Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

It was a perfect place to rest, sleep even. The garden was calm and peaceful. The olive trees were swaying in a gentle breeze. The soft scent of flowers floated in the air. There were few other visitors. Dusk had fallen. The disciples had just celebrated Passover with Jesus. There had been some interesting conversations at dinner. Conversations about desertion and denial. Conversations about Jesus’ departure. Finally, they had sung a hymn together and headed to the Mount of Olives. 

It had already been an emotionally draining evening. There was so much to digest. Not food. Information. Overwhelming amounts of information. Incomprehensible, unbelievable, unpleasant information. So perhaps it was a combination, both the calm garden and the mental exhaustion, that made the disciples fall asleep when Jesus asked them to watch and pray. Pray for Him. Pray for themselves. Pray for the future. They failed. They didn’t pray. They slept. (Mark 14:27-31)

Walking farther into the garden to be alone with the Father, Jesus didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. His mind wouldn’t relent. His spirit wouldn’t settle. His humanity was at war with His Deity. He knew His mission, the end as well as the beginning. He knew he was headed to the cross. It would be a treacherous trip. As awful as death would be, the journey to the cross would be worse. He already knew what was coming. Every. Single. Detail. His humanity cringed, recoiled at the thought. The urgency of His mission pressed Him forward. 

Riddled with anxiety, crushed with grief, alone in the darkened garden, He falls to the ground as His humanity begs the Father to let Him off the hook. Isn’t there another way? Can’t we change the plan? Send someone else. Use an angel. Wave a hand. Speak a word. Something. Anything. Then His Deity steps in, His unfathomable love for lost humanity has Him saying, “But if none of those things will have the desired effect, if salvation for humanity cannot be purchased any other way, not my will, but yours be done.” (Mark 14:35)

Not once, but twice this battle rages. A struggle that would determine the fate of all humanity. His anguish is palpable. His prayer is intense. His sweat runs rivulets of blood down His face, dripping off His chin to stain the grass and soil. The Heavens are silent. The Father doesn’t speak. The angels don’t come wafting in with a rescue. The original plan stands. There will be no substitutions. There can’t be. The result wouldn’t be the same. (Mark 14:32-42; Luke 22:39-45)

And so it was. Judas arrived. The betrayal kiss occurred. Jesus was led away. The disciples scattered. (Mark 14:66-72) Jesus was truly alone now, at the mercy of those who hated Him. The sin of humanity would be laid on His back. Centuries of sin. Sin He didn’t commit, but chose to bear so every soul could inherit eternal life. 

He was bound and led before Pilate. Vicious accusations rang through the air. Palpable hate-filled the room. Jesus stood quietly, allowed the raging, the railing, saying nothing in His own defense. The prayer in the garden had strengthened Him for this moment. He wasn’t there to change God’s plan, simply fulfill it. Pilate realizes the trial is ludicrous. He doesn’t want this decision on his hands. He doesn’t want to lose his rank or status, either. In a move rank with political intention, Pilate places the responsibility for Jesus’ future on the people. Who do they want on the middle cross? Barabbas or Jesus? Criminal or Savior.

The answer was a deafening roar, “Crucify Him!” The very people Jesus had come to seek, to save, to help, to heal were chanting, screaming, demanding His death. The soldiers were all too happy to comply. Taking a whip, they beat him. Not just a few times. Not halfheartedly. They didn’t stop when the first blood appeared. They beat Him until the flesh of His back was torn and bleeding. Then, in one last mocking gesture, they wove a crown of thorny vines and crammed it down on His head. Pain. Agony. Disgrace. 

The soldiers didn’t care. Brutality was their job. They were just getting started. They take Jesus outside, lay a heavy, wooden cross on His shoulder and force Him to begin the trek up the hill of crucifixion. No attention was paid to the blood oozing from His thorn pierced brow. No one cared about His bruised, bloodied back. No one stopped the procession as Jesus struggled to make the climb. No one came to His defense. No one offered to die in His place. 

As they reached the top of the hill, laid the cross on the ground and forced the Savior to stretch out on it, no one tried to intervene. No one on earth. No one in Heaven. The echo of hammer to nail rings out across the hillside. Nails tearing skin and flesh as they pierce hands that have only ever healed and helped. Surely the people standing around had to look away. Surely their hearts weren’t so hardened as to be able to watch without horror. Then the cross was lifted and thumped into the ground. Jesus hangs, attached by nails to a cross, beaten, bruised, bleeding. Dying for the people there and for those who would come after them. Dying for you, for me. 

Speculation causes us to wonder what was going on in Heaven through all of this. Did God weep? Were angels, with tears streaming down their faces, poised on the edge of a cloud waiting for the command of rescue? Were they all hoping the Father would change His mind? The command would never come. The Father didn’t send angels swooping in to rescue the Son. He didn’t step in to change the scene for the weeping women watching in anguish as Jesus breathed His last. No matter how much the Father loved the Son, there could be no substitutions if humanity was to be rescued. 

Darkness falls. Hours of darkness. Jesus cries out to the Father, “Why did you forsake me?” The Heavens remain silent, but a storm of change is brewing. With His final breath, Jesus cries, “It is finished.” Those final words ring out in a victorious chorus for those standing there that day and for those every soul walking in sin throughout history and even today. With those words, Jesus’ earthly work was done. He had accomplished the mission. The veil in the temple is triumphantly torn in half allowing us to approach the Father with boldness. Sin is defeated. Salvation is available to all who believe. There is hope for the desperate messiness of our sin-filled hearts. Only because Jesus died for us. No substitution could have loved us enough to endure the torture, the brutality, the abandonment so our sins could be erased. (Matthew 26-27; Mark 14-15; Luke 22-23; John 18-19)

Oddly, this is not our favorite Biblical account. It should be. We desperately need to spend time carefully reading and absorbing the events of the cross. We need to ponder them. We need to listen to the angry mocking cries of people just like us. We need to feel the pull of arm muscles as that whip is swung over and over again. We need to stand at the foot of the cross, gaze up at the anguished Savior, and know that He died on behalf of our sins. We need to admit we put Him there. We need to let it sink deeply into our hearts, our minds. We need to understand the act of relentless love that provided exceptionally worthless humanity with an altered eternity. 

Then we need to do something. We need to put Jesus in His rightful place in our lives. His place is not on a cross, crucified over and over again. His place is the throne of our hearts, the center of our lives. Without Jesus, without His unbelievable sacrifice on the cross, we are nothing. Our filthy, sinful souls deserve hell. We have made a mockery of His sacrifice, His suffering, His death. We have loved the world more than Jesus. We have allowed our busyness, our responsibilities, our pleasures, our friends to take precedence over Jesus Christ. (I Peter 2:24; II Timothy 4:10)

We should be ashamed. Ashamed at what we have forgotten, what we have let slip, how far we have drifted away, how many substitutes we have accepted over true relationship with Jesus Christ. Apparently, we have forgotten that nothing is more important, more vital to our spiritual survival, than Jesus. Nothing is more necessary than spending every day in His presence. Nothing is more extravagant than the blessing of His peace. Nothing is more integral to our daily existence than constant communication with Christ.

So take a moment, quiet your heart, and remember. Remember the angry mob. Remember the beating. Remember the thorns. Remember that trek up Golgotha. Remember the nails. Allow the cries and echoes to reverberate in your soul. Remember it was for you. Remember where you would be without His sacrifice. Remember Jesus. Remember your first love. Remember how much you need His presence. And always, always remember this–in a world of substitution, where you can replace anything you want with something new, something different, there is absolutely no substitute for Jesus.

I started taking piano lessons in the fourth grade. I’ve been playing ever since. Recitals, church services, funerals, a wedding, a handful of ceremonies. As part of my musical education, my Great Aunt and I used to attend recitals at the university where professional musicians played the piano, organ, and harpsichord. They were lovely. Peaceful, calming melodies skillfully played by an unobtrusive musician who allowed the notes to speak for themselves. People who, without a spoken word, nurtured and encouraged the love of music in my teenage heart.

In spite of that love, there are some instruments I would gladly forego. Instruments that don’t carry a melody, don’t harmonize. Cymbals. Gongs. The abrasive instruments. They seem to get carried away, as if venting frustration at their small part in the score. There’s never a gong solo or a cymbal quartet. So when their part comes up, the player hammers away as if it’s the last worthy thing they’ll ever do. Maybe that is the intended use. I don’t know. I do know their banging often severs the beauty of the melody and detracts from the piece.

 Apparently the Apostle Paul and I share these feelings concerning gongs and cymbals. He didn’t seem to love the percussion section either. In a wildly unflattering comparison, he called those who claim to love others, who do all the right actions but don’t have the right spirit to be noisy, abrasive gongs and cymbals. (I Corinthians 13:1) He says you can do a host of good things, be ridiculously intelligent, prophesy, move mountains with your faith, even sacrifice your body, but if you don’t love others, your percussion section is out of hand. (I Corinthians 13:1-3)

We’ve been hearing a lot about loving others lately. “Love your neighbor” is society’s latest mantra. I want to believe they mean well, but I’m concerned about their definition. Their measuring stick of love is a permissive validation of sin. It is blanket approval. It shows preference. It allows for angry tantrums and outbursts. It does not exhibit self-control. It justifies unforgiveness. The love of which society speaks is an outward act to hide the inward ugliness and anyone can do it, even while their hearts are teeming with hate. 

It has taken me several readings of I Corinthians 13 to get what Paul was really saying. It wasn’t actually about the things you do physically. Loving your neighbor has nothing to do with salving your conscience, impressing church leaders, or padding your resume. It’s about your heart. It’s about making a beautiful melody for God with your life. Loving others is not a list of outward acts. It is an inward work. True love for your neighbor speaks strictly to the state of your heart. 

It is to that state of heart Jesus is referring when he tells the parable of the Good Samaritan in Luke 10. A Jewish man is travelling along a road when robbers jump out and stop him. Their attack leaves him beaten, stripped, and possibly dying on the side of the road. A priest is travelling the same road. He sees the lump of abused humanity. He feels no compunction to stop even to check for signs of life. Unwilling to sully his robe or dirty his hands, he crosses to the other side of the road and keeps travelling. A Levite, possibly an assistant in the Temple, comes along. Maybe he took a moment to look, assess the situation. Deeming the broken man unworthy of his valuable time, he too, crosses to the other side of the road and passes by. 

Eventually, a Samaritan man comes down the road. He sees the man, just like the first two travelers. He could easily have passed by also. The Jews and Samaritans didn’t associate. Society would frown on the interaction. But the heart of the Samaritan man was different. He wasn’t bound by society’s ideology. His heart is moved with compassion. He doesn’t stop just to have a look. He stops to help. He cleans and bandages the best he can. Then he loads him on his donkey, books him in the inn to recover, and pays the bill in advance. No checking to make sure the news crews were in place to cover it. No making certain the Jewish man could pay him back. No fanfare. No clanging cymbals or resounding gongs. Only compassion and help for a needy fellow traveler. (Luke 10: 29-37)

I grew up watching this love at work–in a church parsonage. I’ve entered the dining room to find we had company for breakfast. Company I didn’t know. Company that just needed a meal. Single adults. Families. Over the course of my growing up years, it seems we served breakfast to more strangers than friends. People with a story and a need. Even when we had next to nothing ourselves, Dad would come in with people who needed help and, the next thing I knew, Mom was cooking eggs for a crowd. They would leave. We’d never see them again, but those travelers would always carry with them the memory of a preacher’s family that listened to their story, fed them, and prayed over them. Compassion and help for needy fellow travelers.

You see, true love for others doesn’t check to see if they are on the “safe to socialize” list. It does not allow social opinions or pressure to determine neighborly compassion. It doesn’t bang a gong before helping. It doesn’t take videos to post online as it does its good works. Love doesn’t see photo ops. It simply sees need, feels compassion, and acts to meet that need. 

We aren’t naturally wired that way, so how do we get there? How do we get from just doing good works because they are expected to doing good works because we feel deep compassion for others? It goes back to Luke 10:27. The first phrase. “Love God with all your heart, soul, strength and mind.” It goes back to being First Commandment People. People that are in such a deep relationship, deep friendship with God that His love fills us and flows out of our lives to touch those around us. It is that deep friendship that teaches us how to love others. We’d be lying if we said God is not continually patient, kind, selfless, and forgiving. If He wasn’t we’d have stopped being friends long ago. He calls us to do the same, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” (Luke 10:27)

Loving your neighbor doesn’t always look the way the world thinks it does. It isn’t always monetary. It’s not always volunteering for an organization. Loving your neighbor is often small, simple everyday things. Patience. Kindness. Forgiveness even when there’s no apology. Selflessness. There won’t be a lot of fanfare. There won’t be a press release. No one will pat you on the back. No cymbals or gongs. But there will be beautiful music made when you allow Jesus’ love to change your heart and help you touch the lives of others.

About a year ago, the Lord spoke to me about grace, unmerited favor bestowed on us because of God’s love for humanity. He said every moment of our lives is a moment to give or receive grace. I began repeating it over and over to my children. “Every moment of every day is a moment to give or receive grace.” I wanted them to recognize the touch of grace in their lives. More than that, I wanted them to give grace, show love to others. Those who wronged them. Those who need help. People in wheelchairs. Children alone on the playground. I wasn’t sure it was sinking in. Then one day, my youngest daughter bought her sister an iced tea at the coffee shop using her own money. I was telling her how proud I was of her kindness when her offhand remark brought me to tears, “Every moment of every day is a moment to give or receive grace.” And so it is. Every moment of every day is a moment to, in grace, reach out in love to someone around you. 

Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is unselfish. Love is not proud, boastful, envious, or angry. Love forgives. Love never ends. It keeps reaching out in compassion to meet needs physically, emotionally, spiritually. Not for the praise of men. Not for attention. Not only after banging a gong or clanging a cymbal. Expecting no reward. True love for your neighbor comes from a first commandment heart in deep relationship with Jesus Christ, overflowing with His love, and playing a second commandment melody that soothes, comforts, calms, and cures. (Matthew 10:8)

Several years ago we lived in a community surrounding a 125-acre lake. It was a beautiful place. Perfect for a walk along the shore, a wedding, a photography session, or an idyllic canoe ride. Lake usage and upkeep was vigorously regulated. One day I opened my e-mail to find a mass message from the homeowner’s association. Apparently someone’s boat had been left unsecured and was now drifting in the middle of the lake. Attached was a photograph of a sad little vessel, desperately in need of repairs. We didn’t own a boat and hadn’t been on the lake. I deleted the message. A few days later, a second e-mail blinked into my inbox. A kind resident had rescued the boat and secured it to a dock. The owners still needed to come pick it up. I had doubts that would happen. 

A couple of weeks went by, I forgot the sad little boat needing rescue. Others didn’t forget. The homeowner’s association is nothing if not tenacious. A third and final e-mail arrived, sterner than the others. There was a date by which pickup must be made. If not done as requested, the boat would be added to the fleet managed by the association and loaned out to boatless residents. Apparently that is what happened. I never heard anything else. Maybe I missed an e-mail. Or maybe I was too absorbed in Hebrews 2:1. Maybe I was too busy making a correlation between that drifting boat and the drifting of our souls. Maybe I couldn’t help but think how we need to heed the things God has commanded and called us to do lest we, like that boat, end up worse for wear and drifting around unattended. 

It’s been a few years since I thought about that boat. As I contemplated the things God has spoken into my heart recently, that boat came back to mind. It’s the mindless drifting that gets me, stops me, scares me. I see so much drifting. Drifting away from truth. Drifting toward a lesser way, toward a more socially acceptable faith. Drifting into complacency, doubt, and sin. Drifting away from the Bible. Drifting away from God.  

My heart feels it too–the urge to drift, the temptation to draw in the oars and float along. Pray less. Indulge more. Follow the crowd. The suggestion to subscribe to “Jesus light”, diet spirituality, regularly pounds at my door. Perhaps it is that same suggestion that causes me to turn and, fighting the currents, find my way back to what I know to be true, back to the basics of my faith, back to the first and greatest commandment. Love God. Love Him above all else. Love Him more than anyone or anything else. Love the Lord your God with every fiber of your being. (Matthew 22:37-38)

We don’t hear a lot about this first and greatest commandment anymore. It’s unfortunate. We used to hear more about it. More about loving God to the exclusion of everything. More about putting God first. We needed to hear it then. We need it more now. We have been drawn aside by the cacophony and caterwauling of the world. Like the Laodicean church mentioned in Revelation, we have gotten comfortable in our First World lifestyles and forgotten the first commandment. (Revelation 3:15-17) Relying on past faithfulness and ignoring current faithlessness, we are drifting along, certain we are fine. 

We are not fine. Drifting never is. Drifting is what got the church of Ephesus rebuked. They didn’t start out that way. They started out strong. Hard work. Endurance. Patience. No tolerance for evil. Suffering for God without giving up. They had done a lot of good things. But they got distracted. Maybe they got tired. Maybe they became complacent. Maybe the voice of the world got so loud it started to drown out the Voice of Truth. Regardless of what happened, the result was the same. They drifted. They left their first love. (Revelation 2:2-5) 

Before you shake your head in disgust and disbelief over their drifting hearts. Take a look inside yourself, your circle, your church. We have done the same. We are drifting along on a form of godliness, but not the real thing. We have been lulled into believing the outside is more important than the inside, that works are exalted over grace. We have left our first love. We have strayed. We have drifted. We are in trouble. 

It makes me wonder how we would stand up to the questioning Jesus gave to Peter, asking not once, but three times, “Do you love me?” In the past, Peter has proven his inability to stick. He seems a bit of a loose cannon. He acts without thinking. (Luke 22:50) He vows vehemently. (Matthew 26:35) He denies unequivocally. (Luke 22:54-60) He weeps bitterly. (Luke 22:62) Peter doesn’t do anything halfheartedly. So here, on the shore, having breakfast with the resurrected Jesus and hearing the question in triplicate, Peter is hurt, even frustrated, by the line of questioning, “Lord, you know my heart. You know I love you!” 

And there’s the sticking point for us. We can dress ourselves up, act a certain way, use the right jargon, and trick the world into thinking we love Jesus, but it stops there. God knows our hearts. (Psalm 44:21) All of them. Every part. He knows what we love more than Him. He knows what draws us aside, what makes us drift. He sees how we react to His word, His prodding. He knows how we will respond to His voice. He sees. He knows. Yet still, He asks the question, “Do you love me?”

Like Peter, we immediately answer, “Of course I love You!” But do we? Do we love Jesus? Do we love Him more than all our first world possessions? Do we love Him more than opinions and social status? Do we love Him more than we desire renown or recognition? Do we love Jesus enough to throw all our ideas, desires, destinations and diatribes away and simply follow Him? Do our hearts love Him, crave Him? Do we love Jesus more than anything, more than everything, more than life itself? Do we love Him enough to dedicate our lives to feeding His sheep? Are we First Commandment people?

  It’s a sobering question. Being First Commandment people is not popular. It will not make you famous. It will not make you rich. It will not be easy. It will be worth it. Loving God above all else means keeping all His commandments. Happily. No whining, moaning, or complaining. No hedging. Nothing half-hearted. It means victory over the pull of the world, over the complacency of drifting. It means when Jesus asks you “the question”, you can open up your heart with nothing to hide and respond in kind with Peter, “Lord, you know my heart. You know I love you!” And it will be true. (I John 5:3-5)

 This is the desperate cry of my heart. I want to love Jesus more than anything, more than everything. I want no part of pared down Christ-following.  I’m not interested in drifting unattended, being pushed around by social currents, or being docked where I don’t belong. I hope you aren’t either. There’s no time for it. The whole world is full of desperation and angst, calling out to know, to see, to feel God’s love. We have the opportunity to love Jesus so completely, to follow Him so wholeheartedly, that every aspect of our lives is an echo of His love and intention toward lost humanity. We have the amazing opportunity to be First Commandment people.

Will you do it? Will you choose to be a First Commandment person? I hope so. With the world pulling your affections in a million different directions, I hope you choose to set them on Heavenly things. (Colossians 3:2) At a time when drifting is lauded, I hope you pick up the oars and paddle strong and steady back to your First Love. When we are being told on every side that we can be anything we want to be, I hope you choose to be a Jesus follower. I hope you choose Him above all else. I hope you fall desperately in love with Him. I hope your soul follows hard after Him. (Psalm 63:8) I hope, as you snuggle down in your First World easy chair, you make the concrete choice to stop drifting, stop floating, stop dawdling and fully embark on the voyage of being First Commandment people. (John 14:15)

My family has been running on the snap system for years, probably because neither my husband nor I ever learned to whistle loudly. For us, three snaps in quick succession is the signal. Focus on what you are doing. You are too far away from me in the store. Adjust your behavior. Give me your attention. Come here. Snap. Snap. Snap. It works for us. And, as our children have gotten older and need less behavioral adjustment, we’ve started using it simply to get one another’s attention. 

We have tried it with our dogs too. Time to go out. Get in the kennel. Come here. Be quiet. Snap, snap, snap. It worked lovely on the two previous pups who have now left us for their final resting place. Not so the two we have now. Sampson, a rescued blond retriever mix, and Delilah, a black lab and coon houd mix, have no time for the snapping. Or the clapping, the yelling, the crooning, or the whistling. They simply don’t listen well if there is anything else to do.

My precious puppies, whom I absolutely treasure, have the shortest attention spans in history. The proverbial gnat attention span exceeds theirs. If there is nothing else to look at, sniff, or distract, they will possibly adhere to the snapping. Not so if the neighbors are out in their yard, if there is a squirrel or bird dancing about the trees, if a turtle has decided to make the arduous trek across our back grass, or especially if Earl is out. 

Earl is the fluffy little dog across the back fence. If he weighs 10 pounds, it is due only to a heavy collar and tag. He’s super talkative. He’s full of himself. Maybe he has a death wish. Maybe he has one of those mirrors that makes you look larger than you are. Maybe he has watched Delilah be outsmarted by a squirrel and thinks he can do the same. I have no clue. Whatever his inspiration, he barks and charges that fence as if there isn’t a combined 150 pounds of canine muscle awaiting him on the other side. For Sampson and Delilah, Earl’s raucous barking is all they hear. It distracts them from obeying me and draws them into disobedience. 

 I’m not sure what it says about me that I just learned a lesson from my dogs! I struggle with distraction too. I’ve been interrupted about 45 times in 3 hours. Delilah has been extremely talkative. My phone has dinged. The washer has chimed. My mind is ruminating over conversations from yesterday. The notes I scribbled down for a future post are open beside me begging for more attention. The question of what I’m making for dinner is still plaguing my mind. About a minute ago, too distracted by the things around me to focus and write, I lowered my head to my hand, closed my eyes, and just like I have for so many days now, I prayed, “I don’t know what to do, but my eyes are on You.” 

And just like that, I was with Peter attempting to cross a storm crazed lake, walking on wild, wind-driven waves. When he left the boat he had great intentions. His eyes were locked on Jesus. His feet were solidly walking the fluctuating liquid of the waves. Then the distractions came. The wind whipped his cloak against his legs and snapped his hair into his face. A huge wave rolled the water walkway beneath his feet. It was startling. It was scary. It was distracting. He lost his focus. He lost his footing. He lost his faith. He nearly allowed the distractions to cost him his life. (Matthew 14:28-31)

I’ve been there. Been distracted. Often. There are a lot of things pulling at me for attention. Good, legitimate things. Life things that have to be done. There are also a lot of loud, obnoxious voices beating on me to accept their way of thinking, rubber stamp their ideals, follow their paths. Questionable thoughts. Dubious ideals. Treacherous paths. The temptation to focus on something other than Jesus is overwhelmingly strong. Admittedly, I don’t always keep my focus. I’m not as strong as Mary. 

Mary didn’t have a problem with distractions. Nothing on earth could pull her from the feet of Jesus. Nothing could keep her from listening to His voice. Not the nagging from Martha. Not the knowledge that things needed doing. Not the hustle and bustle of people working around her. Not the fact that she was likely sitting in a circle of men. Mary valued time with Jesus to the point that no distraction had the power to make her not listen, not come running at the sound of His voice. (Luke 10: 38-40) Somehow she had already learned the lesson Paul was trying to teach the Galatians when he wrote, “You were doing so well! Who distracted you and pulled you from obeying the true way?” (Galatians 5:7) 

That’s what distractions do. Impede our progress. Pull us away. Pull us under. Divert our attention. Divide our hearts. Distractions are cement shoes for our souls drowning us beneath the raging waves of temptation, fear, doubt, sin. They are the single greatest tool the evil one has to reroute our attention, affection, and faith from God. They come in every kind of packaging, the obvious and the obscure. The opinion of a neighbor, the twisted verbiage of news pundits, a television commercial. If it can distract you, it will. If it can keep you distracted, it will separate you from God, making you easy prey for temptation and sin. 

David is an excellent example. He was doing well too. Very well. Specifically chosen and blessed by God. Kept safe through several attempts on his life. Crowned king. Blessed with victory after victory. How could he possibly go astray? No one would think it could happen. In a fateful walk on the palace roof, he allowed distraction to lead him astray. His wandering eye caught and stayed on something that wasn’t his. Something pretty. In that small moment of distraction, Satan struck. David gave in to temptation, setting off a chain of sinful events we find appalling. Distraction led to lust, to adultery, to murder. He was doing so well, but he got distracted and wandered from the path of truth. (II Samuel 11)

It’s easy to shake our heads in dismay at David, to look at him with condemnation, even disdain. Truth be told, we are all right there with him. Maybe not the lust, adultery and murder part, but the distraction part. We are all distracted by things that just aren’t as important as looking at, listening to and living for Jesus. Like my Sampson and Delilah, there’s an Earl yelling some opinion over every fence. Like Peter, the winds and waves of life’s storms whip around us, threatening to overwhelm our souls. Similar to David, our peaceful walks often turn into mental and spiritual battles against the temptation to fear, worry, obsess, and doubt. It all adds up to distracting hindrances that make it difficult, even impossible, to hear Jesus when He speaks. 

I don’t know about you, but I don’t want any of that. I want so much more. I want to be so attentive to Jesus, so focused on Him that nothing, absolutely nothing, can distract me from Him. I want a desperate, singular desire for God that blocks out all the things of the world. (Psalm 42:1-2) In short, I want to be like Mary.

The words of the Lord, spoken through Zechariah, speak in beautiful imagery to this situation in our lives, “I will whistle, and they will come running.” (Zechariah 10:8) My mind’s eye sees God, watching our distracted lives, knowing we need the rest and peace He offers, whistling for us to come back to Him and find those things for which our hearts thirst. This is not a raucous whistle. It is not offensive or abrasive. It is a melody of compassion and care. A tune of love and forgiveness. A ballad that sweeps across our troubled souls, erases the distractions, and draws us back to our first love. (Revelation 2:4-5) It is hauntingly beautiful, desperate with longing. Longing that we will hear it over all the distractions around us. Desperate for us to come running back to Him. 

I hope you hear it. I hope the distractions of the world, the cares of this life, aren’t so loud you miss God’s song for you. I hope the things that knocked you off track, impeded your progress, hindered your faith won’t cause you to miss His love song. I hope you don’t think you’ve strayed too far, given in to temptation too many times, or followed too many distractions for God to serenade you. You haven’t. God is whistling. God is calling you back. His unfailing compassion and invitation of pardon are still open. (Isaiah 55:7) 

So straighten up your spine. Take a page from Mary’s book. Put aside the distractions that pulled you away from God, allowed you to drift, and caused you to sin. Literally. Put. Them. Down. Close your eyes and listen only to the lovesong God sings. Focus on Jesus. Soak in His promises. Seek Him constantly. (I Chronicles 16:11)  Find the peace you need, the joy you crave in the musical whistle of the Shepherd who calls you to lay aside the distractions, the weights, the sin, and simply follow Him. (Hebrews 12:1)

We sat in shocked silence as the words washed over us, “The results were negative, but you could still have cancer. You need to see a surgeon.” Nothing can prepare you for those words. Nothing speeds up the communication of doctors and insurance networks to rubber-stamp the specialist visit. Nothing makes the interminable weeks of waiting between visits feel shorter, calmer, better. Nothing. But nothing was all we could do. Wait. Pray. Act like everything is fine. Be brave. Be strong. Have courage. Do nothing. 

I’m not wired to do nothing. I like to be prepared. I prefer to plan for the worst and be surprised by the best. I strongly believe in preemptive strikes. I don’t like being caught out. I hate not being able to fight back. I despise feeling helpless. Yet there we sat, facing an enemy we couldn’t nail down, stymied how to fight, afraid we wouldn’t win if we did. The drive home was quiet. I could barely even pray. 

Eventually, I did pray, bombarding Heaven in quiet desperation, in panic and terror, in faith and hope. Daily. Constantly. I had questions for God. What was going to happen? Why couldn’t He just tell me the results? Couldn’t He just take it all away? I mean, He could, but would He? And the biggest question, could I beat it if it was there? 

Those few weeks rank among the darkest of my life. The emotional pendulum alone nearly did me in. Faith failed, then soared, only to plummet again. I prayed, but it’s so hard to pray for God’s will when the outcome could be devastating. Waiting for the appointment to be scheduled and the results to be determined took ages. Fear ravaged the back of my mind and tore at my heart. But faith, the little I could hold on to, had me praying words similar to these, “I’m scared. I’m helpless. There’s nothing I can do, but my eyes are on You.”  

I stole those words from Jehoshaphat. He’d been there too. He and the people of Judah were facing down the massive army coming out of Edom. Jehoshaphat was terrified. The people were terrified. They came together and called out to God, reminding Him of His promises, His great works of the past, and the direness of their current situation. Jehoshaphat, in desperation, exposes the care of every soul present with these words, “We are powerless against this massive army. We don’t know what to do.” Then he follows up the admission with words that echo through time as the framework to every prayer we pray for every need we have, “but our eyes are on You for direction and help.” (II Chronicles 20:12) 

I’m there every single day, multiple times. You probably are too. Parenting is hard. Those sweet little babies grow up and develop opinions and attitudes. And teenage emotions? That’s a field of landmines! Seriously. I need wisdom, direction, and a significant dose of courage over here! General life decisions aren’t easy either. Should you take the new job, uproot the family, start over somewhere new? Should you change career paths altogether, go back to school? Should you buy the house, the car? 

Sometimes life’s circumstances put us in this place. The lack of work notice comes and we wonder how to pay the rent, the bills, feed the children. The call comes from the doctor’s office. They found something curious and need to run more tests. The knock comes at the door. There’s been an accident, a fatality. Our world is shaken, knocked off its axis. We are hurt. We are scared. We are stunned. We are stymied. The only words getting past our frozen lips echo the ones coming from Jehoshaphat in his time of terror and overwhelming need, “I don’t know what to do, Lord, but my eyes are fixed on You for help, strength, courage…a miracle.” 

Two years after my first visit to the surgical oncologist, I headed to his office for what I hoped would be my last visit. Although they hadn’t found anything worthy of surgery, they had kept me in care. I’d been there every six months for exams and imaging. He taught me to read the ultrasounds. I was anxious. A lead weight of fear lay in my stomach. My head said the fear was unreasonable. My instincts said otherwise. In the middle of the exam, he stopped, retraced his path, tipped his head down as if to concentrate even harder. My instincts were right. He’d found something new. The news was disheartening. Another second opinion. A possible biopsy. Come back in 3 months. More imaging. More exams. More watchful waiting. More courage. More faith. More standing still.

It was eerily familiar–both the situation and my prayers. As I waited for lightning to flash across the sky, the earth to shake and a voice to audibly speak from the heavens, I remembered the response God gave Jahaziel in answer to the prayer I had stolen from Jehoshaphat, “Don’t be afraid. Have courage. This is my battle, not yours. You don’t need to fight. Stand still and watch Me work. I’ve got this.” (II Chronicles 20: 14-17) I bet they had some questions about that! Have courage and stand still? How does that work? Were they supposed to just sit and wait for the armies to come and wreak havoc? If they had questions, it didn’t alter their response. They threw off the spirit of heaviness, replaced it with praise, and courageously marched out to fight a battle by standing still. (II Chronicles 20:1-24; Isaiah 63:1)

It wasn’t the first time God told His people to be courageous and do battle in a way to which they were unaccustomed. They silently marched around Jericho once a day for six days. No one shot arrows at them from atop the walls. No soldiers came out to confront them. The city remained locked up tight. No one could get in. No one could get out. On day seven, when surely the residents of Jericho thought they were completely insane, they marched seven times. But that day was different. That day was battle day. At the sound of the priests horns and the deafening shout of the people, the walls fell down. They didn’t even have to break a sweat. (Joshua 6:1-20) Courage had translated to obedient faith in the God who had never let them down, even if He asked them to do nothing but march into battle making noise. It was worth it.

Gideon knew this too. By Divine instruction, he led his men into battle armed with ram’s horns and clay jars. Their only orders were to follow his lead, blow the horns, break the jars, and shout. At their peculiar actions, chaos ensued. The Midianites panicked. Some fled. Some fought each other. God gave them the victory. They just had to have faith exhibited by the courage it took to walk into battle armed only with ram’s horns and clay jars. (Judges 7:14-22) It was worth it. 

August marks three years since I’ve had to visit the surgical oncologist. The last time I was there, the measurements showed the mass had shrunk without treatment. The doctor didn’t have an explanation. I did. Courageous faith in God and standing still. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Admittedly, in spite of courage and faith, I still panic every time I think I feel something new or different. I know that if there is a next time God’s plan might look different than the last one. I also know the only hope for any circumstance, the only peace in turmoil is to courageously place my faith in God and trust Him to fight for me. It will always be worth it. 

Today marks the last time I’ve prayed the words, “I don’t know what to do, but my eyes are on You.” There are still situations in my life that are outside my control. I am still concerned about my children. I’m still faced with life’s circumstances. I still have questions and concerns. I am still flooded with peace every time my heart courageously whispers those words. When I forget to do so, when I try to fix all the issues, manipulate circumstances, fight battles on my own, I fail. As I war between the flesh and the spirit, I am reminded that true courage, true faith in God, lies in handing it all to Him and following His lead even if it means standing still. It means embodying the reminder in Isaiah 30:15, “When you return to Me and rest in Me, you will be saved. Quietness and confidence in Me will give you strength.”

If you look around, you are going to see a lot of concerning things. Life is full of unforeseen, unpleasant, unsettling circumstances. God is none of those things. When everything has gone pear-shaped, He remains unchanged. (James 1:17) His hand isn’t shortened. (Isaiah 59:1) His compassion doesn’t end. (Lamentations 3:22) His fantastic care for His people still transcends everything else. So cast your cares on Him. Throw those burdens over on the Lord. (Psalm 55:22) Give Him your insecurities, your fears, your helplessness. Ask for His help. Follow it. Even if it means doing nothing. Even when it means sitting still. Even if it seems silly or crazy or you don’t agree. Still your spirit. Hush your mouth. Be courageous. Have faith. And watch God do what He has been doing for thousands of years, win battles for His people. (Psalm 56:3; James 1:5; Philippians 4:6-7; Exodus 14:13)