Nothing extraordinary ever happened there. No one with any notoriety planned to dismount in Bethlehem. They knew better than to believe the next big star would be announced in the middle of the barren Judean hillside. Lightly laughing off their lunacy, the men fell silent, each contemplating his own hopes and dreams, while silently accepting his reality. Best to ground their feet on earth, nothing exciting ever happened to shepherds. Until it did. (Micah 5:2)

God must surely have chuckled as He gave the nod for glorious light to fill the shepherd’s sky. His face must have split with a delighted grin as they leaped to their feet, huddled together, and gazed up at the descending angel. They had no idea what was going on. They didn’t know who was pulling shenanigans. They weren’t exactly thrilled about it. No. These shepherds who had bravely faced down ferocious beasts, sharp rocks, steep cliffs and spiny thickets to save their lambs, were absolutely terrified. Frozen stiff. Eyes wide. Mouths hanging open. Sheep left to their own often ill-advised devices. None of it mattered right then. Every human eye on the hillside was glued to the angel who had appeared in the center of the light. 

Unexpectedly insightful, the angel spoke the same words to the shepherds as had been spoken to both Joseph and Mary. “Don’t be afraid.” Of me. Of the news I have to share. Of leaving your sheep alone on this hillside to go corroborate my words. Don’t be afraid to believe what I say. Don’t worry about the ramifications of placing your faith in a tiny Babe. Do it. You won’t regret it. The Baby born this very night in the Bethlehem stable is the Messiah. The One you’ve heard about your entire life. The One Micah spoke about when he dissed your town. The One whose coming has been widely misinterpreted. He’s here. Now. Go see Him. 

Tearing their eyes away from the speaking angel to stare wide-eyed at one another, silent questions ricocheted among them. Could it be true? Was He here? In Bethlehem? In a stable?!?! There wasn’t time to sort it out. God wasn’t done. He was just getting started. At the flick of His finger, the heavenly concert began. An entire choir of angels filled the sky. The orchestra pit of Heaven exploded in music. The sound of glorious singing split the silence, “Glory to God in the highest. Peace to His people on earth.” If whiplash was a medically accepted diagnosis of that day, the shepherds would all have been prescribed physical therapy. Their heads swiveled from one another to the sky and back again at breakneck speed. It took no discussion at all to come to a unanimous decision. They were going to Bethlehem. Now. All of them. The sheep would be fine alone for a few hours. 

Never had the trip been made so quickly. Not when they were headed home for a weekend reprieve. Not when they wanted to see the girl next door. Not when they found out someone was gravely ill. They had never traveled the path with so little care for where their feet landed. Dust flew from their sandals. Their lungs burned. Their legs ached. Everyone had a stitch in their side. It didn’t matter. They kept moving. Nothing would slow them down or stop them. They were on an urgent mission. They needed to see this. They needed to know if it was true. They needed to see their faith made sight.

Arriving in Bethlehem, they slid to a halt, taking time to catch their breath and gather their thoughts. It was the middle of the night. They could hardly go barging into every stable in town to check for a newborn. But there were no signs of the extraordinary happening. No fanfare. No excited crowd. No overjoyed grandparents announcing His arrival. Indeed, the town was silent. Still. Solemn. Strangely quiet for a town overflowing with folks registering for the recently required census. And there were a lot of stables in Bethlehem. It seemed an exhausting search until someone had an epiphany. This was their town. They lived here. Knew everyone who did. Even out in the fields, they would have certainly heard if someone living in their town was expecting to birth the Messiah. No one was. It had to be a traveler. Wheeling around, they raced on tired feet to the stable of the inn. 

It was a good choice. He was there. Tiny. Wrinkled. Red. Wrapped tightly in a swath of cloths. Nestled down in the straw of a manger. Attended only by His parents, a mangy flock of animals, and now a scruffy group of hillside wandering strangers. It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t cozy. It may not have been completely clean. Yet the shepherds knew. This was the place. This was the Baby. This was their King. For the first time since the angelic choir had ascended back into Heaven, the shepherds were silent and still. Their tongues stilled in awe. The prophecy was fulfilled. The Messiah had come. Just as He promised. 

They could have stayed to gaze on that tiny, beautiful face until dawn lightened the sky. They didn’t. Even simple shepherds understood the social faux pas that would be. Visitors, noisy or silent, are decidedly unnecessary in the hours directly after a baby is born. Mary didn’t have the energy to entertain strangers. And the shepherds had things to do. Sheep to tend. A story to tell. People to impress with the news that they, simple, uneducated shepherds, had seen the Messiah. He was here and they had seen Him first. 

Bursting out of the stable, their silence broke into joyous shouts. Good job they weren’t told to keep it all a secret! They’d have failed. Their joy erupted. Their excitement overflowed. The news spilled out to all and sundry. Family. Friends. Strangers. The flow of words was impossible to stem. The waiting was over. The prophets were right. The Messiah had come. Here. In this tiny, little town with nothing to recommend it, Jesus was born. Baby. Savior. King. They wanted to tell the world. And they did. As their feet turned back up the hillside to their duty stations, their joyous tongues never stopped. Every person they met heard the news. As they exited the town and began the solitary trek into the countryside, they turned their praise heavenward. Glory. Honor. Praise to God who had promised, performed, and presented the proof to their unworthy eyes. (Luke 2:1-20)

The twinkle must still have been flashing in God’s eyes as He watched and listened to their antics. Knowing what the following years would bring, the elation of the shepherds and their inability to keep the news to themselves must have filled His heart with joy. There wouldn’t always be shepherds to sing His praises. There wouldn’t always be people excited to speak His news. Not everyone would accept His Son as King. Eventually, men would align themselves against Him. Look for ways to trap Him. Search for a reason to kill Him. Drawn into the fray, Judas would betray Him. Peter would deny Him. People for generations to come would defy His commands and disregard His grace. The joy that lit up the sky and fired in the hearts of the shepherds would dim and fade. The story joyously spread throughout Bethlehem would be overshadowed by the results of jealousy and hate. None of that would change the truth. The Messiah had come to save His people, all people, from their sins. (Matthew 1:21, 26:47-50; Luke 11:53, 22:54-62; Mark 3:6; II Peter 3:9)

No part of that message has changed today. Jesus came. Promised Messiah. Sovereign Savior. Reigning King. No amount of denials, betrayals, defiance and disobedience will change the message. Jesus came into the world to save sinners. You. Me. Us. Them. The truth of those words should still fill our hearts with joy. Extravagant joy. Sensational joy. Permeating joy. Joy in a Savior, a salvation, that renders us unable to keep quiet. Joy that must be shared with all and sundry. Strangers. Family. Friends. Unspeakable joy about which we can do nothing but speak. The first words from our lips in greeting. The last words from our mouths in rest. Christ, our Savior, is born! (Psalm 51:12-17; Psalm 35:9; I Peter 1:8; Habakkuk 3:18; Romans 5:11)

Never had she thought it would end like this. Not in her most terrifying dreams. Not in her most horrifying nightmares. The darkest anxieties of her fear-laden mind could never have conjured such a violent scene. As much as she wanted to, as much as she needed to, Mary couldn’t tear her eyes from the gruesomeness unfolding before her. The pain she felt was almost physical, would have brought her to her knees had it not been for her accompanying friends. She leaned heavily on their arms, drawing from their strength. She’d never forget this sight. The savagery. The barbarity. The injustice. Her memory would forever echo with the roaring jeers of the hateful crowd punctuated by the angry thud of hammers brutally slamming into spikes. Death spikes. Nails, they called them. Penetrating iron rods driven through the hands and feet of her Savior, her Son. His face, swollen and bruised from abuse and streaming blood from the blasphemous crown of thorns, indelibly etched itself in her memory. His words, relinquishing the care of His beloved mother into the hands of His beloved friend, resounded like the permanent closing of a door, the irreversible alteration of her life, the final, inevitable physical separation between her precious Child and herself. It was far too soon. (John 18: 19-24, 19:1-27; Matthew 26:67, 27:27-29; Luke 22:63-23:46; Mark 14:53-65, 15:1-37)

She hadn’t been warned it would be like this. Not once. When Gabriel appeared to the much younger Mary more than thirty years prior, calling her by name and honoring her with the opportunity to bear God’s Son, he hadn’t said anything about an abusive pummelling, a bruised body, a bloody face. She would absolutely remember if he had. He hadn’t. He’d called her blessed. Said there would miraculously be a baby. Instructed her to name Him Jesus. Stated He would be great, the Son of the Most High. He spoke of a kingdom and ruling and reigning. Yet not one word in the entirety of their holy conversation had been uttered about this. Gabriel hadn’t prepared her for this moment. The moment when life as she knew it would cease to exist. If Gabriel had known, he hadn’t told her. 

Admittedly, Mary hadn’t asked, either. Surrounded by the warm glow of being chosen from thousands of girls to be the one mother of the one Son of the one God, few questions had made it through the astonished haze to cross her lips. She hadn’t considered how He would become King. She gave no thought to what saving the world would entail. She couldn’t think beyond the muddle of emotions that flooded her heart, couldn’t organize the thoughts swirling around in her brain. Her Son. Jesus. Savior of the world. It was a moment she’d never forget. (Luke 1:26-38)

Not once had she regretted surrendering herself to be God’s servant. As the child had grown beneath her heart, her heart had grown with love for Him. Maternal love. Protective love. Unfailing love. Greater love than she had ever known existed. Love that would outrun the wildest beast, outlast the longest standoff, outmaneuver the slyest predator. Love that would do everything, suffer anything, to protect her Son. She’d have done anything to save Him from this. Barged into Pilate’s hall demanding His release. Charged forward to assault and disarm the soldiers abusing her Boy. Proclaimed His position in the temple, spoke of His authority in the marketplace, shouted His true lineage from the rooftops, and caused a ruckus outside the Sanhedrin court. She’d have done anything, done everything, formed an elaborate plan to save her Son from this cruel atrocity. If only she’d known.

Yet here she stood, flanked on either side by two other Mary’s. Women who also loved her Son. Women who knew Him to be the Savior of the world. Women who were just as blindsided by this unsettling turn of events as she was. Women she needed for support, both physical and emotional. She leaned heavily on their arms. Tears overflowed her eyes, running unheeded down her face to drip off her chin. Her stomach rolled and clenched. Her knees shook. Her throat ached with the force of a withheld sob. Her heart broke. Shattered. Splintered. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

Not for her. Not for Him. Not for anyone. Children weren’t supposed to die before their parents. Mothers weren’t supposed to stand helplessly by, watching it happen. No one was supposed to be left with so many questions. What about the prophecy? What about the promise? What about her Son being their Savior? Who would save them if He was dead? Where was His Father? Where were the angels? Why weren’t they doing something? Anything? Had she missed an instruction? Had she done something wrong? Was this somehow her fault? Could she stop it? Could she change it? Was she supposed to try? Her mind ricocheted from question to question with no answers forthcoming. None of this made sense. None of it seemed right. No one had told her she’d be standing at the foot of a wretchedly, rough-hewn cross, watching her Son, the Savior of the world, die an agonizing death. No one had ever told her this is how true love looks.

When He was a toddler, love looked like chubby arms around her neck and slobbery kisses on her cheeks. As a child, love looked like handfuls of wilted flowers collected from the field and presented with pride. As a teen, love presented itself in respect, honor and care. The lifting of the heavy water bucket. The carrying of wood. The collecting of eggs so she wouldn’t have to. Her heart swelled with joy as she watched His love spread its focus to encompass those around Him. Offering help to the widow across the street. Playing ball with the orphans down the road. Taking food to the homeless encampment. He was a good Boy who loved people and lived like it. 

Three years ago, as He’d begun His heavenly ministry on earth, she’d been blessed to watch the thread of love that ran through every miracle, every sermon, every human interaction. Water silently turned to wine, keeping the wedding host from embarrassment. Lepers quietly cleansed, reuniting them with family and friends. Dead brought to life, restoring joy to the mourners. Demons eradicated, making room for the Prince of Peace. Sins forgiven, clearing the way for righteousness. The spiritually dead raised to spiritual life because Jesus, in love, was willing to preach the truth without caveat, without hesitation, without alteration. He loved people too much to do anything less. He loved them too much to let them die in their sins, so He died for them, instead. (John 2:1-11; Matthew 8:1-4; Matthew 9:23-26; Luke 4:33-35; John 4:1-26)

As Mary stood there, gazing up at her Son in His final moments, it surely all became clear. God’s kingdom would not be bought in an atrocious war on a blood-saturated battlefield. It would not be built on a pile of defeated carcasses. It would not be announced with the savage cry of a warrior and the clank of his sword. No. The kingdom of God would be purchased with the sweat and blood of Jesus Christ. Her Son. God’s Son. The Savior of the world. Bludgeoned and brutalized. Nailed to a cross. Arms outstretched to encompass every sin that would ever be committed by every single ungrateful, unworthy scrap of humanity. And, no matter how much and how well she’d loved in her lifetime, Mary finally realized, this is how true love looks. Suffering Servant. Sacred Sacrifice. Sufficient Savior. For you. For me. For everyone who comes to Him in repentance and faith. Yes. Yes! Christ was born for this. (Isaiah 52:14; Hebrews 10:10-12; I John 2:2; Mark 1:15; I Peter 2:24) 

Born to walk the humble roads of earth visiting mercy and miracles on the marginalized members of society. Born to teach unrelenting truth in the face of egregious error. Born to die so those dead in their trespasses and sins could be resurrected to life everlasting. Born to save His people, all people, from their sins. Born to lose His life that we might find ours. Yes, friend. Christ was born for this. (Matthew 10:39)

As you gaze at depictions of the Babe in the manger, surrounded by His mother, Joseph, a handful of mismatched animals and a group of disheveled shepherds, don’t forget the suffering Servant. As your heart warms at the pleasant scene of a mother gazing fondly down at her Child, don’t forget the sacred sacrifice. As you imagine the love Mary felt for the Babe God lent her for such a short time, don’t forget the Man on the cross didn’t come to live, He came to die. For you. For me. Painfully. Brutally. Innocently. Jesus gave up everything that we might gain the one thing worth more than anything–eternal life. In all the definitions of love buzzing around our world today, remember this moment with Mary. Remember her Son, our Savior, dying a barbarous death on a torturous cross. Remember His pain. Remember His suffering. Remember it was all for you. Because He loves you. And that, friend, is how true love looks. (John 3:16, 15:13; I John 3:16, 4:10; Romans 5:6-11)

Casting a sidelong glance at his brand-new wife, Joseph released a silent sigh followed by a fervent prayer. He hoped he had made the right decision. Hoped he was doing the right thing. Hoped she’d be faithful. Hoped she appreciated the fact he hadn’t cast her aside. He could have. No one would have advised him differently. Everyone he knew would have been in his corner. It had actually been his plan. Until the dream. 

Lying on his bed, wrestling with the idea of a prematurely pregnant fiancee, Joseph mentally sorted his options until he reached a final, tolerable conclusion. It still sat poorly in the pit of his stomach. He wished there were other viable options. There weren’t. He’d have to do it. He would quietly disentangle himself from Mary and her illegitimate child. He couldn’t think of a better choice. Separate paths were the best option. For both of them. They couldn’t build a relationship without trust, a foundational brick blown entirely away with the stunning news of her impending motherhood. Yes, the dissolution of their relationship was the best choice. It would save them both at least a modicum of embarrassment. But only a bit. He felt like a fool. A dolt. An idiot. He’d trusted her. Believed she was as invested in this relationship as he was. It had been such an immense insult to realize she hadn’t been. Couldn’t have been since she found herself in such a state. Punching his pillow, Joseph rolled to face the wall. His decision was made. He wouldn’t be part of it. Wouldn’t be the surrogate father to a child who bore the blood and resemblance of an interloper. He didn’t have to. Chose not to. Until that dream. 

Most men would have shaken away the dream the moment they awoke from slumber. Cast it aside as unimportant. Weighed it against the traditions and practices of the day and found it wanting. Joseph wasn’t most men. His idea of how the Messiah would come differed from his peers. Where they were certain the promised Messiah would be a full-grown warrior who rode to their rescue with amazing power and strength, Joseph couldn’t shake the words of the prophet Isaiah echoing down through history. A virgin would bear a Son. She would call Him Immanuel. Joseph didn’t know how such a thing could happen. He had no inkling when it would occur. But he hoped he’d be there to see it. Not the birth necessarily. He didn’t need to witness that. He only wanted to see the child. Meet the man. Hear Him speak. Shake His hand. Yet no matter how great his hope that the Messiah would come in his lifetime to a village near him, it was beyond Joseph’s wildest imaginations to think or believe he could ever be part of God’s plan. No. His feet weren’t floating on clouds of dreams. They were firmly planted in reality. In the time and space that was real and true, tangible and possible. At least they had been. Until the dream. (Isaiah 7:14)

If the dream was simply the result of overwrought emotions and a handful of dodgy mushrooms with his dinner, he’d be hugely disappointed. It felt so legitimate. The vision so clear it seemed he could simply reach out and touch the glowing robe of the visiting angel. The words were well enunciated. His name called out with perfect articulation. His initial emotions both revealed and rebuked in the opening statement. “Joseph, do not be afraid.” Don’t let the recent circumstances in your life disconcert you. Don’t be concerned about taking Mary as your wife. Don’t question her allegiance. Don’t fret about the child she carries. Don’t worry about how this will all play out. Take Mary as your wife. Name the child Jesus. He is the Son of God. He will save His people, your people, all people from their sins. 

Awakening in the semi-darkness of the predawn hours, Joseph allowed himself the luxury of believing the dream. Changing his decision about keeping Mary. Letting his mind wander to what it would be like to be the surrogate father of God’s Son. Then daylight broke through his euphoric haze. Surrounded by sunshine and reality, the dream seemed a little less real. Joseph wrestled with himself. Should he do it? Should he not? Should he believe the dream? Should he shake it off? What if the child, when it came, was a girl? Then he’d be the greatest fool to walk the earth. A laughingstock. A proven dunderhead. But. What if it was true? What if it was all true? What if every single word was God-breathed? What if he, humble Joseph the simple carpenter, had just received an invitation to be part of the grand event they’d spent the last four centuries awaiting? What if faith would soon become sight? What if his hope was about to materialize? It was an offer he couldn’t refuse. (Matthew 1:18-25)

Four hundred years prior, the scratching of the final prophet’s pen on parchment had silenced. All Israel had waited expectantly, believing their Savior would come in a timely manner, riding in on a glistening stallion in triumphant victory. It hadn’t happened. Generation had passed the prophecy down to generation. Parent to child. Teacher to student. Priest to parishioner. They’d been lifetimes hearing it, teaching it, talking about it, watching for it. Nothing had happened. No great warrior had ridden in to rescue them. None had arisen from among them. Many were silently questioning the promise. Thought the prophets had misunderstood. Decided they were on their own. Believed they’d never be anything more than pawns in the grand scheme of other kings and kingdoms. Faith waned. Hope died. Despair darkened hearts. And Joseph had a dream. 

It brought him to this place. Walking down the road toward his home. His new bride keeping pace beside him. Neither spoke. There was nothing to say. What do you say to your unexpectedly expecting bride? What can you say to the man who sacrificed himself to save your reputation and house your unplanned child? Nothing. There were no words. Only hopeful obedience resounded with every footfall. It was the basis of his decision. Hope. It had to be. Hope the dream was real. Hope the child was the Messiah. Hope their relationship could come back from this strange turn of events. Hope was the driving force behind Joseph’s decision. Hope in God. Hope that what He had promised He would unequivocally do. Hope that the promised Messiah was currently on the way to save humanity from their mountainous heap of sins. Hope that stirred Joseph to action.   

Called to be emissaries of God in a world that has so clearly lost hope in His promises, I  find myself wishing we had hope like Joseph. Active hope. Hope for the world that sends us out of our comfort zones to spread the Gospel, speak words of truth on the ballfield, in the office, on the subway. Hope in the promises of God that cries out for revival, restoration, renewal in our churches, our homes, our communities. Hope in the God who answers prayer that brings us to our knees again and again as we wage wars against the powers of darkness that inhabit this world. Eternal hope that doesn’t count the cost, personal or financial, when God calls us to action. Selfless, obedient hope in the promises of God that will never disappoint. (Romans 5:5; Psalm 80:19, 85:6; Habakkuk 3:2; Ephesians 6:12-20; II Corinthians 10:4-5)

As you read the news, hear the conversations, feel the hopelessness that saturates our society, know this. God is still busy fulfilling every last word of every single promise He ever made. And He wants you to be part of it. Wherever you are, whomever you are, whatever your talents or abilities, God is calling you to do something. So pay attention. He may speak through a dream. He may speak through a sermon. He may speak in a still small voice. But He will speak. Is probably already speaking. Inviting you to be part of the fulfillment of His grand plan for humanity. The part of His plan He’s enacting right now. So. How strong is your hope in His promise? Is your hope in God, your faith in His promise strong enough to result in unquestioning obedience? Do you possess hope like Joseph, hope in God that will never disappoint? (I Kings 19:11-13; Hebrews 11:1; Romans 12:12; Romans 8:24-25; Psalm 130:5)

It was every king’s worst nightmare. War was coming. In covert meetings, neighboring kings had plotted an invasion. In clandestine gatherings, military leaders had strategized an attack. In agreement and anticipation, troops from three kingdoms had amassed, organizing themselves in a battle array. They had set out on their march days before, making their destination no secret. They were headed to eradicate Judah and Jerusalem. Even now they were determinedly marching closer. Freshly sharpened spears and swords gleamed in the sunlight. Chain mail clanked with every metered step. Bloodlust gleamed from eyes hooded by battle helmets. The air around them crackled with arrogant impatience. They were anxious for the battle. Hungry for war. Thirsty for blood. Anticipating the win. Never once did they consider the alternative. It wouldn’t happen. Their chosen foe was nearly powerless against them. Victory would be theirs. Celebratory smiles split beards at the knowledge their target was satisfactorily terrified.

The news was horrifying. Petrifying. The most alarming message to come King Jehoshaphat’s way since he’d come to power. His thoughts reeled. Three kingdoms. Thousands of soldiers. More power than his little group of men could possibly withstand. They were destined to fail. Judah and Jerusalem would fall to the angry mob. He was at a loss. There was little they could do. In fact, he could think of only one plausible strategy. They must pray. Not just the king. Not just the priests. Not just the soldiers. No. Everyone needed to pray. Men. Women. Children. Young and old. Healthy and infirmed. Highest royal to lowest pauper. They needed to pray. Immediately. Incessantly. Fervently. Cry out to God for wisdom, direction, and preservation. In this time of pressing crisis, utterly helpless on their own, the only possible plan for salvation would have to come from their omnipotent God. 

Jehoshaphat’s calls to prayer and fasting did not go unheeded. The people came in droves. Sensing the direness of the situation, entire families abandoned their homes and towns to come stand before the temple of the Lord. Facing his people, Jehoshaphat urgently prayed words similar to those of his predecessor, King Solomon, on the day of temple dedication. They knew their God was omnipotent. No one could stand against Him. They knew their God was omniscient. No one could out-strategize Him. They believed the promise that when they stood in God’s presence, before His temple, and cried out to Him in their distress He would rush to their aid. They trusted that, in their current position, poised on the edge of total annihilation, powerless to defend themselves, scared, anxious, overwhelmed, their God knew what to do. And they were right. He did. (II Chronicles 6:14-42; 20:1-13)

Either in instant answer to their prayer or because time was of the essence, the Spirit of the Lord filled Jahaziel and he spoke God’s reassuring words of preservation and direction to the people’s ears. Relax. Don’t be afraid. Don’t let discouragement curve your shoulders. God’s got this. Yes, the oncoming army is enormous. Yes, their spears and swords are sharply honed. Yes, the archers marching toward you are excellent marksmen. But. This is not your battle. It’s God’s battle. His strategy is unbeatable. The use of spears and swords, arrows and armor is unnecessary. No one needs to lift a finger. Just go out, line up in battle order, stand firm, and watch God work. Trust Him to keep His word. God’s got this. (II Chronicles 20:14-17) 

Elation swept through the congregation as the reassuring words of the Lord promised them, without caveat, that deliverance was coming. The heralded onslaught would be more spectacle than battle. There would be no fighting by the men of Judah and Jerusalem. No injuries. No death. No mourning. It wasn’t going to happen. God had spoken. At a time when neighboring kingdoms expected to hear the grind of spears on sharpening stones, they heard uproarious rejoicing instead. In glorious celebration of the promised victory, the people fell on their faith-filled faces in worship before the Lord. In that moment, with the words of deliverance echoing in their ears, it would surely have been humanly impossible to remain silent at the promise of God’s all-consuming power moving heaven and earth to come to their aid. But one has to wonder how long it lasted. How long did their faith remain unshakeable? Minutes? Hours? As day turned to night, did the darkness bring with it doubts and fears, worries and concerns? Did their trust wobble? Their faith waver? Were their minds overtaken with all the “what if” questions of the evil one? What if Jahaziel made it all up? What if he was working for the other guys? What if God didn’t really say those things? What if they were heading out to battle thinking they would be saved, only to be slaughtered? What would happen to their wives and children, the aged and infirmed, if they somehow had gotten the wrong answer and walked into a death trap? 

No matter the questions that teased and taunted their minds in the pre-dawn hours, those men still turned up to march into battle the next morning. Assembling before their king, they were unable to hide the unease resulting from the night’s fretful thoughts. Jehoshaphat didn’t miss it. He noticed the eyes filled with shadows. He saw worry lines and wrinkling foreheads. He overheard a few concerned whispers. He knew he had to do something. They would never survive without their faith in God. Standing up in the back of his chariot, Jehoshaphat faced his men, and issued the best battle advice he had. Have faith in God. Believe He will do what He says. Trust God’s prophets. Believe they speak words from God’s lips to your ears. Remember that God never abandons His people. Straighten your spines, bolster your faith, and let God do what God will do. 

Wisely knowing that his words alone would not increase their faith for the duration of their journey, Jehoshaphat then employed the most effective battle strategy imaginable. Praise. Appointing leaders to march ahead of the army singing songs of praise to God, he reminded any concerned member that God inhabits the praise of His people. Those men took their job seriously! Blending their voices together they matched their steps to the rhythm of their praise. Praise the Lord. Praise Him for the splendor of his holiness. Praise His majesty. Glory in His power and strength. Thank Him for His love that never gives up no matter how far, how often, how flagrantly His people stray. Praise the Lord for His steadfast, unfailing love, mercy and grace. Praise the Lord for the promised victory. Praise the Lord for their safe return. Praise the Lord for His faithfulness to His people and His word. Praise the Lord! (Psalm 22:3; Nehemiah 8:10)

As the words left the leader’s lips, faith rose. One by one the voices behind them joined in their chorus. When the powerful praises of those marching soldiers left their lips to ascend to God’s ears, God went to work. Ambushes sprang up against the oncoming armies. Infighting kicked off among them. The Ammonites and Moabites joined forces against the men from Mount Seir. Upon eradication of that faction, they turned on one another. The fighting was fierce and bloody. The death toll was astronomical. The intended battle would never occur. By the time Jehoshaphat and his troops reached the battlefield, the only thing left to do was plunder the spoils. Equipment. Clothing. Valuables. An amount so great it took their entire army three days to collect it all. And when they were done collecting it, they returned to Jerusalem, headed straight to the temple of the Lord, and picked up where awe at God’s staggering victory had left them speechless. They found their voices again and joined the harps and lyres and trumpets in magnificent praise to their triumphant God who speaks victory into impossible, improbable, insuperable circumstances. I wish we would follow suit. (II Chronicles 20:18-29; Luke 1:37)

 In a world of spiritual slipping and sliding, at a time when morals and ethics have taken a decided downward turn, in a society where evil is pronounced good and good made evil, when the news of the world is inundated with hopelessness and despair, the people of God need to get on their knees in battle formation and earnestly praise. Yes. You read that right. Praise. Recount the attributes of our spectacularly extraordinary God. Sing of His love and grace and mercy. Talk about His faithfulness and goodness. Bolster your faith with praise for His power and strength. Speak the truth of God’s sovereignty, His authority over all things. Rest your tired, worried, fretting soul in His unfathomable ability to handle the situations that bring you to your knees before Him over and over again. Why? Because when God’s people engage in the art of praise, God responds. (Psalm 36:5; Isaiah 45:7-9; Colossians 1:16-17; Acts 16:16-26; Isaiah 25:1)

Ask Jehoshaphat. It wasn’t some grand military strategy. It wasn’t his extensive understanding of the art of war. It wasn’t him or his men at all. It was God. As their praises ascended to heaven, God’s power descended to earth in miraculous victory. The art of praise won an unbelievable victory. And it can happen for us too. In our day of drifting. In our season of succumbing. In your war against spiritual waning. You can experience amazing victory. Whatever you are facing, struggling with, worrying over. Whatever insurmountable obstacle blocks your path. Whatever you’ve been praying over for weeks, months, years. God is able. God is interested. God is working. Even when you don’t see what He is doing. Even when you can’t fathom a positive outcome. He is still busy. So. Have faith in God. Believe His promises. Trust His words. And praise. With every breath. With every thought. With every word. Wield the art of praise like the sharpest battle axe against the enemy and watch God move in ways you never dreamed possible. In everything, in every way, with every breath, every day, let everyone praise the Lord! (Psalm 34:1; Philippians 4:4-9; Psalm 147-150; Mark 11:22-23; II Chronicles 20:22)

The sight shouldn’t have come as such a surprise. It wasn’t his first day. He wasn’t a new prophet, hadn’t been ordained yesterday. It was far from his first vision. That had happened years ago. The voice of the Lord came calling him to be God’s prophet, to speak the words of the Lord, whether or not the people accepted him or his message. Nothing had changed in the intervening years. Visions continued to come. Words miraculously flowed. He’d lived out entire object lessons. It had been lonely work. Costly. He’d lost things. People. Popularity. Respect. Tasked as God’s watchman for the people of Israel, Ezekiel would never find himself in a position of reverence and authority. No. The people were rarely interested in what he had to say. They weren’t inclined to turn from their idols. They weren’t thrilled at being called out on their less-than-stellar behavior, their bent toward sin. The priests were certainly less than happy to have their spiritual shepherding called into question. Yet this vision appeared to be headed in a different direction. Indeed, it was quite possibly the strangest one yet. (Ezekiel 1-3, 8-9, 11, 34)

He hadn’t been doing anything special when it came. Wasn’t praying in the temple. Wasn’t prophesying. Wasn’t preaching. He was simply going about his daily tasks. Surviving. He hadn’t eaten anything crazy. The lamb hadn’t been too spicy. The milk wasn’t on the turn. The bread hadn’t molded. He hadn’t set out on a spurious hike over an unknown mountain into a forgotten valley. Yet here he stood, in the middle of a valley. A valley of bones. Old bones. Dry bones. Disconnected bones. Thousands of them. A veritable sea of body parts. Every part of him shrank back at the sight. Body. Mind. Soul. His stomach lurched. Bile rose in the back of his throat. He wanted to look away, but couldn’t. Couldn’t drag his eyes away. Couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Couldn’t begin to understand the vision God was showing him this time.  

As his eyes darted from one side of the eerie graveyard to the other, Ezekiel’s mind fired off questions. Where did they come from? Who had they been? Why had no one taken the time to give them a proper burial? Or had they somehow come to the surface? It must surely be so. The people of Israel didn’t leave their dead unburied. It simply wasn’t done. Yet here they were. Here he was. Every step a stumble over a loose femur. Every move a rattle of dismembered ulnas, fractured skulls, and disconnected vertebrae. Every sight a reminder of the death and dryness that inhabited not only this valley of death, but the souls of the nation to which God had sent Him to prophesy. 

Struggling to absorb the sight of death surrounding him, Ezekiel was shocked nearly speechless at the question God posed. “Can these bones live?” Was He serious? Really? Did he want Ezekiel’s off the cuff answer or was He asking for more? It felt like a test. Erring on the side of caution and drawing from all the humanly irrational things he knew God had done in the past, Ezekiel responded with words that echoed both his incredulity and stalwart faith, “Not in my book, but Yours probably reads differently.” (Ezekiel 37:1-3)

It was an answer stemming from a wealth of experience as God’s prophet. It was a response echoing from the depths of his soul rooted in the absolute, unshakeable knowledge that God could do anything. No matter his own human limitations, Ezekiel knew God’s abilities were limitless. He knew His word was final. He was all too aware that what God decided, what He promised, what He determined would always, ultimately be performed. If God desired to raise this army of scattered, dried up skeletons into a living, active army of God, it would happen. The God he served could make anything out of nothing. By now, Ezekiel was bouncing on his toes in poorly concealed excitement because he knew God wasn’t done there. (Genesis 1; Romans 4:20-21; Genesis 18:14; Jeremiah 32:17)

Neither was Ezekiel. He should have known he’d never have the role of silent bystander. God hadn’t called him to prophesy only to silence his voice. God didn’t visit him with visions so he could sit idly by and watch God move. It didn’t work like that. It never had. The visions always came with an opportunity for obedience, a way for Ezekiel to get involved. Not one thing was different about this event. God had something for Ezekiel to do. Something he’d done before. Something he’d practiced on living, breathing humans. Something they hadn’t obeyed, but he was somehow certain these skeletons would. God tasked Ezekiel with preaching. And Ezekiel was there for it. 

Breathing words into Ezekiel’s ear, God told him to speak to the valley of dry bones. Preach the words and promises of God to them. Address this audience who was so completely beyond saving and offer them the gift of restoration, the gift of life. Tell them the sovereign God of the universe promises to breathe into them the breath of life. He will knit them back together, assembling bones, attaching tendons, adhering flesh and covering the whole with skin. As their lungs inflated with that first breath of life-giving oxygen, the living dead would know beyond even the slightest doubt that God was the Sovereign Lord of all the earth. (Psalm 33:6)

Taking a deep breath, Ezekiel began to speak the words. He’d barely gotten past the first sentence when a rattling sound came from his left, then his right, then echoed from the other side of the valley. To his astonished eyes, the bones began to assemble themselves. Correctly. Phalanges did not attach to the humerus. The clavicle did not attach to the ilium. No. Each bone miraculously found the one to which it would properly attach. As the words of God finished flowing from Ezekiel’s tongue, he stood in silence, watching as tendons stretched over bones, flesh over tendons, and skin over flesh until not one loose bone lay unclaimed. The only thing missing was the promised breath of life. 

God, Who never promises something He cannot or will not perform, had the answer for that. Pray. “Pray, son of man.” Pray that the breath of God, Who at the dawn of creation breathed into man the breath of life, would come down and fill the lungs of the lifeless bodies spread across the valley. With not one thought of hesitation, Ezekiel did. He prayed the exact words God told him to pray. He prayed with fervor. He prayed with urgency. He prayed with great desire. By now, he was wholly invested in this company of the dead. He wanted to see them come to life. He wanted to see them spring into action for God. He was anxious, excited, thrilled to be part of this grand transition from death to life. With every nerve in his body vibrating in anticipation, Ezekiel earnestly petitioned Heaven that the breath of God would sweep across that valley bringing life to the dead. And it did. (Genesis 2:7)

In a sweeping movement, the breath of God flowed into the lungs of the lifeless bodies lying helplessly on the valley floor. An inhale of epic proportions echoed around him. Formerly prostrate bodies began rising to their feet. Turning from side to side, robe billowing as he spun around, Ezekiel’s widened eyes took in the miracle happening before him. His heart overflowed with awe and amazement. His soul danced with exuberant joy. God had done it! Into this valley of impossibly dead, desperately dry, irreparably broken humanity, God had restored life and filled it with His own breath. The breath of life. Oh, that we would see the same in our day! (Ezekiel 37:1-10)

Surrounded as we are with the spiritually lifeless, apathetic, complacent shells of those claiming godliness but lacking the spirit of God, we urgently need the resuscitating breath of God to sweep across our land. Our society dangles precariously on the edge of complete abandonment of every conceivable moral principle. Our churches lie in disrepair. Our homes are shattered. Our hearts are broken. Our spiritual pulse is barely detectable, if there at all. We embody the valley of Ezekiel’s vision. Dry. Destitute. Dormant. Dead. We indisputably need a miracle. We need the life-giving breath of God to sweep down over us and raise us back to life, a veritable army of righteousness to rise and stand against the sweeping tide of the world. We need the Breath of Life to breathe life into our physically living yet spiritually dead or dormant souls. We need an Ezekiel. More than one, actually. We need an entire congregation. Every. Single. One of us. (II Timothy 3:1-5)

For the breath of God to sweep across our nation bringing revival and restoration, everyone who has managed to elude the bog of spiritual passivity must boldly speak God’s words. His wisdom. His commands. His judgments. His mercy. We need to tell of His miracles. The things He promises His people when they get and keep their hearts in proper relationship with Him. And we need to pray. Pray like we’ve never prayed before. The evil one is working overtime. We must do the same. We must pray that the God who breathed the breath of physical life into Adam’s nostrils will breathe the breath of spiritual life into our valley of dormant, dying and dead souls. We must pray that God will raise up an army for Himself in our day of unbelief and apostasy. Can you even imagine what that might look like? (Psalm 85:6-7; Matthew 19:28-29; II Chronicles 7:13-14; Ezekiel 33:11-12; Psalm 60:2; Joel 2:12-13; Proverbs 14:34)

Although I find it difficult to even imagine the glory of such a large-scale turning toward God, I absolutely know this. I want to be part of God’s renewal process. I want to see the revival and restoration of our society, our churches, our homes, our souls. I want to be knee-deep in the middle of things when the prayers of saints from around the globe are answered. I want a front-row seat to the moment the breath of God sweeps across this valley of carcasses and brings them back to spiritual life. I want to be Ezekiel, standing in the middle of a valley full of dry bones and watching in exhilarated amazement as God does the impossible. And I want you to be there beside me. Preaching. Praying. Believing. Trusting that the pages of God’s version of events reads far differently than the one we are looking at right now. Are you here for it? Are you working toward it? Are you ready to do it? Are you willing to be an Ezekiel doing God’s business in the valley of the living dead? (Psalm 84:1-12; Daniel 9:4-10,17-19; I John 5:14-15; Jeremiah 33:3)