Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

As children, we would play a game where one of us would close our eyes and allow the other to lead them around. I suppose we thought it an exhibition of trust if we actually kept our eyes closed. It really wasn’t. We only played the game indoors. We were already familiar with the area, knew where we could possibly stub our toes, knock our knees, or bump into a table. More comforting was the knowledge that no matter how tightly we closed our eyes, the moment we felt uncertain, we could pop them open to see where we were, what was around us, and what trickery the leading child was up to. Because we had never actually experienced blindness, even our uninhibited imaginations could never properly grasp the concept of being blind. 

Not so for Bartimaeus. He knew all about it. Intimately. He lived it. Every. Single. Day.  His routine never changed. It couldn’t. Sameness was necessary to survival. Shuffle to the side of the road in Jericho. Sit down. Spend hours begging for whatever charitable donations compassionate hearts would dole out. Hours hoping someone would speak kindly, drop a coin in his cup. Days spent desperately wishing someone would see his humanity, not just his disability. 

It was not a lucrative career. Unfortunately, most of the people walking past his space were used to him being there. They didn’t pay attention to him anymore. They didn’t hear his voice. They didn’t see his need. They didn’t feel compassion when they looked his way. He had become a fixture, a normal part of walking the road. He was largely ignored. There, but not there. Among them, yet alone.  It was degrading, humiliating, frustrating. 

Yet the fact he blended into their surroundings became his greatest blessing. It allowed him to hear things. Deep conversations of people walking by. Conversations they thought private. He was blind, not deaf! They might have been ignoring him, but he was hearing them. Hearing conversations. Hearing gossip. Hearing things they didn’t know he heard. Accounts of miracles. Rumors of mercy. Murmurs of a man named Jesus. Whispers of hope.

Bartimaeus badly wanted to meet this miracle-working Jesus. He desperately wanted his sight.  He wildly hoped that if Jesus passed by his roadside some drops of that great mercy would fall on him. He’d nearly despaired of having his dream realized. What were the odds of Jesus passing by his spot? What was the likelihood such an important Man would stop to visit with a dirty, unkempt ball of rags? Was there even a possibility Jesus would hear Him over the roar of the crowds that surrounded Him? Was it all just futile wishing, useless grasping at the wind? 

Clearly, it was not. It happened. His dream became reality. In the middle of his ordinary, uneventful life, something amazingly unusual happened. The sound of a large crowd approaching reached Bartimaeus’ ears. Questions bombarded his mind. What was going on? Who was coming? What were they doing? Did he need to get out of the way? Was he in danger? If only he could see! Reaching out, he grabbed the hem of a passing robe, managing to gain a moment of someone’s time to inquire about the source of the commotion. The answer caused his heart to leap, his hope to soar. His dream was being realized. Jesus was passing by. 

Bartimaeus wasn’t about to miss his chance, this was no time for timidity! Without hesitation, at the top of his voice, he cried out, “Jesus, have mercy on me!” The people around him tried to hush him, embarrassed that this blind beggar would think he deserved an audience with the great Teacher, concerned his outburst would mar the facade of their perfect politeness and leave a bad impression. Surely they were doing Jesus a favor. He wouldn’t want to be bothered by a blind man. He had more pressing things to do. 

Apparently, they knew little about the Jesus they thronged. Maybe they hadn’t had front row seats to observe His work. Maybe they were living vicariously through the stories they heard. Perhaps they selfishly sought to keep His amazing power for themselves. Regardless the reason for their hushing, it is clear they hadn’t done much traveling with Jesus. They had no inkling what was coming next. They were in for a grand surprise!

Hearing the insistent cries of the blind man, Jesus commands Bartimaeus to come forward. He doesn’t have to issue the command twice. Bartimaeus was already in motion! Exhibiting amazing speed for an unsighted man, he tore off his coat, tossed it aside, jumped awkwardly to his feet, and made his way to Jesus. Maybe some kind soul guided him. Maybe he stumbled a bit as he felt his way through the crowd. Maybe they parted to make a path because they wanted to see what Jesus was going to do. It doesn’t matter. Bartimaeus would have done anything, climbed mountains, forded rivers to get to Jesus. He had called, Jesus had answered. When Jesus called, Bartimaeus would most certainly answer as well. 

Arriving before Jesus, breathless and a little disoriented from his hurried approach, Bartimaeus must immediately come up with an answer to the question, “What do you want from Me?” In spite of excited, rattled nerves and gulping breaths, the answer is certain, immediate, “I want to see!” And Jesus makes it happen. 

Bartimaeus looks around. He can see! Green trees and bright flowers. White clouds and blue sky. The little brown dog that used to come and lay beside him, the only bright spot in his once miserable existence. He could see! He could walk without feeling his way or being let by the hand! And walk he did. He began to follow Jesus because, although he could physically see and choose whatever vocation he desired, he could spiritually see too, and there was nowhere else he wanted to be than close to the heart of God. (Mark 10:46-52)

I wonder what Bartimaeus saw when he looked at the people around him. People who had helped him. People who had hated him. People who had harped at him. I wonder if he saw only the outside wrapping, the image they wanted him to see, or if the opened eyes of his heart illuminated underlying meaning in previous conversations. I wonder if he saw perfectly coiffed brokenness, educated ignorance, religious sight shrouding spiritual blindness. Did Bartimaeus’ newly sighted eyes see deeper than the facade of perfection, success, status? Did he see the longing for Jesus buried deep in the heart of each one?

Do you? What do you see when you drive through town, walk through the store? What do you see when you read the news? Does your heart fill with compassion for the entitled, the abusers, the politicians, the criminals? Do you see people in need of Jesus? Or do you see annoyances for which you have only ugly things to say? Are you blind to the real needs hidden under the obvious chaos? Have you allowed Jesus to give sight to your heart? (Mark 8:2; Luke 7:13; Matthew 15:32, 20:34, 14:14, 9:36)

You need to. Having a sighted heart is paramount in this world where multitudes hide behind facades. Happiness. Fulfillment. Acceptance. Success. Faith. We need hearts with the eyes of God to see beneath the layers and recognize the deep need in the soul next to us. The person in the church pew, beautifully attired, heartily singing, fully engaged, yet deeply longing for someone to offer love and support for the struggle hidden beneath. The co-worker climbing the ladder of success with alarming speed whose work and dedication is merely a cover for intense loneliness and desperate longing for fulfillment only Jesus can give. The addict, the prostitute.The homeless, hopeless, helpless. All crying out to be seen, not for what they are on the outside, but for what they need on the inside. All desperately searching for a touch, a word, a glimmer of hope, a story of mercy, the possibility of recovery. All deeply hungering, tirelessly seeking, endlessly waiting for Jesus to pass by. 

Perhaps it will be you. Maybe you will be that glimpse of Jesus for which they search. Maybe you can be that glimmer of hope. Perhaps you could be the first in a long line of mercy extenders. Maybe, if your physical eyes disregard what they see and you follow the eyes of your heart. Maybe, if you choose not to be so narrow-minded as to determine the impeccably dressed CEO is more important than the raggedly attired bag lady. Maybe, just maybe, you could be the hands and feet of Jesus if your sighted heart will look beneath the exterior and see the need. Maybe you could offer everyone Jesus. You could, but only if your heart has Jesus vision. (Matthew 5:14-16)

So cry out to Jesus. Ask Him to make you see. See yourself, your sin, your shortcomings. Allow Him to cleanse, heal, and change your heart. Then ask again. Beg Him to give you the vision of the Father. Vision that sees beneath the exterior, beyond the facade. Eyes that see people, truly see them, regardless of appearance, social status, or tax bracket. A heart that reaches out in love, extending hope, offering help. Ears that listen and truly hear. Lips that speak of the relentless mercy and unending grace of the Father. May you shield your seeing eyes and view others from a sighted heart. (Psalm 51:10; I Samuel 16:7; Luke 6:24; Ephesians 4:2-3; John 13:34; Romans 12:10; Galatians 6:2)

I deeply believe in miracles wrought by the hand of our omnipotent God. I believe in them because I have seen them. I also believe in the lessons those miracles teach us. I believe in them because I have learned from them. Five and a half years ago I learned an exquisite lesson from a miracle I was almost embarrassed to ask for.

In an attempt to deter our youngest child’s request for a baby, we added a puppy to our family. She was an adorable little ball of black and tan weighing in at 5 whole pounds. What she lacked in size she made up for in sass and spunk. We named her Delilah. 

We picked her up on a cold February day, wrapped her in a blanket, and set out for home. She cried the entire way. She wasn’t used to it. She didn’t know us. She wanted her brothers and the puppy pile they slept in. She wanted the cage and the heat lamp. She wanted the familiar. She didn’t realize we were going to take better care of her than some stinky cage with a bunch of brothers. She didn’t know she had a huge pen with brand new, hand-sewn blankets, lined with toys waiting for her. She didn’t know, couldn’t know. She hadn’t seen it, so she didn’t trust. 

We didn’t know either, the kind of care she would end up needing. The first few weeks were fun and adventurous. Vet visits. Chewed shoes. Spilled laundry baskets. Potty training. Leash training. Puppy cuddles. She wiggled her way deep into all our hearts. 

Just as we were settling in and she was learning things, Delilah went to the vet for her second set of vaccines. Within a short period of time, we saw something was terribly wrong. Her back legs became stiff and would barely move. I had to carry her outside, bring her food to where she lay. She didn’t play with the toys anymore. She was clearly deteriorating. 

 We rushed her back to the vet. They ran a multitude of tests, collaborated with the local veterinary college, and treated her for everything they thought could possibly be causing her decline. Eventually, they determined she was having a negative reaction to the vaccines. The knowledge was good, but nothing was healing our pup. We were heartbroken and worried and scared. Every day we waited and hoped and watched for improvement. 

One evening, while reminding God how adversely my youngest would be affected by the loss of her pet, I felt compelled to place my hands on Delilah and pray over her. Now, I’ve always believed in putting our hands on people and praying over them for whatever their need or situation might be. But a dog? I’ve never known anyone to do that. I wasn’t even sure it was proper. I did know this. God cares about the sparrows and the wildflowers, names the stars in the sky, and tells the ocean where to stop on the beach. So, surely He also cares about a little black-eyed puppy whose life seemed to be hanging in the balance. (Matthew 6:25-34; Psalm 147:4; Job 38:10-11; Jeremiah 5:22; Acts 6:5-6)

Gathering up the remnants of my depleted faith, I walked over to where Delilah was stretched out on her side. Kneeling beside her on the floor, I put my hands on her hind legs and I prayed. I don’t remember the words. I have no idea what they were. I do remember the fear, the worry, the angst. I remember the tears. I also remember that when we got up the next morning, Delilah’s back legs were better. There were still some kinks in her step and some stiffness in her body, but she was so much better than the night before. 

Encouraged by the answer and impatient for a full recovery, I got down on my knees, laid my hands on her, and prayed a second time. I still don’t know what I said. It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t instantaneous, but we began to see marked improvement. Day by day she recovered more and more. Today you have to watch closely to know anything was ever wrong with her or that she has to spend hours at the vet having antihistamine injections every time she gets vaccines. Most people don’t notice her back legs move differently than a normal dog. It doesn’t slow her down. More than five years later, our miracle dog is still mischievously wreaking havoc and indiscriminately doling out cuddles because God miraculously rescued her, not because we couldn’t have gotten another puppy, or even to save us the heartache, but because I needed the lesson that miracle taught. The lesson of rest and trust in God. (James 1:2-4; Romans 5:3-5)

Every time I meet with circumstances whose answers look impossible, improbable, or inconceivable, God takes me back to the moment I prayed in meager faith over a little black and tan puppy and watched Him rescue her. I remind myself of other things too. Things God has done. Miraculous things. Big things. Little things. Situations He’s made possible. Mountains He’s made passable. Unlikelihoods He’s made probable. I remember those things and I get it. I understand. I comprehend. In the depths of my heart, I know. God is omnipotent and He’s got us. The knowledge makes my soul rest. 

What amazes me is that the disciples were even slower learners than I. They were exasperatingly obtuse. They had front-row seats! How could they have missed it? How could they be fussing over the fact they had remembered only one loaf of bread when they had Jesus right there with them? How could their dinner have more importance than the lesson Jesus was trying to teach? Hadn’t they been watching? Hadn’t they seen? Were their memories so short they couldn’t call to mind the 5 loaves that fed 5,000 and created enough leftovers for a multitude of to-go boxes? Had they suffered amnesia concerning the 4,000 fed by seven loaves and the massive amounts of leftovers then? What was wrong with them? Why didn’t they get it? Why didn’t they see it? Why didn’t they understand who was dwelling with them, walking among them, working through them? (Matthew 14:13-21; John 6:1-14)

Jesus asked those very questions. He seems frustrated. He has every right to be. He’s trying to warn them about the trash the Pharisees are selling and they are busy worrying about food. Were they really that ignorant? They had seen Jesus perform miracle after miracle. He’d healed people, fed people, turned water to wine. It was ridiculous of them to believe He would let His disciples starve because they had forgotten to bring along extra bread. It was preposterous of them to think Jesus’ warning about the Pharisaical teachings of the world had anything to do with actual food. But they did. In frustration, after rattling off a litany of miracles they had witnessed, Jesus ends His diatribe by asking, “Do you still not get it? Don’t you know Who you are riding with? Is it still unclear whom you are following? Do you still doubt My abilities? Doubt My care? Are you still uncertain Who I am? After all you have seen and heard, don’t you get it yet?” (Mark 8:11-21; John 2:1-11; Matthew 8:14-17)

He could be talking to us. We too, put more emphasis on the physical than the eternal. We, too, forget the lessons of past answered prayers and observed miracles. We find ourselves in an unfortunate, unpleasant, untenable situation and immediately forget what we know about God. We forget who He is. We forget what He’s done. We focus on our earthly needs and lose sight of the spiritual lessons He is trying to teach us. Faith. Trust. Hope. Confidence. Comprehension that, no matter what, He is God, He is with us, and we are under His divine care.

The evil one doesn’t want you to remember those lessons. He wants you to be drawn aside by worry and fear about your past choices, current circumstances, future possibilities. He doesn’t want you to remember all the times God has proven Himself to be more than enough. He doesn’t want you to focus on your spiritual health and trust God with the rest. He wants to keep you sidetracked with your current conundrum so all that fear, anxiety, stress, and worry will distract you from following God. 

Don’t do it. Don’t let him win. Don’t let him distract you with the things of the world, the cares of life, the anxieties that plague your mind. Look back. Remember what you have seen and heard. Remember all the miracles God has done in your life, your church, your circle of friends. Then throw your faith in Him. Refuse to be distracted. Trust God to do His part, stay the course, and follow hard after Jesus.  (Psalm 63:8; Hosea 6:3a; Psalm 25:15; Psalm 141:8)

There’s a 5-and-a-half-year-old black and tan, 65-pound, floppy-eared, overexuberant, over-talkative, sparkly-eyed dog running around my house today. Her manners are slightly deplorable. Some days she’s ridiculously annoying. I love her like crazy. She is a living, breathing, bed-hogging reminder that there is no one like my God. She is also a reminder that no matter what upset I am facing, God’s got it. I can trust Him to handle it. I don’t need to hover over Him with ideas and input. I don’t need to worry. I simply need to remember what I know about Him, what I have learned about Him in the past, keep spiritual focus, and let God be God. And I’m trying because I get it now. 

I don’t know what’s worrying you today. I have no idea what you fret over in the wee hours of the morning. Income. Health. Housing. Employment. I do know these things. God will, in His own way, His perfect time, always take care of His people. I know you can trust Him. I know He doesn’t want you to spend even one more minute worrying over things you can’t control, can’t change, can’t do. What He wants is for you to roll your cares, concerns, conundrums over on Him, trust Him to handle them, and determinedly resolve not to be drawn aside by the theories of the world but to follow Him no matter what. I get it now. Do you? (I Peter 5:7; Philippians 4:6-7, 19; Psalm 55:22; Luke 12:7; Ecclesiastes 3:1; Proverbs 3:5-6)

It was hardly the greeting party they expected. The mangy, unkempt man racing from the graveyard and across the beach toward them was more than a little disconcerting! His hair was matted. His body visibly unwashed. Bruises circled his wrists and ankles, ranging from purple to brownish yellow, a clear indicator of recent attempts to restrain him with chains. Chains he’d broken to get free. His skin was marred with scars and scabs from incessant cutting. Some wounds still oozed. His desperate aloneness indicated how horrifically he’d terrified the town with his antics. Ridiculous strength. Constant outcries. Self-mutilation. They had cast him out. He wasn’t welcome there anymore. His only home was among the tombs, his only hope of solace with the dead.

Until the docking of this particular boat. He’d surely seen hundreds of boats come and go, scores of people disembark. Although there is nothing to indicate he ran to meet each arrival in search of help and hope, perhaps he did. Perhaps it was his normal behavior. Maybe his venture was spearheaded by curiosity. Perhaps, on this particular day, he was drawn to the docks by the siren song of grace, hope, and rescue available through Jesus Christ. Perhaps he sensed something different about this boat. Maybe he sensed this boat brought hope for his tortured soul, tormented by the unclean spirit. Maybe he realized It carried the answer to the puzzle of his disturbed lifestyle. Whatever reason took him there, it was the best decision of his life. The best day of his life. The best moment he would ever experience. This boat was different. It carried Jesus. 

And Jesus was the answer. The answer to the raging, cutting, horrendous indwelling of the unclean spirit that had ruled and ruined his life. As Jesus stepped onshore, He immediately rebuked the unclean spirit. No hesitation. No waiting to see if someone would plead on the man’s behalf. Just compassionate, immediate relief for the wretched man plagued by the legion of unclean spirits tormenting his soul and ravishing his body. Jesus’ ship had docked. Hope had come. Salvation had been delivered. A rescue had been enacted. The man’s future was finally colored an encouraging hue. 

Or was it? The townspeople’s reactions were varied. They were amazed, yes, but they were also afraid. Their skeptical minds couldn’t believe what they couldn’t conceive. Was it real? Could it be true? Had Jesus really evicted the evil spirit and installed the peace of God? The evidence appeared to be seated in front of them, properly clean, clothed, and with clarity of thought. But it still seemed too good to be true. How long would it last? What if he relapsed? What if it was all just a show, a sham? Could they truly trust this change? 

And what about their pigs? Why had Jesus sent the unclean spirit into their pigs? Their livelihood had just blindly rushed over the edge of a cliff! What else was He going to do? What else would He change? And what would He require of them if He stayed? The fear was overwhelming. Greater than any smidgen of belief in the omnipotence of God they had just seen demonstrated. It ruled their hearts, making them ask Jesus to leave before He did anything else. 

Being here now, knowing all we know, hindsight being so much clearer than foresight, I still find myself questioning the intelligence of their petition. Why would they ask Him to leave? What part of cleansing and rejuvenation was so objectionable they didn’t want it in their town? What were they afraid of? Were they simply too afraid of His unmatched power? Did their fear stem from not knowing someone like Him existed? Or was it something more human? Is it possible they were simply afraid of the changes they would need to make in their own lives if Jesus stayed long in their village? Were they, like our current society, so much in love with their own ways they couldn’t bear the thought of the changes allowing Jesus to stay would surely bring? I don’t suppose it matters. What has been done is done. They asked Him to leave. And He did.

The second scene on the dock must have been nearly as disconcerting as the first. The newly released man so badly wanted to go with Jesus. He tried desperately. Begged. Wheeled. Cajoled. Unfortunately, the answer was negative. But Jesus didn’t leave him without something to do, He left him with a mission. As the man stood in the spot of his redemption watching the departing ship grow tinier and tinier, Jesus’ parting command broke through the disappointment to echo in his ears, “Go home. Tell everyone about the mercy and power of the Lord. Show them how completely I have changed your life. Be a witness for Me in a place that asked Me to leave.”

And he does. He goes back to town, mingles with the people. He tells and retells his God-story every chance he gets to anyone who shows even remote interest. He lives his life. Clean. Clothed. Clear-headed. For those who would rather not hear his story, he lives it out in front of them, living proof that the power of God delivers from all evil. But he didn’t stop just in his hometown. No. He kept going. When he had saturated one town with the knowledge of God’s amazing, rescuing power, he moved on to the next, making his round throughout the entire Decapolis. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He had a mission to fulfill, a story to tell. A story of amazing mercy and grace that saved a wretch like him. (Mark 5:1-20)

It is impossible to miss the correlation between this man’s story and ours. We, too, were once deeply steeped in sin, slaves to the evil one, beyond rescue, beyond hope, lost causes, wretched souls. If you think you were ever better than that, think again. Jesus didn’t come to die for a bunch of good-enough people, a bunch of righteous people. He came to die for sinners. For you. For me. For everyone. He came to dig you out of that pit of sin, to rescue your life, to ransom your soul. That is why Jesus came. We were in the same hopeless situation as the scary guy on the beach of the Gerasenes. (Luke 5:32; Romans 5:8; Romans 3:23; I John 1:8-10; Titus 2:11; John 1:12; John 10:10)

Then Jesus stepped in. He came and offered His life, His blood, His salvation to a bunch of people so deeply steeped in their sin a rescue seemed impossible. But He did it. They abused, misused, rejected, and abandoned Him. He still paid salvation’s price. Even though He knew some would never accept His gift of love and grace and mercy, He offered it anyway. When their fears of not being in control, of having to change, of not getting their own way made them ask Him to leave them alone, He respectfully did. But He left those of us who accepted His life-changing salvation with the same mission He gave the man in the Gerasenes. Go. Show. Tell. (Matthew 28:19-20; Acts 1:8; Matthew 7:16-20) 

It is our foremost calling. Not a vocation. Not a job. Not a hobby. A mission. A Heavenly calling with an eternal outcome. Our obedience is imperative. In a society working overtime to evict God and His ways from their midst, we are called to go and tell them about the change grace has made in our lives. Where they have pushed Him out, shoved Him aside, told Him to leave, we are to calmly walk in and bring Him with us. Show Jesus in how we dress, act, talk, live. Carry Him along in our business dealings, our sportsmanship, our social conduct. Take Him with us on every outing, every date, every event. Live loudly for Jesus in a world that has kicked Him out. (Romans 1:16; I John 2:6; Galatians 5:22; Matthew 5:48)

Maybe you will have the opportunity to use words to tell your story. I hope you do. I hope you get to tell your story of grace and mercy and redemption verbally to everyone you meet. However, if you are in a situation that does not allow or encourage you to speak openly about your amazing rescue, I hope you live it out just as loudly as words. I hope you show Jesus’ love to those around you. I hope you make choices that tell of convictions deeply rooted in the Word of God. And I hope that, when people ask about the difference in you, you will be ready at a moment’s notice to tell them your God-story. I hope you go out and live for Jesus, act like Jesus, follow Jesus. I hope you show them Jesus so when they ask questions, and they eventually will, you have the opportunity to share with them the story about a Man whose grace compelled Him to die so they could live. (I Peter 1:15-17; Colossians 4:4-6; I Corinthians 11:1; Romans 12:21)

You need to tell your story. Urgently. Desperately. Continually. You need to tell others what God has done for you. They need to hear it from you. Your words, your testimony are important. Preachers can preach, teachers can teach, writers can write, but the power of a firsthand testimonial will always eclipse the effects of a secondhand story. So go tell it. Tell your God-story. Live it out. Speak it out. Tell how God has brought you out, carried you through, parted your waters, enacted your rescue. Someone, somewhere needs to see the effects of your life-changing meeting with Jesus. Someone, somewhere needs to hear all about it. And there is no one better to tell them than you! (Mark 16:15; Matthew 5:14-17; I Corinthians 9:16; I Peter 3:15)

Dear Faithful Readers and People of Christ. Due to a family emergency, there will not be any new posts until July 21st. We hope that you continue to find peace and direction through Christ and that he shines on your family. Faithfully Yours, Naomi

It must have been a terrifyingly amazing moment to be hawking doves in the temple complex when Jesus decided He’d had enough. Enough of people not taking the temple seriously. Enough of folks being about their own business instead of the business of the Father. Enough of individuals willing to risk their eternity on a paltry sale, a quick dime, a change of coins. (John 2:13-16)

I wonder how long it took between Him seeing the mess they had made of His temple, His house of prayer, and the braiding of that whip of cords. A few minutes? An hour? Or just a moment? It doesn’t matter. Jesus stalks into the temple, outrage turning His face to stone. He wields the whip with authority. Mayhem ensued. Oxen immediately begin clumsily lumbering toward the exit. The sudden tension filling the yard sends a sense of urgency rippling over the animals. They react. Their eyes roll wildly. They pick up speed, fighting one another to get through the gate. Terrified shoppers leap out of the beasts’ way. Horrified parents grab their children from under pounding hooves. Cattle owners, breaking free of their frozen astonishment, race to rescue their frantic livestock. Jesus isn’t done.

As He passes the money changers’ table, His free hand upends their coin holders. The clink and tinkle of falling, scattering, rolling coins mingles with the bleating of sheep busily making good their escape. A flip of his wrist overturns a table. A random chair goes skittering across the floor. In a voice rife with authority and censure, He braces His feet, squares up His shoulders, and bellows, “Leave! Stop using My Father’s house for a two-bit flea market or yard sale! This is a house of prayer, a place to meet with the Father, you are making it a den for thieves to conduct their nefarious business practices!” (John 2:13-16; Matthew 21;12-13; Mark 11:15-19; 19:45-48) 

If He said this to the people of that day, I wonder what He’d say to us now. Not about our church buildings. I’m certain God takes no offense to our buildings of wood and stone or the beautiful windows of stained glass. I doubt He’d be offended by our carpet color or choice of seating. We are not in the habit of holding yard sales or cattle auctions in our pristine sanctuaries. It is likely not the music, our coffee cups, or slouchy state of dress to which He takes offense. No, God is not offended by the manmade temple we visit once a week. If there is an offense, it stems from the way we are treating the temple of God within us. Our hearts, our minds, our souls. The way we live our lives.

You see, we have settled in. We attend church on Sunday, read our Bibles when we remember, say a prayer when circumstances are desperate, but we are not the devoted people of God we should be. We are not so focused on being holy as God has called us to be, as we are on being esteemed by those around us. We’ve become enamored by the world to the detriment of our souls. We have made excuses to stray. Our doctrines have suffered. We have used our technical acumen to cut and paste the Bible, taking out what we dislike and reinterpreting it to something more palatable. We have made sacrifices that have nothing to do with holiness, cleansing or salvation, but have brought starvation and death to our souls. Our church buildings might be immaculate, but our temples are in appalling disrepair.  

The Old Testament people of Judah were in a similar situation. They had wandered so far from God. Completely abandoned Him. Rejected His statutes, His will, His commands. So engrossed in their sinful practices, they left the temple of God to fall into disrepair. They didn’t offer sacrifices or burn incense as they had been instructed. They had blown out the lamps, closed the doors, and danced off down the path of selfish unfaithfulness. They, too, needed a wake-up call. 

They got one in the form of a new king. A 25-year-old named Hezekiah. He was heartbroken by the mess his people were in. Their fathers were killed in battle. The remnant held in captivity. The only way to rectify their current circumstances was to assuage the much-deserved anger of God by returning to Him in repentance and reconsecration. The temple needed repair and reconsecration. The people did too. So desperately, in fact, the need evoked this cry from Hezekiah, “Return to God. Don’t be unfaithful and obstinate like your ancestors and those around you. Choose God alone. Follow Him. If you return to God, His grace and mercy will compel Him to return to you.” Thankfully, they listened and found it true. (II Chronicles 29-30) 

Thousands of years later, nothing has changed. Not the predicament of the people. Not the requirement for rectification. Not the necessity of hearing the same message. The temple of God is in miserable disrepair. Not the Sunday gathering building, the 7-days-a-week temple that lives in you. The temple so ridiculously riddled with besetting sins, unmitigated cowardice, and unreserved unfaithfulness. The temple that loudly claims Heaven with its mouth, but earth with its actions. You are that temple. So am I. (I Corinthians 3:16)

Admit it. On the inside, many of us are a mess. Decades ago we prayed a sinner’s prayer and decided we were good to go. It went great for a while. Our dedication to God never waivered. Our conscience was always followed. Our Bible reading and prayer never suffered because something earthly seemed more important. Over the years, we’ve rather let things slip. We haven’t kept our eyes on Jesus. We haven’t listened solely to His voice. We haven’t held our convictions when pressure from outside has become overwhelming. We have let up a little here, a lot there. We’ve changed our ideas of sin. Altered our adaptation of God’s requirements. We have followed our untrustworthy hearts that so desperately want to match the world, fit in, blend. We have found so many things we love more than we love God. Tangible things. Socially acceptable things. Things that draw us aside and cause us to pay more attention to our own earthly business than our Father’s business. Yes, our temples are egregiously in need of cleansing. (Isaiah 53;6; Revelation 2:4; Revelation 3:15-17; James 1:14-15)  

It will not be easy or painless. The uncomfortable scene from II Chronicles 29 comes back to mind. After the priests and Levites have spent days cleansing and reconsecrating themselves and the Lord’s temple, Hezekiah and the city officials roll up out front toting sacrifices. Twenty-eight sacrifices, to be exact. 

The bleating of goats and sheep broke the early morning silence, underscored by the annoyed lowing of oxen. They resent the rousting from their fields and stables. They have no idea what’s ahead. No inkling they are being led to slaughter. No knowledge that by the end of the day their blood will splatter the altar and run in rivulets across the ground. No clue they will be the beginning of the cleansing of God’s people. 

But the people knew. They knew how far they had strayed from God. They knew the totality of their sin. They knew retribution was coming if rectification didn’t. As they watched the atrocious sight of innocent animals being slaughtered, listened to the final cries of dying lambs, smelled the metallic odor of blood filling the air, saw the priests splatter blood across the altar, they knew a choice was being made. A choice to put away the idols. A choice to turn from sin. A choice to stop chasing the world and run after God instead. It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t painless. It wasn’t easy. It was necessary. They had to go back to the old ways if they wanted to be in proper relationship with God. And they did. (II Chronicles 29-30) 

It is no different with us. We have developed loves we shouldn’t have, deep desires for things of the world, absolute affections for selfish pleasures. We have developed a profound affinity for all the things the world promises. We are addicted to chasing them down. We are convinced we still have Jesus because we attend the church building on Sunday, all the while failing to acknowledge the fact we have abandoned Him for things of much less worth. But it is time to let those things go. Time to return to the old paths. Time to find peace and joy in wholly following Jesus. Time to throw out the temporal and embrace the eternal even if it is hard, even if it is a sad parting, even if you have to leave some things behind. You’ll have to do it if you want to be in proper relationship with God. (Jeremiah 6:16; I John 2:15-17; John 14:27; Luke 9:23; Colossians 3:1-25) 

As you settle in your church pew this Sunday, I hope you do some soul searching. How clean is your temple? How deep is your need for cleansing? How far have you slipped off the old paths? How much change and turning and reconsecration do you need? Because you are called to be the temple of God. You are the light of God in a world gone frighteningly dark. You are the salty savor of God in a decidedly tasteless society. You have been instructed to be holy, just like He is holy. So I’m asking, how’s that going for you? Are you as dedicated as you were at first or does your temple need a cleansing? Have you grown lukewarm? Have you put your hand to the plow and looked back? Which have you decided is more profitable–gaining the world or saving your soul? (I Peter 1:15-17; Matthew 5:13-16; Luke 10:3; I Peter 2:5; Romans 12:1; Mark 8:36; Luke 9:62)