Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

He was leaving them. The cold, hard truth settled around them like a pall. Fear tightened their throats. Anxiety settled like a ball of lead in their stomachs. They had been through so much together! Jaw-dropping miracles. Soul-stirring messages. Life-changing mentoring. Jesus was everything to them. They had given up everything to follow Him. Yet here He stood telling them He was going away. Without them. 

It had been the disciples’ first thought. Since the moment Jesus called to them, “Come, follow me,” they had been doing just that. Following Jesus. Everywhere. Anywhere. They hadn’t turned back. He’d never asked them to do so. Until today. Today was different. Today He told them He was leaving. Alone. This time they couldn’t follow. (John 14:1-5)

The thought was inconceivable. Not once, in all their years of following, had their finite minds considered Jesus would leave them. So swallowed up in the fervor of service and phenomenon of the miraculous, they had never contemplated the notion. They hadn’t thought far enough ahead to consider the moment when death would separate them for a short while. If there was leaving to do, they assumed it would be one of them. A defector. Humans are like that. Fickle. Variable. Undependable. Not Jesus. Jesus was constant. Dependable. Unchangeable. At least He had been. Until now. 

As Jesus’ words swirled around them, the disciples inwardly reacted. Worry threaded through their hearts. Fear wove its way into their minds. Dread settled in their stomachs. They had a million questions. They had to have. They were human. Although it seems they would explode in a cacophony of questions, only Thomas, Peter, and Judas voiced their thoughts. Perhaps the others were still mulling over His opening statement. Perhaps it echoed in their minds, reminiscent of words He’d spoken to them before. Perhaps they were reliving the last time Jesus had said to them, “Do not be afraid.” Don’t be troubled. Don’t worry. Don’t be alarmed. Trust Me. (John 14:1) It had been another evening when things seemed to be going pear-shaped.  

The bright afternoon sun had long since dipped behind the hills allowing darkness to crowd out the last blush of daylight. Light breezes that had spent the afternoon gently teasing hair and clothing now gained a less playful force. Jesus and His disciples were headed to Capernaum. If they could find Jesus. Everyone else was already in the boat. They’d been waiting quite some time. They needed to leave if they were to race the winds. It would be an arduous journey. Eventually, safety won out. They needed to leave. Jesus would find His own way. He always did. 

Buffeted by ever-increasing winds, the disciples strained to row their boat even a few miles. Muscles pulled and rippled with each stroke, but resulted in little gain. Exhausted from the effort and deeply concerned for their safety, they looked out across the hectic waves, gauging the distance to shore. What they saw stopped their oars and dropped their jaws. Walking toward them across perilously tumultuous waters, came a phantom clearly intent on boarding their vessel.  

Vigorously rubbing shaking hands over terrified faces, the disciples cautiously looked again. Surely it had simply been the effect of their overtired imaginations! But, no.  It was still there. Still walking. Still headed straight for their boat. Terror clogged their throats and bulged their eyes. They sat in frozen shock until they heard the words. Words of peace. Words of calm. Words of Jesus. “It is me. Do not be afraid.” (John 6:15-20) 

Although His current command resonated with the same peace and calm of the one He issued across those wild sea waters on the way to Capernaum, their response was not the same. He was announcing His imminent departure. Their hearts were stricken with grief and sorrow. Their minds were whirling with questions about an uncertain future. Fear for their lives held them in its icy fingers. Yet Jesus stood there calmly commanding, “Do not allow your hearts to be overtaken by fear, anxiety, distress, or worry. Put your faith, your confidence in God, and trust His plan.” It would not be an easy command to follow. (John 14:1)

Things were coming that they had yet to truly understand. No matter how Jesus had tried to prepare them for His betrayal, trials, beatings, and death, they failed to fully grasp the weight of  His words. They didn’t understand what it would look like to follow Jesus to the end of His life. They were too focused on following Him to the end of theirs. The idea of Jesus ever not being physically present was completely foreign to them. Surely, when faced with the loss, their hearts nearly fainted within them. 

So often I get the feeling the disciples never really comprehended what Jesus was telling them in John 14 until they found themselves sequestered in fear after the crucifixion. Closed in on yet another evening, they huddled in fear. Doors locked. Windows shuttered. Candles gutted. Words were few and only whispered. Terror hung almost tangibly in the air. Their hearts were troubled. Their souls were distraught. Their minds were frazzled by worry. At the end of their resources, when hope seemed lost, Jesus came.

Stepping into their hideout, He spoke the same message He’d spoken so often before. A message of peace. A message of calm. A message of hope. “Peace be with you.” Peace in the middle of chaos. Calm in the midst of fear. Rest in a world of tumult. Hope in a risen Savior who had gone, not to leave them alone forever, but to prepare for them an eternal inheritance that cannot, will not fade away. Jesus hadn’t left them. He had simply gone to do His Father’s business. In all the turmoil around them, they’d forgotten His promise of a Comforter and allowed fear to extinguish their faith. (John 20:19-29; John 14; I Peter 1:4; John 16:7)

The feeling is so familiar. In our world so devoured by a culture of fear, it feels there is nothing to do but cower. Our society is hurtling down a collision course with Hell. Flagrant violations of Biblical proportions are lauded as good. Sin accepted. Evil condoned. My ears echo with the cries of the weeping prophet, Jeremiah, as though he were walking our streets, bemoaning our sin, calling out to the people of our day, “Go back to the old paths. Remember the path your forefathers walked to follow God. Find it. Follow it. Find rest for your souls.” Sadly, his words fall on deaf ears. (Jeremiah 6:16)

As a Christian living in these times of pressure and panic, worry and fear, I find myself constantly drawn back to the words Jesus spoke to His disciples. Words of faith. Words of peace. Words of strength and hope. Words of Jesus to those who traversed the evils of that day and we who must carefully travel the thorny paths of ours,  “Peace I leave with you; My peace, the peace of soul only I can give, I gift you. Do not be deceived. My peace is not the same as the passing peace the world has on offer. My peace passes all understanding, settles down in your soul, and stays there. So. Do not allow your hearts to be troubled, worried, anxious, rattled. Do not be afraid…because I am with you now, will always be with you, no matter what is going on in the world.” (John 14:27; Matthew 28:20; Philippians 4:6-7; John 16:33; I John 5:4)

Don’t let the evil one’s fear extinguish your faith. Don’t be worried, rattled, troubled, or fearful of the things happening around you. Don’t let the world trick you with false peace, fake goodness, or faux joy. It will all pass away. Only the peace of Jesus Christ will last. May the peace of Christ rule in your heart above all things and allow you to walk boldly through the gauntlet of this world unworried, unrattled, untroubled, and unafraid. (Isaiah 26:3; Psalm 119:165; II Thessalonians 3:16; Isaiah 12:2; Colossians 3:15)

It is January. I would know it even without the benefit of a calendar. I’ve walked the shops, read the sale advertisements, heard the commercials, seen the billboards. It is absolutely January. The gyms are running membership deals. Diet plans are offering fabulous results. The shop aisles that just weeks ago were cluttered with cookie tins and a thousand bags of prettily wrapped chocolates are now laden with protein drinks, dietary supplements, and low-calorie snacks. Endcaps fetchingly display workout clothes, weights, and yoga mats. Their pristine beauty beckons to shoppers. It all seems like such a good idea. A great start to all those resolutions you made but are so reticent to keep. 

Perhaps it is obvious, but, for the record, I am not a New Year’s resolution maker. That is not to say I have never made one. I have. I’ve simply never kept one. Not because I haven’t started well. I’ve done that too. Yet somehow, as the shine of the new year dulls, so does my ambition to keep my resolutions. As I watch the heavily panting joggers in brand new spandex traipse past my windows, change lanes for safety while passing the brightly attired bicyclist on the street, and see the religious gym-attendees exit after their hour of cycling, strength training, and yoga, I straighten my spine and cling more tightly to the first line of I Timothy 4:8, “Physical exercise profits little.” 

Yes, I do realize Timothy was not exhorting us to sit on the couch, watch endless reruns on television while popping bonbons and crunching potato chips. But we have settled into that type of lifestyle nonetheless. Not physically. (I hope!) Spiritually. So many of us have been enticed into a religious lifestyle of relaxed complacency that encourages us to sit back, relax and enjoy the ride. You prayed the sinners’ prayer when you were five, were baptized when the preacher said you should. You attend church most Sundays, often take your Bible, and frequently manage not to glance at your cell phone more than a couple of times during the sermon. You’ve been faithful to your spouse, haven’t killed anyone, have taken excellent care of your family. Surely you deserve to relax and wait for Heaven.

Unfortunately, that’s your bonbons and potato chips talking, not God. Your flippant, devil-may-care attitude has played your soul right into the evil one’s territory. He is extremely good at what he does. Mesmerizing tricks. Comfortable lies. Enticing sideroads. Your unguarded heart falls prey to his evil devices with barely a glance. It will likely be much later before you notice how far you’ve strayed, how lost you are, how many idols you’ve erected.  

It happened to the Children of Israel. A lot. Even though they were God’s chosen people. Even though they had sworn a covenant to be His and His alone. Even though their very history proved them susceptible to straying. They didn’t keep their guard up. Over and over again they become complacent. Their heads are turned by the things around them. Earthly things. Strange practices. Enchanting promises. Strange gods. Time after time they find themselves far from the God they are sworn to follow, trailing after gods of wood and stone who have no power, no wisdom for guidance, no ability to save. Often it takes something enormous, oppression, affliction, or battle, to bring them running back to the God whose omnipotence they so desperately needed. 

I’ve read and heard the accounts of their multitudinous returns dozens of times, yet I am still busily fist-pumping the air every time I read they have turned back to God. Again. I am excited when they choose to re-dedicate themselves to God. I am thrilled when they renew their covenant to be God’s people. God’s alone. My excitement is barely contained as they clean out, tear down their idols, and throw them out on the heap. The eviction is exciting. The eradication of uncleanness from places reserved for holiness brings a cry of joy to my lips. And, as they throw themselves on the unending mercy of the God who is full of compassion and loving-kindness, who doesn’t keep His anger forever and who turns to listen to those who come to Him in penitence, I am there too. My cries mingle with theirs as, from the bottom of my heart, I covenant with them to be His. Fully. Completely. Only. Always. I mean it every time. (II Chronicles 23:16-17, 29:5,10; Isaiah 54:7-8; II Chronicles 30:9; Lamentation 3:22-23)

You probably do too. Every time you realize the extent of wandering you’ve done. Every time you hear a compelling sermon or read a convicting quote. Every time you suffer circumstances that turn your thoughts toward eternity. In those introspective moments, when your mind clears and you see where your complacency has led, you take stock of your life, check your spiritual temperature, and bring yourself back to God for cleansing. You cry out in reconsecration, rededication. You vow He will be the only God in your life. You make a covenant to be His and His alone. And you mean it every time. 

But crises don’t last forever. Pithy quotes are forgotten. Words from the pulpit fade. Over time you forget your covenant. The complacency returns. Your guard drops. Things begin to go pear-shaped. The world becomes more attractive. The place that once was reserved for holiness becomes cluttered with the unholy. It might not have even been a conscious choice, just a subtle drifting, a quiet parting, the choice of a path just off the truth. If, through the ungodly haze of worldliness, you happen to gain a moment of clarity, you will notice you have breached your covenant. You have abandoned your commitment. You have checked your resolve to belong solely to God at the door of earthly pleasures. Around your feet, you will notice the ashes of your good intentions. 

Someone, somewhere once stated, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” I have no idea where the phrase originated. I’ve only heard one person use it. No one before them. No one after. In fact, I’ve only ever heard it said one time. No one seems to use it. No one except myself. I use it. Regularly. I need it. I need reminded that the evil one is constantly throwing things in my path to turn my head, capture my attention, and draw me away from being fully consecrated, completely covenanted to be God’s and God’s alone. My intentions cannot be saved for another day. I must do them now. I must constantly be watching, guarding, keeping my spiritual house cleared of idols, my heart uncluttered by the unholy.

This task is not for the faint of heart. It requires extensive vigilance. Those idols will surprise you. We think we know what they are. Things like cars and clothes and houses. We picture them as physical–looks, money, prestige. Maybe so. Maybe not. Idols can be other things as well. Less visible things. Less noticeable things. Secret things. Deadly things. Things like envy and hate, bitterness and unforgiveness. Things like lust and pride. Things like fear. Things that bind us spiritually and keep us from living in the beauty of the covenant God makes between Himself and His people. (Philippians 4:6-7; Colossians 3:5,8; Proverbs 6:16-19; Hebrews 13:5)  

Like the ancient Israelites, we desperately need to clean house. Not just once a year. Not simply when hardships come. Not only in January when we are considering resolutions. Our commitment to the covenant we have made to be God’s people must be stronger than that. We must constantly be on guard against the things the evil one brings against us. Whether as a roaring lion bringing fear and desperation, or an alleged angel of light tempting us down the path of least resistance, the evil one doesn’t take time off. Neither can we. If we want to be covenant people, we must continually be watching, guarding, checking every spirit, every voice, every thought against the Word of God. (I Peter 5:8; II Corinthians 11:14; I John 4:1-5; Proverbs 4:23; Romans 12:2)

If we continue reading Timothy’s passage beyond the alleged negating of exercise, we will find this truth, “Godliness is the most profitable thing you can cultivate. It will give you spiritual strength, the greatest necessity for time and eternity.” So lay everything else down. Bag up all the things that hinder your relationship with God and throw them in the bin. Discard the excess that weighs you down, draws you aside, turns you away from following God. Cleanse your heart of the clutter, the complacency, the sin. Consecrate yourself to God. His service. His work. His plan. And covenant to be God’s alone. (I Timothy 4:8; Hebrews 12:1; Romans 13:12; Job 36:11; Isaiah 1:16-17)

I hope you will. January or June. Good times or bad. Feast or famine. I hope you make this covenant. A covenant with God to be His. Only His. A covenant to eradicate every unholy thing from the spaces of your heart and life and dedicate those places to holiness. A covenant to consecrate yourself for time and eternity to Christ. A covenant to leave the things of the world, the cares of the world, the pleasures of the world behind knowing that you will gain Christ, the greatest gain, for time and eternity. I hope you keep that covenant. Today. Tomorrow. Next week. Next month. Next year. Forever. In a world of broken promises, breached contracts, and nullified covenants, I hope you choose to be God’s covenant people. People sworn to be His alone, to do His will alone, no matter what. Covenant people of God. (Isaiah 43:1; I Peter 2:9; Ephesians 4:20-5:21: Colossians 3:1-3; Isaiah 5:3)

The skepticism that pervaded their group of colleagues at their peculiar request was now doing its best to settle into their hearts as well. The journey seemed unending. The scenery rarely changed. The star never stopped moving. Neither did they. But they were tired. The cross-country trek had lasted longer than anticipated. They missed home, family, decent food, decent beds. Doubt was lurking at the edge of their minds. A mental barrage of questions meant to keep them from completing their mission were firing in rapid succession through the silent hours of the trip. 

What if their colleagues were right? What if those words they had marked down to jealousy were words of wisdom instead? What if they had followed their excitement rather than the announcing star? What if the skeptics were right? What if they had embarked on a fool’s errand?

As they exited yet another town that could tell them nothing about the Child they sought, surely, they were tempted to quit wandering, quit seeking, quit following. They knew how to get back to where they had started. They didn’t know how to go forward. The uninviting sea of desert sand between them and the next town had no visible path for travel. They had no way of knowing what dangers lurked along the way. There was no highway patrol. No emergency services. No rest stops with maps to guide their way. There was only a star. Yet still they chose to follow. 

 Greater than an oasis in the desert must have been their relief upon arriving in Jerusalem and finding people who actually had information regarding their quest. Not just any information, either. Critical information. Practically a GPS pin drop. Bethlehem of Judea. The current priests and scribes, quoting a prophet from centuries before, said this is where they should go. They didn’t even unpack their camels. 

Cautiously optimistic, they set out for Bethlehem, carefully following the directions laid out for them in their last meeting with Herod. It had been an odd meeting. Clandestine. Reeking of desperation and something else they couldn’t quite define. Something strange. Rather than sending his own delegation on the short journey, Herod requested they find the Child then come back and tell him where to go so he could meet Him also. Apparently, he was incapable of traveling the six miles necessary for faith to become sight. 

The Magi were not. They were ready to go. What was a few more miles compared to what they had already traveled? And the star was on the move again. They probably had clear directions to Bethlehem. They likely didn’t need the guidance of the star to get there. But they’d been relying on it for so long it was like second nature to keep their eyes glued to that star. Map or no map. Directions or no directions. Well-beaten path or off-road journey. They were following that star. 

It’s a good thing they were. Without it they might not have found the Child for which they sought. Even in a small town, a door to door search would have taken much longer and they might have missed Him. Perhaps He’d have been out in the village with Mary. Maybe they’d have been out for a walk. Maybe He’d have been down for a nap and Mary wouldn’t have wanted to waken Him. The maybe’s simply don’t matter, because they were unswervingly following the finger of God in the form of a star leading them to the place their faith, no matter how battered, beat upon or beleaguered it had become during the trek, could become sight. It’s a good thing they never lost sight of that star! (Matthew 2:1-12)

What if they had? What if halfway through their journey, after another dead-end inquiry, they decided to give up and turn back? What if their desire for the comforts of home and pleasures of their normal lives superseded their need to discover the miracle to which the star was leading? What if, when they talked to Herod and found neither he nor the local priests and scribes felt it imperative to make the short journey at the possibility of meeting the Christ Child, they had rendered it unimportant and stopped short? What would they have missed if they had, even for a moment, stopped following the leading star of God?

My heart rejoices that they didn’t stop. Those men, wise in the eyes of their colleagues, wandered for miles, wondering where that star was taking them. If they were wrong, their credibility would be shattered. Their work viewed with a jaundiced eye. Their future employment jeopardized. By all human standards, it was an incredible risk requiring enormous faith. 

Following God often is. Ask all those men to whom Jesus simply said, “Come. Follow me.” He didn’t try to sell the journey by outlining unfathomable miracles of healing and cleansing and wine-making. He didn’t warn them of perilous times of narrow escapes and unrighteous judgment. He didn’t give them a list of options and the results of their choices. He simply called them to follow. And they did. Without question. Without directions. Without distraction. (Luke 5:10, 27-28; Mark 1:17-18; Matthew 4:19-22; John 1:43)

So must we. At a time when everything seems uncertain, when expressing our faith is frowned upon, when being a true follower of Jesus Christ is uncommon and unaccepted, Jesus speaks to us the same words He spoke to the men who would become His disciples, “Come. Follow me.” Like the wise men who were called through God’s star and the disciples who were called by Jesus Himself, you, too, are being called to follow Jesus. The choice is yours. Will you follow Him regardless of the uncertainty? Will you keep following when you can’t see the next step? Will you trust His heart even when you can’t see His complete plan? Will you allow Him to fill your heart with the wonder of His presence and let your enamored soul wander wherever He leads you? (Luke 9: 57-62; Matthew 10:38; Mark 8:34; John 12:26)

There are about two feet of pristine, glistening snow covering our front pasture. It looks like a lovely, even blanket spread before our house. Not everything is as it seems. If you were to trudge out across that field you would soon recognize that fact. As you approached the middle, the snow would deepen and become even more troublesome to traverse. Why? Because it dips there. You can’t see. Have no way of knowing it is there, no way of preparing for the snow that will most certainly fall down inside even the tallest boots. You can’t prepare for it unless you talk to us first. We know it’s there. We can tell you everything you need to know. 

It is the same with God. He knows every bump in the road, every turn, every dead end. He isn’t stymied by them. He has a way around, over, under, through. But you can only know that path if you are following Him, seeking Him, trusting His hand. When people seem skeptical of your calling, when the comforts of the world beckon you back, when the offers of fame and fortune, prestige and power attempt to turn your head, I hope you keep your eyes on Jesus. I hope you keep following Him. I hope you never turn back. I hope, as you walk into the blank pages of this new year, you confidently put your hand in His, settle your eyes on Him, and wisely wander wherever He leads. (Psalm 37:23; Matthew 6:33; Luke 9:23-25; Ephesians 5:1; Matthew 16:24-25) 

A gentle sigh escaped her lips as she tucked the blankets more snugly around her sleeping baby. She wondered if hers was the first baby to spend His first night on earth cradled in a manger. This entire string of events would make quite the story for posterity. The journey to Bethlehem made arduous by her advanced pregnancy. The untimely labor pains. The unsanitized delivery conditions. The birth of a baby boy to a virgin mother heralded by angels and winked at by a star. It would make for an incredible tale. (Luke 2:1-20)

Lightly running the backs of her fingers over His plump baby cheek, Mary ruminated on what the future held for her newborn Son. Every fiber of her being wanted Him to stay at the family home, follow Joseph into carpentry, live, love, and die right there in their hometown. Her heart told her otherwise. She knew who He really was. She knew why He’d really come. She knew He was the fulfillment of the prophecies they’d been hearing for hundreds of years but did she know, did she surmise, did she have even the slightest notion her Son, the Messiah, would eat with publicans and sinners? Did she know He’d speak with unworthy women? Did she know the places He’d visit, the people He’d touch? Did Mary fully comprehend all the reasons He came? 

It seems unlikely. How could she? She couldn’t possibly have known about a tiny tax collector who scampered up a sycamore tree in hopes of catching just a glimpse of Jesus. As the crowd lined the street of Jericho, pressing together, hoping to be the one to whom the great Teacher spoke, Zaccheus tried to wedge his way in. It was an exercise in futility. He wasn’t tall enough, strong enough, liked enough for anyone to give way and let him through. Chief tax collector. Wealthy by scam. He had nothing to recommend him. No one to help him see. 

Frantically glancing down the road, his eyes fell on a giant sycamore tree. Its strong, leafy branches extended over the roadway. Immediately inspiration struck. Wheeling around, he raced behind the crowd, dodging children and a few straggling adults. With only seconds to spare, he scampered up into the tree and settled in those branches just above the road. Thinking to look from a distance and salvage the pride of needing to climb a tree in the first place, Zaccheus hunkered down among the leaves and branches of the tree. He only meant to look, after all. 

Stopping beneath the tree, Jesus looked up at the dangling feet visible through the leaves and called Zaccheus out. By name. He literally said, “Zaccheus, come down, I need to stay at your house today.” There was no hiding from Jesus. He came specifically for this reason. To seek and save the lost. And Zaccheus was certainly lost. Cheat. Scammer. Sinner. Those were all him. Until now. Now he had a reason to change. A reason to do better, be better. A reason to view eternity with hope, regardless of his past. A reason to look in his mirror and say, “I’m the reason He came.” (Luke 19:1-10)

Surely Mary never dreamed her Son would take a seat by a well in Samaria and strike up a conversation with a woman. A Samaritan woman. Astonished to see a Jewish man sitting nearby, the woman was even more flabbergasted when He asked her for a drink. What was He thinking? Jews didn’t talk to Samaritans. Ever. Yet there He sat, calmly asking her for a drink and talking about living water. Water that would eternally quench the thirst of her parched soul. 

She badly wanted that water! Her life was a mess. She’d spent years trying to satisfy the cravings of her sin-ridden heart. Husband after husband. Now a man who wasn’t her husband. The things they whispered about her were every one true. Adulteress. Sinner. Steeped in embarrassment, she’d quit trying to change. Hung her head in shame. Avoided the good people in town. Until now. Now she had reason to believe she could change. Reason to think help and hope were available. Reason to believe a heavenly eternity was possible. Even for her. A reason to peer in the looking glass her third husband had gifted her and say, “I’m the reason He came.” (John 4:4-26)

Caught up in his own goodness, the wealthy young ruler never thought for a second that eternal life wasn’t possible for him. He’d earned it. He’d kept all the commandments. Been faithful to his wife. Never killed anyone. The sheer magnitude of His wealth made stealing superfluous. His lofty social standing eradicated the need to embellish or alter the truth. He deeply revered his parents. He literally had no faults. No sins. He was flawless. Except he wasn’t. 

Never in a million words could that young man have predicted the words that would come from Jesus’ mouth. “Sell everything. Bless the poor. Follow me.” Mouth agape, the man stood in shocked silence. Sell it all? Everything he loved? Give up his lifestyle, his friends, his family, his things? No way! His things were too precious. His status too valuable. His lifestyle too comfortable. He loved them all more than he loved Jesus. 

Yet still Jesus offered. Knowing the outcome, knowing the deficit in that young man’s heart, Jesus still took the time to offer. Not some meaningless frippery He’d never have to follow through on, but a genuine offer for an eternal upgrade. Water of life for the dregs of sin. Found-ness for lostness. Heaven for Hell. For some elusive reason, the man declined, leaving us to wonder how often he looked at himself and regretfully bemoaned his loss, saying, “I was the reason He came.” (Luke 18: 18-30)

  Strapped to a cross beside Jesus, the thief had no misconceptions about what he deserved. He was getting it. His sin had brought about his early demise. The gaping chasm of a condemned eternity yawned before him. His last hope, his only hope, hung beside him, an innocent man condemned to die. It had been impossible not to hear the stories of healing and redemption and grace. They seemed like dreams and wishes then. Now they whispered hope. Hope for an eternal future. Hope beyond the grave. Hope that the last breath he breathed today wouldn’t be the last breath of his soul. 

Turning his head, between gasps of pain and the groping fingers of death, he accepted the gift hanging beside him. Forgiveness. Peace. Eternal life. Surely, on his final sigh, he whispered, “I’m the reason He came!” Because, in a moment of clarity, the condemned thief comprehended what we so often forget. Jesus came to seek and save the lost. All of us. Every. Single. One. (Luke 23:39-43)

We are each the reason Jesus came to earth. We are the reason He took on flesh. We are the reason He endured scorn and rejection. We are the reason He spent so many hours alone pleading with the Father for endurance and strength. We are the reason for His suffering, the beatings, the bleeding, the thorns. We are the reason He endured the nails. We are the reason He fought the harrowing battle to conquer Satan, sin, death, and hell. It was all for us. For me. For you. We all are the reasons He came. (Luke 23:39-43)

Billions of people have walked, are currently walking, and will someday walk this planet. We come from all walks of life. Our faces and skin, accents and languages, customs, and practices are all different. We are all the same. We are all sinners. Filthy. Wretched. Morally destitute. Spiritually bankrupt. There is nothing to recommend us. We deserve punishment for the sin in which we have so gleefully engaged. We deserve eternal death. But God…God sent Jesus to lay aside His divinity and put on humanity that we might gain eternity. We are the reason He came. All of us. Jesus came to seek and save the lost. Those who accept Him. Those who reject Him. Me. You. Your neighbor. Your boss. The thief, the scammer, the liar. The addict, the abuser, the adulterer. The murderer on death row and the prison chaplain alike. We deserve nothing, but Jesus gave up everything so we could gain something. The greatest thing. The greatest gift. Life. Abundant. Eternal. For you. For me. For everyone. The ability to look in the mirror, no matter who you are, where you’ve been, or what you’ve done, and say with absolute certainty, “I am the reason He came!” (John 10:10; Luke 19:10; Matthew 18:12; II Corinthians 5:15; I John 2:2; Romans 6:23; Revelation 22:17)

She took a moment to look long and hard at the reflection in her washing water. It was not a habit. In fact, she tried not to look. There was nothing to look at. Nothing worthwhile, anyway. The twinkle that used to be in her eyes had been replaced with the emptiness of shattered dreams and broken promises. The half-smile that used to tilt up the side of her mouth bringing out the dimple in her cheek had shriveled into a scowl of scorn and self-contempt. There was no reason to look at her reflection now. The unhappy picture was always the same.   

It had been a long time since she’d become who she was. So much had happened to bring her to this place. So many bad decisions, poor choices, disreputable resting places. She’d earned many of the names people called her. Pariah. Disgrace. Sinner. Some had been added out of hate. Unworthy. Unwanted. Unloved. She hoped they weren’t true, but couldn’t be certain. Years had passed since anyone had looked at her with anything but disdain. Fast fading was the hope that anyone ever would. 

Hope was like that. Fast fading. At least for her. She’d always hoped to change, be better, do good. She hoped for an opportunity to make her life worthwhile, meaningful, useful. The opportunity never seemed to present itself. It seemed she was stuck in an exitless cycle.  Over time, her hopes had dimmed. She’d nearly given up. Accepted her life the way it was. Wrote herself off as hopeless, helpless, useless. Almost. Until today. 

Today, that hope flickered to life as if it had never faded at all. She heard that Jesus of Nazareth was in town. He’d been the talk of the town for so long that even she had heard all about him. His miracles. His power. His teachings. His love. His mercy. His grace. She knew the idea He would speak to her was implausible. Good men never talked to her. But she had to know, had to find out for herself if His love really was for everyone. She needed to check for herself if His mercy was true. She deeply longed to feel in her soul the cleansing of grace she’d heard so much about. If it reached her. 

With boldness born of desperation, she loitered around corners she had no business frequenting, did a little eavesdropping, found a way to ask a few discreet questions. Finally, she learned where to find Him. She started to run in that direction but stopped short. She couldn’t approach Him without a gift. Wheeling around, she raced toward her hovel, flew through the doorway, scurried across the room to pull a vial of perfume, her most treasured possession,  from its hiding place. It was her favorite. A rare gift from a particularly pleasant patron. It was the best she had. It was all she had. She hoped it would be enough. Clutching her sacrifice tightly in her fist, she gathered her robe in her free hand and raced off to the place Jesus was said to be dining. 

She’d never been there before. Normally, she wouldn’t be allowed to enter. Today, everyone was so busy trying to impress their special guest they forgot to watch the door. Slipping in unnoticed, she tiptoed to the dining room. Hope surged in her soul as she discovered her information had been correct. Jesus was there! But doubt quickly evicted her hope. All those voices from days and years gone by sounded in horrific cacophony inside her head. Unworthy. Useless. Unwanted. Unloved. She shrank back, turning to creep out the way she had come. What if those things really were true? What if He said those things, too? What if she really was all those things people said she was? 

The first step toward the door was her last. She had to know. Had to hear it from His lips. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she stiffened her spine, squared her shoulders, and stepped out to complete her mission. The truth would soon be revealed. She would finally know if she was worth it, worth anything. She wished she had more to offer Him. A cleaner past. Wiser choices. Fewer scars. Tears of sorrow flowed in unchecked rivers down her face. Grief for an ill-spent life oozed out in groaning sobs. The depth of her unworthiness enveloped her like the darkest shroud. She knew who she was. She knew what she had become. She knew He’d have every right to send her away. Yet still she went. She felt compelled to go. She had to know if there really was love that reached people like her. 

Knowing she could never face Him, never be worthy of speaking His name or meeting His gaze, she approached from behind in penitence and respect. Fear and anxiety clawed at her throat with each step. How would He react to her overture? As she reached the couch on which Jesus reclined, she slid to her knees, crawling the last couple of steps. Upon reaching Him, she did the only thing she could think of to do. She began to wash His feet. Not with water from a basin as a servant should have done, but with the rivulets of tears flowing from her face. Tears of guilt, regret, and sorrow. There were certainly enough of them. They kept coming. Years’ worth of tears. Tears of rejection, pain, betrayal, and fear. She couldn’t speak, could barely breathe, so she poured out her scarred, aching, broken heart to Jesus in her tears.

And something beautiful happened. Jesus heard her. Every single word she didn’t speak. Every pain and hurt she’d suffered. Every end-of-the-rope moment she’d endured. He felt her woundedness. Every cruel comment, every name she’d been called. Every time she’d looked at her reflection in the water and allowed those comments to become who she believed she was. And, with just a handful of words, He wiped it all away. He simply said, “Your sins have been forgiven.” Five words. Only five. Five words wiped away the words she was so used to hearing. Five words changed the theme of her story to worthy, useful, wanted, loved. Five words changed her life. Five words He was born to speak over and over again. (Luke 7:36-50)

Imagine the emotion as this woman, once so brutally scarred, finally pulls herself together and leaves that house. Watch as she races back to her home, grabs her water pitcher, and sloshes water into her basin. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and leans over the bowl. Her hands are clenched in nervousness, but nothing can stop her now. She draws in yet another sustaining breath and slowly lifts her eyelids. What she sees brings tears to her eyes. Again. There’s something different there. Her eyes are softer, hope-filled. Her lips are lifted in just a hint of a smile. The aching sadness that etched her features is gone. The guilt cannot be found. Why? Because God looked down from Heaven and saw a different reflection than she did. He saw worth and value. He was moved with love and compassion. And He sent Jesus, to just the right place at just the right time, to change her story by speaking the words He was born to speak, “Your sins are forgiven.”  

I know there is more to this story. I know about the hank of hair drying towel. I know about the perfume foot anointment. I even understand the lesson Jesus is teaching. I’ve heard the account a thousand times. But today, well, today I can’t get enough of these words. I can’t get enough of their beauty. I can’t get enough of their value. I can’t get a strong enough grasp on their magnificence. I am overwhelmed by their mercy, love, and grace because I am a product of the same. Dirty, sinful, wilful, my unworthiness insurmountable, my tears the only words I could utter when I came to Christ. Yet still I came. Thank God! He spoke those timeless words to me too. I don’t deserve them. Could never earn them. There’s nothing I could do to redeem my life, but God…God sent His Son to be born in a stable so He could speak those words in response to my guilty tears. And I, when I dare to think on it, I am completely undone by His immeasurably magnanimous gift. (Isaiah 43:4; Romans 5:8, 20; Psalm 103:12; Romans 3:24) 

 Perhaps, in a moment of introspection, you find yourself sobbing over Jesus’ feet. Your sin and guilt and shame have brought you to a place where you can’t imagine feeling worthy or useful or loved. You acknowledge that you can’t rescue yourself. You admit you don’t deserve a rescue at all. You know, in the depths of your soul you can’t earn your way out of the mess you’ve made. Tears of hopeless, helplessness fill your eyes and cascade down your face. Know this. Jesus hears them. He hears the story behind the tears. He hears the pain, the regret, the remorse. He sees and hears and knows. And He’s been waiting for you to come. Waiting to speak over you those words He was born to say, “Your sins are forgiven.” (Ephesians 2:8-9; Acts 4:12; Titus 3:5; Romans 6:23; Psalm 103:10-11)

  I hope you listen closely. I hope you hear those words. Words of healing, help, hope. Words of worth. Words that change your story by flooding it in mercy, love, and grace. As the words leave His lips and land on your ears, I hope you let them settle down in your soul and heal your heart. I hope you wrap yourself in them like a sherpa blanket on a cold winter night and let Jesus hold you close through them. I ache for us to hear them! Really hear them. Grasp their importance. Believe them. Know they are true. I want those words to resound within our very beings in a timeless echo that will not let us go. Why? Because there is no greater gift, no present more precious. Christ was born for this! (John 3:16-17; II Corinthians 5:21; Ephesians 1:7; Colossians 1:21-22: I Timothy 1:15)