Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

They had fallen into idol worship again. Same song, second verse. From the king to the beggar, Israel was rife with idolatry. The Baals and Asherah poles were everywhere. Again. It wasn’t the first time they’d turned from God to worship something less. It wasn’t the first time they had traded His power for something powerless. It wasn’t the first time they were desperately in need of returning, renewal, revival. It was, however, the first time anyone had encouraged a contest between their idols and the true God in an effort to rescue their wayward hearts. 

Mount Carmel was teeming with people. Men. Women. Children. Everyone was gathered to watch the display. I can’t imagine why. What question could they possibly have about which God was real and true and sovereign? Did not their history clearly indicate the truth? Perhaps they were not history buffs. Perhaps the stories had grown uninteresting. Perhaps they had taken on a fairy-tale quality they found difficult to believe. Whatever the case, they gathered there on that hilltop all agog, as if the winner remained some well-kept secret. 

Eight hundred and fifty false prophets gathered around the altar they had built to their god. They carefully laid the wood, placing cut-up pieces of an oxen sacrifice atop. In keeping with the contest rules, no one struck a match, no one snuck in smoldering coal. They lit no fire. Both altar and sacrifice were stone cold. They were duped into believing their god would bring the fire. 

Fervently, they began to call on their god. Early morning became mid-morning. Their voices were getting tired, their throats scratchy. No answer came. They kept calling, adding in some dancing and jumping in hopes of a quick response. Noon arrived. Elijah suggested that perhaps their god was asleep, on vacation, or hard of hearing. Somehow they fell for it. They rallied, raised their voices, put on an even greater show. With swords they cut themselves, inflicting deep wounds, running rivulets of blood down their limbs. Wounded or not, they continued ranting and raving, leaping and lunging, erroneously believing their god would send down fire. It was all for nothing. Only evening arrived. No response. No voice. No fire. 

As evening fell and the prophets of Baal continued their obviously impotent pleas, Elijah called the people to where his altar would stand. He arranged twelve stones as God had instructed so long ago. He dug a large trench around the outside of the altar. Arranged the wood. Laid his cut-up ox on top. Then did something the contest did not require. Elijah asked them to pour water on the sacrifice. Four pitchers. Once. Twice. Three times. Twelve pitchers of water. Enough to soak the sacrifice, the wood, and flow around the altar. Enough water to fill the trench. Then Elijah began to pray. 

It took only two succinct sentences. An introduction. A petition. Two sentences and the fire fell. Not a little flash to burn the sacrifice. Not just a few flames and a lot of smoke. No. A raging, flaming inferno consuming everything. The sacrifice, the wood, the stones, the dust, the water lying in the trench. Everything. And the people, in awe and fear, fell to their faces and cried, “The Lord is God.” (I Kings 18) 

It is such a satisfying ending to the story. The unequivocal routing of evil forces. The unquestionable evidence that God is above all. The unforgettable proof that God will do whatever it takes to draw His people back to Him. Even when they’ve drifted down the path of least resistance. Even when they have voluntarily chosen to walk away. Even when they have substituted the passing pleasures of the world for the permanence of His presence. Even when those people are like us. 

We are not so different from the people of Elijah’s day. Our traitorous hearts have become distracted with the baubles of the world, with an easier way, with a path that doesn’t require so much effort and devotion. Although we have not erected altars, cast images, or physically prostrated ourselves before them, we have cast our faith in homemade securities and allowed them to become our gods, chased them down, sold our souls to have them. We have consciously rebelled against the undeniable fact that anything we allow to come between our hearts and complete surrender to Jesus Christ is an idol. Wood. Hay. Stubble. Consumable under the flaming, righteous judgment of God. 

I wonder what it will take to wake us from our stupor. What needs to happen for us to fall on our faces and exclaim, “The Lord is God”? What must occur to bring our languishing souls to the place we joyously welcome Him as Lord of our hearts, director of our lives? What’s it gonna take to bring us back to full surrender to God?

As I look at all the goings-on across the globe, as I read the stories, hear the accounts, I find myself asking this question with alarming regularity. So many days, annoyed, frustrated, worried, scared, I turn my tear-stained face up to Heaven and desperately cry out, “What’s it gonna take, God?” There is so much wickedness running rampant. So much readily available, eagerly accepted evil thriving around us. The darkness presses in so deeply it seems impenetrable. The siren song of sin is luring and beautiful and many have been drawn aside. In response to the heaviness in my heart for the people around me, I find myself asking again and again the question whose answer terrifies me, “What’s it gonna take?” (Ecclesiastes 3:16-18)

What would it take to bring morals and ethics and standards back to our country? What will it take to bring spiritual renewal to our churches? What would it take to bring revival across the land?  What will it take to bring us back from the brink of inevitable destruction? And always,  the voice I know as God’s, echoes back to me, “What’s it gonna take for you?” 

The question is close and searching. In Ezekiel’s day, it took devastation, destruction, and death. I don’t want to be like those people. I have no interest in those things. Yet I find it so easy to be distracted and drawn aside by the worries and cares of life, by the pretty baubles of the world. It is so simple to skimp on Bible reading, pray on the run. So many things are vying for my attention, my time, my energy that I can easily be drawn into a situation where something else has taken first place before Jesus. In that moment, I can cry and beg and plead and hope for my city, my nation, my world, but the prevailing truth remains, returning, renewal, revival has to start in me. (Ezekiel 22; 28:22, 24, 26; Mark 4:18-19)

   Chances are high you are in the same spot. The distracting things of the world grab your attention more often than not. The cares of life pull you aside more frequently than you wish they did. Other, lesser, things have crowded in and taken the top spot in your heart. Your relationship with Jesus is struggling, your surrender has waned. You want to cry and beg and plead and hope for your city, your nation, your world, but the prevailing truth remains, returning, renewal, revival has to start in you. (Galatians 5:7; I Corinthians 9:24)

So what’s it gonna take? What will it take for you personally to know, understand, acknowledge that God is the Lord of all things? What’s it going to take for you to throw your idols on the altar before God and make Him Lord of your life? What would it take for you to allow God to make you His kingdom on earth? What’s it going to take to make you surrender completely to His will, His way, His plan? Seriously. Ask yourself. What would it take to make you put all your chips in the middle for God, throw the applause, awards, accolades of earth to the ground, and surrender to Him completely? (James 4:7; Matthew 16:24)

That’s where it’s at. Complete, total, nothing held back surrender to God in whom all things exist, who holds all things together, and in whom we live and breathe. Are you there? Are you willing? Will you tear down your idols and put God back in the proper place of authority in your life? Will you let worldwide revival begin in your heart? If your answer is “no,” may I ask, what’s it gonna take? (Ephesians 4:6; Hebrews 3:4; I Chronicles 29:12; Acts 17:28; Exodus 20:3-5; Psalm 135:6)

With a weary sigh, he rested his forehead in the palm of his free hand. From the fingers of his other hand dangled the letter he’d just finished reading. The news was not uplifting. The sweat and tears and time he’d put in seemed not to have been enough. Perhaps he hadn’t spent enough time among them. Perhaps he hadn’t covered all the topics as well as he’d thought. Perhaps he had. Perhaps, in their young, vulnerable state, the evil one had set upon them and was wreaking havoc one little seed at a time. Whatever the situation, the church Paul had planted at Corinth was struggling.

Sin had been accepted into their circle. Immorality. Apparently overlooked by most members. Too arrogant to recognize their precarious situation, perhaps thinking they were too good to be troubled by this indiscretion, they didn’t mourn and reject the sin. They didn’t call out the member bringing sin into their midst. They didn’t rebuke the evil one. By not speaking their disapproval, they proclaimed their approval. It was not supposed to be that way.

Heavy-hearted, Paul sat ruminating over ways to help them, to reach them, to make them understand. He needed them to recognize the slippery slope they were teetering atop. Overlooking, accepting, allowing even one sin among them would begin the gradual unleashing of a fury of sins. It would spread among them. First one would be accepted. Then another. Then another. Their parameters of sinful behavior would become so distorted they would eventually be rendered unable to distinguish good from evil. He couldn’t let it go. He had to address the subject. Their souls depended on it.

The words would be hard. The lessons would be difficult. The directions he gave would possibly be ill-received. It didn’t matter, couldn’t matter. Paul wasn’t interested in coddling secret (or not-so-secret) sins! He wasn’t inclined to ignore or allow the spread of wickedness in their midst. He was wholly unwilling to risk the spiritual life of the church at Corinth by allowing the leaven of sin to remain and spread. It had to be removed. It could not be tolerated. It could not be embraced. He would do everything in his power to prevent their trek down the murky pathway of altering God’s laws in adherence to the current social status quo. 

Drawing a fortifying breath, he drew out a sheet of parchment, dipped his quill in ink, and began to write. Get rid of the sin among you. Literally. Kick it out. Do not ignore it. Do not approve it. Do not embrace it. Rebuke it. Reject it. Remove it. There is no caveat, no alternative. Sin must be eradicated or, much like yeast in bread dough, it will spread, puff up, and engulf the church in an arrogantly erroneous sense of spiritual accuracy. (I Corinthians 5:1-7)

Paul’s yeasty bread dough analogy works well for me. I bake a lot of bread. Occasionally I’ll think I’ve killed the yeast with over-warmed liquid. I still set it in the bowl, cover it, and wait to see if it will rise. Turns out yeast is harder to kill than I thought. More often than not, that dough rises. If left too long, it just keeps rising, creating a mountainous bubble, nearly obscuring the bowl. I punch it down, roll it out, shape it into loaves. They look almost pitiful in the pans. Again I cover them and set them to rise. Again the yeast rises. And I understand exactly what Paul is saying. 

Sin does the exact same thing. If allowed to remain in your life, it takes over. The excuses you make to keep it, coddle it, will become the building blocks for accepting more sin. It will blind you to the truth. Maybe you will find a Scripture passage and interpret it to accept your sin. Perhaps you will find a preacher on television who will tell you it’s okay because everyone sins. Maybe a friend will salve your conscience. Society will happily endorse your self-indulgence. Perhaps you will choose to believe them. Don’t. It will never be just that one sin. Once begun, it will grow and breed and feed into a multitude. It will fill your life, infiltrate every part of your heart. And sin, when its work is perfected, will bring death to your soul. (Ezekiel 18:20)

This is why Paul felt so desperately that he needed to address the issues in the church at Corinth. It is why the words seemed terse, the rebuke harsh. They were allowing sin to take over. They thought they knew it all. They thought they had arrived. They thought they were on a cruise ship to Heaven. They were headed for disaster. Paul knew that. But he loved them too much to allow them to float away without a warning. So he sent one. A forthright rebuke liberally laced with loving edification. (I Corinthians 8:1)

I hope they read it as such. I hope they read those difficult to hear words and felt the love beneath. As harsh as the words sounded, as difficult as the message might have been to receive, as ruthless as the set down seemed to be, Paul wasn’t hating them. He was loving them. He wasn’t yelling at them. He was enlightening them. Informing. Illuminating. Uplifting. Paul was more worried about their eternity than his eloquence. His love and desire for the people of Corinth to know and serve Jesus far outweighed his concern for the pleasantness of his tone or the gentleness of his words. He loved them too much to speak in such a way they might miss his meaning, leaving unresolved sin among them. Instead, his love forced him to say hard things, honest things, so they could be fully informed concerning the outcome of choosing to allow sin to infest their hearts, their lives, their church. Paul spoke the truth in love, seasoned it with salt, to the edification of their souls. (Ephesians 4:15, 29; Colossians 4:6; I Thessalonians 5:11; Romans 14:19; I Timothy 4:12)

Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but we are in dire need of the same edification from Paul.  It is difficult, if not impossible, to find an area untouched by sin. It clutters our hearts and chokes out the light of God within. It infests the world and pushes against our soul on every side. Sometimes we let it in. We sweep it under the carpet, hide it behind the cabinet, coddle, tolerate, ignore. We think we can control it. We think we can handle it. We can’t. Clearly. We have become a society that accepts wrong in place of right. We have become churches full of theologians that tweak Scripture to be more inclusive and accepting of our sins. We have become the nation depicted in Isaiah, calling evil good and good evil. We have wholeheartedly embraced the leavening of sin, a decaffeinated gospel, and are so full of ourselves we can’t even see how much damage we have done. (Isaiah 5:20; Proverbs 16:18; Deuteronomy 4:2; John 9:41; I Corinthians 2:14; Proverbs 30:6)

Yes, we desperately need an epistle from Paul. A letter full of truth. Hard words. Pointed lessons. Spiritual rebukes. Eternal realities. So many churches, homes, and lives are overwhelmed with the multiplying leaven of sin. They are starving for truth; many will be lost without it. But who will bring it to them? Paul has long since transitioned to his eternal reward and, although his letter to the Corinthians remains, many have entirely stopped reading it. So who is going to tell them? Who is going to warn the wayward preacher? Who is going to inform the faltering parishioner? Who loves deeply enough to lovingly speak truth for the spiritual edification of a world that is dying for lack of correction and reproof? Is it you? Is it me? (II Timothy 3:16; Luke 10:2) 

It has to be. Both of us. All of us. You. Me. Every Christian the world over. The responsibility lies at our door. We must become the loudest voice in the room. It is up to us to speak the words. Consistently. Preach the message. Don’t waiver. Don’t falter. Hold the line. Live it out. Don’t let even one little sin remain in your heart, your life, your home, your church. Fight for freedom from sin. Everywhere. Preach it. Teach it. Live it. Eloquent or not, speak the words. Lovingly edify. Someone’s eternity depends on it. (II Timothy 4:2; I Timothy 5:20; Luke 17:3; Titus 1:13; Proverbs 28:23; I Thessalonians 5:21)

An unexpected burst of laughter flew from Abraham’s lips. Waves of mirth shaking his shoulders followed by uncontrolled bellows of boisterous hilarity. The idea was preposterous. The suggestion ridiculous. The likelihood nonexistent. In spite of having heard the promise in the past, the concept was too fantastical to grasp in the present. So Abraham laughed. (Genesis 12:1-3; 17:17)

Sarah laughed too. Perhaps a laugh colored less with incredulity and more with painful disbelief. She’d heard the promise before. The first time Abraham had come to her and announced God’s promise, her heart had soared in joyful anticipation. She had waited expectantly. Weeks passed. Months. Years. Indeed, decades had passed since that initial announcement. Her womb was still barren. Her arms were still empty. Her heart was still ragged and broken. Her faith in the promise was so deeply depleted she couldn’t bear to allow herself to believe again.  So instead, Sarah laughed. (Genesis 18:12)

There seemed to be no other appropriate response for either Abraham or Sarah. They had believed for so long. Been disappointed so often. The dried remnants of their exhausted faith were terrified to believe the words spoken to them in their old age. It was beyond the grasp of their imaginations. Too much to hope for. Too much to risk. Their bruised spirits couldn’t withstand another round of heartache, another stretch of grief. So they laughed and went on about their business.   

They were in for a grand surprise! The meager faith that had brought them through harrowing circumstances and fierce trials in the past was rewarded. The promise they had begun to think was made in error was finally fulfilled. God filled Sarah’s 90-year-old arms with a wrinkly, red, squawling bundle of baby boy just as He had promised so many years before. He had not forgotten. He had not been remiss. There had been no miscommunication. At long last, at just the right moment, the promised son had arrived. And Abraham and Sarah laughed again. 

I imagine the countryside rang with joyous shouts of exuberant laughter at the birth of Isaac. Abraham was probably doubled over again. Not merely because they now had a child. Not simply because of the miraculous conditions of his birth. Not solely because their bloodline would continue. No. Their laughter was about so much more than that. It was about their faith, meager and depleted though it was, becoming sight. It was about God coming through just as He promised. It was the knowledge that, regardless of what happened in the interim, how much time elapsed, or how impossible the promise seemed, the God they knew, believed, and served would fulfill every word He promised. No matter what. (Genesis 21:1-8)

It is what God does. He keeps His word. Always. In His time. In His way. Our job is often to wait. Ask Joshua and the Israelites. God promised them victory over Jericho in spite of its mighty warriors. It seems the discussion among the troops would have been raucous. Was there not a different, more expedient way of dispatching their enemies? Must they really parade themselves around the city once a day for six days doing nothing but encouraging target practice by Jericho’s archers? 

As dusk began to fall on the first day of maneuvers, did they look to see if that stalwart wall was starting to erode? As they marched on day two did they glance up to see if any bricks had come loose? By day three, were they starting to question the likelihood of this endeavor? As they trudged around Jericho and saw no evidence of deterioration, did their minds wonder? Did their faith falter? Did they start to question if God had set them up to be defeated? Did the nagging voice of the evil one whisper that maybe God wouldn’t, couldn’t keep the promise He’d made? Were they tempted to change their tactic? Were their clandestine conversations of revolt? As they gathered together on that final morning, perhaps their ragged faith taped together with the barest hint of hope this plan would work. Perhaps as they lifted their voices in that shout, they used the last vestiges of their faith to do so. It is good they did. Because God had been busy all along. Whether they saw the evidence during the week or not, God was working out His purpose. There must have been rumbustious laughter on the seventh day when, at the perfect time, in the perfect way, God kept His word. (Joshua 6)

Truthfully, the hardest part of faith is waiting. I have no trouble believing God has the ability to work miracles. I have no difficulty believing in His power to change lives. I absolutely believe God’s wisdom is unmatched, His thoughts and ways greater than mine, His timing perfect. Yet still, between the promise and the fulfillment, I often find my faith fatigued. I feel frustrated that His methods do not match mine. I feel anxious that the answer is not instantaneous. I get antsy; try to move things along. 

It is such an ill-advised plan. Just like Sarai sending Hagar to Abram when God was slower fulfilling His promise than she hoped He would be. She tried to push things along, tried to fulfill the promise on her own. It couldn’t be done. The child conceived was not the promised heir. It was not the right time. Not the right place. Not the right mother. Sarai’s work did not result in realized faith. It only brought anger and anxiety. (Genesis 16)

My machinations never turn out right either. And, frankly, God doesn’t need my help keeping His word. I don’t have to hold His feet to the fire. He doesn’t need a thousand reminders of what He said. Not one passage of Scripture instructs us to daily remind God of His promises so He doesn’t forget. No. It says quite the opposite. God never forgets. He does exactly what He promises. The answer may not look like I thought it should. It might take longer than I hoped it would. In the interim, in the waiting, my faith might grow weary, start showing signs of wear and fatigue. That doesn’t change the promised outcome. In God’s way, in God’s time, He will keep His promise and my mourning will be turned to joy, my sadness to jubilation, and my exhausted, weary, weatherbeaten faith will laugh uproariously in exuberant joy. Because every promise of God is “yes” in Christ. Amen. So be it. (II Corinthians 1:20; II Chronicles 6:14; II Samuel 22:31; Joshua 21:45; Mark 9:23; Psalm 71:22; Ecclesiastes 3:11)

Perhaps you are in the waiting area of God’s promise fulfillment center. Maybe you have been waiting months, years, decades for the results of your faith in those promises. Perhaps your faith has taken a beating along the way, leaving you worn, worried, weary. Maybe you are tempted to maneuver an answer on your own. Don’t. You don’t need to. The fulfillment of those promises will come! God is working even if you can’t see it. His timing is perfect even if it doesn’t align with your calendar. His method is exacting and always gets the proper results, even if you don’t understand it. So sit back. Gather the tattered remains of your fatigued faith together and rest in Him. Wait for Him. In His way, in His time, God will keep His promises and your soul will reverberate with the joyous laughter of one whose worry, weeping, and weariness has been turned to joy. Yes. Amen. So be it. (Psalm 37:7; Psalm 30:11; Isaiah 61:1-3; Isaiah 40:31; Romans 8:25; Hebrews 11:1; Psalm 42:11; II Peter 3:9)

The clutching fingers of darkness surrounded them as the door swung shut, thudding against the side of their stalwart vessel. The walls closed in around them. The space felt tight. The odor of animal fur and sweat and dirt filled the air, tightening their lungs. Bile rose in the back of their throats. Their breaths came in short gasps. In a moment of panic-infused claustrophobia, someone raced to the door, frantically throwing their weight against it, desperate for fresh air and light. It didn’t budge. It wasn’t supposed to. God had shut them in. 

It wasn’t pleasant. It couldn’t have been. Animals everywhere. Paws, claws, and tails constantly underfoot. No privacy, no peace, no pleasures. It might have almost seemed like a punishment. Except it wasn’t. The ark wasn’t built to be a prison. The door wasn’t miraculously sealed to frustrate and antagonize the people within. It was for their safety. No matter how jarring the sound, the slamming of that door into the side of the ark was the echo of salvation granted by a loving God, sparing Noah and his family from the death and destruction raging without. (Genesis 6-8)

Years later, another door slammed shut. A door that should never have been opened. The door of Lot’s house. A house he should never have inhabited, in a town he should never have entered. A house in Sodom. He didn’t move there by accident. He wasn’t unaware of the rampant wickedness permeating that city. He’d started out setting up camp in the valley outside of town. His curiosity, his apparent thirst for the world, his own hunger for sin lured him inside the gates. It was a horrible error in judgment. (Genesis 13:10-13)

In fairness, God revealed to Lot’s uncle, Abram, His plan to destroy the city. In grace and mercy, God allowed Abram to bargain for his nephew’s life. If there were 50 righteous in the city, God would stay His hand. If there were 40…30…20…10, He would withhold His wrath. Unfortunately, the discovered righteous, if there were any, fell short of the required amount. But God’s compassion didn’t fail. He sent angels to rescue Lot and his family from the rainfall of fire and brimstone. It should have been an easy task. (Genesis 18:17-33)

They had possibly never been tasked with anything more difficult. The evil people of Sodom harassed the household to bring the angels of God out to them for debaucherous purposes. Overconfident in his reasoning skills, Lot believed he could dissuade them. He couldn’t. They pressed in. Lot stepped back. They pressed closer, nearly trampling him in their frenzied attempt to break down the door separating them from their prey. It was not to be. In keeping God’s previously set precedent, the angels of God reached out, snatched Lot inside, and the door slammed shut. It didn’t reopen. It wasn’t supposed to. The abrasive snap of the door slamming shut was a resounding exclamation mark ensuring the safety of Lot due to the faith of Abram. (Genesis 19)

Apparently, not everyone was relieved by the safety represented by the sound of that slamming door. Lot’s sons-in-law thought it was a joke. Lot himself was hesitant to leave, dragging his feet and forcing the angels to take physical action to preserve his llife. As the family was being led away by the hands, the angels warned them not to look back. At all. Not a glimpse. Not a stare. Not a longing. Do. Not. Look. Back. But the love of evil within Lot’s wife had her glancing back for one last, longing look at her beloved home. It was to her detriment. She never saw safety. Instead, she became a pillar of salt, sacrificing her life, her soul, her eternity for a last look at the things a closed-door protected her from. (Genesis 19:15-26)

Isn’t it odd how much we have in common with Lot’s wife? She was so sidetracked, so distracted, so addicted to the things of the world that she was willing to sacrifice everything for a grieving, longing, parting glimpse of her beloved sins. We do the same. We chase down the things of earth as if our very lives depend on them. We attain them at great cost. We skimp and scratch to secure awards and titles and accolades. We spare no expense, except our souls. 

But what happens when God closes a door? How do we respond when God looks with His heavenly vision into the future and sees the horrific ramifications of attaining our deepest desires and, in an act of grace, mercy, and love shuts the door on the coming heartache? When God sees impending doom, inevitable destruction, incomparable spiritual demise, and the door slams shut, what echo do you hear? The violent slamming of a door out of petty injustice, or the melodious whoosh of a door closing between your soul and certain disaster? 

What you hear is vitally important. It changes how you respond. Although it is likely Noah’s fun meter was at an all-time low about being cooped up on that ark for 150 days, he didn’t complain, didn’t fuss, didn’t ask God to change His mind or find another way. No. He preached as he built. Invited others to join him. Endured the laughter, the jibes, the questions about his sanity. Because Noah knew the closing of that door was the sound of safety and redemption for his family. The thud of that door was music to his ears.

Not so for Lot and his family. They balked. They didn’t want to leave. So ensnared and dependent on their sin-filled city, all they could hear was the siren song of the world calling them to hesitate. Pull back. Stay. Enjoy the pleasures of sin for another season. As with Eve in the Garden of Eden, the song of the evil one wove its way so intricately into their hearts and minds, they faltered in their exit. They had to be forcibly dragged from destruction. So deep was their love affair with sin, the slamming of the door was not the melody of safety, but the raucous discord of being denied their way. 

What about you? What do you hear when the door to your perceived dream slams shut? The job in the corner office falls through. The expected generous raise is reduced. The editor rejects your manuscript. Your acting and musical talents aren’t appreciated by the local theater. Your child doesn’t make the team, isn’t awarded the scholarship, doesn’t get accepted by the prestigious college. Whatever it is, when God, in wisdom, love, mercy, and grace, shuts the door, do you hear the melody of peace and protection or the cacophony of deprivation and denial? And how do you respond?

Does your anger explode? Do you rant and rage to all and sundry? Do you doubt God’s love? Denounce His wisdom? Deny His grace? Perhaps you question His intellect. Challenge His omniscience. Query His sovereignty. Do you weep and wail, beg and plead, kick and pry at that closed door in hopes of changing His mind? Do you allow the echo of that slamming door to build resentment and bitterness in your heart causing spiritual starvation? Or do you close your eyes and allow the subtle melody of a closing door to remind you of God’s infinite love, mercy, wisdom, and grace? Are you cognizant that a closed-door could be the salvation of your soul? Do you remember that His plan for you is good and will be accomplished in His time? Do you rest in the knowledge? (Ecclesiastes 3:11; Philippians 1:6; Hebrews 12:15; Mark 8:36-37; Romans 11:33; Ephesians 3:14-21; Colossians 1:17; Psalm 37:7)

I don’t know what door you are impatiently standing before today. I don’t know what you want more than anything else. I do know this. Humanity does not have a good track record of making wise choices. God does. So let Him lead. And, if the door closes, even in your disappointment, remember this, God is too wise, too loving, too kind to make a mistake or be cruel. If the door closes, it is for your safety. Physically, maybe. Spiritually, absolutely. God is busy preserving your soul. So sit back. Take a deep breath. Let the melody of His love and care echo in the silence around you and know this. God is for you and you can trust Him. (Isaiah 26:3-4; Psalm 121:7-8; Proverbs 16:9; Romans 8:28)

He hadn’t expected it to be him. Nothing had prepared him for it. Not exile. Not eating a scroll. Not being closed in his house, tied with ropes, and unable to speak. Not laying a siege against a brick as if he were a child at play. Not lying on first one side, then the other, to represent how long the people had been running from God. Not the eating of scant amounts of defiled food. Not shaving his head and beard to weigh the hair like a madman, then burn some, slice some, scatter some. Nothing, not even his wildest imaginations, had prepared Ezekiel to be the answer to his own prayers for his people. Yet he was. (Ezekiel 3-5)

As a priest, of course, he had prayed for his straying, sinful people. Many times he had sacrificed on their behalf as they did their due diligence. He’d begged God to forgive their waywardness. Perhaps, in the silence of an empty temple, he’d plead with God to somehow, someway bring them back to the old paths. Paths of obedience. Paths of righteousness. Paths of God. He’d likely never prayed to be the vessel God would use to bring them back. He’d probably never thought his life would become the example of their sin and illumination of their punishment. As his prayers ascended, it likely never crossed his mind that God would call him, Ezekiel, son of Buzi, one priest among many, to warn his rebellious people to sit up, take notice, and acknowledge that God is the Lord of all the earth.

Because he’d never expected to be chosen as the answer to his own prayers, Ezekiel was quite unsuspecting on that ordinary day as he stood gazing out over the river. I wonder what he was thinking. Was he wishing for a rescue from exile? Was he considering options of deliverance for his people? Or was he again imploring God to send help? Regardless of where his mind was, Ezekiel wasn’t expecting a heavenly visit. He never dreamed he’d be blessed with a vision of God. Fascinating cherubim. Magnificent Heavenly throne. The glory of God was revealed in a stunning display, leaving him speechless, awestruck. He wasn’t expecting it, but it was certainly welcome! That glimpse of glory dropped him to his knees, bowing in reverence, honor, and adoration. It was a welcome respite from the mess around him. (Ezekiel 1)

God’s children had wandered away from the paths of God. They had broken their covenant with the Almighty. They had followed false prophets. They had worshipped idols. They had profaned God’s house. So deeply steeped in rebellion, obstinance, and sin, their insolent hearts had no desire to change, to hear truth, to follow God. Waking them from their hedonistic stupor seemed improbable. They were disinclined to listen, even less inclined to obey. Fortunately for them, the merciful God of Heaven wasn’t done trying. He had a plan. (Ezekiel 5:6-7; 6; 7)    

As Ezekiel lay prostrate in reverential wonder that the great God of the universe would reveal Himself to a humble priest, the most phenomenal thing happened. That same great God, full of holiness and purity, upon which no human gaze could stand to rest, chose to speak. To Ezekiel. He called him out, set him apart, and assigned him a holy occupation. The formidable task of being the warning voice of God to a generation of people who didn’t want to listen, refused to hear, were recalcitrant to adhere. Yet God said, “Tell them anyway.” (Exodus 33:20; Ezekiel 1:28-2:7)  

There doesn’t seem to be a record of Ezekiel having second thoughts about becoming God’s prophet. I wouldn’t find fault with him if he had. I wonder how many times, knowing what response he would receive, Ezekiel sighed deeply before imparting the words of the Lord to people who would scoff and scorn. I wonder how often, if ever, he wished someone else could be the example, speak the words, withstand the impending rejection. Do we not do the same?

How often are you hesitant to speak Biblical truth into a conversation because you know the hearers aren’t interested? How careful are you to use less bold language about God for fear of offending someone who chooses not to believe? How slow are you to warn those headed down a disastrous path to turn to God because you are afraid they will rebuff you? How cautious are you to point out the goodness and power of God at work in your own life to people who would erroneously give His praise to you? How likely are you to stand up, speak up for God in a world aggressively seeking to deny His character, alter His attributes, refute His existence, prostrate His power? 

Our world is exactly there. It takes little time or effort to notice the unmitigated disaster our society has become. Depraved. Debauched. Debased. Degenerate. They relish their sin, rejoice in their defiance of God. They call it freedom, title it love, all while becoming more ensnared by the evil that binds them. Our society is absolutely like that of Ezekiel’s day, barrelling down a horribly ending collision course with eternity, heedless of the warning signs. There is just one difference. Where are our Ezekiel’s? 

Where are those God has called to stand up and speak out? Where are the people unafraid to call sin what it is? Where are the brave men and women who are willing to speak truth to a rebellious and sinful generation whether they want to hear it or not, whether they listen or not, whether they adhere or not to that truth? Is it you? Well…is it? 

As you sit in your comfy chair piously reading your Bible, thanking God that you have redemption and are not like all those other lost people out there, are you praying for them? Are you praying for revival across our deeply iniquitous land? Really praying. Not a quick prayer to salve your conscience and check a box on your prayer list. Not a half-hearted, disbelieving prayer that questions its ability to garner a response. No. Are you truly praying? Fervently. Faithfully. Pleading. Begging. Weeping. Asking, then asking again in brokenness over the imminent loss of souls. Are you earnestly praying for your world? (James 5:16; Luke 11:9; Lamentations 2:11, 18-19; Jeremiah 8:18-9:1) 

What are you expecting from those prayers? Missionaries? Ministers? Teachers? Prophets? Who do you expect God to call as a witness, an example, to your colleagues, your neighbors, your friends, your circle? Someone younger? Bolder? More effervescent? What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you do it? What are you waiting for? Writing on a wall? Lightning bolts from Heaven? A voicemail from God? (Matthew 9:37-38; Jude 1:23; Mark 16:15; Proverbs 11:30)

Perhaps it came and you missed it. You should check again. Ask God again whom He’d like to do His work. Listen closely for His response. It’s you. It’s me. It is everyone who claims to know Jesus. And it isn’t optional. If you truly know Jesus, you will do it. You will speak God’s message to the people around you. Preach. Testify. Write. Do it boldly. Don’t be afraid of those who disagree or dislike what you have to say. Speak God’s words anyway. Do your part. Open your heart and let God fill it with the words He wants people to hear. Then boldly, faithfully speak those words in love, in kindness, in truth. Don’t hide. Don’t cower. You have been called. Called to be an Ezekiel to a world that will die without one. (I Corinthians 3:9; Matthew 28:19-21; Deuteronomy 6:6-8; Psalm 37:30; II Timothy 4:2; Colossians 4:6; Ezekiel 2:1-7, 3:4-11)