Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Gazing down at the tiny bundle quietly sleeping in the crook of her arm, Sarah felt her heart leap. Her lips involuntarily curved up in a smile. A bubble of laughter burst unrestrained from her chest. He had done it. God had done it. He had kept His word. He had fulfilled His promise. He had turned her mourning into laughter. In spite of her timid faith. Regardless of her moments of despair. In spite of the dark hopelessness that had often filled her heart. God had come through. She had a son. His name was Isaac. And Sarah laughed. (Genesis 21:6)

Laughter hadn’t always flowed so easily from Sarah’s lips. Years of sitting by and watching her friends and family birth child after child while she remained barren had drained the joy from her eyes. Congratulatory lip service had slowly leeched the happiness from her heart. Tears frequently wet her pillow. Sighs punctuated her days. Sadness shrouded her being. Mourning enveloped her soul. For all she’d hoped. For all she’d planned. For all she’d dreamed.  Her praying and waiting, hoping and trusting were apparently for nothing. Her dream of motherhood seemed destined to remain just that. A dream. Unfulfilled. Impossible.

No longer could she deny the truth before her. There would be no child. No son. Ever. Long past were the days when she could conceive and bear a child. She was elderly. Abraham was old. The possibility of offspring had ceased to exist. The ache in her heart remained. The questions that plagued her mind refused to let up. In the quiet darkness of sleepless nights. In the silent busyness of her daily tasks. In the midst of pleasant moments and sweet memories. The ugly question would rear its head. Why had God kept her from having children? (Genesis 11:30; 16:1-2)

Of all the women crowding the face of the earth, why had God chosen her to be barren? What had she done to deserve this? Why was she being punished? Were her prayers not good enough? Was her faith not strong enough? Were her private tears unseen, her sobs left unheard, even by the omniscient God of the universe? Was He penalizing her for something she had done? For something she had left undone? Why, exactly, was she the current whipping boy of the Almighty? 

She had tried to do everything right. From following traditions to following her husband. When God told Abraham to leave the safe settlement of Harran and set off for parts unknown, Sarah willingly, obediently, respectfully packed her bags and followed. When entering Egypt, Moses instructed her to lie about being his wife and she ended up living in Pharaoh’s palace, Sarah staunchly held her post as the obedient spouse. When Abraham told her God had promised them a child, yet she saw no sign of that fulfilled promise, Sarah tried to keep the faith. But a long time had passed since that promise. A long, barren desert of time. Now she was too old. Her body told her so. There would be no child. Not without a miracle. And Sarah was no longer sure she believed in miracles. Not for herself, anyway. (Genesis 12; 15:1-1-6)   

It comes as no surprise that, when the men of God show up on Abraham and Sarah’s doorstep, Sarah has trouble believing their words. Eavesdropping behind the tent flap while mixing bread, she overheard the announcement of her impending pregnancy as it fell from the man’s lips. Well. That was laughable. Had they not seen her? Had they not noticed the lines of age wrinkling her face? Had they not seen Abraham’s snow-white hair, the stoop to his shoulders, or paused to calculate his age? The very idea had a rare giggle bubbling out of Sarah’s throat. One she tried to cover with a cough. This was not a time for laughter. She knew that. She knew the men were messengers from God. Clearing her throat again, she went back to her tasks, hoping no one heard her previous chuckle. Except they had. 

Nothing goes unnoticed with God. Whether physically standing in His presence or hiding behind the tent flap, He heard that chuckle. He understood the quietly spoken words of doubt. He knew their origin. He comprehended the years of waiting and hoping on which they were founded. Although the Lord asked Abraham why Sarah laughed and scoffed and doubted, He wasn’t confused about the answer. For all the decades of her life, He’d seen and heard and known the questions that plagued her mind. He knew the aching pain and hopeless despair she felt at her barrenness. He realized her humanity couldn’t comprehend the plans of His Deity. He understood her hesitancy to believe, knew her reluctance to raise her hopes. It didn’t change the facts. Sarah, at her advanced age, would conceive and bear a son. God had spoken it and it would be. Within a year’s time, her season of mourning would give way to glorious joy. A miracle would happen. A son would be born. Laughter was on the way. (Genesis 18:1-15) 

As you know, God kept His promise. In His own time. In His own way. He graciously fulfilled every word He’d spoken to Abraham and Sarah. Their joy is palpable as you read the account. Nearly as palpable as Sarah’s previous pain at being excluded from the circle of motherhood. The hurt of sitting quietly by as other women discussed first teeth, first steps, first words. The mental anguish of wondering what she’d done to cause her barrenness. The suffocating misery that robbed her soul of faith, filled it with doubt, and made her bark out a bitter guffaw at the very thought of birthing a child in her old age. The suffering that stole her joy and left her weeping courses through her words and actions. Toward Abraham when she sent him into Hagar. Toward Hagar after she conceived. Sarah’s own pain ricochets throughout her life, leaking out onto the pages of history, closely correlating with our own, yet so often we miss it. (Genesis 16:1-16; 21:1-7)

You see, friend, Sarah is just like us. Possibly more than we want to admit. When her years of desperate begging for a child came to nothing, she blamed God. Literally. She said to Abraham, “God has kept me from bearing children.” In essence, “This is God’s fault. He could change it, fix it, take away my pain. He chooses not to do so. He allows it to persist. There is no rhyme or reason behind it. But I am sad and angry and a little bitter. I want a child. For me. For you. An heir to inherit all God has promised you.” We’d be lying if we claimed to have never felt the same, however fleetingly. 

Unfortunately, Sarah then set out to right God’s alleged wrongs. Firmly believing God wasn’t doing what He should, when He should, she attempted to do it herself. Tried to secure an heir for Abraham through her maid, Hagar. It was a half-baked notion clearly concocted in a haze of grief and personal longing. It worked, but she hated it. Hated every part of it. Herself for coming up with it. Her husband for capitulating. Her maid for becoming pregnant. The resulting child for being born. Not one part of her attempt at playing God brought about the peace and wholeness she hoped it would. It never does. Not for Sarah. Not for us.

By this point, Sarah’s faith is frazzled. Fried. Forgotten. Mourning has become a way of life. She’s given up on her hopes and dreams. Accepted the harsh reality of her barrenness. The protective shell around her heart is built on year after year of dashed hopes and damaged dreams. Sarah laughs when she hears the announcement that she will bear a child because her faith hasn’t been met with sight in the past. She’s terrified it won’t be now. Afraid to believe the words because they are no longer humanly possible. In her grief and pain, Sarah forgets her God is not limited by human constraints. And we are right there with her, hopelessly staring at our inabilities, insufficiencies, and inadequacies, we forget that our God is able, sufficient, and abundantly adequate. Because we’ve not gotten the desired results in the past, we tend to commit “wait and see” faith, wholly dependent on sight. (Genesis 16:1-15; 18:10-15; 21:8-21)

According to the author of Hebrews, Sarah eventually found her faith. We know the account. At 90 years of age, Sarah miraculously gave birth to a son whom Abraham named Isaac. It’s what we remember most about her story, what we hear preached and taught most often. The miracle of birth given to a barren woman beyond childbearing age. The magnificent ending God wrote to Sarah’s mournful story. It is amazing. It is awe-inspiring. It is beyond comprehension. I would never seek to diminish that. I don’t want us to forget the amazing power of God. But I also don’t want us to miss the personal lessons and correlations we can find in Sarah’s story as a whole. The pain of unanswered prayers. The scheming. The planning. The human effort pitted against the plan of God. The edge of bitterness. The moments of faithlessness. Because we have all been there. Or are there. Or will be there in the future. (Genesis 21:6; Hebrews 11:11)

We don’t have to stay there. Sarah didn’t. It must have taken every ounce of inner fortitude she could muster, but Sarah found her faith. She found the wherewithal to believe the God who makes promises also keeps them. For her. For me. For you. Whatever part of Sarah’s story you most identify with today, know that. Believe it. God keeps His promises. Whatever He has said in the past, no matter how long ago, He will do. He hasn’t forgotten. Not you. Not His promise to you. His words spoken last year, last month, or last week still stand. It may not happen when you want it to. It may not work out the way you thought it should. But God will keep His word. He will fulfill His promise. Just as He did for Sarah, God will bring you out of mourning into a time to laugh, (Psalm 4:7; 30:11; 42:5; Isaiah 40:8; 61:3-4; Ecclesiastes 3:1-8; Genesis 46:27; Hebrews 10:23; II Corinthians 1:20: Jeremiah 29:11)

He was there again. The valley. It wasn’t unfamiliar. Frequently he found himself in that particular space. Bogged in the downs that inevitably followed the ups. Suffocated by the darkness that blocked out the light. Slogging through the days when everything that could possibly go wrong did, in fact, go wrong. Times when his flock was chased by a hungry predator. Weeks being hunted by a king intent on his death. Moments of weakness when his own traitorous heart distracted him, drew him aside, and wrapped him in a web of deceit. Hours spent at the bedside of his dying child, fasting and praying and hoping for a light to illuminate the darkness. Change the outcome. Edit the plans for that particular valley. (I Samuel 17:34-36; 23:7-24:22; II Samuel 11:1-12:19) 

Becoming king didn’t alter his frequent visits to the valley. Evil enemies came against his kingdom. Some from without. Some from within. His own son, Absolom, attempted to usurp his throne. Famine would afflict the land for years on end. Egregious errors in his own judgment would place both his land in the grip of a fatal plague. Often David would find himself on his face before God begging forgiveness, asking for mercy, seeking guidance, giving praise. Celebrating victory. Discouraged by vanquishment. In moments of calm and times of chaos. No matter the circumstances, David rested in the unshakeable knowledge that God, the great Shepherd of his soul, had everything firmly in hand. Because that’s what shepherds do. (II Samuel 15; 21:1; 24)

Experience had taught him a thousand things about being a shepherd. He knew the job. He knew every moment would be fraught with snares and traps. He realized sheep needed guidance. To food. To water. Away from poisonous, yet attractive, plants. Away from sheer drops and rocky cliffs. He understood their vulnerabilities and how dependent they were on his protection. Without arrogance, David comprehended that the sheep truly couldn’t survive without him. With great humility, he recognized the same situation in himself. Without his Shepherd, David’s soul would never survive.  

David recognized a part of himself in every member of his flock. The one who was forever distracted. The one who frequently strayed. The one who desperately needed direction. The one ever needing restoration. He knew he was the same. Exactly the same. David understood his inability to successfully chart his own course. He knew he was easily drawn aside. He realized things would come into his life, clog his path, upset his plans, leaving him with no idea where to go, what to do, or how to overcome the enveloping darkness. He understood fear and anxiety, desperation and helplessness. He acknowledged all of his glaring inadequacies, insufficiencies, and inabilities. Yet, when placing pen to paper in a message for posterity, David chose to write words pointing to the one thing he knew with unshakeable certainty. The character of his Shepherd.

The one thing David knew with absolute clarity, was the heart of God toward humanity. Toward David himself. Toward you. Toward me. He rested in the truth that he could trust his Shepherd to take care of him in every situation. The Shepherd would never lead him astray. He would never allow one of His flock to starve or dehydrate. He would protect them from the evil without and deliver them from the evil within. The Good Shepherd would never leave his flock alone to aimlessly wander dark valleys in terror. He would be with them no matter how grim the circumstances or dark the outlook. David knew he could depend on the presence and help, direction, and care of the Shepherd. Today. Tomorrow. Forever. (Psalm 23) 

It was something David clearly came back to over and over throughout his life. Dependance on his Shepherd. Constantly remembering what he knew about God from personal experience. Obeying Him. Trusting Him. Following Him. In good times and bad. Valleys and mountaintops. Fleeing his enemies or rejoicing in victory over them. When David himself couldn’t see how things would ever work out. When the enemy appeared to be winning. When life seemed to continually be going wrong. He knew his Shepherd was trustworthy. He rested in the fact God had his best interest in mind. He took comfort in the direction and chastening of the Shepherd’s rod and staff. He knew he needed that. Needed to be kept on the proper path. He knew we would need it too. So he penned the words of Psalm 23. (Psalm 73; 145:13; I Samuel 30:6; II Samuel 2:1-2; 4:9; 5:17-19; 6:21; 7:18-29; 11-12; 22; 24:10-14) 

 Confidence echoes from those beautiful words. There are no questions, no uncertainties. It overflows with words of love and care no matter life’s circumstances. When things go right. When things go wrong. When we stay. When we stray. The character of the Shepherd never changes. He is always loving and leading. He continually works in our best interest. He tirelessly draws us back into a proper relationship with Him. He is working for us, not against us. We are safe in His care no matter where we are. In lush pastures. In dark valleys. Surrounded by evil. Safely ensconced in the house of the Lord. He is with us. Everywhere.  We can trust Him. Implicitly. Forever. (Psalm 25:1-2: 36:5-6; 46; 118:6; 139:7-18)

Looking back over a lifetime of church services, camp meetings, and Bible studies, I can count on my fingers the number of times I remember hearing a message on Psalm 23. I’ve rarely even heard it read from the pulpit. Except at funerals. It seems to be a favorite then. It’s supposed to be comforting. And it is. To the living. Because Psalm 23 is for us. Now. The living. Today. In a world of turmoil and uncertainty, it is hope and peace. In times when spiritual carelessness and complacency are the norm, it reminds us of the comfort to be found in the chastening of the Shepherd. When our souls are starving, our worries mounting, our enemies hard on our heels, Psalm 23 paints the beautiful picture of the meticulously prepared feast our Good Shepherd has laid out before us. In a plush meadow. Beside a quiet, glistening pond. With all our enemies looking on. He prepares a table of victory before us and calls us to eat the Bread of Life. Draw strength from Him. For today’s struggles. For tomorrow’s battles. And all His sheep do. Because they know the Shepherd. Do you? (John 6:35; 10:11-18)

It really wasn’t the best moment for conversation. Not because he had nothing to say. He had plenty. Hiding out alone to thresh wheat in secret had given him more than enough time to think. To silently rant. To build up a full head of steam. It didn’t put him in the best head space for civil conversation. His mind raced. His blood boiled. He was tired of this mess. Tired of their current circumstances. Tired of being on the losing end. Over and over and over again. 

For seven years they had been oppressed by the Midianites. Their previous peaceful lifestyle was destroyed by their enemies. Villages and towns now rendered unsafe, they had taken to hiding in mountain caves and strongholds, secretly scraping out a minimal, miserable existence. They were a shadow of their former selves. And their enemies continued to triumph. Toy with them. Tease them. Allow them to grow crops, raise herds, only to sweep in pillaging and destroying, leaving a path of destruction in their wake. Yes. Gideon had plenty to say. A thousand frustrated, angry words about the situation. A dozen questions swirling around in his brain. Questions about God. About His whereabouts. About why He wasn’t answering their cries for help. 

Not that they deserved an answer. They didn’t. After the death of Deborah, the people had gone astray. Again. It wasn’t the first time. At the end of every judge’s tenure, the vast majority of the people would sacrifice the peace they knew for the dazzling evil of the world around them. They would willingly chase the desires of their own hearts instead of following hard after God. They would continually choose things that weren’t God to be their gods. They would cherish them. Worship them. Seek them above all things. In response, God allowed the Midianites to oppress them. All of them. Those who strayed. Those who stayed. Those like Gideon. (Judges 2-5)

Gideon wasn’t busy following the ways of the people around them. He hadn’t chosen evil over good. Hadn’t done anything to deserve the mayhem and destruction besetting them. He was still being punished. He was still threshing wheat in a winepress. That’s where the angel of the Lord found him and quietly spoke the words unleashing the pent-up fury of verbal vomit Gideon had so carefully controlled. “God is with you. You are His mighty warrior.” Unfortunately, Gideon missed the first part. (Judges 6:12)

Upset, even angry, with the current circumstances of his people, Gideon released the torrent of words reeling around his head. His questions poured out one after another as if the floodgates had opened. No pause occurred between them. Barely a breath was taken. They reeked of desperation. Anxiety. Frustration. Where was God anyway? If He was with them, why were all these awful things happening? Why was there no reprieve from the abuse of the Midianites? Where were all the miracles He knew God could perform? He believed God was fully capable of delivering them. He knew God had the power. He knew God could right the wrongs against His people. If He chose to do so. But He wasn’t doing anything. Nothing. Not. One. Thing. No matter their tears and cries, the heavens remained silent, the horrors continued. They felt abandoned. Dismissed. Ignored. Unheard. And no one had been raised to help them. No new judge had appeared to lead them. Until now. 

When Gideon paused to suck in a breath, the angel of God spoke again. It was clear Gideon had only been half listening the first time. He needed him to hear the words coming out of his mouth. Words from God. A surprising declaration stopping Gideon mid-diatribe. He, Gideon, was God’s mighty warrior. He was God’s chosen leader. He was the answer to the cries of the people. He was the next step in God’s plan. He simply needed to go in the strength God provided and do the things God commanded him to do. No matter that his clan was the weakest. No matter that Gideon was considered the least of them. None of that mattered. Gideon didn’t need to be great, strong, talented, or even particularly smart. God would take care of everything. He would give victory. He would solve the problem of the Midianites once and for all. Gideon had only to step out in faith and do what God told him to do. One step at a time. One battle at a time. Deliverance would come. And it did. 

If you continue reading the account of Gideon’s life, you will see deliverance happen. Even though Gideon’s steps are sometimes tentative. When he waits for the cover of darkness to destroy his father’s altar to Baal. When he places not one, but two fleeces before the Lord asking for miracles to prove he’s heard the directions correctly. And you will see Gideon’s backbone straighten. You will see his faith strengthen. You will watch him place his confidence in the directions of God even when he can’t see how they make sense. You will see the moment he walks into battle armed only with trumpets and lamps. You will see God fight the battle, win the war, answer the cries of His people. By His own strength. According to His own plan. Because one man chose to trust God, when everything around him seemed to say God wasn’t working. He chose to walk with God, one step at a time, never running ahead, lagging behind, or turning off on his own course. He chose to obey God, even when he couldn’t fathom how that obedience would bring victory. Gideon chose to believe God, to be faithful, to be obedient. And God was faithful in return. (Judges 6-7)

Every one of us will, at some point in our lives, inhabit a space similar to that of Gideon. We will be angry, frustrated, upset with the circumstances of our lives. The things that happen to us will seem unreasonable. Things we have done nothing to deserve. We will cry out to God, asking for a sign, a special promise, a miraculous rescue. And God will answer. It might not be exactly the answer we expected. It might not be how we think He should work. It may not happen as soon as we wish it would. But God will answer. God will work. God has a plan for every circumstance of our lives and will be certain to see it to completion. Through you. Through me. Through our faithful obedience to His directions. God is faithful. He is not ignorant of your situation. He is not ignoring your cries. He has promised to be with you in every situation, to deliver you and honor you. And He will. You can trust Him. Stay faithful. Because God is always faithful to those who are faithful to Him. (II Thessalonians 3:3; Deuteronomy 7:9; Hebrews 13:5-6; I Corinthians 1:9; I Peter 3:12; Isaiah 1:19; 60:22; Psalm 27:14; 91:15) 

Friendly conversation abruptly fell into awkward silence at the matter-of-fact statement. The sergeant didn’t believe people could change. He’d worked too long among those who hadn’t. Seen the same faces return through the back door as had walked out the front only a short time before. He applauded our dedication. He approved our work. He admitted the possibility of it helping. But he didn’t believe it would. Had never seen it happen. Didn’t believe that attending Sunday morning services or evening Bible study would affect the statistics. He’d never seen anyone change their preposition. He didn’t believe anyone could. 

A few weeks prior to my conversation with the sergeant, a group of us had started a Sunday evening Bible study at the county detention center. I had been tasked with teaching Ephesians 4:20-32 to a group of men whose lives and reasons for being residents there indicated they had not previously learned those truths. Or they simply hadn’t adhered to them. Perhaps they’d never been taught. Maybe they hadn’t liked what they heard. Perhaps some had been drawn aside by negative influences, unfortunate circumstances, or the wayward desires of their own evil hearts. It didn’t matter. Regardless of the impetus of their presence, we were doing our best to encourage them to turn from evil and embrace good, pouring into their minds everything we could teach them about God.  

Joy zinged through my being the first time they correctly answered the questions I asked. I was ecstatic! They had actually been listening! I wasn’t sure they had. Until that point, I wasn’t certain the small congregation of blue scrub-clad men squeezed into rows of school-style desks was even paying attention to the words I said. It seemed more likely they had gathered to catch a glimpse of the ladies in our group. Shake our hands. Make small talk. Have some connection with the outside world. And maybe those things brought them there initially. But now they were listening. They were learning. Storing up knowledge about God. 

That was the problem so succinctly pinpointed by the sergeant. The men in that assembly were simply learning about God. They could quote His traits, His laws, His expectations. They could sing the songs extolling His greatness. They could quote the words they knew I was going to say with amazing accuracy. Yet, when the rubber met the road and they were released back to their lives, they weren’t putting the knowledge into practice. Why? Because they only knew about God. They didn’t act like Him. Different preposition. Different result. Knowing about God would never cleanse their hearts, change their lives, clean up their actions. Knowing about God wouldn’t keep them from re-entering the door at the back of the building. No. They had to be like God. Let Him change their hearts, redirect their lives, resurrect the part of them that would choose good over evil. Knowing about God wouldn’t change their future. Living like God would.

It is the same message Paul wrote to the church at Ephesus. Yes. The church. Not to the prisoners serving jail sentences. Not to the random sinners in the town square. Not to those who blatantly denied the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. No. Paul wrote it to the church. To those he addresses as God’s holy, faithful people. People already claiming to be Jesus’ followers. Those who attended every church service, regularly dropped money in the collection plate, who could quote the law of God backwards and forwards. Paul originally wrote the words to those people. Good people. Upstanding citizens with sparkling clean records. People in whom the world would find no fault. People who possibly believed they didn’t need those words or their admonition. People like us.  

Halfway through chapter 4, Paul’s words become very direct and forceful. Paul leaves no room for interpretation, no area for argument. They are unequivocally not who they were before they met Christ. They can’t be. If Christ lives in them, their old self is dead. They are alive in Christ. They are no longer selfish, greedy, impure people following the desires and wishes of their own evil hearts. They have put off the spirits of deceit, anger, and laziness to work hard and help others. They now consider every word before it passes their lips, ensuring that every utterance builds up and benefits rather than tearing down and damaging. At least that is what they were supposed to be doing. It was what they should be doing now that they have learned to live like Christ. Yet the fact Paul had to write and reiterate these lessons to them seems to indicate they were just as human as we are. They seem to be slipping. Not because they don’t know how to live. They do. They have been taught to live like Christ because simply knowing about Him will never be enough. (Ephesians 4:20-32)

It’s not enough for us, either. It never can be. You can use all the right words, quote the Bible from cover to cover, recite God’s laws, pinpoint His requirements, remind those around you of His judgment, but if your life hasn’t been changed by putting off your old self and living like Christ, it all means nothing. You have to have more than head knowledge. You need heart knowledge. You need to know Christ and the cleansing, changing power of His life-breathing resurrection. And your life needs to show it. Your words and actions need to reflect the new, God-created self you have become, exhibiting righteousness and holiness. If they don’t, you haven’t. There’s been no change. No putting off of the old self. No renewal of your mental attitude. No new self. You need to change your preposition. You need to be like Christ, not simply know about Him. 

Where I would never presume to have reached Paul’s spiritual stature, I often wonder why the words God writes on these pages come out the way they do. Why does God speak these things to people who have already chosen to follow Him, to live like Him? It seems the answer lies in the words of Hebrews 2:1. Pay attention to what you have heard and been taught. Remember how you have learned to live like Christ. Don’t forget it. Don’t get distracted. Don’t drift away. Don’t rely on knowing about Christ. Be like Him. Speak like Jesus. Act like Jesus. Model your life after Jesus Christ alone. Show the world that you have been renewed in your heart and soul by the power of Christ. Live like you are different. Live like Jesus. Your preposition matters. Choose it wisely. (Proverbs 4:11-13; Philippians 2:5; 4:9; II Timothy 3:14; I John 2:6; 3:7;John 13:13-17; Romans 12:2; Ephesians 5:1; Philippians 3:10-11)

They were in an incredible mess. The worst of times their short memories could recall. Repeatedly defeated on the battlefield. Frequently raided and plundered. Defenseless against their enemies. It was truly the worst of times. At least the worst time they could remember. And they couldn’t figure out why. Why did victory continually elude them? Why were they constantly being targeted? Why were things no longer working out the way they had when Joshua and his fellow elders had been alive?  

With Joshua leading them, defeat was a foreign word. They were largely unfamiliar with the feeling. They knew how to inflict it, but not how to endure it. From the moment Jericho had collapsed at their shouts, they’d been on a winning streak. Even Ai had been destroyed. Eventually. After the whole Achan debacle. Some of them had watched as Joshua, by God’s power, held the sun at a standstill, bringing victory at Gibeon. They’d seen the five Amorite kings defeated, the Northern kings defeated. The list of victories over kings and kingdoms was nearly too long to name. They had lived in a time of prosperity and victory under Joshua and the elders of his day. Now that generation was gone. They had passed to their eternal reward. It seemed the victories were gone as well. And the people had no idea why. (Joshua 10:1-27)

Gathering together, their heads bowed over battle plans, brows furrowed in thought, they simply couldn’t comprehend what they were doing wrong. The safety of their families was in jeopardy. Their lives hung in the balance. The next battle had every possibility of wiping them out entirely. Their minds were exhausted with the effort of attempting to devise a winning battle strategy. They were clearly forgetting something Joshua had done. What it was they didn’t know. Couldn’t know. Because they had never been told. Their parents hadn’t passed the stories down like Moses told them to. Their ancestors hadn’t kept up the generational warnings. They couldn’t win because they were living fundamentally wrong. 

No one knows when the slide actually began. Perhaps a handful of people started before Joshua passed away. Maybe the grassroots organization gained momentum as one by one the elders of Joshua’s generation followed him in death. Perhaps the pull of something new and strange, the allure of the surrounding nations got in their heads. Whatever the case, the people of that day had completely abandoned the ways of God and given themselves over to following Baal. They didn’t seem to know better. It was as if they had never been warned of the consequences, never been counseled about continual adherence to the true way, never been told the requirements set forth by God. Because they hadn’t.

In stark verbiage leaving nothing open to interpretation, Judges 2:10 states the people had no idea how to live because no one had told them. They weren’t raised knowing God. Had no clue what His requirements were. Remained stymied when it came to the far-reaching effects of failure to follow. They didn’t know about all the things He’d done for Israel in the generations before them. The Egypt rescue. The wilderness journeys. The victorious battles when Moses was still alive. They simply hadn’t been told those things. They hadn’t been told the other things, either. How the people grumbled and complained, strayed and rebelled. They hadn’t heard about the consequences. Plagues. Death. Defeat. Their parents hadn’t told them. Their grandparents hadn’t said anything. The elders of the community had remained mum. One wonders why.

Knowing that adherence to God’s ways and commands was integral to victory, why would the parents and grandparents of the rising generation not share with their children the path to success? For life and battle alike. Why would they not instill in their children the ways of the God who had delivered and sustained them through every moment of their lives? Why did they not simply tell them the importance of following God in words easy to understand yet difficult to forget? Why did they leave them to figure it out the hard way? Perhaps the parents thought it would be instilled by observation, learned through osmosis. Maybe they believed each person needed to find their own way. Perhaps they didn’t want to look at their children and admit they or their parents had once been those people who had abandoned God and His ways, only to end up needing His rescuing. Maybe they didn’t want their children to know who they had been before Jesus found them, even if it was the only way to steer them in the right direction. Whatever the truth, their lack of sharing with their children had a disastrous result. 

In spite of the judges God raised up, the new generation of Israelites continually chose their idols. More and more corrupt they became, loving their evil practices and stubborn ways more than they loved the peace God gave them through the judges. They didn’t care, or possibly didn’t even know, that the covenant with God lay in shreds at their feet. They weren’t interested in following Him. Didn’t want to know Him. Thought they were just fine on their own, doing their own thing, walking in their own ways. They still wanted the blessings and victories of Joshua’s day, but they weren’t interested in living the alleged antiquated standards and principles Joshua lived. They’d never had to do so. No one had encouraged it, enforced it, impressed on them the importance of keeping their covenant with God. It was their hope, their help, their rescue. He would be their God. If they would choose to be His people. On their behalf, I wish their parents would have told them. (Deuteronomy 4:9-10; 11:19)

The story would surely read much differently if they had. If the parents had told their children the stories of their lives, both tragedies and triumphs, they would certainly have been in a much better position to make decisions about their own lives. Had they known the hand of God was there both for deliverance and discipline, it would most assuredly have impacted their choices. If they had taken proper responsibility for their own sins, boldly shared the incidents of treachery and disobedience even when it didn’t cast themselves in the best light, it is possible that this new generation would not have wholeheartedly abandoned God and run selfishly after idols. If only the children had known. (Judges 2:8-23; Psalm 107:2-43)

Humanity has changed so little over the intervening centuries from then to now. We are in no less of a predicament. The newest generation of humans is farther from the truths of God than any previous generation has been. Morally lackadaisical and spiritually complacent, those who should be sharing the power and might, rules and requirements of God have ceased to speak those things. Not in the morning. Not in the evening. Not to their families or friends. Not to their children. Parents, either in hiding their own shady pasts or in allegedly allowing their children to choose their own paths, have failed to tell the true stories of God in their lives. They haven’t shared the necessity of strict adherence to His commands. They haven’t highlighted the consequences of falling away. Instead, they have allowed caveats. Remained silent as good is called evil and evil is called good. They have acquiesced to Jesus lite, diet God, decaf Christianity. And it is costing. Costing us our children, our society, our nation. Costing our children their souls. (Deuteronomy 6:6-8; Joel 1:3; Proverbs 22:6; Psalm 78:4) 

Somehow, I wonder how our society would look if we were honest with our children about ourselves, our lives, our past. What if we quit acting like we have lived perfect lives of absolute holiness with no hidden sins, no twists of envy, no surges of anger? What if we owned our mistakes, our indiscretions, our sins? Past and present. What if we admitted the wayward shenanigans of our youth and told the stories of how God rescued us when we came to Him in repentance and contrition? What if we stopped hiding our past, painting ourselves as perfect, and just owned the mess we were (and sometimes still are) when God’s grace rescued us? What if our children heard and knew the truth about God? That He is a God of unfailing love, unending grace, and unfathomable mercy who saves us from ourselves. What if we told them personal accounts of how that worked? What if we taught them, from personal experience, that the rules and commands and expectations of God are for our good? He never seeks to make us miserable or punish us, but puts those requirements in place to protect and preserve us from soul-killing evil. What if our children knew we were simply sinners saved by grace, the same as them? How would society look, how would our world be different, if only our children knew? (Romans 3:10-12, 23-26; Acts 17:30; I John 1:9; Romans 5:8; Psalm 13:5-6; Ephesians 2:4-5; I John 2:15-29; I Chronicles 16:11; Psalm 121:7; Deuteronomy 5:33; Isaiah 54:13; Psalm 78:5-7)