Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Each day, as we pull out of the school carline, my children have questions for me. “Did you make Jello? Did you go to the store? Did you remember to wash my softball jersey?” A few days ago, when the answers to that day’s questions were negative, my oldest daughter asked the question I hear so often when the things they wish for don’t happen on their schedule, “So what did you do all day, Mom?” 

Admittedly, the question always puts my back up. The beautiful stacks of freshly laundered, neatly folded clothes waiting to be crammed haphazardly into dresser drawers go unnoticed. The clean, orderly house is taken for granted. The from-scratch meals placed before them each night are eaten with relish, but no real comprehension of how much effort it takes to put them there. They aren’t ungrateful children. They express gratitude often. (Especially for food!) What they lack is the understanding that it takes time and planning to create and maintain the pleasant atmosphere we enjoy inside the walls of our little abode. I have been busy, even if they don’t see the specific results they were looking for.

Honestly, we all find ourselves in the same position. Although you may have chuckled at my children’s graceless interest in my day as you read their less than complimentary question, a moment of soul transparency will remind you that you have often posed a similar question. Hopefully not to your mother! Most likely to God. On days when things have gone unbelievably wrong. When the word from the boss’s office wasn’t what you expected. The days when your heart has felt irreparably broken. When you have read the news and looked around at the terrifying social demise of this world. In frustration, in fear, in anxiety, in pain, you threw back your head and screamed up at the heavens, “What are you doing up there anyway? Don’t you see this mess? Why aren’t you fixing this? What have you been doing all day, God?”  

Unfortunately, there is an odd God concept permeating our society. It is the idea of God as a distant Being, completely uninvolved in our lives, our society, our world. We have constructed a mental image of God sitting on a golden, jewel-encrusted, plushly upholstered throne, feet comfortably propped on a neighboring planet, a bowl of popcorn in His lap, watching the goings-on of earth as if it’s the latest blockbuster. We expect Him to simply snap His fingers or wave His hand and make all the “bad” things go away. When He doesn’t, when we don’t get our way immediately, when we think the plan we have made is better than the plan He is implicating, we decide He isn’t invested, doesn’t care. He can’t, we argue, or He wouldn’t let good people suffer. He wouldn’t let bad people prosper. He wouldn’t allow things to get so far off the rails. He’d fix our situation, bestow all our wants within the timeline we have allotted. He’s God, right? He can do anything, right? So what’s He doing all day, anyway?!

The children of Israel must have been at this same crossroads. Trapped as slaves in a country not their own, they found themselves in a wretched situation. Their sons had been ordered slaughtered, breeding fear in every mother’s heart. They were slaving every day to make bricks for an unpleasable Pharaoh. They were gaining nothing of their own, the future was dark. Change didn’t seem to be coming. Their children had nothing to look forward to but abuse and brick building. Hearts burgeoning with the pain of their situation, enshrouded in the feeling of abandonment,  and beleaguered by the bleakness of the future, I wonder how many of them threw back their heads and cried out to Heaven, “What are You doing up there, anyway?”

But God wasn’t just hanging out, gazing at flower gardens and smiling at frolicking animals. Every cry from every broken heart was like an arrow stabbing through to the heart of God. Cries for help. Cries for a rescue. Cries for something more, something better than their current situation. (Exodus 3:7-9) He wasn’t just sitting up there ignoring their brokenhearted wails. No. God was working a plan. Step by step, He worked the plan even when the people were angry with Him, blamed Him for not listening, or nearly gave up hope. God was busy. Around the clock, He worked. Bringing Moses to a place of willingness. Gathering Aaron to help. Giving instructions. Sending opportunities for Pharaoh to obey. Sending plagues when Pharaoh was stiff-necked. From the moment the people began crying out to God, He began working. Even if they couldn’t see the progress, even when they couldn’t see any results, God was working out the plan that would rescue them. 

Their rescue didn’t come overnight. Their release from captivity wasn’t quick. There was no instant gratification, no flicking of the wrist, no snapping of the fingers. It required patience and perseverance. It took strength when Pharaoh doubled the workload. It took multiple rejections of their request. It took a few plagues and some really rough times. It took a sacrifice and a special meal and blood on the doorposts. It took a flight out of Egypt that turned into a narrow escape. Just because it took some time and had to follow a particular pattern didn’t mean God wasn’t listening. Rather, it was proof God was listening. God had a plan. God was working even when human eyes couldn’t see what He was doing. Because God is always busy on humanity’s behalf. (Exodus 1-14)

  We find that concept hard to believe. As society falls farther and farther short of the mark of quality or even remote godliness, a niggling doubt crowds our minds. Perhaps God doesn’t care. Perhaps He’s not invested. As we watch hate and anger boil over, causing mayhem, disaster and death, we wonder if God even notices our dire straits. Suffocating under a shroud of oppressive fears of illness, failure, people, and life itself, we question if God is even aware of what’s going on. When evil sprouts willingly on every corner, in every neighborhood and is condoned instead of condemned, we are tempted to believe He has spun the world into space and left us to fend for ourselves. We can’t see God working through the social disasters happening around us, so we decide that since we can’t see what He is doing, He must be unconcerned. We throw our heads back and holler at the heavens, because surely, if God cared, He’d stop the madness, change the people, fix the mess. What is He doing all day, anyway? 

The answer to our exasperated question lies in the beautiful verbiage of Psalm 68:19, “Day after day He bears our burdens.” (HCSB) Every. Single. Day. We forget that. Somehow we seem to think the sacrifice of Jesus on Calvary for our sin burdens was the end of the burden-bearing. We act like we have to shoulder all the things that trouble us, shake us, beset us on our own. But God didn’t step away after Calvary and leave us to handle the rest by ourselves. At Jesus’ final breath, He didn’t dust His hands together and say, “Well, there, that’s finished.” No. It was just the beginning. He is waiting, daily, to bear our burdens. Not just burdens of sin, but every burden. The anxiety, fear, worry, frustration you’ve been hauling around? Give it to Jesus. That conundrum you don’t share with anyone, but haven’t been able to solve on your own? Bring it to Him. Future uncertainty? Drop it at His feet. He’s happy to bear your burdens, to work on your behalf to bring you peace and rest.  Because bearing your burdens is what God is doing all day. Every day. As long as you will let Him. (Matthew 11:28)

And that’s what it really takes. Letting God do what God does best. Plan. Work. Part waters. (Exodus 14:21) Make donkeys talk. (Numbers 22:21-39) Whatever it takes to get the job done, God will do it. There is no situation that stymies Him or for which He has no answer. There is no cry that goes unheard.(I Peter 3:12) He is touched by our pain. (Psalm 34:18) And He is working, daily, to bring results that honor Him and enrich your walk with God. (Romans 8:28) All you need to do is roll all your cares on Him and allow His strength to sustain you through the good times and the bad. (Psalm 55:22) Because shouldering your burdens and sustaining your soul is what God is doing.  It’s not always easy, trusting God with your burdens and not micromanaging His response. I know. I’ve been there. I’ve done my share of screaming at the heavens. I’m sure I’ll do some more. I’ve also watched God move and work in ways I would never have imagined to accomplish things I could barely believe were possible. But everything, even the impossible, is possible with God. (Matthew 19:26) So go ahead. Throw your burdens down at His feet, trust Him to deal with them and walk on. You don’t have to carry those burdens anymore. That’s not your job. It’s God’s job. He does it every day. All day. That is what He is doing whenever it crosses your mind to ask. 

I’ve just finished slogging through the book of Leviticus for this year. If you have ever taken the time to read it, you likely echo that sentiment. It’s just so much. So many sacrifices and offerings. So many rituals and laws. So many clean and unclean animals. So many statutes and ordinances. My mind gets foggy from one chapter to the next. I find I have questions. How did they keep track of it all? Where did they get all the animals to sacrifice? Was anyone in the priesthood squeamish? Did they ever feel nauseous as the warm blood of yet another animal ran through their fingers? And what, if anything, am I, in the 21st century, supposed to gain from reading the book of Leviticus apart from deep gratitude mingled with relief that we no longer have to sacrifice animal after animal to atone for our sins? 

Admittedly, this is the fourth year in a row I’ve read Leviticus. Four times I’ve read these laws. Four times I’ve been stymied by the list of sacrifices and how to perform them correctly. Four times my mind has drifted every day while reading the endurance of its 27 chapters. Four times I have entered Leviticus with a set jaw and determination to read it again on principle. Few notes. Few lessons. Lots of daydreaming. What could I possibly gain from reading a book about blood and guts sacrifices that made my stomach turn? I always seek to learn something, but what can one learn from this?

Apparently, quite a lot. More than halfway through the book, I came to the final sentence of chapter 16, “Everything was done as the Lord commanded Moses.” (Leviticus 16:34) The words brought me up short in amazement. They did everything exactly like they were told?! There was a lot contained in those first 16 chapters. A lot of laws and ordinances. Specific times and ways to do things. Specific actions required of the priest. Specific offerings brought by the people. So many things to remember. So many things to do. How did they ever do it exactly?

Truthfully, they didn’t have a choice. They needed to do everything according to the instructions God gave them. Their salvation depended on it. At a time when the only way to remain in relationship with God was to obey all the ordinances and statutes He had spoken to Moses, make the sacrifices, observe the holy days, they had no other choice if they wanted to be God’s people. And they very much wanted to be God’s people. He had miraculously rescued them from captivity and slavery in Egypt. He had promised to be their God. He promised they would be His people. His promise had one caveat, they had to obey. (Leviticus 11:44-45; 26:11-13) 

Everything was wrapped up in that obedience. It was obedience that would set them apart, make them holy, designate them as his precious possession. (Exodus 19:5) It was obedience that would make them a people with whom God would make His residence. It would not necessarily be easy. It would involve sacrifice. Not just the ones made on the altar by the priests, either. It would involve personal sacrifice.

In an alarming account that makes my parental heart twist, we see Aaron witness the death of his own sons, Nadab and Abihu, because they chose not to obey. For incomprehensible reasons, they place fire and incense in fire pans and present it, unauthorized, before the Lord. I have no idea what they were thinking. The unfortunate result of their disobedience was immediate, fiery death. As if the story itself isn’t gut-wrenching enough, God instructs Moses that Aaron is not to mourn the loss of his sons. 

It’s unimaginable. I have a son. The loss would be unbearable, the pain intolerable. But being told not to mourn, not to weep, not to allow the shroud of loss to change your countenance? It seems impossible. Aaron could not have been pleased to hear this decree.  Yet, in an act of obedience that garners my hard-earned respect, Aaron does not engage in any of the acts of mourning popular in that day. He keeps his hair from disarray. He doesn’t tear his garments in an outward display of inner agony. He leaves the mourning to those outside the tent of meeting and goes about his duties. Because even when God gives us directions that are less than pleasant, seem unreasonable, or are downright hard, obedience is still what sets us apart as God’s people. (Leviticus 10:1-7)

And we are called to be set apart as God’s people. In a world that eschews sacrifice and obedience, God calls us to engage therein. The God who has delivered us from the miserable slavery of sin, who desires to dwell in us, walk with us, make us His peculiar people, asks just one thing–complete, sacrificial obedience. Obedience to God that sets us apart from the world. The obedience Paul spoke of in his second letter to the Corinthians when he exhorted the believers to obey God and walk pleasing to Him no matter if they were surrounded by believers or encased by the world. (II Corinthians 5:10) The obedience Moses spoke of when he relayed God’s message to the Israelites saying, “Don’t follow the practices of anyone around you. Only follow God.” (Leviticus 18:1-5) An obedience that we, in the easy, no-multiple-sacrifice culture of a 21st century, first world country, find it hard to heed.

Our easy chairs are too comfortable. Our lifestyles are too lush. We are not fans of obedience. We are not lovers of sacrifice. We are thrilled that Jesus died on the cross for our sins, eliminating the necessity of a herd of sheep in the backyard and a bloody sacrifice every week, but we are not thrilled enough to live in unquestioning obedience to His ordinances. We treat His sacrifice with flippancy. We want that forgiveness. We want the promise of Heaven. We decline the obedience. We reject the renouncing of the world. We don’t want to be different, look different, act different. We like fitting in. So we sacrifice the power and awe of being God’s people for the fleeting pleasure of social acceptance. 

Unfortunately, there are consequences. Our souls are starving when they should be flourishing. Our faith is shaky when it should be stalwart. Our witness is tarnished when it should be gleaming. The only way to rectify our mess is obedience. Obedience that brings forgiveness of sins and keeps you in right relationship and fellowship with God. Obedience that makes you remember every law, ordinance, rule, and regulation and keep them meticulously. The kind of obedience that sets you apart from the world and marks you as God’s holy people. A people God dwells in, lives among. A people set apart for His purpose. People that act differently, react properly. A peculiar people.  Because God’s people are different from everyone else. 

Cringing at the word “different”, we ask through gritted teeth, “How different do I have to be?” The answer comes through words spoken to Moses by the God who wanted to set the Israelites apart for Himself, “Don’t follow the customs of the land from which you came. Don’t follow the customs of the land where you are going. Obey me, my words, my laws.” (Leviticus 18:1-5) The answer didn’t change from the Old Testament to the New Testament. Inspired by God, Paul preaches the same thing to us in II Corinthians 6:17, “Come out from among the unbelievers and be separate.” Be different from the world. Let your obedience to God make you stand out from the crowd. Show them Jesus by the way you live your life. 

The situation is this–Your obedience affects more than just you. It affects everyone around you. You are God’s letter to the world. Your obedience, your willingness to be different, may be the only Jesus they see, the only Bible they read. (II Corinthians 3:3) Jesus has called you to be a witness for Him. (Acts 1:8) With that in mind, how do you measure up? How do you act and react? What do you say and do? How do you handle yourself in the face of adversity, criticism, and trauma? Does your life, your propensity to follow God no matter what, properly reflect to whom you belong? Have you chosen a path of obedience, a life as God’s peculiar treasure? Or have you decided to join the world in exchange for your soul? (Matthew 16:26)

Eighty times. They’d heard it 80 times. Camped out in the Valley of Elah, hunkered down in fear, waiting for the actual fighting to commence, the Israelite men were tired of hearing that tirade. Like clockwork, every morning and evening, the Philistine gargantuan lumbered his considerable bulk to the front of their ranks hurling demeaning insults, odious taunts, and egregious threats at the Israelite army. Just as the malicious words reverberated through the valley separating the armies, they echoed around and around the minds of Israel’s soldiers in a tormenting mental game, destining them to defeat long before a spear would ever be lifted. 

What was Goliath playing at anyway? He was enormous. Measuring nine feet, nine inches, clad in 125 pounds of armor, carrying a 15-pound spearhead tacked onto the end of a medium-sized tree, he was terrifying to everyone with the audacity to look at him. Odd how he wasn’t using his size or his spear to hold his enemy at bay. He certainly could have. He could have walked into battle and killed multiple men at one time. Perhaps he had in the past. Likely men had fainted in fear and been killed or carted away as captives in previous battles. 

So why not this time?  Had he grown weary of easy battles with spears and swords?  Was he tired of being the giant, ignorant lout out beating one ham shaped fist into the other and waiting for the signal to pummel the opposing army? No one extols his intelligence, only his might. Maybe He’s tired of that. Maybe he’s decided to prove he is more than just an ugly, hulking, terrifying warrior. Maybe he wants to be known for something more. Something cunning. Someone wise. A crafty warrior. 

It’s quite a brilliant tactic. The Philistines have been camped across from the Israelite army for 40 days and not one drop of blood has been shed. Everything is at a standstill. Terror is palpable on Israel’s side. Cocky self-assurance saturates the Philistines. They have Goliath, after all. He’s all they normally need. This would not be the first battle won by his competent fighting skills, immense stature, and incredible strength. No one in the Philistine army cares if he wants to taunt and bully the enemy. They are in no hurry. They confidently expect the outcome will be the same on day 40 as it would be on day 100. Let the giant rattle their cage if he wants. Israel’s army doesn’t stand a chance. 

Their thoughts echoed Israel’s fears. No one thought they stood a chance. Every time Goliath came out to spew his ugly speech they retreated like mice scattering from a cat. He’s huge. He’s mean. He’s crammed himself inside their heads. This is no longer a battle of might or power, but a battle of minds and wits. A battle they are ill-equipped to fight. They trained with shields and spears and swords. This battle would be best fought with faith, an art in which they were sadly lacking experience. It wasn’t just a battle for their lives, it was a battle for their very souls. (I Samuel 17:1-24)

I wonder if they realized that. I wonder if they realized their faith in God was being tested. Faith in the very God who had led their people through raging waters and dangerous deserts, who had provided food and water, who never let their clothing wear out for the entire trek through the desert. (Deuteronomy 8:3-4, Exodus 14, Exodus 7:1-7) I wonder if they stopped to take in the fact that faith in the proven power of God would bring them out of that valley as victors. Or were they too bogged down in fear and frustration, anxiety and aggravation, chaos and consternation to grab hold of the truths they knew, place their confidence in God, and faithfully rest the outcome of the battle in His sovereign hands? Were their minds too jumbled, their spirits too distressed to place their faith, their hope, their trust in the God who had never let His people down? (Joshua 21:43-45)

Scoffing, we read the account and, knowing how it ends, we ask how they could be so faithless. They had a history of miracle after miracle, rescue after rescue, saturated with the presence and power of God working on their behalf. Did they really think He was going to fail them now? Was their hope in His power, their faith in His ability, their trust in His promises so weak that a seething giant spewing verbal garbage could derail them so easily? 

Are ours? At a time when we are inundated with information largely comprised of surmise and speculation, how’s your faith? When it seems that you are too small, too feeble, too quiet to be heard above the boisterous crowd, where’s your hope? When you feel you are trapped in a valley, surrounded by taunting, nagging, insulting enemies that won’t give your mind a second’s reprieve, can you find it within yourself to faithfully place your hand in the hand of God and trust Him to lead you victoriously out of the valley?  

See, we all spend time in the valley. Not one of us enjoys it. The valleys of life are largely touted as a place of struggle, strain, stress, and suffering. The light doesn’t filter through as much. There are shadows that make us uncomfortable. There are taunting whispers that tell us we are not enough. There are echoing cries of every fault and shame. There are terrifying catcalls of an uncertain future, possible failure, certain death. The valley is horrible by every account. Except the valley traveled by faith in the unfailing victory of the God who walks that valley too. (Psalm 23)

That’s how David won against the giant. Faith in the valley of Elah. He was familiar with valleys. He’d been in some with his sheep. Alone with a flock of defenseless sheep, David has had to fight for them, even if it means putting his life on the line. Back-up wasn’t coming. Bears have come and attempted to carry off their young. Lions have preyed on the sick, slow, more helpless of the flock. David has gone after every one. He has killed lions and bears and rescued lambs from their ferocious jaws. The power of God that rested on him brought David and his flock deliverance over and over again. Deliverance from the very things that sought his life and the lives of his flock. David knew from experience that he could trust in the power of God to do anything, even in the valley. (I Samuel 16:13; 17:34-37)

So when David came upon an enormous Philistine trash-talking the great God who had continually traveled mountaintops and valleys with him, who had rescued him from wild, savage beasts multiple times, who had proven His faithfulness time and again, David takes offense. The mind games don’t work on him. The threats and insults don’t phase him. The taunts and bullying fall on deaf ears. David knows firsthand what faith in God can do. And he’s ready to do it. 

With five smooth stones, a little slingshot, and a shepherd’s staff, a very young, armorless David confidently breaks through the front line of Israelite soldiers and plays a little mind game of his own. As Goliath rails and rages, David valiantly responds with the Biblical version of “sticks and stones may break my bones”. He says, “You came out here with armor and enormous weapons certain you can kill me. I come out in the name of the omnipotent God of the universe. He fights for me. Today you will die and be eaten by birds so all the earth will know that God is on our side. This is not our battle. This is God’s battle. And our God always wins.” (I Samuel 17:42-47) And so it was. 

And so it is with you too. Buried in the inky blackness of the valley, when the taunting voices of fear and unbelief are tearing at your soul, know these things. You are not alone. God is with you in the darkness of the valley just as He is with you in the sunshine of the mountaintop. (Isaiah 41:10) When you feel too weak to go on, He is your strength. (II Corinthians 12:9-11) When the evil one comes against you with taunts and insults and mind games, pull a David. Straighten your spine. Place every ounce of your brow-beaten faith in the God who has never let you down, and remind yourself how the valley works. The valley is a place of victory. Remind yourself of that. Remind yourself that the omnipotent God of the universe is with you. He will not fail you or forsake you. You can trust Him. He will fight for you. It’s His battle, not yours. And your God always wins. A landslide victory that strengthens and bolsters your wavering faith. Victory in your valley of Elah. (Deuteronomy 31:6)

A mountaintop is coming. It will be lovely–sunshine, light breeze, singing birds, beautiful flowers. You’ll be tempted to forget the valley. Don’t. Don’t forget what you came through. Don’t forget the molding and strengthening of your faith. Don’t forget what God did for you there. Don’t let your hope in God falter, your faith in His power fumble, your trust in His plan fail. And the next time you are in the valley, walk confidently. Ignore those voices. Refuse to play the enemy’s mind games. Cast your faith in the God who has brought you through before, rest in Him and let Him fight that battle. You’ll be stronger for it. For in the valley, He restores your soul. (Psalm 23:3; Mark 11:22)

The servants looked at one another in bewildered dismay as the final drop drained from the wine cask. Palpable panic set in. The wedding supper was hours from being over. How had such an oversight happened? Running out of wine was an enormous embarrassment. And which of them would be tasked with reporting the poor planning? Who was brave enough to walk up to the host and say, “Apparently we underestimated the popularity of the newly wedded couple and failed to stock enough wine for the supper”? Anyone? No one?

As they discuss who will sacrifice themselves by explaining the delicate circumstance to the host, a lady approaches and hears their frantic whispers. A little smile quirks up the side of her mouth. Perhaps she can help. Or at least her Son can. So she finds Him and explains the servants’ plight. At first, He seems disinclined to help, but Mary knows the caring, compassionate heart of her Son would never leave a desperate soul in trouble and, turning to the servants, she says, “Whatever He says you should do, don’t question it. Just do it.” (John 2:5)

Skeptical but desperate, the servants stand at attention, awaiting directions. Jesus, calm in spite of the panicked undercurrent, points to the six stone purification jars, and says, “Put water in those jars.” Eyebrows raise. Questioning glances meet one another. Bewildered shrugs pass between them, but they start hauling water. When all the jars are full, Jesus gives them one more direction, “Pour a glass from one of those jars and take it to the host.” Already raised eyebrows creep just a touch higher. Really? Is He sure? They just put water in those jars?!

There are no other options. It must be done. Taking a deep breath, one brave servant tentatively steps forward, takes a goblet, fills it from the water jar. Odd. It looks a lot like wine. Bracing himself for a scolding, he cautiously offers the cup to the host for tasting. The servant steps back, hands folded, head bowed, awaiting his fate. The scolding never comes. The host takes one sip, then another. His face wreaths in surprised delight. “This wine is better than the first.” Relief fills the servants’ hearts. They were saved! Saved by a man they didn’t know, doing a miracle they didn’t believe possible, through actions they didn’t think were wise. In retrospect, they were so glad they had obeyed, so honored to have been asked to participate. (John 2:1-10)

It wouldn’t be the last time Jesus would use human obedience to perform a miracle. The man in John 9 comes to mind. Blind from birth, he finds himself in unenviable circumstances. Opportunities for the blind simply did not exist in his day. Furthermore, people seemed to think it was either his or his parents’ fault that he had been born with this disabling infirmity. He surely wished he could see, wished he could care for himself beyond begging. Wished he could do something to change his situation. But what could a blind man do?

Plenty apparently. At least when Jesus is involved. There is no record that the blind man even asked for Jesus’ help. Yet Jesus comes to him, spits on the ground, makes mud, and smears it on the blind man’s eyes. Then, He tells him to go wash it off in the pool of Siloam. 

 I wonder what the man thought when that happened. Surely he heard the sound of spitting. It likely wasn’t an unfamiliar sound considering his outcast social status. But to have spit mud wiped on his face? Yuck! He had to wash it off. No one wants mud caked to their face. So he makes his way to Siloam and washes. As muddy water sluiced off his face, the strangest thing happened. He saw a man looking back at him from the glimmering surface of the pool.  

Startled, he moves side to side. The man in the water moved too. Can it be? Is it real? He looked around. He could see people, buildings, trees, animals! He began walking–without feeling his way! It was a miracle! His very own miracle, performed by a man he didn’t know. A miracle that didn’t seem possible, accomplished through actions he didn’t think helpful. He was so glad he obeyed, so humbled to have been part of the ministry of the Messiah. (John 9:1-6)

Over and over throughout His earthly ministry, Jesus asks people to do things. He called Zaccheus to come down out of his tree, had the paralyzed man take up his cot and walk, told Simon to cast his nets in deeper waters, and called the 4-day-old corpse of Lazarus to walk out of his tomb. (Luke 5:1-6, 17-25; Luke 19:1-10; John 11:38-44) They didn’t have to do those things. They could have said, “No.” The rich young ruler of Mark 10 did. Jesus asked him to get rid of his earthly possessions and come follow Him. He didn’t do it. He chose to go about his life the way it was. (Mark 10:17-22) He didn’t recognize the honor he had just received. The honor of being asked to do something for, be a part of, the ministry of Jesus Christ. 

Today, beyond the boisterous noise of the world, beyond the pull of the crowd, Jesus is asking you to do something too. Jesus is always asking us to do something. Not because He can’t do things without us, but because He chooses to honor us by asking for our help. Jesus could have flicked a finger and the wine been replenished with no effort on the servants’ part. He could have healed the blind man simply by speaking, no gritty spit mud involved. He could have changed Zaccheus’ heart without him coming down out of the tree. And He can change the world without our help. Yet still He asks.

Sometimes I wonder why He does that. Asking us to work for His kingdom. I’ve read the account of Creation. I’ve read the chapters in Job extolling God’s power, wisdom, and excellence. (Job 36-40) Not only did He establish the universe and everything in it, He maintains it without the help of humanity. So why does the amazing God of the universe who simply speaks intricate organisms into existence, ask me–lowly, human, sinful, mentally frail me–to write words that may never be read, love others who may never respond, pray prayers I might never see answered, speak words that could be misunderstood? 

Because that same great God who spoke the world into existence and keeps the earth spinning at a tolerable rate, uses our obedience to show others His power and spread His message to others. People who haven’t heard, don’t know, won’t listen, don’t seem to care. People who desperately need to meet the God who threw the universe into orbit, the God who longs to be an intricate part of their lives. The God who seeks to know each soul individually, personally, intimately. The God who is love. (Genesis 1; I John 3:1; John 3:16; Romans 5:8)

 A few years ago I wrote devotionals for a ladies’ Bible study group. More than once I would write one, sit back and say, “Why am I taking this to these ladies? They know Jesus. This doesn’t seem to fit.” It seemed silly to tell them Jesus loved them when they already knew. It seemed ridiculous to speak salvation to ladies who had already experienced that grace. Obediently I would go and share, often telling them I had no idea why I was bringing them that message. Later I would find they had taken it and shared it with someone else who needed to hear it. Sometimes it would speak to a situation in their families. So I continue to write words God puts in my mind that often seem unnecessary for the readership, seem like things they already know, reminding myself continually that God’s words do not return to Him void. (Isaiah 55:11) No matter the outcome, I am deeply honored and greatly humbled to be asked to work for Jesus.

Like the servants in Cana, the blind man and the mud, Zaccheus, and Lazarus’ corpse, Jesus is asking you to do something too. Something to display the power and glory of God. Something to share the love and grace of the Savior. Something you might not be so keen on doing. Something that seems as ridiculous as pouring water with the same flourish as wine. Something that seems as far-fetched as calling a dead man to walk out of a tomb. The evil one whispers in your ear, “That’s ridiculous. He can’t mean for you to do that!” 

Don’t believe that for a minute. Nothing God does or asks you to do is ever ridiculous, worthless, useless, or in vain. God is not in the habit of doing things that do not work out His purpose. He will never ask you to do something He isn’t going to work through. The work you do for Jesus is never pointless. (I Corinthians 15:58) It is always profitable, even if you never see the outcome. So do it. Do whatever He asks. No questions. No arguments. No caveats. No tweaks. Do it. 

See, it is not just me. Not just preachers and teachers. Not just the people in the Bible. Not just the servants at the wedding in Cana. It is bankers and lawyers, servers and stockboys, students and teammates. Jesus calls each one of us out of our comfort zones into the thicket, the briars, the bush to share His message with those lost and entangled in sin. Jesus is asking you too. I don’t know what your job is. I don’t need to know how He is going to use you, but whatever He is asking you to do, do it. In so doing you will find, there is no higher accolade, no greater reward, no more distinguished honor than that of being asked to serve Jesus. (I Corinthians 3:9; Matthew 9:37; Luke 14:23; Mark 16:15)

It is likely unsurprising that I have an avid interest in the Biblical accounts of Jesus interacting with women. Given the patriarchal society of the day, I’m sure it was an unpopular choice–especially the type of women with whom He often chose to interact. Women without social standing. Women others rejected. Women stuck in bad situations. Women who needed forgiveness, grace, a miracle. Women like the adulterous woman in John 8. 

Dragged from her bed of debauchery, surrounded by a group of angry men with a point to prove, she stands accused and guilty before the ultimate Judge. Her clothing is askew. Her hair bedraggled and hanging around her face. She doesn’t even attempt to meet Jesus’ gaze. Her embarrassment is too acute. Regardless of what she was caught doing, having her sin exposed for all to see is more humiliation than she cares to endure. Her face is averted, her eyes cast down. She doesn’t need to see her accusers to hear their nasty insults. She can’t ignore them, but she doesn’t have to acknowledge them. Shame engulfs her like a heavy mantle. The coming punishment couldn’t feel worse than she felt at that moment.  

Had she not been swimming in her own cesspool of disgrace, she’d have noticed the nearly comical scene around her. Grown men clutching stones and banging on like tattling children in a relentless diatribe about catching her in the very act of adultery (alone, apparently, as no man is on trial with her) and what should be done because of it. Each man is attempting to be the loudest, most intelligent, most authoritative, most impressive voice in the melee. Each hoping to be the one to trip up the great Teacher. That’s what it was really about. 

“Do you know what the law says about that? We can quote it for you. Don’t you agree she should be stoned like it says? Shouldn’t our sanctimonious selves be the ones to do it?” they ask.

Then the trick questions, “Are you going to defy the law, our saving grace? What do you think should be done about this situation, Jesus?”  

And the exasperated voices as they realize Jesus is squatted down, calmly writing in the dirt, “Are you even listening? Why are you writing in the dirt at a time like this? We’re talking to you! Whatcha gonna do, Jesus??” 

Undergoing a barrage of verbal insults and facing a volley of very real stones, the charged woman is not looking at the scene around her. She’s not searching the crowd for someone to speak on her behalf. She’s not crazy enough to think someone will. No one stands up on behalf of lawbreakers. No one befriends sinners. No one can negate another’s punishment. No one loves anyone enough to even try. Hopeless and helpless, she’s enduring the humiliation, berating herself for her actions, wishing there was a way of escaping the consequences, yet resigning herself to the inevitable. Her head is bowed. Her eyes fixed on the ground. The very ground upon which Jesus is writing. 

Jesus, who was listening to the Pharisaical blathering all along, finally had enough of the bluster. He stops writing, unfolds from his stooped position, and simply says, “If you’ve never sinned, aren’t currently sinning, and foresee a personal future of sinless uprightness, go ahead and throw some stones.” (John 8:7) Stooping again, He resumes His sand sermon. 

As she stands there bracing herself for the impact of the first stone, the woman instead hears a soft thump as a scribe drops his rock and slinks away. Another thump on her other side, and a Pharisee slips off through the crowd as inconspicuously as possible. One by one, each eager executioner drops their weapon of choice and quietly disappears. She doesn’t move a muscle. She hardly dares to breathe. Perhaps she’s afraid. Perhaps she’s uncertain. Perhaps she’s immersed in the sermon written in the dirt at her feet. 

Whatever her reason, John 8:10 tells us Jesus finally stood up, looked around at the decidedly uncrowded area around them, and asked, “Where are your accusers? Did they change their minds?” Bewildered at what is happening, she admits no one has stayed behind to mete out the intended punishment. And Jesus says, “I hold nothing against you. You are forgiven. Go and live like it.” (John 8:11)  

So what was Jesus writing in the sand? The Bible doesn’t tell us, but my curiosity is piqued and my imagination is overactive. I want to know–or at least speculate. What could have been so important, so necessary that He decided to write it then and there? And who was intended to read it? Was anyone? Was everyone?

For interest’s sake, I asked three preachers from three different denominations what they thought. Although their answers differed, they all seemed to think the writing was aimed at the male accusers. Perhaps it was a list of sins. Perhaps it was a list of saints. Perhaps it wasn’t a list at all, but the law. Perhaps it’s unimportant because it’s message wasn’t recorded.  

 But I wonder…Perhaps it wasn’t intended to accuse the accusers. Perhaps it was intended to redeem the accused. Perhaps it was an olive branch extended to “whosoever will”. (Revelation 22:17, Romans 10:13) Perhaps it was a message that would reduce the law to a schoolmaster (Galatians 3:24-25) and promote grace to a position of power. Perhaps it was a love letter, authored by Jesus, written in the sand. 

Perhaps it started with the words of Isaiah 43:1 and ended with the promise of John 3:16-17. Maybe it said something like this, “I am the Lord. Don’t be afraid. I’ve already paid the price for you. You are redeemed. I have called you by your name, a name I know, because you are mine. In spite of the mess you have made of your life, God still loves you so much He is willing to sacrifice His greatest treasure to ensure your redemption. All you have to do is believe.  Believe I love you. Believe God sent Me. Believe that Someone loves you enough to take your punishment and spare your life.” 

The words instill hope. Hope that someone does stand up on behalf of lawbreakers, someone does befriend sinners, someone loves less than desirable humanity enough to reduce, even revoke, their deserved punishment. The litany of offenses is erased by the sacrifice of Jesus Christ.  (Colossians 2:14) 

 In a moment of transparency, I admit I am right there with her. Not the adultery part, the sin part. The list of “Shalt not’s” I’ve broken is longer than the list of “Thou shalt’s” I’ve kept. Satan, the Pharisee, takes enormous pleasure in parading my sins before me like so much dirty laundry. Some days I fall for it. My stringently judgmental self fires off a barrage of disparaging remarks at my weatherbeaten soul. “How could God love you? You are a mess. You can’t do anything right for very long. Everyone else is lovable, but you? Not so much. You are useless, worthless, unlovable.” And the coup de grace, “You might as well be spiritually stoned and left for dead.”  

Embarrassed by the reality of past indiscretions and concerned there’s more truth than error in the railing accusations, I stand with my face and soul downcast. Awaiting judgment, I stare at the ground in front of me. Tears cloud my vision. As I blink them away, I see it. The love letter Jesus left me. Possibly the same message He wrote for the adulterous woman in John 8.  

Inscribed in the dirt at my feet, my shame-filled eyes see words from Isaiah 43:1, “You are mine.”  Created by His hand, constantly being molded into the person He wants me to be, I am His. No matter what else I am–sinner, saint, snob, sweetheart–I am His. And He calls me by my name. The same name He has tattooed on His hand. (Isaiah 49:16)   

As I continue to read, He says my sins are blotted out by a thick, inky cloud. He says I’m redeemed. (Isaiah 44:22) Sin has no control over me anymore. (Romans 6:14) There’s no need to fear. He’s going to be with me. Now and always. Come hell or high water. He’s never going to leave. (Isaiah 43:2,5)  And when I finally get the courage to look up into His face, He says to me what He said to that woman so long ago, “I hold nothing against you. You are forgiven. Go and live like it.” (John 8:11)

Admittedly, I don’t know what Jesus was writing or drawing in the dirt. No one does. It’s all speculation. Maybe it was for the men. Maybe it was for that woman. Maybe it was for anyone who would take the time to read it. I don’t know. But I do know this. No one is outside the realm of God’s grace, forgiveness, and love. The woman caught in her sins is no different than you and me.  We are all doomed to death because of our sin. (Ephesians 2:1) We deserve no less. But God’s grace, in the form of Jesus, steps in and changes the laws. We don’t have to die. We can choose life. (Deuteronomy 30:19) Abundant life. Lived to the fullest. (John 10:10)

I don’t know what your past looks like.  I can’t see your present soul. Perhaps you feel broken, worthless, insignificant. Maybe you think God is ignoring you. He’s not. He’s writing you a love letter in the dirt around your feet.  No matter where you are, where you’ve been, or what you’ve done, His words are the same. For you, for me, for the person you’ve wronged and the one who has wronged you, His message stands. So take the hand He holds out to you, the one inscribed with your name, and hear Jesus say, “I hold nothing against you. You are redeemed. You are mine.” Then go, and live like it.