Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Sighing deeply, he dipped his quill in the pot of ink and carefully set about writing the words he knew he must send. His heart was heavy. Broken. It had been since he’d heard the news. Things in Galatia weren’t going as well as he’d hoped. Or prayed. Every day since leaving them to continue his travels and teachings, Paul had prayed for their continued faith and following of Jesus Christ. He prayed they would live like they knew Christ. The real Christ. As eager as they had been to accept the gifts of salvation and eternal life available through Jesus’ death on the cross and resurrection from the tomb, the work didn’t stop there. Real knowledge and acceptance of Jesus Christ and the forgiveness of sins must result in real-life changes. Verbal changes. Visible changes. It was one thing to accept the graciously offered gift. It was quite another to live in the awareness of its reality. That’s where the trouble was. 

According to recent reports, things were a bit of a mess in the church of Galatia. A new, cheaper gospel was being preached. Some of them were falling for it. Being tricked into believing they could buy their salvation with strict adherence to the law. Faith wasn’t necessary. They could do it themselves. If they just acted right in the eyes of humanity, they’d be fine. They weren’t living in the freedom of Christ. Even though they were known by God, they didn’t act like they knew Him. They hadn’t stood fast in what they were taught. They had allowed themselves to be confused. Drawn back to the belief they could buy their salvation with special observances, celebrations, and dedications. They couldn’t. (Galatians 1:6-12; 2:11-21; 3:10-17; 4:9; 5:10)

Everything like that had been abolished. By the birth, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, all the sacrifices and observances had been cleared away. Faith, not works, was the only way to salvation. And it was available to them. Personally. Immediately. Without the special prayers of the priest or the bloody animal sacrifice. The Lamb of God had been gifted to mankind as a final atonement offering. The last and only one humanity would ever need. Through His death, the veil of the Temple had been torn in two giving them the gift of direct access to God the Father through prayer. It was an amazing sacrifice, an enormous gift, but it meant nothing if they didn’t allow it to change their lives. If they were still actively engaging in works of the flesh, yet adhering to the law in an effort to redeem themselves, they’d never inherit the kingdom of God. Following the law, even with the strictest adherence, couldn’t make that happen. Only the blood of Jesus could. (Mark 15:38; Galatians 3:19-26)

No matter how strictly the people of Galatia–or anywhere–adhered to the exacting rules outlined in the law, it wouldn’t save them. They’d call themselves Christians because they were part of Paul’s church, or had been, but their lives wouldn’t look like it. They’d still be busy with their affairs. Literally. They’d be entrenched in idolatry, loving things and habits and desires more than they loved God. They’d place their faith in beliefs that had nothing to do with God. Their hearts would be full of hatred and jealousy, anger and selfishness, envy and evil. Their habits would show what they really were. Promiscuous drunkards with darkened hearts falsely claiming to be Christians because they were always in church on Sunday, never missed a Bible study, and followed every law set forth by the religious leaders of the day. (Galatians 4:8-11; 5:4-6, 16-21)

It wasn’t so. Couldn’t be so. No one could be a true Christian and still be so tied up in works as to forget grace. The grace of God that sent His only Son from the golden halls of Heaven to the darkened walls of a stable. A place where no one recognized Him. No one realized who He was. When at last His deity began to be apparent, they rejected Him. Said it couldn’t be. Their lack of faith, purposeful disbelief, made them miss the miracles they could have seen had they simply believed. As He went out into the world, many chose not to believe in Him. The Pharisees didn’t see it. The Sadducees didn’t believe it. The religious leaders, priests, and kings of the day had no time for it. But. The ones who did believe were changed people. They went out to live lives that proved they believed. Everyone who met them knew they’d met Jesus. (Matthew 13:58)

Zacchaeus was a prime example. Nobody liked him. Not really. If anyone chose to walk with him, talk with him, befriend him, it was for one of two reasons. They were in the same profession or they were hoping not to be swindled. As small as he was, no one wanted to mess with him. At all. No one but Jesus. He made it a point to get in touch with Zaccheaus. When He could have walked by, acting like he didn’t see the small man in the tree overhead, He didn’t. Jesus stopped. Looked up. Met Zaccheaus’ eyes with a look of love and tenderness and called him down. Not for a quick conversation. Not for a stern discussion. Not to point out the error of his ways. No. Jesus called him down so He could meet Zacchaeus. And so Zacchaeus could meet Him. 

That meeting changed his life. Everyone saw it. The old, thieving, dishonest Zaccheaus was gone, replaced by something unheard of in the world of tax collectors. Honesty. Kindness. Generosity. He gave money away. Made restitutions. Did right by the people he’d wronged. Abundantly. He didn’t hold back. He didn’t return only the money he’d taken over and above what was owed. He returned so much more. To the people he’d wronged and to himself. He instilled trust in the people around him and restored dignity to himself. His heart, changed by the encounter with Jesus, would never again be the same. Neither would his life. Zacchaeus accepted the gift of salvation from Jesus, and everyone could see it. (Luke 19:1-10) 

It was what Paul wanted for the people of Galatia, for every church he’d helped to build. What he’d prayed and hoped to see.  He wanted them to be so touched and changed by their encounter with Jesus Christ that their lives were grand exhibitions of their faith. Faith in the complete work of Christ on the cross that brings freedom from the bondage of the law and a life lived to show others they belonged to Jesus. He wanted them to accept the gift of the cross, but that wouldn’t be enough. They also needed to live like it. (Galatians 5:22-26; Ephesians 4:17-32; Colossians 3:1-17; I Thessalonians 4:1-6)

So do we. As easy as it is to be Christmas Christians, excitedly celebrating the birth of Jesus and accepting His gift of forgiveness for all, it is much more difficult to be Easter people. People who dwell in the awareness of the resurrected, living, active Christ. People who stay in that space. People who absorb His presence. Rest in it. Revel in it. People who live every day in such a way it is evident to those around them that Jesus is walking beside them, guiding their decisions, editing their words, changing their actions, and governing their reactions. Yet that’s exactly who we should be. Christians who get excited over the birth of our Savior, who celebrate the fact that He came when He didn’t have to. Humans who understand the reason He came to bear the sin and embarrassment and disgrace of every being to ever walk the earth. People who are willing to sit in the horror and grief of His death on our behalf. Easter people. People who live in the light of the truth that Jesus didn’t stay dead. He rose again. He is alive and active. In our lives. In our world. Even when the darkness closes in with suffocating oppression, Jesus is still moving. He’s still working. The darkness of earth has no effect on His power. Ever. It can’t. He is the light of the world. In us. Through us. When Christmas Christians live like Easter people. (John 8:12; 12:46; Matthew 5:16; Psalm 37:7; Romans 10:9; Revelation 1:18; Luke 18:33; Philippians 2:5)

A nearly palpable ripple of excitement flowed through the assembled congregation as the announcement rang through Heaven. The news was exhilarating. Invigorating. Intoxicating. They had been chosen. All of them. Everyone was going to participate. Their joy could barely be contained. They were going to earth. Sort of. Far enough to catch a glimpse of humanity in their natural habitat. Close enough to give a group of men hunkered down in a hillside meadow the concert of a lifetime. It would be a night of firsts. The angel choir’s first trip to earth. The shepherd’s first concert. Carefully planned down to the finest details, the event would be flawless. Perfect, even. Perfect timing. Perfect pitch. Perfect harmony. Sounds no human ear had ever before heard. Sounds they wouldn’t hear again. Not that side of Heaven, anyway. It would be unforgettable. So would the sight. 

When the heralding angel ended his speech, the curtains of inky sky would roll back even further, revealing the enormity of their visiting group. Their multitude could not be numbered. It would be futile to try. Light would surround them as if mid-day had broken hours prior to its appointed time. Before the astonished humans could close their gaping mouths, the entire angelic choir would lift their voices in glorious, harmonious music. Perfectly on cue. No director in sight. No trailing. No errors. No miscues. Their words of praise and prophecy would float down to rest on the ears and soothe the souls of the world-weary humans below. Glory to the God who dwells in the highest heaven. The One seated between the cherubim. The Lord of Armies. The Almighty God who sends His perfect peace. To you. On earth. Tonight. Right now. It is here. In Bethlehem. Gifted in the form of a human infant, God has sent His Son, Jesus, the Prince of Peace, to the anxious soul of every person inhabiting the tumultuous, troubled, turmoil-filled globe of earth. (Psalm 24:8-10; Isaiah 6:3; 14:24; 37:16; 47:4)

Bearing the message was more exciting than traveling to earth. It was more important, too. Centuries of watching the shenanigans of humanity had convinced the angels there was no reason to visit. The sight was disheartening. Society was slipping. The church wasn’t what it should have been. Lost and confused, everyone appeared to be following the desires of their own hearts. Arrogance and pride ruled the day. Bitterness and anger flowed unchecked. Jealousy and hate ran rampant in the streets, encouraging fighting, inciting wars. Fear was etched on every face. Hopelessness and despair lined every brow. Evil was clearly having its heyday. From humanity’s standpoint, things were the darkest they had ever been. From Heaven’s vantage point, earth was the closest to peace it had been since nearly the dawn of creation. 

It was this message the angels brought to the shepherds camped out with their sheep. A message of hope to a lonely group of forgotten men engaged in a thankless task. Their silent nights spent wrestling with inner demons no one knew existed. Their monotonous days plagued with worries and cares even as they searched for good pastures and clean water. Every waking moment consumed with the ever-changing religious, political, and social landscape so far beyond their control yet so personal in its repercussions. The elusiveness of peace. The shepherds weren’t sure it existed. Anywhere. For anyone. They certainly didn’t believe it existed for them. They’d never found it. Not in the quiet grazing of the sheep. Not in the trickling sound of a dancing stream. Not in the gentle breeze rustling the tall grasses of a fresh meadow. In the quiet of all those places, their minds continued with relentless reels of uncertainties and fears. No. Peace didn’t exist. At least not for them. 

The angels respectfully disagreed. Peace existed. They knew it did. In the best of times. In the worst of times. When everything in the world was full of upheaval, peace was still available. For all people. Everywhere. Everyone who heard their message. Anyone who would listen. In every corner of the earth. Peace was possible. Because the Prince of Peace had come. To the earth. For all on earth. His promise of peace was for everyone. No matter who they were. No matter what their occupation. No matter whether they were socially acceptable or politically objectionable. The good news that would bring great joy was for all people. Everywhere. There were no exceptions. They didn’t have to live in despair and fear, bitterness and hate, greed and pride anymore. Born in a humble Bethlehem stable without fanfare or paparazzi, the Prince of Peace had come. To them. The poor. The lonely. The brokenhearted. The distressed, discouraged, depressed. Those living in darkness with no earthly hope of finding light. To them. For them. The Prince of Peace had come. The light of salvation, the bright star of morning, Jesus was born into a sin-darkened world, offering hope and peace amid the crushing circumstances of their lives. Not just for that day, but for our day as well. (Luke 2:9-14; Isaiah 9:2-6; II Peter 1:19; Revelation 22:16)

No better news could fall on our ears and sink into our hearts than that delivered to some unimportant shepherds on a forgotten hillside centuries ago. The Prince of Peace has come. To earth. For you. Wherever you are. Whatever your past looks like. However, your present appears. Whatever your future seems it will hold. Jesus came to bring peace. To you. He came to offer you peace with God through forgiveness of sins, peace with others through obedience to His Word, and peace of heart and mind that transcends the terror and horror and breath-stealing evil inhabiting every corner of our globe. The Prince of Peace has come to give you peace. On earth. (Romans 5:1; 12:17-21; II Corinthians 13:11; John 14:27; 16:33; Philippians 4:6-7)

In our world of incessant news updates pinging our phones and blaring from our televisions, it is nearly impossible to miss the horrific state of our world. There is so much to worry about right now. Angst, unrest and uncertainty are everywhere. Like a string of dominoes, it seems someone has tapped the end, causing a cosmic collision. Wars are raging. Governments are falling. Threats are flying. Yet our sovereign Prince of Peace sits calmly on His throne. He is not worried. He is not scared. He is not building a heavenly bunker and stocking up on canned goods. Our God is not surprised, shocked or stymied by the chaos on earth. He is busy. Offering peace. To us. On earth. (John 14:27; Isaiah 57:19)

You see, friend, we are God’s greatest investment. So important to Him was our peace that He sacrificed His only Son to make it happen. The baby announced to the shepherds was only the beginning of the story. Peace with God is available to us because the Baby in the manger grew up to be the Man on the cross. He deemed our peace worth it. Worth His life. It’s the reason He came. To give us peace. Peace with God. Peace in God. The peace that far surpasses all human comprehension. Peace that transcends the fear and hate and evil of our world. Jesus. A piece of God. The peace of God. Heralded by angels, witnessed by shepherds, laid in a manger, hung on a cross. For your peace. For my peace. For the peace of every human being dwelling among the darkness and depravity of earth. Jesus came that we might have peace, not just in eternity, but on earth as well.  (II Corinthians 5:15-21; Ephesians 2:14; Colossians 1:19-20; Romans 5:8-9)

As the first rays of dawning sun peeked over the distant hills, the group of roughly dressed, slightly unkempt, mildly odorous men began to edge toward the exit. Progress was slow. With every step they turned back to look once more at the scene they were leaving behind, as if hoping to indelibly etch every minute detail in their minds forever. It was a moment they would never forget. They’d talk about it forever. Tell their children and grandchildren. Tell other people’s children and grandchildren. Tell anyone who would listen. In immense detail, they would recount over and over again the honor of receiving a personal invitation to meet the Messiah and their abject joy at having accepted. 

Last night had started out like every other night. They had a routine. It never changed. The sheep preferred it that way. Find a space. Gather together. Bring in the stragglers, wanderers, and those of a curious or rebellious nature. Settle in. Stand guard. Keep a sharp eye out for predators. Listen for any unusual noises or unexpected movements by the sheep. Rarely would there be any. The nights were often long. A bit boring. But it had to be done, so here they were. Another silent night of stargazing and dozing to the gentle sounds of sheep at rest. Until it wasn’t silent and they weren’t resting.

Bursting across the sky and settling in right above them, a brilliant light illuminated the heavens above them. It was incredible. They’d never seen anything like it before. Probably never would again. The shepherds had no idea what was going on, where the light had come from, or what it could possibly mean. Fear gripped them and they gripped one another. Scared into silence, they watched wide-eyed as an angel appeared in the halo of light. They would have assumed they were dreaming, but he spoke. To them. His words were a little late. “Don’t be afraid,” was superfluous right now. They were very afraid. Terrified, really. Telling them not to be didn’t change the fact. Had their traitorous legs been willing to carry them off, they’d have bolted at the first glimpse of the miraculous light. But their legs wouldn’t move. Their feet were rooted to the spot. Their mouths gaped at the once-in-a-lifetime scene unfolding before them.  

It was a birth announcement. The fanciest one they had ever seen. Possibly the only one. Unquestionably the most important one to which they would ever be privy. A baby had been born. In Bethlehem. Realistically, there was probably more than one baby born in Bethlehem. Even on that particular night. Given the influx of people due to the royally decreed headcount, a baby born in Bethlehem wasn’t nearly as phenomenal news as the sight before them. But the angel wasn’t done. This wasn’t just any baby. It wasn’t just any birth. It had taken place in a stable, not a house. The baby was wrapped in rags, not a soft blanket. The child was laying in a manger of hay, not a carefully crafted cradle. The baby boy was a Savior, not just another son. He was the promised Messiah. Son of God. Lord of all. Their long-awaited King. And the jaw of every shepherd in that field hit the grass. 

A baby? Really? They hadn’t heard it like that! The Messiah wasn’t supposed to come as a baby. Was He? Wasn’t He supposed to show up on some half-wild warhorse and take the kingdom back by force? Wasn’t that what they’d all been waiting centuries to see? How was a baby going to save them from anything? Questions winged through their minds in rapid succession, but they didn’t have time to sort through them all. The celestial show wasn’t over. At the close of the original angel’s astonishing announcement, the sky suddenly filled with more angels than they could count. Singing angels. Beautiful harmony. Music more perfectly majestic than that heard in king’s courts. Glory. Praise. Adoration to God. And the blessing of peace to His people on earth. 

And then they were gone. The angels ascended back into heaven. The star-studded blanket of inky darkness fell back into place. Silence again descended. The sheep settled back down. The shepherds didn’t. They couldn’t. A guy couldn’t be expected to hear this kind of news and not check out its validity. And their feet were finally unstuck, their legs had strengthened, their stomachs were no longer wobbly with fear. In a flurry of robes, they raced down out of the hillside pastures to see it for themselves. Was there a baby in a Bethlehem stable? Was it wrapped in strips of cloth and nestled in the prickly hay of a manger? Was it the Messiah? They didn’t know yet, but they wanted to. 

Breathlessly sliding to a halt outside the stable doors in Bethlehem, the group of shepherds attempted to calm themselves and smooth their disheveled clothing. It didn’t really work. How could one be completely calm when fixing to meet the Messiah? Quietly easing open the door, they peeked around the doorframe to see if this was the right place. It was. One by one, as quietly as possible, they tiptoed into the stable. It was just as they had heard. Seated on a pile of hay was a young woman gazing lovingly down into a rough-hewn manger brimming with the same hay. Behind her stood a man staring on with a dazed look of shock on his face. He clearly hadn’t been expecting to play midwife during the night! As they crept closer to the feeding trough, they could see what had the woman so enraptured. Nestled down deep in the cushion of hay lay a tiny, newborn baby. He was wrapped up in strips of cloth, almost as if His birth in this place had been unplanned. Yet there He was. Just as the angels said. This had to be the place. Had to be the people. This baby had to be the Messiah. They were the most blessed men on earth.

Unwilling to overstay their welcome or inconvenience the new parents, the shepherds made their way back to the door with the same intentional caution they’d used on arriving. They so wanted to be quiet for the tired family. Invariably, they would take only a step or two before someone in the group paused to look back at the scene in the stable. Memorize another face. Get another glimpse of the Baby’s face. Unfortunately for those walking behind him, the stop would be sudden. They would trip over him. Everyone would grab for the other in an attempt not to end up in a heap on the floor. It would have been comical if they hadn’t been so sincere. Finally they made it. Quietly slipping through the door into the dawning daylight without so much as a word. Until they hit the street. 

All bets were off then. There was so much to tell! Angelic visits, heavenly concerts,  and Messianic messages. Their lips must have been going incessantly. There were so many people to tell! The inn was full of travelers. The streets were teeming with people starting their day. Of course they had to tell their families. It would be unforgivable if they were to hear the story from anyone else’s lips. They might skip the details, skimp on the grandiosity, scrap the absolute honor bestowed on a field of lowly shepherds. No. They needed to tell their own story. And tell it they did. Everywhere. To everyone. Their earthly story entwined with a story from heaven. The story of a miracle. A promise fulfilled. The story of God. Even if no one in Bethlehem heard Jesus arrive, everyone needed to know He was there. And the shepherds set out to make that happen. (Luke 2:8-18)

John the Baptist did the same thing. Heralded the arrival of Jesus. Paved the way for the Messiah to come and minister among humanity. Called people everywhere to repent of their sins and be baptized because Jesus, the very kingdom of heaven on earth, had come near. He was among them. Whether or not they heard Him arrive. Whether they were aware of His presence. No matter if they recognized His face. Jesus was there. John was among them preaching and teaching the gospel of Jesus, encouraging them to act like they knew Jesus. Live in a way that those around them would know they had met Him. Exhibit actions and speak words that correlated with those who had repented and abandoned their sinful ways. Even if no one heard them repent, everyone should know from the change in their lives that they knew Jesus. (Matthew 3:1-8; Luke 3:1-8)

The message would be corroborated by Jesus Himself. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus exhorted His listeners to understand that every tree is known by its fruit and every person is known by their actions, their words, their attitudes. The way you act matters. Your reactions and responses illuminate the state of your heart. The words you say to people and about people reveal the character of your soul. These things indicate whether or not you have met Jesus. If you know Him, it will show. Whether anyone was there to see you repent and watch you accept Jesus as Lord of your life doesn’t matter, the change in your actions should let everybody know that you have. (Luke 6:43-45)

Continuing through history, the message never changed. In speaking to King Agrippa, the Apostle Paul reiterates this truth. Meeting Jesus in faith and repentance should change our lives. Impact us so deeply it is impossible to hide. Our everyday choices should be made in a way to tell everyone around us that we have met the Messiah. We have chosen Him as our king. Crowned Him Lord of every part of our lives. Even if no one heard us do it. Even if no one witnessed the moment we chose. Everybody ought to be able to look at our lives and know. We are forever changed because we met Jesus. Even if our lips don’t say it, our lives should show it. Everybody ought to know. (Acts 26:17-20)

It’s our job, too. Centuries after the shepherds spilled out of that Bethlehem stable to spread the news of Jesus throughout the town, after John the Baptist heralded His coming, after Paul encouraged others to live like they knew Jesus, we are tasked with the same job. Live in a way that reflects Jesus has come. In you. The Savior born in Bethlehem is alive and working. In you. The King of kings has set up His kingdom on earth. In you. If you have met the Messiah, it needs to show. Not simply in a big social media post. Not in photos of all the good works you do. Not in words alone. In actions. In reactions. Act like you know Jesus. Live like Christ dwells in you. Not everyone will read your social media posts or believe the words coming out of your mouth, but everybody ought to know by your actions that you’ve visited the manger and knelt at the cross. (Galatians 5:22-23; James 1:19-27; 2:14-26; I John 3:7; Colossians 1:10; Romans 6:16-18)

Silence blanketed the now-darkened city. The final candle glowing from the farthest window flickered and sputtered its way out. The streets were empty. The massive queues of travelers lined up outside every available inn and boarding house had been absorbed into rooms, squeezed into family homes, or chosen to pitch a tent on the outskirts of town. The chatter of visiting relatives reacquainting themselves with distant family and the town they hadn’t seen in years had finally ceased. The previously busy food stalls were dark and silent. The city slept. Exhausted from their journey, every soul in Bethlehem was tucked away in their beds, ignorantly snoring their way through the most important hours of their lives. Everyone except the couple relegated to the musty stable at the rear of the inn.

They were still awake. Uncomfortably so. This wasn’t how they thought they’d be spending the night. Piling hay up to make a decently comfortable place to sleep. Never had they dreamed everyone would flood into Bethlehem on the exact same day or that they would stay longer than absolutely necessary. The thought had never occurred to them that the inn might be full. The plan had always been to make the journey, sleep in the comfort of the inn, register, and return home, all before the baby’s birth. It clearly wasn’t going to be that way. 

Bunching the hay more solidly behind her head, Mary sighed and forced away the tears sitting just behind her eyelids. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. She wasn’t supposed to be traveling so near her due date. She wasn’t supposed to be feeling the first signs of labor when she was so far from home. Her baby wasn’t supposed to be born in a dusty stable with a handful of animals rudely looking on. She’d planned it so much differently. Better. Cleaner. Happier. She’d even planned to call the midwife, allow her mother to help, enlist the neighborhood women for advice on tending a newborn. Unfortunately, it wasn’t turning out that way. 

Arriving at the inn, they had found it beyond capacity. The fire marshall would have had a heyday had he chosen that night to make an inspection. Their “Maximum Occupancy” sign had been roundly ignored. Not a spare room, bed, couch, or floor space was left. Whether or not the innkeeper wanted to turn away the pregnant lady and her husband, no matter how wretchedly he felt in doing so, he could hardly be expected to kick out already-paid customers on their behalf. So he’d offered them what he had. His only available space. The stable. Middle stall. Between the donkey and the cow. Nevermind the milling sheep and wandering goats. The air was rancid, but the hay was clean. It was the best they could do.

They’d had to take it. There was no other choice. No one had told them to pack a tent and camping cots. And Mary was getting desperate. Whether or not she’d told Joseph yet, the intermittent pains that began earlier in the day were growing more insistent. No amount of sitting had helped. Ignoring them hadn’t made them go away. Deep breathing had not eased their effect. They were even more frequent now. Stronger. And her mother wasn’t anywhere around. She wasn’t at home. She was in a stable on a prickly bed of hay. It was dark. Dingy. Smelly. There wasn’t time to call the midwife, nor was there a stablehand or friend to send. While everyone else in the burgeoning city slept peacefully in their soft, warm beds, their long-awaited Messiah was entering their world. And they completely missed it.    

No one heard the groans of a first-time mother experiencing the ebb and flow of labor pains. No one heard the gentle voice of an overly anxious Joseph as he attempted to calm his laboring mate while making the uncomfortable stable a safe place to give birth. No one called for a doctor. No one rang the midwife. A labor and delivery nurse hadn’t conveniently booked the stall next to theirs. No concerned relatives came to help. No kind strangers stopped to offer aid. No one left the comfort of their warm beds to see the need for soft, clean towels and a basin of warm water. No one even knew what was happening in that dingy stable stall. No one heard a baby cry. No one heard the awestruck voices of new parents. No one heard anything besides the quiet lowing of oxen and gentle bleating of sheep. No one in Bethlehem saw anything except the inside of their eyelids. No one in the city knew Jesus was even there. (Luke 2:1-7)

It wouldn’t be the last time people missed Him. Even the people in His hometown would fail to realize Who walked among them. They would listen to His teachings. Hear of His miracles. Wonder from where He obtained His wisdom. Yet they would never entertain the idea of His Deity because all they could see was His humanity. Where He came from. Who His mother was. What His earthly father did for a living. So great was their unbelief that they missed out. A lot. Their lack of faith prevented Jesus from doing all the miracles He would have done for them had they shaken the sleep of unbelief from their eyes and recognized who walked among them. (Matthew 13:53-58; Mark 6:1-6)

Throughout His earthly ministry, Jesus would find Himself stalked and hunted by those attempting to trip Him up, invalidate His teachings, eradicate the place He was taking in their world. He would be despised by humanity, rejected by His people, and dismissed by religious authorities. He would be mocked and scorned because the ignorant people of His day refused to wake up, open their eyes, and see who was right in front of them. He didn’t match what they imagined, so they wrote Him off as just another prophet trying to make a name for Himself. He wasn’t. He was so much more. And they missed it. Because their souls were asleep when He walked among them. (Isaiah 53:3-6; Matthew 22:15-40; Luke 11:53-54; Mark 12:13-27)

Even after His brutal death on the cross and miraculous resurrection from the grave, some still needed proof of who He was. Proof He wasn’t dead. Proof He was again alive and moving on earth. Not the people who had never believed. One who had. Thomas. He didn’t care what the others said. He didn’t care what they claimed to have seen. If he didn’t see it with his own eyes, touch it with his own hands, he wasn’t going to believe it. A week passed before it happened. When Jesus came to visit the disciples again, He made sure Thomas was there. He offered the opportunity to place his fingers in the nail scars. He gently admonished Thomas to have faith. Believe. Even when you can’t see it. Even when you can’t feel it. Even when you have absolutely no proof of His presence. Trust Him. Believe He is there. Blessed are the ones who do. Blessed are those who, although they have never seen His face, audibly heard His voice, or physically felt His touch, still believe He is here among us. (John 20:24-29)

That’s us. You and me. We are the ones Jesus was talking about there. The ones who haven’t had the privilege of sitting in His classroom, taking notes on His lessons, asking questions, and getting immediate answers, yet still we read and study His Word because we believe. We are the ones who haven’t held audible, two-sided conversations with Him, yet still, we bare our souls to Him in moments of prayer because we believe. We are the ones who’ve never felt the physical touch of His hand yet desperately cry out for it in seasons of illness, fear, anxiety, pain, and confusion because we believe in the power and presence of God. We are the ones who have never placed our fingertips in His nail scars, yet choose to rest in the knowledge that our names are engraved on His palms. We are the ones who have never seen or heard or felt the physical evidence, but have experienced the spiritual proof because we believe in the presence and power of Jesus Christ, tangible or intangible. We believe He is here. Just as He promised. God is with us. Always. Even if you don’t immediately hear Him speak. Even if you can’t see the evidence of His hand. Even though you’ve never seen His face. Emmanuel is here. He has come. The baby everyone missed centuries ago is still with us. He walks among us. He works within us. He is here. We believe. (Isaiah 49:16; John 10:2-29; 14:18; Romans 8:35-39; Psalm 46:1)

 We haven’t always. Sometimes our faith falters. We’ve all had moments when we missed Him. We didn’t feel His presence and believed He wasn’t there. We didn’t see a miracle and believed He wasn’t working. We didn’t hear His voice and mistakenly believed He didn’t hear ours. We were wrong. God is with us. Now. Always. In our darkest hours of sin and suffering. In our greatest times of pain and despair. In moments of crushing disappointment and suffocating sadness. God is with us. Even if we don’t hear Him. Even if we don’t see Him. Even if we don’t feel His presence. God is with us. We believe. When everything around us goes pear-shaped. When the news is full of disaster and gloom. When fear and anxiety shroud our souls. When grief and dismay cloud our skies. No matter the situation or circumstance. We choose to place our faith in what we cannot see. We choose to believe. God is with us. Today. Tomorrow. Always. We believe. (Psalm 27:10; 34:15; 56:8; 73:23-26) 

This Christmas season, as we celebrate and meditate on everything the season entails, may you find you believe. Truly. Completely. May you believe in the unfathomable grace and infinite love of God toward mankind exhibited in the humble, unnoticed birth of His Son for the express purpose of dying as a sacrifice for your sins. May you believe in the life-altering power of His shed blood on the cross to forgive your sins and eternally save your soul. May you believe in the guiding presence of His Spirit given to mankind at Pentecost. Whatever bog you are walking through, whatever troubling circumstances surround you, whatever trial looms large on your horizon, may you believe God is with you. Even if you don’t hear Him. Even if you don’t see Him. Even if you don’t feel Him there. May you still believe. God is with you. Always. Do you believe? (Psalm 23:4; 139:7; Deuteronomy 31:6; Matthew 1:23; 28:20; John 1:14; 3:16-17)    

Anger coiled in her belly as she stood gazing down at the jubilant scene. She’d have rolled her eyes and huffed out an irritated sigh had there been anyone of importance around to hear her. This was ridiculous. Humiliating. Disgusting. Embarrassing. Not the parade. The king. Her husband. She couldn’t believe he’d gone out in public dressed so poorly. Literally. He’d exchanged his gorgeous robes of highest quality fabric to don a linen ephod. Why? What was the point of looking like a peasant? And what, exactly, was he doing? Jumping and flapping, lurching and swaying. Did he think he was dancing? If so, Michal had never seen a worse dancer. Or a male one. Celebratory dancing was normally left to the women. With good reason. If what was currently being done by the king was any indication, men couldn’t dance. Shouldn’t dance. Ever. The very sight was cringeworthy. 

Not that David noticed. He didn’t. He seemingly had no clue how peculiar his clothing and behavior were. Not that he cared. He didn’t. David wasn’t publicly dancing and celebrating to bring attention to himself. He didn’t care if no one in Jerusalem noticed. It wasn’t for them. It was for God. His out-of-rhythm gyrations in the odd linen garment was simply a joyous expression of his intense excitement at the successful return of the Ark of God to its proper place. The previous attempt hadn’t gone so well. They hadn’t followed proper protocol. Rather than engage the priests to carry it on poles slid through the rings on the sides, they’d just loaded it on a cart pulled by oxen and set off across the countryside. The oxen had stumbled. The Ark started to tilt. Uzzah reached out to steady it. God was angry.  Their haphazard treatment of the Ark was unnecessary. He’d given them distinct instructions for transportation. They hadn’t followed them. Uzzah touched the Ark. He died. Immediately. Fearful, they abandoned the idea and left the Ark in Gath under the care of Obed-edom. 

For three months it stayed there. Blessings rained down on Obed-edom and his house. They were happy to care for the Ark however long King David required. Except he didn’t. Enough time had passed without the Ark at its proper resting place in Jerusalem. David deeply wanted it there. So he made a plan. One that carefully followed the commands God handed down through Moses concerning the transportation of the Ark. There would be no ox cart this time. There would be Levites. Properly consecrated priests with poles to slide through the rings on the sides of the Ark and rest on their shoulders as they walked. Singers and dancers and musicians were appointed. There would be joy and music and celebration. There would be proper glory and honor offered to their God. Everyone would get involved. Even the king. And the Ark would be placed inside the tent David had set up to house it. In Jerusalem. Among God’s people. Where God chose to dwell. (I Chronicles 13; 15:1-16:43; II Samuel 6:1-19; Exodus 25:12-15; Numbers 7:9)

That was the scene unfolding below Michal as she stood at the window. The rocky relationship she’d had with David sat on the brink of collapse as she stared down on his mortifying behavior. To think her name might be linked with his was more than she could bear. She had no time for David and his shenanigans. His wild dancing. His over-the-top exuberance. His celebration among and with the common people. She wasn’t used to such indignity. Her father would never have acted in such a manner. It wasn’t comely for the king to degrade himself like this. David was making a fool of himself in front of everyone. He couldn’t hope to retain the respect of his people now. No one would look at him and see anything other than the buffoon they’d seen dressed in the garb of an inferior social class and dancing in the street with the women. No one would respect him now. Not the soldiers. Not the slave girls. Certainly not Michal herself.

Entering his home in a celebratory mood, one has to wonder if David felt the damper turn as he saw Michal approaching. She wasn’t exactly there by choice. At all. She’d been dealt a rough hand. Been nothing more than a pawn in her father’s hand. Married to David. Given to Paltiel. Forced back to David after her father’s death. Her bitterness was unsurprising. It had been festering for years. Now it reared its head. Ugly and dark. Storming and angry. She hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for a moment like this, but she had. A moment when she could unleash the disappointment and rage and hate she’d harbored in her heart as she’d been tossed from pillar to post like so much useless waste. Whether or not the circumstances of her life had been entirely David’s fault, he was bound to feel the brunt of the emotions they caused. (I Samuel 18:20-28; 19:11-17; 25:44; II Samuel 3:13-16) 

Briskly walking out to meet David, Michal let loose the sharp side of her tongue, disregarding anyone who might be unfortunate enough to be within hearing distance. What, exactly, had he been thinking? Did he realize the indignity he’d just done? To his station. To himself. To her. Did he comprehend how ridiculous he looked? Did he understand his place and how his behavior reflected on that? Did he know the importance of comporting himself with dignity and grace? His behavior was degrading. All of it. He’d made himself disgusting. To everyone. To her, certainly. To the slave girls, decidedly. To everyone in between, undoubtedly. Any respect he’d had among the people would certainly be diminished now. And he deserved that. His wild dancing and jubilant celebration was an indictment of the kingdom. She was done with this. Done with him. She found him absolutely revolting. (II Samuel 6:20, I Chronicles 15:29) 

You can almost feel David draw in a deep breath, school his features, steady his voice, and structure his verbiage before he speaks. It doesn’t take the sting from his words. It doesn’t reduce the impact. It doesn’t change the outcome. What Michal thinks or feels is of no importance to David at that moment. None of this had been for or about her. He hadn’t been dancing for Michal. No part of him had been secretly hoping she was watching, enormously impressed with his amazing dance moves. Not one of his actions that day had anything to do with her. They had nothing to do with anyone in the kingdom. They weren’t even for himself. His dancing and celebrating had been for only one person. God. Alone. Not the priests carrying the Ark. Not the elders accompanying it. Not the citizens welcoming it. Not the slaves watching from a distance. David wasn’t dancing for anyone on earth. He was dancing for God. To God. With all his might, engaging every fiber of his being, using every ounce of his strength. And he wasn’t going to stop. Not for her. Not for anyone. Not Ever. (II Samuel 6:21-22)

David refused to concern himself with what anyone thought about his behavior. The alleged indignity. The possible humility. Scoffers. Scorners. He didn’t care. He’d do anything for his God. The God who had chosen to pluck him from a sheep pasture and raise him up as king over Israel. The God who had saved his life from lions and bears, giants and kings. The Lord of Heaven’s Armies who is enthroned between the cherubim, yet still daily bears the burdens of humanity, watches their steps, and protects their paths. A God full of forgiveness and grace, unending love and mercy. That was the God David knew and nothing would stop him from praising Him. Boisterously. Jubilantly. Wildly. With all his might. (I Samuel 16:1-13; 17:1-51; 19:1-18; Psalm 23:3; 37:31; 68; 99:1)

In our world of cancel culture, social suicide, and snap judgments, I wish we were more like David. Unashamed to praise God with all our might in public as well as in private. I wish we were more prone to spontaneous outbursts of glorious praise for the goodness of God. I wish we weren’t consumed by the idea that we need some new and enormous occurrence to shout His glory at the top of our voices. I wish we remembered Calvary and found it reason enough to unabashedly shout our praise. I wish we weren’t so self-conscious. I wish we didn’t care so much what people think. I wish we weren’t so worried about offending unbelievers. I wish, with all my might, the people of God were busy praising Him for everything we should, at every time we should, in every place we should, in every way we should. Boisterously. Jubilantly. Regardless of who hears or sees. Regardless who dares to stand in judgment against us, unfollows or unfriends us. I wish we would set our hearts and minds, our words and actions to praise our great and glorious God. May we be encouraged and emboldened to do so. Privately. Publicly. Constantly. With all our might. (Psalm 22:22; 34:1; 150; Isaiah 25:1; II Samuel 22:50; Ephesians 1:6)