Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Every inch of the place was packed. Street. Sidewalk. Yard. House. There was barely room for a lone man to squeeze through the crowd in the street and absolutely no hope of actually entering. Doorways were blocked. Window seats were filled. The carefully swept dirt floor of the house couldn’t be seen for the mass of people filling the room. Perching on every available surface. Squeezing into every empty space. Crammed so tightly between those four walls the air could hardly circulate among them. It was no better outside. The entire town must have taken a day from their duties to be there. Hordes of hopefuls hovered around the doors. Groups gathered outside open windows. The line for entry wrapped well around the block. It was impossible to miss. And they were late arriving.

They hadn’t meant to be. It wasn’t lackadaisical mediocrity that had them gingerly approaching the house after everyone else had arrived. They had intended to be there early. Had appeared at their paralyzed friend’s house hours ago, hoping to implement their mobility plan and make him first in line to see Jesus. They had sorely underestimated their task. The logistics of carrying a man on a mat without dropping him and causing further damage were more complex than first believed. And they had never had to do it before. They visited his home regularly. The doctor made house calls. His wife bore the brunt of his care. He never left home. Didn’t need to until today. Today was their day. His day. The one day they had to get their friend to Jesus for healing. It wasn’t a matter of each one grabbing a corner and making a mad dash for Jesus. They would have been on time if it was. Early, even. Instead, they had to contrive a conveyance. Build a way to safely haul the dead weight of a fully grown man through busy streets and an impenetrable crowd. It took longer than they hoped. 

When they finally had their conveyance built, their friend loaded, and carefully made the walk to where Jesus was preaching, the place was overflowing with people. Some were just curious onlookers. Some were intentional seekers. Some, like them, were only there for a miracle. No one was pushing and shoving. No spontaneous wrestling matches erupted. No one disruptive verbal altercations split the air. Most people seemed content to wait their turn. Most people. The four friends holding the corners of the paralyzed man’s mat weren’t. They hadn’t spent hours of work planning and building and carrying to simply wait around to see if Jesus ended up having time for them. They meant to see Him. Now. But there was no way to get in. The doors were blocked. The windows barricaded. Their friend would never fit down the narrow chimney. But he needed to see Jesus, and they were determined to get him there. 

 Building construction must have been their stock-in-trade. Or building deconstruction. Either one. It didn’t take a lot of brain-cramping to come up with a brilliant plan. A plan allowing them to literally lay their friend at Jesus’ feet. All it required was a door in the ceiling. They could do that. They’d been planning and building and overcoming obstacles all day. What was one little roof? Climbing up to the top of the house, they began to deconstruct the dwelling. Meticulously. One section at a time. Gently removing the roofing tiles, they neatly stacked them to the side, taking up only what was necessary. They needed just enough space to lower one mat holding one man. They weren’t trying to go down there themselves. They weren’t looking for personal accolades. They just needed to get their friend down there. Desperately. They needed to get him to Jesus. 

One wonders how long it took the people below to notice something was going on above. It seems they would surely have heard the footfalls crossing the roof tiles. The falling dust raised by the deconstruction would likely have tickled a sneeze out of more than one nose. Light beaming into the dim interior of the house through the growing hole in the roof would certainly have forced their eyes to readjust. If nothing else, the mat complete with paralyzed man slowly being lowered to rest in front of them would surely have made them lose track of what Jesus was saying. Yet it doesn’t seem to do so. There is no record of people complaining at having to make space for a man on a mat. They simply parted, allowing the four friends above to rest their needy friend at Jesus’ feet for healing. Both body and soul. 

In a turn of events no one expected, Jesus doesn’t immediately heal the man’s obvious physical condition. Not because He lacks compassion. Not because He doesn’t care. Jesus looks at that man and sees his needs. All of them. The acute and then the chronic. Jesus heals his heart first. Forgives his sin. Cares for the eternal that is so much more important than the physical. And then He stops to have a conversation with the intractable teachers of the law. The guys who were there, not for salvation or healing or knowledge, but to find fault and carry tales. Men who had already judged Him a menace and were taking up space attempting to prove it. Men who clearly didn’t have the same type of friends as the man lying on the mat. 

The four expectant faces watching from the sides of the newly formed skylight fell in disappointment. They had been hoping for something more. Something physical. Something that would change their friend’s circumstances. Exchanging a round of irritated glances, they nearly acted on the impulse to jump down and put those interrupting men in a headlock. Couldn’t they see the guy on the floor clearly needing more time with Jesus? Just as they were scrambling to their feet to intervene, Jesus handled the situation for them. Looking at their spiritually whole but physically broken friend, He commanded, “Get up. Take your mat. Go home.” And he did. (Matthew 9:1-8; Mark 2:1-12; Luke 5:17-26)

At the end of accounts like this, it is nearly impossible not to wish for more information. What did those four men peering through the roof do when their friend grabbed his gear and headed for home? Did they speak their gratitude to Jesus through the roof? Did they holler their congratulations to their friend as he walked away? Did they shimmy down the house to shake his hand and check out his newly working legs? Or did they simply smile to themselves and quietly set about reconstructing the roof, resting their hearts in the knowledge their labor had not been in vain? Their friend who, that very morning, had been overwhelmed by his physical condition and allowing his spiritual one to slip, had been rescued by a meeting with Jesus. With the exception of fixing the roof, their work was done.

We should all be so blessed as to keep company with friends like these. Friends who see our needs and, even when we can’t drag ourselves there, carry us to Jesus. Friends that pull us back from the brink of an ill-fated decision with honest words of loving wisdom. Friends that pray and praise, encourage and support us through the darkest times of our lives. Friends who embody Jesus and bring us before Him day and night. Why? Because at some point in each of our lives, we become paralyzed by a sin, a situation, a circumstance beyond our control and we can’t manage to find our way anywhere. Our courage wanes. Our hope fails. Our threadbare faith gives way. We are tempted to spend the rest of our lives on our mat with our faces turned toward the wall. Good friends won’t let us do that. Good friends, friends like these four men recorded in the Gospels, will lift us, carry us, and lay us at the feet of Jesus. Right where we need to be. (Proverbs 27:5-6; I Corinthians 15:33; Proverbs 27:17; I Thessalonians 5:14)

Friends, the company you keep matters. Your circle of friends is immensely important. The people with whom you surround yourself are integral to how you live your life. Ultimately, they impact your eternity. At a time of year when we are encouraged to deeply feel the rage and disbelief at Pilate cowardly washing his hands and eschewing just judgment, at Judas selling a life that wasn’t his to sell, at the crowd’s defections, at the ignorant words of the unrepentant thief, I have to ask, what would be different if they’d kept different company? What if Pilate surrounded himself with men who encouraged him to rule with unwavering justice? What if Judas hadn’t fallen in with the Pharisees? What if the crowd had listened more to the firsthand accounts of James and John and Mary Magdalene? What if the criminal on the cross beside Jesus had kept better company beforehand? What if they’d all had friends that would bring them to Jesus no matter the cost? How would the account read then? (Proverbs 13:20; James 4:4; Matthew 26,27; II Corinthians 6:14) 

It doesn’t. I know. I get it. Jesus had to suffer horrible things at the hands of evil men. He had to die a brutal death on a rough-hewn cross. It was God’s plan. His will. So we could be saved from our sins. So we could be rescued from ourselves. So we could have eternal life. So we could keep company with God the Father. No bloody animal sacrifices for sins. No priest to do our praying for us. No temple veil to separate us. We can keep company with God the Father because Jesus fell out of company with those who refused to believe in Him and gave Himself up to death on the cross. For you. For me. For everyone. May we live there. May we be ever aware that Jesus laid down His life for the people with whom He wanted to keep company. His friends. His people. Us. May it make us better friends. The kind of friends that, when we see our fellow followers struggling, striving, barely surviving, we come alongside encouragement, help, hope and strength. Friends that never give up. Friends that don’t simply suggest one should go see Jesus, but the kind of friends that see each other’s needs, lift one another up, carry us there and lay us at His feet. In His presence. In the company of God. (Luke 23:42-47; Romans 4:25; Hebrews 4:16; John 15:12-15; I Thessalonians 5:11; James 4:8; Matthew 11:28; Romans 5:8,10)

Reading back over the words he’d just written, he had to admit the untrained ear would hear them as arrogant. Pretentious. Grandiose. They weren’t intended as such. Not at all. He simply couldn’t find words to properly express the truth that filled his heart every single day. Jesus loved him. Him! John. For no reason, he could think of. There was nothing special to recommend him. He had no fantastic gifts or amazing talents. No one spoke his name in reverent tones. He wasn’t renowned for his financial acumen. He was just a fisherman. His family wasn’t prominent. His pedigree wasn’t extensive. He wasn’t holding his breath to be tapped as the next synagogue leader. He was just plain, ordinary, nondescript John. The disciple Jesus loved. (Mark 1:19-20)

John lived in that space. Inhabited every inch of it. Steadfastly held in the unfailing love of Jesus, he daily rested in the complete, irrevocable awareness that he was loved by God. Personally. Not because he was amazing. Not because he worked really hard. Not because he was perfect. He wasn’t. He knew that. John was more aware of his imperfections than anyone. But he was also aware that Jesus loved him with a love that could never be tempered by the faults and failures, the flaws and fickleness. It was consistent, relentless love. Steadfast love in a wildly capricious society. (John 13:23: 19:26: 20:2: 21:7,20)

Resting securely in Jesus’ love didn’t erase John’s humanity. He still wanted the same things everyone wants. Food. Shelter. Money. Friends. Sometimes he wanted something more as well. Fame. Notoriety. Prestige. Peter wasn’t the only one pulling shenanigans. Flanked by James, John tried some hijinks as well. Approaching Jesus as a team, James and John requested a peek at the seating chart for Heaven. Who was seated where had become of utmost importance to them. They wanted good seats. The best seats. Prestigious, preferential spots. Places on Jesus’ right and left. Their minds had clearly already pictured the elaborate golden placards reserving their tufted, cushioned chairs. Their names emblazoned there for all eternity. Maybe they would say “James” and “John.” Maybe they would read “Sons of Thunder.” It didn’t really matter so long as they were seated in those specific spots. Them. Only them. No matter that there were other deserving men in their group. James and John arrogantly rocketed themselves to the top of the list and went to Jesus to ensure their request would be granted. We read the account and shake our heads at their arrogant selfishness. Jesus listened and loved them. Yet Jesus loved them still. Because Jesus loves people. All people. No matter what. (Mark 10:35-40)

There is nothing you can do to stop Jesus from loving you. Nothing can separate you from His love. Nothing. Not your sins and shortcomings. Not your doubts and fears. Not your wanderings and wildness. Jesus loves you the exact same way He loved John. There is no preferential treatment. You are the person Jesus loves. Relentlessly. Steadfastly. When you rebuff Him. When you accept Him. Jesus loves you the same way He loved those in every account throughout the Bible. His compassion is endless. He generously pours out His love on all humanity. Then and now. To those who believe. To those who don’t. To those who try to have it both ways, and end up choosing their status and wealth and earthly ambitions over Jesus. People like the young man who came rushing up, asking what he could do to obtain eternal life. 

Reciting the law to him, Jesus awaited his answer. Jesus knew he’d done all those things. He knew what the answer would be. He also knew what the answer to the second part of His directive would be. Jesus knew the young man would choose his possessions and prestige over eternal life. He knew His generous offer would be declined. Yet, knowing all that, knowing His words and love and kindness would all be wasted, in the pause before He made the offer, Jesus looked on that man and loved him. Deeply. Knowing he was already turned toward the exit. Knowing he would deem eternal life less important. Knowing the huge sacrifice the man would choose to make. Feeling the loss. Aching with the rejection. Hating the knowledge of what was to come. Jesus still looked at him and loved him. A sinner never to become a saint. Jesus knew, and loved him still. (Mark 10:17-22)

There’s something overwhelming for me in that. Perhaps because I’ve been there. Made poor choices. Gone the wrong direction. Focused more on the plumbline of man than the measuring stick of God. Having heard so much of His anger and rage, I cowered before Him, desperately wishing He would love me, yet never believing I was good enough that He could. I could never find myself in the same space as John, the comfortable place of knowing I was truly loved by God. Eventually, I picked up my Bible and read it. Allowed it to speak the lessons to me personally. Learned God for myself. Found out that He wasn’t actually waiting around corners gleefully hoping to see a misstep so He could brutally punish me. Understood that He loves me too much to let me stay in my sin, but His corrections are gentle and kind rather than hateful and raging. And I finally found that place. The place John rested. The place of knowing that I am the disciple Jesus loves. So are you. 

You are the person Jesus loves. Yes, you. Jesus loves you. Imperfect. Impudent. Imprudent you. The you that’s hidden beneath all the layers of superficial kindness and caring. The true self you can barely stand to uncover and behold. Yes. That you. Jesus loves that you. He loves all of you. Faithful follower. Finicky fruit inspector. Fastidious poser. John was that guy, yet Jesus loved him. I am often that girl, yet Jesus loves me. You are that person, yet Jesus loves you. Because no matter who you are, where you’ve been, what you’ve done or left undone. You are still that person. You are still the one Jesus loves. And He loves you too much to stand idly by while you die in your sins. (Isaiah 54:10; Lamentations 3:22-24; Jeremiah 31:3; Ezekiel 33:11)

Dear friend, you are the reason He came. His love for you is so strong it compelled Him to leave Heaven for earth, die a brutal death on a rough wooden cross, be buried and resurrected, so you could have the gift of eternal life. You don’t have to accept it. It’s completely up to you. Like the wealthy young man above, you can choose to chase worldly approval and sacrifice your eternity. Jesus will still love you. When you break His heart. When you shortchange yourself. When you sell out for so much less than you are worth. You will still be the one Jesus loves. And, someday, when you change your mind, heed His call, choose to come back, lay your sins, your burdens, your fears at His cross and follow Him, He will welcome you back. Today. Tomorrow. Ten years from now. He will love you still. You are the one Jesus loves. (John 15:13; Romans 5:8; II Peter 3:9; John 3:16; I John 4:10; Luke 15:11-24)

Gingerly, he shifted the line of drying parchments to the side, valiantly attempting to create space for the most recent sheet without smearing a previous one. He didn’t care to do a rewrite. He’d already been at this for hours. Mind meticulously sifting through memories. Quill carefully gliding over crisp parchment. Page after page had been filled. Day had turned to night, then back to day. He’d never have noticed had it not necessitated the lighting of a lamp. His roaring stomach loudly grumbled that he’d skipped a meal. Or two. The last meal he’d eaten was breakfast. Judging by the crow of the rooster and the sun peaking over the hilltops, it was breakfast time again. He’d missed lunch. And dinner. Rubbing his neck and rotating his head, John carefully paused a moment to step back and inspect the parchment he’d just slipped into place. His muscles were tight. His back ached. His shoulders were stiff. The joints of his fingers cried out in refusal when he flexed his hand. And his heart rejoiced. The words of Jesus, His teachings, His miracles, His life, were inscribed on those pages. Words of life for the lives of people.  

No price could be placed on the importance of preserving the words and events inscribed on those pages. They were invaluable. For earthly life. For eternal life. Everyone needed them. Not one person was exempt. John. His family. His friends. His neighbors. People living and those yet to be born. Everyone, everywhere needed those words. Coming generations would be no different than those of his day. Eventually, they would find themselves urgently needing to read, know, and understand these teachings. Because every generation would find themselves in a position to fall away. Away from belief in Jesus Christ. Away from His teachings. Away from His commandments, His principles, His requirements. Every generation would find themselves tempted to rewrite the truth, retell the stories, reinterpret the facts. They would be urged to make the immutable commands of God more palatable. They needed John’s writings, the unadulterated words of Jesus Christ, because they would desperately need to know the path to follow. So they would not fall away. 

Those words were among the last things Jesus said to His disciples. After three years of teaching and talking, living and walking among them, He was going away. They weren’t coming. Couldn’t come. They had to stay behind as lights in the darkened world. But He hadn’t been lax while He was with them. He’d prepared them for this very moment. Every lesson, every sermon, every parable, every moment had been a preparation for the time when He would not physically be among them. He’d told them everything they needed to know. Jesus’ heart for them was that they wouldn’t fall away. From righteousness. From holiness. From God. John’s heart, his reason for long hours uncomfortably bent over a cramped writing desk, was to share the words and life and lessons of Jesus with posterity for the exact same reason. So they wouldn’t fall away. (John 13:31-33, 14:1-12, 15:4-14, 16:1; Matthew 5:14-16)

John had seen the dangers of falling away firsthand. Seated around the table at their final meal with Jesus before His death, the disciples had been surprised to hear that one of their own would betray Him. Someone they knew. Someone they trusted. Someone who had been there when Jesus stilled the sea, gave sight to the blind, healed the lame and multiplied a sack lunch. Someone who was right there to witness Lazarus walking out of the tomb at Jesus’ command. Someone who had heard the same teachings and truths they had all heard, was already in the throes of defection. Someone had fallen away. Offered Jesus’ head to the Pharisees. Sold His life to the chief priests. Would soon be handing Him over to death.  It was unimaginable. It was inconceivable. Yet it happened. (Matthew 26:20-25; John 18:1-5)

He’d been in the garden when Judas, a trusted friend and fellow disciple, approached with a group of soldiers, chief priests, and Pharisees to arrest Jesus. The defection stung. The betrayal cut deeply. The sneer on Judas’ face as he approached and kissed Jesus’ cheek raised bile in the back of John’s throat. Although he may not have known at that moment, John would surely later learn the impetus behind Judas’ actions. The love of money truly is the root of all evil. Judas obviously hadn’t been paying attention to the dialogue between Jesus and the wealthy young man who came seeking eternal life without sacrifice. He must not have heard Jesus’ response that valuing earthly treasures above eternal ones would never result in eternal life. If he heard, he didn’t listen. Judas was in the same trench with the saddened young man who refused to diminish his earthly wealth to gain eternal riches. His love for money superseded his desire for Jesus. For just 30 pieces of silver, he sacrificed Jesus’ life and his own eternity. Money was the thing Judas wouldn’t give up to save his soul. It was the thing that made him fall away.  (Matthew 6:24, 16:26, 26:14-15; I Timothy 6:10; Mark 10:17-23)

Unfortunately, Judas wouldn’t be the only one of them to stumble and fall away. Following at a short distance as they led Jesus into the high priest’s courtyard, Peter found a seat among those gathered around a fire warming themselves. He intended to quietly wait out the hearing. Gain information. Go back and tell the others what he’d learned. Except he didn’t learn what he thought he would. He didn’t learn anything new about Jesus. He learned only something old about himself. The old self-preservation was still alive and well. The old habit of denial and falling in with the crowd was still thriving in his heart. He was still fearful and largely faithless. Just like he’d been when he tried to walk on water. His spirit was willing, but his flesh was weak. He wanted to stand up for Jesus, but his fear of being mocked, abused, or persecuted silenced his voice. Jesus had warned him about this. 

 Hearing Jesus say He was going away but they were staying behind had set off Peter’s impetuousness. He wasn’t having that. He couldn’t think of anywhere Jesus was going that he wouldn’t follow. He loved Jesus more than anything. More than anyone. He would follow Him anywhere. Even death. He’d go there too. Except he wouldn’t. Wouldn’t even be tempted to. When it came down to it and his neck was on the line, Peter would deny even knowing Jesus. Not once. Not twice. Three times. He would adamantly furrow his brow and fervently deny any affiliation. When everything seemed safe and easy, Peter was happy to loudly proclaim his relationship with Jesus. But when things grew dark and threatening, Peter was a coward. Afraid to stand for truth. Afraid to proclaim holiness. Afraid to claim even a passing acquaintance with Jesus. Too afraid of the social status quo, the opinions of influencers, the current tilt of the religious world. Too worried about perception and persecution. Too concerned for his physical safety, Peter forgot about his spiritual security. And he fell away. (Luke 22:54-62; John 13:31-38, 19:15-18,25-27)

Thankfully, Peter didn’t stay there. Fallen away. Denying Christ. No. Within minutes of his third denial, Peter can be found face first in the ground, sobbing his heart out in repentance, gaining spiritual restoration. The same kind of restoration John later wrote about in his first epistle. Encouraging the Christians of that day to walk in the light of God and refrain from sin, John assures them that, if they do sin, the blood of Jesus Christ is still available. To them then. To us now. He paints the overwhelmingly gorgeous picture of Christ as our Advocate, standing before the Great Judge of all the earth, pleading our cause, offering Himself as an alternative to spiritual death. John eloquently reminds us that Jesus was the sacrifice for our sins. He died so we don’t have to. And He left His Word, His commands, His teachings, His stories, so we won’t fall away. (I John 1:5-2:2)

Everything you need to know is in your Bible. Read it. First. Before you read the news. Before you check social media. Before you pick up the latest Christian bestseller or listen to the most recent sermon from your favorite preacher. Read. Your. Bible. Know it. Memorize it. Saturate your soul so deeply in the Word of God that it is your first response in every situation. Changing times. Shifting views. Skewed media. Political agendas. Social influences. Varying opinions and irreligious ideas. No matter what, God’s Word stands. Its life-changing, life-giving, life-saving words last forever. It still applies. All of it. And you need to know it, so you won’t fall away. (Isaiah 40:6-8; Psalm 119:11; Psalm 33:11-14; II Timothy 3:16)

They were talking about him. Right in front of him. Blind he was. Deaf he was not. He could hear them. Every. Single. Word. At least it wasn’t derogatory. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t asked the same question a hundred times. Why had this happened to him? Why was he born without vision? Who was to blame for this grave injustice? Had his father committed a heinous crime? Had his mother engaged in adulterous behavior? Had he somehow, before his lungs inhaled his first breath, before his mind made its first choice, before his legs were able to carry him from place to place, sinned against God and been punished forever with blindness? Or was there another reason, a better answer for his affliction? Could there possibly be an acceptable explanation for the darkness he daily endured?

He’d never seen light. Had no idea what it was. Not because no one had tried to describe it. They had. In vain. His mind simply couldn’t conceive it. Others had tried to verbally depict the vibrant pinks and purples of a flower garden, the orange beauty in the sunset, the iridescent glory of the midday sun glinting off the turquoise waters of the sea. It was all to no avail. He’d never been able to imagine it. Any of it. Brightness. Colors. Light. All he’d ever been able to comprehend was darkness. The very concept of light escaped him.  

In the absence of sight, his other senses were finely honed. His hearing was sharp. He could hear things whispered behind cupped hands from several paces away. Every insult. Every insinuation. Every irritated complaint about his very presence. He could hear every footfall. Those who passed by close and steady. Those who hastened their steps. Those who crossed to the other side of the street to avoid him. He could hear the nearly silent movement of a stone whipping through the air. The whistle of a stick swinging too close to his face. The projectile of saliva flying in his general direction. And he could feel. The emotional pain and loss associated with his blindness. The stabbing pain of jeers and rejection. The mud gently smeared on his eyes. Except there hadn’t been mud on the ground. He’d have felt it. His feet would have slipped or sunk. It would have seeped through his garments. The ground had been dry as dust when he sat down. He’d found no mud in the area, yet here it was, without his permission, being slathered on his face.  

Suddenly it all began to click. The previous sound of spitting. The scraping of dirt. It wasn’t the nasty neighborhood bullies slinging spit and digging holes to trip him up. No. Someone had been creating mud. Intentionally. With spit. And they were wiping it on his face. Gently. Kindly. But still. Mud. On his face. It felt like an insult atop his lifelong injury. He’d endured more than his share of mistreatment, but none so severe as this. About to cry out in impotent rage, the man halted his words at the sound of Jesus’ voice. “Go wash your face in the Pool of Siloam.” 

They weren’t the first words he’d heard Jesus say. He’d also heard the answer to the disciples’ question. The one that haunted his thoughts and infiltrated his dreams. Who was to blame for his blindness? He’d found Jesus’ answer interesting. And relieving. Neither of his parents was a closet criminal. He hadn’t accidentally sinned somewhere in his past. He wasn’t being punished for something he knew nothing about. This wasn’t about him at all. It was about Jesus revealing God’s power to the world. So He’d made some mud, slathered on the original mud mask, and told the blind man to go wash his face. 

Although the command wasn’t issued with promise, nothing could have stopped him from obeying. Something else his excellent hearing had told him was that Jesus of Nazareth was no joke. When He spoke, it meant something. Something real. Something true. Something completely unbelievable. Grabbing the arm of the nearest person willing to act as a guide, the blind man made his way to the pool. Kneeling at its edge, he carefully leaned down, cupped his hands, and sluiced water over his face. Dirt flowed in rivulets down to drip off his beard and onto his clothes. He’d only gotten the first layer off. He could feel the muddy remnants on his face. So he dipped his hands again. And again. Over and over he washed and wiped and cleansed his face until every piece of grit and grime was eliminated. Clearing the excess water from his face and blotted his eyes with the driest spot on his robe, he experimentally squinted them open. He blinked once. Twice. Waited for focus. And there it was. Light. Color. Beauty. Sight. He wanted to tell the world. 

It wouldn’t be long until he could. Upon arriving home, his neighbors noticed the change immediately. He didn’t need a guide anymore. He moved faster than he ever had. Without help. The people used to seeing him sitting in the dirt beside the road, begging for coins or bread or the remnants of a half-eaten apple noticed it as well. They couldn’t believe it was him. Seeing. They even argued about it. To the point he had to step in. Tell his story. Explain that it really was him. Their minds couldn’t grasp it. They still seemed confused. Unable or unwilling to accept his explanation, they toted him off to the Pharisees. (John 9:1-12)

Standing before a group of men who were determined not to believe the power of Jesus came from God, the formerly blind man repeated his story. Again. Blind from birth. Begging on street corners. Mud mask by Jesus. Water from Siloam. Obedience. Faith. Sight. Nothing had changed. The facts remained the same. There were no opinions involved, only absolute truths. Yet these men who claimed to be so highly educated and learned refused to believe. They said it couldn’t be him. He wasn’t the blind man. He was a poser. A fake. A fraud. A liar. Demanding witnesses to corroborate his story, they called in his parents. 

Parents who didn’t go out of their way to help him. Scared of crossing the Pharisees to own a belief that would get them barred from the synagogue, they refused to commit to more than the obvious. Yes, he was their son. Yes, he was born blind. Yes, he could now see. But. They weren’t there when it happened. They had no idea who did or said what. They were unwilling to speculate on the true identity of the man called Jesus. So ignorant were they of all the details that they couldn’t be prevailed upon to answer any further questions. If the Pharisees wanted answers, the questions would need to be posed to their son. He was now a fully functioning adult, not relying on them for anything. They were off the hook. He could answer for himself. And he did. Brilliantly.

Summoned a second time before the Pharisees, the formerly blind man was over it. They were wasting his valuable time. Time seeing. Time doing. Time living. In answer to their leading questions, the man’s exasperation overflowed. He wasn’t interested in passing judgment on who or what Jesus was. Sinner. Saint. Prophet. King. He didn’t need to regurgitate the facts again as if, like a child, he’d forgotten some integral moment. Not one part of his story had changed. Nothing was different except him. If the Pharisees didn’t want to believe it, that was their problem. He knew the one thing he needed to know. He remembered the one moment that changed his life. He had met the one Man who had the power of God flowing through His veins. There were a million things he didn’t know, a thousand answers he couldn’t give, but there was one thing he knew with absolute certainty. He once was blind. Now he wasn’t. Because of Jesus. Unsatisfied with his answer, steaming mad and spewing hate, the Pharisees ejected him from the synagogue. It is doubtful he missed their company. (John 9:13-34)

There’s something genuinely lovely about this once-blind, now-seeing man’s frustrated outburst. Perhaps it’s the unadorned honesty. Maybe it’s the complete lack of arrogance. Perhaps it’s the abject humanity of his irritation, exasperation, and aggravation. We find it impossible to blame him for his straightforward speech because we identify with the frustration of having to repeat ourselves over and over again. And we can learn so much from his reply. He didn’t try to put on pomposity, didn’t attempt to demean or talk down to anyone, never used his experience to arrogantly exalt himself above the Pharisees even though the error of their ways was glaringly obvious. He didn’t try to draw them into an argument. No. In straightforward honesty, he humbly stated what he didn’t know. Then confidently followed it up with the one thing he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt because he had experienced it firsthand. The one thing he could prove. The one thing his life now exhibited. He had been blind. Now he wasn’t. Because of Jesus. (Ephesians 4:15; Colossians 4:6; Micah 6:8; Ephesians 2:8-9)

In a society where we are constantly encouraged to speak “our truth,” I hope your truth is about Jesus. I hope He’s your one truth, your only truth. The one thing you know with absolute certainty and stand on with unshakeable confidence. The one thing in your life everyone can see without you announcing it. The one thing they want to hear you talk about time and time again. The same truth the blind man had at the end of his trip to Siloam. Your soul was blind. Now it’s not. Because of Jesus. (Matthew 6:22; Psalm 146:8; Colossians 1:13-14; John 8:12; John 1:5)

The reptiles were everywhere. Hiding under rocks. Lurking behind tent flaps. Slithering from under bushes. Striking out at the unaware, unsuspecting, unprepared passersby. Their prey was woefully unequipped for the attacks. Fully distracted by their most recent litany of irritations and complaints, the Israelites were so busy bemoaning the lack of their desired food and the scarcity of drinkable water they didn’t even notice the uptick in reptiles sunning themselves on trailside rocks, slithering unhurried down the road, or coiled in the crooks of tree branches, secretly watching the world around them. Snakes weren’t an oddity. They weren’t endangered. Mostly they were too afraid of people to stick around. No one paid them any heed. Until they started biting. Ankles of walkers. Arms of wood gatherers. Young. Old. Healthy. Ailing. The serpents didn’t discriminate. They would bite anyone. Badly. Venomous kisses of death. There were no exceptions.

People were dying. Men. Women. Children. Those who had lived a lifetime. Those who had a lifetime yet to live. Losses were piling up faster than graves could be dug. Nothing they tried helped. Their normal poultices didn’t work. Their healing salves didn’t help. Their herbal remedies didn’t relieve the pain or save their lives. The bites would result in death. They knew it.  They were helpless to stop it. Their very existence was at the mercy of serpents. Undiscriminating, venom-releasing, life-draining snakes. It was more than they could take. 

The fear was suffocating. The death toll was rising. The constant vigil to preserve life was both physically and emotionally draining. The knowledge they had likely brought this on themselves banged away inside their brains. If only they hadn’t whined. If only they hadn’t complained. If only they hadn’t loved the food and comforts of the world more than they loved God. Yes. It was their fault this disaster had befallen them. And it was their responsibility to do something about it. They had to own it. Own responsibility for their actions and inactions. Own their sin. They needed to humble themselves. Step back their words. Retract their complaints. They needed to repent. Surely through repentance they could appeal to the merciful God who could eliminate the havoc-wreaking, life-draining serpents. 

Approaching Moses, their humility firmly in place, the people admitted their sin. They had audaciously complained about God’s provision and protection. They had ridiculed Moses’ leadership skills. They had unendingly whined about food and water even when they weren’t starving or dehydrated. They fussed because they weren’t getting the delicacies their sinful hearts desired. The wrong was completely theirs. They knew it then. They knew it now. Then they didn’t care. Now they did. Now they needed deliverance from evil. Now they needed protection from serpents. Now they needed a cure for certain death. So, with heads bowed over clasped hands, they came to Moses and asked him to pray. Specifically. Not for forgiveness of the sins they acknowledge committing. Not for an attitude adjustment. Not for heart holiness. Not for spiritual renewal, revision or revival. No. The people had only one request. Ask God to eradicate the snakes. 

Their request reeks of entitlement. They didn’t bother to truly repent or even apologize for their egregious behavior. They weren’t interested in changing. No one asked what they could do to alter the trajectory of their circumstances. They weren’t considering overhauling their souls. They weren’t looking for renewed hearts, reinvigorated dedication to God, greater faith, deeper trust, or hope that would stand firm in the face of impossibilities. They weren’t looking for spiritual healing. They were asking for a skin-deep answer to a soul-deep disease. They didn’t want to be better people. They were happy with the sinfulness of their filthy hearts. All they wanted was for God to remove the snakes. Take away their immediate pain. Fix their current problem. And they were offering nothing in return. Not one thing. It comes as no surprise that God declined. 

God didn’t choose to remove the snakes from among the people. He didn’t just sweep away their problem. He didn’t fix it so they could go on about their selfish ways. No. God left the snakes slithering among them. Extremely venomous. Ridiculously vicious. No medical cure in sight. But there was an offer of hope. A way to escape the death sentence of the bite. Moses, instructed by God, created a snake of bronze, attached it to a pole, and stood it among the people. The snakes would still live among them. The people would still be bitten. The venom would continue to be life-threatening. Except now there was a way of escape. Now there was a cure. Now the serpent-bitten human could make their way to the pole, look up at the bronze snake, and live. The sight alone would save their life. Physically. And they were content with that. (Numbers 21:4-9)

They shouldn’t have been. It was far too short-sighted. It would save their physical lives, but would do nothing for their souls. It fixed their present, but didn’t salvage their future. They could sit and stare at that snake all day, but it wouldn’t change their hearts. It wouldn’t place in them a hunger and thirst for righteousness. It would make them choose permanent holiness over their own fleeting happiness. It wouldn’t make them live with eternity ever in their sights. Even if they made an effort to change, and so often they did, it would be only a short time before they would go back to following the evil desires of their own hearts. They would run after idols. Take forbidden wives. Seek earthly pleasures. Abandon the God who had brought them out of bondage and provided lifesaving food and water from impossible places. In truth, nothing would change. That snake on a stick might preserve their lives, but it couldn’t, wouldn’t, save them from the sin eroding their souls. It solved their current problem, but left their future destiny untouched. Why? Because they hadn’t asked for eternal salvation from sin, they’d only asked for earthly escape from the snakes. (Numbers 11:4-34, 20:1-11, 25:1-10; Exodus 12:31-40; Matthew 5:6)

Such is the unending, unchanging story of the human heart. My heart. Your heart. When you should be much more concerned about your soul than your social life, the opposite is often true. In a constant state of comparison with the neighbors, perhaps you find yourself angry with God for asking you to rely on Him instead of a six-figure income. Your heart fills with greed, envy, jealousy and covetousness. You whine and complain to all who will listen. You skip prayer time. You shorten Bible reading. You allow your heart to be overcome with thoughts and feelings that spew out your mouth. Then something real happens. Snakes overtake your life. Illness strikes. Layoffs hit. The car breaks down. The kid’s need shoes. The dog needs surgery.  A partner walks out. And you realize you need help. Real help. You need a miracle worker. 

Racing to your little-used prayer closet, you hit your knees and, with barely a passing acknowledgment of how far off course your soul has strayed, your entitled self lays a litany of requests before God. Just like the Israelites, you ask for your earthly discomforts to be fixed while ignoring the disastrous mess in your soul. You get caught up in the present and discount your future. You ask only for the temporal things you want, not the eternal things your soul needs. You ask for a snake on a stick, rather than the Savior from the cross. 

You need the Savior. More than anything. More than financial security. More than perfect health. More than a big house, a beautiful family, a picture-perfect life. More than all the things society says you need. More than the stash of goods your fear dictates you have. You need a relationship with Jesus. You need His peace that stymies the most brilliant of minds. You need His joy that transcends even the darkest circumstances. You need His love that never fails, never gives up, never leaves, never ends. You need His grace for the times you fail. You need His strength to shore up your weakness. You need His limitless power in the face of your impotence. More than you need anything in this world, you need Someone out of it. Yes, friend, you need Jesus more. (Philippians 4:7; Nehemiah 8:10; Romans 8:38-39; II Corinthians 12:9-10; Ephesians 2:8-9; I Chronicles 29:11)

 There are a thousand things that call us to prayer every day. Frantic prayer. Desperate prayer. Intercessory prayer. Constant prayer. Good things. Normal things. Things that require the miraculous. I’m not here to tell you not to bring those things to God. On the contrary, please bring them. Boldly. But. While you are busy bringing your cares and concerns to Him, bring yourself along too. Confess your sins and shortcomings. Examine the thoughts and motives of your heart. Ask Jesus to be your Savior. For today. For tomorrow. For eternity. And ask yourself this question. If you could ask God for anything and know your request would be granted, would you ask for saving from the discomforts of life or would you simply ask for the Savior? (Hebrews 4:16; I John 1:9; II Corinthians 13:5-7; Romans 10:13)