Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

For the first time in his life, Samuel wished his hearing was faulty. He wished he hadn’t heard the words. Wished he didn’t know they were true. The news had broken his heart. Ignited his indignation. Had him on his knees, crying out to God all night long. Saul had failed. Epically. Willfully. He hadn’t followed the explicit instructions handed down by God through Samuel. He had chosen disobedience. He had rejected God’s authority. Then proudly strutted home to erect a monument in his own honor. The very idea gutted Samuel. As he approached the place where the monument stood and the sacrifices were being made, he once again wished his hearing wasn’t quite so keen. He wished he couldn’t hear the bleating of the sheep and bellowing of cattle punctuating the impending fall of King Saul.

The instructions hadn’t been difficult. A child could have followed them. Go and attack the Amalekites. Destroy everything. All of it. People. Animals. Leave nothing alive. Not a puny kid. Not a pretty girl. Not a fat lamb. Annihilate it all. Win the war. Leave the spoils. It wasn’t meant to be difficult. They were simple instructions. Yet grown men had failed. Their greedy eyes had latched onto the robust livestock and all was immediately lost. Not the battle. God won that. No. Saul and his men had lost the war. The war within themselves to choose who they would serve, who they would follow, who they would obey.  

It was a fantastic opportunity. One that didn’t come along every day. Or week. Or month. Or year. The men couldn’t remember the last time the spoils of war had been of such great quality. Sheep clothed in thick, fluffy wool. Rambunctious young rams eager to show off their strength.  Hearty oxen ready to work. Healthy cattle for growing herds, providing food, and offering sacrifices. It was all too good to pass up. They couldn’t leave it behind. In the aftermath of their glorious victory, they dealt themselves a crushing defeat. Rounding up as many good-looking livestock as they could, Saul and his soldiers collected their other souvenir, King Agag, and headed back home.

Disappointment and anger warred inside Samuel upon hearing the news of Saul’s defection. Sadness that Saul had failed to carry out God’s instruction and would be rejected as king weighed heavily on his heart. He spent the night in prayer. Desperate, aching prayers on Saul’s behalf. A second chance. A different opportunity. It wasn’t to be. The decision was made. Had been made the moment Saul chose to allow his men to plunder the spoils. He hadn’t stood up against them. Hadn’t been the leader they needed. Had willfully fallen right in with the disobedient, thieving lot. Worse, he’d made excuses for them. 

Confronting an exuberant Saul at the foot of his own monument, Samuel was even more grieved to hear those flimsy excuses. Saul assured him God’s instructions had been carried out meticulously. He’d personally brought back only King Agag. That was reasonable, right? And the boys had simply brought back a few choice animals for sacrifices. And it was all their idea. They basically made him allow it. None of this was his fault. He hadn’t done it on purpose. He’d been forced, coerced. He’d actually done very little besides watch the goings on. Surely he could still be king! He’d followed instructions. He’d only brought back King Agag. The men had brought the rest. For sacrifices to God. There was surely redemption in that. Wasn’t there? 

Unfortunately for Saul, the excuses amounted to nothing. He was king. He had the authority. He was responsible for leading the people. He called the shots, gave the commands, ordered their actions. He was the one who had been given God’s instructions. He was the one who knew their exact verbiage. He was the one responsible for ensuring they were carried out to the letter. And Saul had failed. He had chosen to give in to the pressure of the people. He had chosen to follow the desires of his own heart. He had chosen to edit God’s instructions and write in a few lines of his own. The consequences would be grave. He would suffer. Silence would echo from the heavens. Fear would radiate from within. He’d spend an inordinate amount of time obsessed with annihilating his God-appointed successor. Posterity would be left to shake their heads in amazement at his brazen defiance and echo Samuel’s question as he faced Saul down at Gilgal, “Why didn’t you just obey God?” (I Samuel 15:1-29; 18:10-11; 19:9-11; 22:6-19)  

 It seems like such a simple task. At a time when God spoke to the kings through His prophets, Saul should have been overjoyed to hear the words of the Lord granting him victory against the Amalekites. They had a history of tormenting and opposing the people of Israel. Their first attack occurred when the Israelites already had more than enough to deal with. Having recently escaped slavery in Egypt, they wondered where they were going, how they would get food, where they’d find water. The people hadn’t the wherewithal to fend off an attack at that time in their lives. Amalek clearly knew and chose that moment of supposed weakness to mount a surprise attack. 

The surprise was on them. Israel wasn’t traveling alone. They weren’t helpless. God was on their side. The power of God gave Joshua and his men victory over them. They won the battle, but didn’t annihilate the Amalekites. It wasn’t the day for that. But God promised to have His due. He’d sworn Amalek’s demise. Being called up as part of that plan should have been such a magnificent honor that Saul meticulously followed God’s instructions. He didn’t. Instead he served up a heaping pile of rebellion and defiance. He rejected God’s instructions, effectively ejecting God from His place of authority among the people, throughout the kingdom, within Saul’s own heart. (Exodus 17:8-14; I Samuel 15:22-23)

As with many Biblical accounts, it is ridiculously easy for us to settle back in our easy chairs and huff in disgust that Saul would choose not to obey God. We vividly see all the flaws and shortcomings. We see the excuses for what they are. We wonder why Saul, as king, didn’t use his authority to command those men to do, or not do, something different. Something like leave the spoils alone. Something like slaughter the fattened calves where they stood. Something like following God’s instructions, no more, no less. But what position was he in to do so? He had his own trophy. King Agag. I’ve read and reread the account. There’s nothing mentioned about bringing back a trophy king. God didn’t instruct that. Saul was just as guilty as the rest of them. He brought a king. They brought a farm. Nobody did the right thing. No one obeyed. And Saul didn’t attempt to make them do so. In fact, it appears he led the way in disobedience. So where does Saul get off thinking he can blame others for his own choices? Why doesn’t he immediately take responsibility for his own actions and inactions? More importantly, why didn’t he fastidiously follow the instructions God gave and command his men to do so as well? 

Why don’t you? Seriously. Why don’t you fastidiously follow God’s instructions yourself? What is in your heart that makes you choose a different option? Although we will never know exactly why Saul made the choices he made, we can search our own hearts and know what is there that makes us shy away, run away, choose to defy the directions God gives us. Because we do. All of us do. At some point in our lives, we hear God speak, don’t love His instructions, and try to do a little text edit of our own. It never works. Ever. Our ideas are not better than God’s. Ever. Our vision is shortsighted where His is farsighted. He’s planning for a grand future. We are setting up our current comfort. Even if we think our edits are fine, they aren’t. We will never benefit by failing to obey God, altering His instructions, or taking our own path to get where He’s telling us to go. It simply won’t end well. Disobedience never does. And there’s no excuse for it. Ever. (Romans 3:23; 6:23; Proverbs 14:12; Psalm 37:23; Isaiah 55:2-3; Jeremiah 16:12; Deuteronomy 13:4)

Unlike the days of Samuel and Saul, there’s no barrier between you and God. You don’t have to get your directions through a third party, phone a prophet, ask the priest. There’s no excuse of something being lost in translation. God will speak His words, His directions, His will directly. To you. And you will know it is His voice. You will know the commands are from Him. You will know exactly what He is telling you to do. There will be no excuse not to do it. So why don’t you? Why do you comb through God’s instructions and pick and choose which parts you’d like to follow? Why do you bend and bow to the ideas and opinions of others instead of simply following God’s commands? Why don’t you walk in such a way that you lead others to follow Him rather than follow others as you walk away from Him? Why don’t you search your heart and honestly answer these questions? Frankly, friend, why don’t you obey God? (Ecclesiastes 12:13-14; Jeremiah 17:9; Mark 7:21-22; James 1:14-15, 22; Luke 11:28; John 10:27; 14:21; Acts 5:29; Romans 12:2) 

They were tired of it. Sick and tired. Heart sick. Soul tired. Living under the thumb of the Philistines was no joke. It was wearing on them. Horribly. They’d thought it would be over by now. A brief time of oppression followed by an extended period of victory, freedom, and rejoicing. Somehow they had imagined the return of the ark of God to Israelite hands would right all the wrongs and set everything back the way it should be. It hadn’t. The ark had been returned ages ago. It sat in their city of Kiriath-Jearim. They had appointed Eleazer to care for it. Yet nothing had changed. Not their circumstances. Not their hearts. Not the focus of their lives. 

Returning the ark had changed things only for those who were not meant to keep it. The people of Ashdod no longer had to re-glue their god, Dagon, every morning. They no longer lived with tumors and terror. Not after they moved it down to Gath. The people of Gath were now suffering those things. Tumors on young and old.  Fear of impending death. Until they shipped the ark to Ekron. But the people of Ekron had been keeping a close eye on things surrounding the ark of Israel’s God. They weren’t having it. Didn’t want it. Would do anything to prevent the afflictions, fear and death possession of the ark was sure to bring. Calling all the Philistine rulers together, they pleaded with them to send the ark back. No one wanted it anymore. It wasn’t the good luck charm they had assumed it was. After seven months of residing in Philistine territory, they found a way to send it back to Beth-shemesh. 

Oddly, the people of Beth-shemesh, knowing all they should have known about the sacredness of the ark of the covenant, still let their curiosity get the best of them. They opened the ark to look inside. There’s no explanation given for why. Perhaps they were checking that nothing had been removed. Maybe they were looking to see if anything had been added. Perhaps it really was just simple curiosity. Or maybe, in their passion to race after other gods, they failed to remember that the God of Israel wasn’t like other gods who couldn’t see and hear and act. Yet act He did. Seventy people died because of their disobedience. In grief and frustration, they did what the Philistines had done and sent the ark of the covenant on to another town. Kiriath-Jearim. (I Samuel 5:1-7:1)

It sat there for twenty years. At least. Placed in the care of Abinadab’s family. Tended by his son Eleazar. They showed the proper reverence and respect. Took the best of care. But nothing really changed with the return of the ark. Not among the people, anyway. They were still busy running their own lives, doing their own things, worshiping the different gods they chose in all the ways they chose. They’d bought the ridiculous notion that God was simply one of many gods. Apparently accepting the idea that possession of the ark of the covenant would bring them protection and prosperity. The idea wasn’t entirely new to them. 

Lining up in battle array against the Philistines, the Israelite soldiers felt a little smugness in the depths of their souls. They had their ace in the hole. After their devastating defeat by the Philistines in the previous battle, someone had been struck by a brilliant idea that took root and gathered enough support to make it happen. They had brought the ark of the covenant of their God from Shiloh. It was going with them to battle. This would fix everything. Their weakness, weariness, and wimpiness no longer mattered. The ark was there. It would surely protect them from their enemies and make them victorious. Except it didn’t. It couldn’t. It wasn’t their God. 

Facing that line of furious, blood-thirsty Philistines brandishing swords and spears, one would think the Israelites would be inclined to call on God for help. They didn’t. They simply cast all of their faith in an impotent box and foolishly plunged into battle. Much like they would do with the foreign gods they had accepted. With no care as to what those idols could or could not do for their souls, they blindly placed their allegiance, their faith in something that could do nothing. It had no power. Its ability was all in their heads. They needed God to be successful, but they settled for a man-made box instead. The battle didn’t go well. The Philistines delivered a crushing defeat. A slaughter. Thirty thousand  Israelite soldiers died. Eli’s sons were killed. And the ark of God was captured. Yet still this was not enough to turn Israel back to God. (I Samuel 4:1-11)

What would have been enough? The list of horrors is intense, yet still they chose to go their own way. Chase after the desires of their own hearts. Follow the gods of the world, the idols of the people around them. What would have needed to happen to bring the people to a place where their hearts longed to be back in a proper relationship with God? A place where He was their only God? A time when His word was their command? What would be enough for you? Would pain or suffering or loss be enough? Would a near miss with tragedy make you turn? What about bankruptcy, homelessness, joblessness? What, exactly, would it take to make you put away the idols you hold as little gods in your life and make your heart long to be in a proper relationship with God alone? And how long would it take to bring you to that place?

It took years for the people of Israel. Years of oppression by the Philistines. Years of misery and frustration. Years of following the desires of their own sinful hearts. Years of refusing Samuel’s preaching and teaching and calling them to return to God. He must have been. Surely without Samuel’s words the people would have steadily drifted further and further away with no hope for return. Perhaps as he traveled his circuit to judge Israel, he also called them to repent and turn back to God. In Bethel. In Gilgal. In Mizpah. In Ramah. Every town and settlement in between. He must have been exhausted with the cry by the time they finally chose to heed his words. It surely took far longer than Samuel hoped for every heart in Israel to long for God. (I Samuel 7:2,15-17)

One wonders why. Why did it take 20 years for the people of Israel to tire of Philistine oppression? Why did it take two decades for them to realize the error of their ways? Why did they not recognize their issues after the battle at Aphek when the ark of God was captured? And why didn’t they fix them much sooner? We could ask ourselves similar questions. Why does it take us so long to realize the things of the world, the gods of possessions, wealth, position and esteem tragically fail to fill the longing of our soul? Why do we wait so long, trying so hard to fix the issues ourselves, before we admit we need God? Why are we not much quicker to realize the things of earth cannot bring satisfaction or peace or joy? Why does it take so long for our hearts to long for God?

Eventually Israel came to that place. Eventually they realized the things for which their hearts longed the most could only be found in repenting and returning. Their lives could only be made whole by repairing their relationship with the one true God. Excited and encouraged though he may have been, Samuel speaks stern words to them. Words that could make them second-guess their choices. They needed to be serious about what they were doing. Returning to God needed to be a commitment made with their entire hearts. Speaking words of reconciliation with God would never be enough. Actions would have to follow. Every god among them, everything they worshiped, held dear, desired more than God himself would have to be destroyed, dismantled, discarded. Their hearts would have to be set on God. Alone. Their worship must be directed to Him. Alone. Then, only then, would their help, their rescue, their victory come. From God. Alone. ( I Samuel 7:3)

 Nothing has changed in the intervening centuries. Samuel’s words remain true for every longing heart. They are reiterated time and again in the covers of the Book. Return to God. Sincerely. Completely. With your entire being. Solely focus on God alone. Don’t allow yourself to be distracted by the frivolous things of the world. Worship God. Alone. Put your faith and trust in God. Alone. Commit yourself, your life, to God. Alone. Why? Because if God is not your everything, He’s not your anything. He’s not willing to share His position in your life with any lesser gods. Not your favorite things. Not your secret sins. Not even you, yourself. So listen to the longing of your heart. Now. Today. Don’t let it take you as long as it took the Israelites. Do it now. Clear out the things in your heart and life that fight for a place of authority, beckon you to put your trust in them. Get rid of them. Literally throw them out if possible. Choose God instead.  Make the commitment to follow God alone. Refuse to allow anything else to preempt His authority in your life. Worship Him. Bow in reverence before Him. Listen to Him speak. Obey His words. And watch Him work. He will. He always does. In every longing heart. (Joel 2:12-15; Jeremiah 24:7; Proverbs 3:5-6; 4:27; Matthew 6:24, 33; Isaiah 42:8; Exodus 20:3; Deuteronomy 20:4; Romans 8:28; Psalm 84:11)

For what felt like the millionth time, she clasped her hands beneath her chin and tilted her face toward Heaven. Her chest heaved with the sigh her lungs audibly emitted. A sigh that came from the very depths of her downtrodden heart. She was exhausted. Tired of dashed hopes. Tired of crushed dreams. Tired of taunts and insults and contempt. Hannah was completely exhausted from the thrust and parry caused by Peninnah’s constant jabs. Pointed remarks about Hannah’s barrenness. Underhanded actions to highlight her impotence. Outright provocation over the hopeless situation Hannah was helpless to remedy. Every year she hoped the scene would be different. Every year it remained the same. Peninnah added to her brood. Hannah remained childless. Peninnah picked and prodded and provoked. Hannah, in pain and anguish, ran away. 

She had to get away from it. The constant verbal onslaught highlighting her insufficiency. She was more aware of it than anyone. Aware that something was clearly wrong with her. Aware that she had failed in giving Elkanah a son. Aware that Peninnah had been able to do multiple times over what she had been unable to do once. Bear a child. Any child. It felt like a competition and Hannah had lost. Miserably. Most times she mumbled her excuses and fled to her tent to sob her heart out alone. It did no good. The tears didn’t fix anything. They didn’t heal her heart. They didn’t alleviate the throbbing pain in her soul. There was only one thing that could do that. But she couldn’t make it happen. She couldn’t conceive. She’d tried everything. Followed every old wives tale. Listened to every piece of medical advice. Nothing worked. Nothing changed her circumstances. Nothing could. Nothing short of an act of God. 

Rising purposefully from the table at the end of an especially torturous meal with Peninnah, Hannah carefully made her way into the temple. Her face was a mask of hurt and sorrow. Her broken heart sat like a lead weight in her chest. Her throat ached with pent-up sobs. She barely slipped past the priest before the tears began. Again. Torrents of them. They drenched her eyes, ran down her face, and dripped unheeded from her jaw. Face upturned, her lips moved in rapid, silent speech, the cries of her shattered heart flying like arrows to the throne of God. It was her last resort. This prayer. This petition. This urgent cry from the depths of her being. She hoped He’d answer this time. The sadness and depression threatening to overwhelm her soul grew darker every day. Every time Peninnah ridiculed her. Every time she saw another friend with their newborn child. Every time she prayed and hoped and waited to no avail. 

It was far from the first time that desperate, pleading prayer had left her lips. The appeal for a child had become her constant plea. Literally. The words were always on her lips. Baking bread, washing clothes, cleaning house, stirring stew. Every moment of every day was consumed with her desperate cries to God for a child. Just one. A son. But today her prayer was different. Today, her desperation had Hannah uttering a promise with her plea. Bargaining with God. Making an offer she hoped even He couldn’t refuse. If God would look kindly on her and bless her with a son, she would give the child back to God for his entire life. From the time he was weaned to the day of his death, he would live in the temple and serve the Lord their God.  

There must have been some stressful days between the offering of Hannah’s prayer and the culmination of God’s response. Times when she wondered if He’d heard. Moments when she questioned if He’d answer in the affirmative. Days when the anxiety of waiting knotted her stomach and the fear He’d refuse nearly sucked the breath from her lungs. Without a verbal promise from God, with no timeline to follow, Hannah had only desperate hope and meager faith on which to rely. Until there was more. Until the day she realized God had answered. She had conceived. Broken, barren Hannah no longer existed. There would be a child. It was a son. And Hannah rejoiced. 

How easy would it have been at the moment of his birth for Hannah to conveniently forget the promise she’d made to God? How simple would it have been to make excuse upon excuse, year after year in order to keep Samuel at home with her as long as she could? How comfortable would it have been to convince herself that God wouldn’t want her to give up her only child, that He would understand why she didn’t keep her end of the bargain, to argue that God knew when she made the vow that it was her desperation, not her true self, making the promise? Surely, under the circumstances, He wouldn’t expect her to keep such an outrageous offer. Yet Hannah refused to do anything else. 

Even though the child was still young, when he was weaned, Hannah gathered herself, her son, a three-year-old bull, a bushel of flour, and a jar of wine, and headed off to Shiloh. She knew she’d come back empty-handed. The sacrifice would be offered. Her son would stay behind. Her arms would be empty, but her heart would be full. Her vow would be complete. God had done His part, she would most assuredly do hers. And she did. Approaching Eli, she reminded him who she was and introduced the boy for whom she’d prayed. Then she gave the child back to God. Literally. He would live in Shiloh at the temple. She would go back home. With the exception of her annual pilgrimage when she took Samuel a new robe, she wouldn’t see him. She wouldn’t be there for all the first times. She wouldn’t talk him through the bumps in life’s road. She wouldn’t hear his voice but once a year. The loss seems unbearable. Yet Hannah still rejoiced. (I Samuel 1:1-28; 2:18-20)

Dropping off her son at his new home in Shiloh, Hannah’s prayer of praise lifted up to the heavens. The same rafters that rang with her desperate, sobbing pleas now echoed with her songs of praise. Her heart rejoiced in the salvation of her God. The God she knows, understands, believes to be faithful and true. Always. The God of power and strength who kindly, carefully lifts the poor from the dust and the needy from the refuse pile. The God who guards the steps of those who are faithful to Him. The One who answered her prayers, gave her a child, and blessed her with the opportunity to give back to Him what He had so lovingly bestowed on her. When to us it looks like she’s lost more than she gained. When we think she should be in mourning. Hannah stands in the presence of God Almighty and lifts her voice, her hands, her heart in praise. (I Samuel 2:1-10)

It’s a staggering response. Shocking. Jaw-dropping. One with which we are largely unfamiliar. We are not so quick to relinquish our answers to prayer back to the God who gave them. Perhaps we think the receipt of the answer negates the necessity of divine direction over its use. It doesn’t. God never hands us something and turns His back not caring how we use the gift. No. God is invested in your answers. The money you need. The health you desire. The child you want. The job, the lifestyle, the miracles you bargained so hard to obtain. Yet, in our humanity, we snatch His gifts, wrap them up in tight little controlling fists and believe we know best how to use them. It is a rare soul, indeed, who accepts God’s gift while leaving their hands open, offering the gift back to God so it can be used for His purpose and glory. Yet that’s exactly what Hannah did. With her son. 

There’s a thread of conviction weaving through my soul as I read and study Hannah’s response to gaining the desire of her heart. You should feel it too. When faced with the very real decision of whether or not to give her gift back to God for His purpose and glory, she chose to keep her vow. She sacrificed her gift. I remain uncertain if we would do the same. It’s not our nature. Our nature is to selfishly hoard, not selflessly sacrifice. We rarely look at our answers to prayer, our gifts from God, and consider how they can be used to glorify Him. Rather, we clutch our treasures in our hot little hands and count the things we can buy, the people we can influence, the stories we can post on social media. Friends, we’ve got it all wrong. Every gift you receive from God is simply a loan. It still belongs to Him. Your spouse. Your children. Your house. Your bank account. It’s all God’s. When you fail to lay that person, that thing back on the altar in sacrifice to God for His glory, you refuse to do what Hannah did. You refuse to give God what is His. You take the control for yourself and the glory from God. It is a dangerous business. (Job 41:11; Psalm 24:1; 50:9-12; Colossians 1:16; Isaiah 42:8)

So, examine yourself. What do you do when your prayers get answered?  How do you respond when your long-awaited answer arrives? Do you greedily hoard your gift or generously offer it back to God to be used for His glory?  Do you pray that your gift will be used to further His kingdom? Do you listen when God responds? Do you willingly hear His thoughts and directions? Do you choke on the idea of sacrifice? Do you weigh the options? Look for a more palatable path? Do the rafters echo with your frustrated sobs, or do they resound with the shouts of your praise? If forced to choose, do you close your hands around your gift and run selfishly on your way or do you willingly offer it to God with open hands, happy, excited, blessed to give back to the God who gave you everything you have? In a moment of total transparency, may you examine your heart and honestly contemplate the question. What is your response when your prayers get answered? (Deuteronomy 10:14-17; Romans 11:34-36; 12:1-2; Hebrews 13:15-16; I Peter 2:5) 

The entire thing was outrageous! Unbelievable. Ridiculous. A set up from the start. Yet here he was, stitched up for a crime he didn’t commit. Would never have committed. No matter the circumstances. Beautiful woman. Perfect timing. Persistent temptation. He wouldn’t have taken advantage of the situation. Ever. Hadn’t done so now. He’d run. Fast enough to leave his outer cloak behind. Unfortunately, his integrity had been his undoing. Now here he sat on the edge of an uncomfortable prison cot, listening to the key turn in the lock. Incarcerated for not violating his boss’s wife. (Genesis 39:7-20)

It wasn’t the first time he’d ended up somewhere he shouldn’t be because of another’s actions. Joseph had only left Canaan and his father’s house because his brothers shipped him off. Sold him for a handful of silver coins. Twenty, to be exact. His life hadn’t been worth more to them. Admittedly, he’d been a bit of a thorn in the side. Maybe even more so than most younger brothers. He’d poked and prodded, annoyed and infuriated. Not that what he’d said was wrong. He’d had those dreams, seen those visions. Retrospectively, he wasn’t duty-bound to share them. He’d done that of his own volition. A little braggadocio. Still. It didn’t justify them selling their own flesh and blood into slavery. (Genesis 37:1-28)

Ending up in Egypt hadn’t been his choice, either. It was merely a convenient place for the Midianites to shift their load and recoup their expenditures. With a quick exchange of coins, Joseph had been handed off to Potiphar like so much baggage. But God was in Egypt, too. His faithful love surrounded Joseph in the midst of uncertainty. And Potiphar liked Joseph. Respected him. Trusted him. A lot. Enough to put Joseph as overseer of all he owned. It wasn’t the same as living among his brothers and raising his own family, but it wasn’t a bad situation. Until it was. Until the fateful day Potiphar’s fickle wife noticed Joseph’s muscular frame and chiseled features. She tried to get him alone, seduce him. He refused. His devotion to God required no less. It was all to no avail. In his haste to do right, he’d left his cloak behind and she’d used it to get her revenge. Now here he sat. Imprisoned. For running from sin. (Genesis 39:1-20; II Timothy 2:22) 

 Undoubtedly, Joseph felt the unfairness of the situation. He shouldn’t even be in this prison. Shouldn’t be in Egypt. Shouldn’t have been sold by his brothers. Shouldn’t have been hated by them. He shouldn’t be anywhere except back in Canaan with his father, reaping the benefits of being the favored son. Yet here he was. In prison. And it was hard. Hard to be here under these circumstances. Hard to be alone with his thoughts. Hard to see the hand of God, the love of God, the faithfulness of God through the mess of his life. Although Joseph only had the love of his father to go by, his list of trials and current circumstances certainly didn’t look like love at all. But it was. 

During his ordained incarceration, God was working. Joseph earned a place of trust with the prison warden. He was able to mingle with other prisoners and, when the time came, Joseph was given the interpretation for the dreams of the baker and cupbearer. One would die. One would live. It all came to pass. Just as God told Joseph it would. But memories are short and fickle and selfish. The cupbearer forgot to mention Joseph’s plight to Pharaoh. For two long years Joseph waited and hoped. Until Pharaoh was plagued by a dream. 

At the cupbearer’s sudden burst of memory, Pharaoh sent for Joseph to gain the interpretation of his dream. It wasn’t encouraging news. Desperate times were coming. But there was hope. For Pharaoh. For Egypt. For Joseph. God’s faithful love was still at work. It had been all along. Had Joseph stayed in Potiphar’s house, he’d never have met the cupbearer. Never interpreted the dreams. There would have been no reason for Pharaoh to call Joseph forward for his own interpretation. When Joseph was in prison wondering how any of his circumstances reflected the love of God, God was lovingly bringing about a grand opportunity for Joseph. An opportunity to reunite with his father and brothers. An opportunity for forgiveness and healing. An opportunity to provide for them when famine was sweeping the land. Even when it seemed like the love of God had gotten a bit sideways, when it felt like His love wasn’t faithful, when it didn’t look the way Joseph thought it should or act in the timeframe he thought was appropriate, God’s love was still faithful. Because sometimes God’s love looks like protection from sin, provision for the future, and the possibility of personal growth. (Genesis 39:21-45:28; Lamentations 3:22-23)

Admittedly, we aren’t big fans of the personal growth part. We’d much rather have a lifetime of promised butterflies and fields of flowers. It would be so much more comfortable if love looked only like blessings and abundance. But true love isn’t like that. It can’t be. True love is not permissive and blase. True love cares too much to let you go on blindly in your sins. So does God’s love. In faithful love meant to protect you from sin, provide a way of escape from temptation, and grow the fortitude of your soul, God speaks. We don’t always want to hear what He has to say. He still speaks. Hard truths. Firm “no’s.” Words of correction and reproof. Things spoken in love without the desire to hurt or harm, but to build up and improve your soul. Sometimes love looks like correction. (Hebrews 4:12; Proverbs 3:11-12)

 David learned that lesson the hard way. Unlike Joseph, David failed to ignore the beautiful woman before him. Not that she was trying to get his attention. She wasn’t. Probably didn’t even know he’d seen her taking an evening bath. But he had. And David was distracted. His desire to have the woman overrode both his morals and common sense. He sent for her. A command she was unable, in the constraints of that day, to deny. She had no choice but to show up and do as the king desired. The inevitable ensued. Bathsheba, Uriah’s wife, became pregnant to the king who chose to allow his desires to control him instead of the other way round. 

As sin is wont to do, it didn’t end with taking someone else’s wife. Rather than divulge his sin and repent of his actions, David set about attempting to cover his transgression. Sending for Uriah, he gave every opportunity for the man to go be with his wife. Uriah declined. His personal standards were too high. He wouldn’t go about enjoying himself when his soldiers were camping in the fields, not knowing when the enemy might attack and they would be called to sacrifice their lives. Things didn’t go according to David’s plan. Uriah didn’t even go visit Bathsheba. Not once. The cover-up wasn’t working. So David formulated a secondary plan. (Proverbs 28:16)

Dismissing Uriah back to the battle, David gave him a written message for his commanding officer. He knew Uriah could be trusted not to read it on the way. It’s a good thing he didn’t. He might not have returned. In his hand, signed with the king’s signet ring, Uriah carried his own death warrant. At the next battle, Uriah was shoved into the fiercest fighting and left to die by enemy hands. Murder by battle. No one would question it. No one would know. No one but David. Or so he thought. Until Nathan came to visit. (II Samuel 11)

In faithful love aligned with His character, God sent Nathan to confront David about his sin. David gives no indication of concern or conviction when Nathan’s presence is announced. Indeed, it seems he was wholly unperturbed by the visit, as if everything in his life was perfectly aligned with God’s teachings. As if he hadn’t recently broken multiple commandments. In fact, David is horrified and outraged at the story Nathan shares. His anger boils. His sense of justice comes to the fore. He’s ready to pronounce swift and certain judgment on the man who thought he could steal a poor man’s pet lamb. Yet Nathan’s reply stopped the decree as it fell from David’s lips. “You’re the guy.” (II Samuel 12:1-7)

David was the man in Nathan’s story. He was the man who stole from someone. He was the murderer who took Uriah’s life and stole Bathsheba’s husband because of the lust in his own heart. He was an adulterer. He was a murderer. His judgment would rest on his own head. The baby Bathsheba carried would die. The halls of his palace would be filled with mourning and grief. It seems an extravagant price to pay. It feels like God’s love has abandoned him. It hadn’t. The depths of God’s love for humanity does not negate the consequences of one’s actions. Rather, the faithful love of God comes in correction to those who have purposely strayed, accidentally become distracted, or unwittingly been drawn into sin. The love of God in the form of correction comes to reconcile the straying soul to God. Because God is faithful and His heart of love makes every effort to draw all humanity into a proper relationship with Himself and keep them there. Sometimes God’s love looks like direction. (II Samuel 12:7-15)

Over and again throughout the Bible, God has laid out directions to Heaven. In love, He has placed rules and laws and directives meant to keep you safe from sin and temptation. He’s concerned about your soul. He’s hoping to safeguard it. His greatest desire is not to control or manipulate, but to protect and preserve. That’s how true love looks. He also knows that humanity is bent toward self-destruction. We aren’t good at making proper decisions. Our minds are too finite. We choose things based on our current feelings, our circumstances, or the influence of those around us. But God’s directions are timeless. They transcend everything we think we know and all the useless advice we are given. And they come from a place of love. Pure love. True love. Love that has only your best interest in mind. Because that’s how true love looks. (Exodus 20:1-17: II Corinthians 5:21; Matthew 5:20; I John 2:5-6)

You see, friend, God’s love cannot be measured by the things we have, the car we drive, or the zeroes in our bank balance. It has nothing to do with magnificent rescues, miraculous recoveries, or magnanimous handouts. Although those things may happen, they may not. Their presence or the lack thereof is not an accurate barometer of God’s love. You won’t find it in those things. Stop looking there. God is not some big Santa Claus in the sky throwing giant handfuls of lollies out of one hand, dumping sunshine with the other, and pretending you never do anything wrong. He loves you too much for that. God loves you too much to let you settle in your sin and die there. So, in the faithful love that is the hallmark of His character, God comes to you with direction, in correction, offering protection from the sin that so easily besets and ensnares your soul.  It’s all free. It’s all for you. It’s the look of love from the God whose character defies Him to do anything else. For God is love. (I John 4:16; Isaiah 54:10; Psalm 119:75; Revelation 3:19; Job 2:10; Colossians 3:12-14; Romans 8:31-39; I Corinthians 10:13)

It was a trick. A trap. The men should have recognized it immediately. The Gileadites had password-protected the ford. The place where they used to cross the river and be on their way was now a snare for those attempting to run. Guards stood watch over the place. Armed guards. Demanding answers to rapidly fired questions. Who are you? Where have you come from? What is your lineage? Are you an Ephraimite? If it had been simply a litany of questions to answer, they could have easily lied their way across the Jordan. There was nothing conspicuously different about their faces, hair or robes to indicate their heritage. But it wasn’t just questions. Nor was it easy. Their enemies had instituted a test. A pronunciation password. A method by which they could suss out the Ephraimites attempting to pass over. A two-word command on which safe passage rested. “Say ‘Shibboleth’.”

They couldn’t do it. Couldn’t correctly repeat that simple word. Not for lack of trying. Each man put forth his best effort. It didn’t help. Didn’t happen. Try as they might, the word never came out right. Practice hadn’t helped. In the tension of the moment, they’d slip back into old habits, learned behaviors, the dialect of home. They would say, “Sibboleth.” In that moment, their true identity would be revealed. They couldn’t hide it or lie about it. They were Ephraimites. Everyone would know it. Not because they dressed differently. Not because they looked differently. Not because the guards were tricked by the answers to their previous questions. No. None of that mattered. What mattered in that exact moment was what came out of their mouths. It spoke the truth of who they were, where they had come from, to which tribe they belonged. In those fateful moments, at the ford of the Jordan, the future of every Ephraimite man attempting to cross was decided, based solely on the word that came out of his mouth. “Shibboleth” or death.  (Judges 12:1-6)

Admittedly, the passage seems quite obscure and a bit insignificant in the grand scheme of the entire Bible. A handful of verses tucked between the glorious accounts of Gideon and Sampson are easy to miss. Gloss over. Skip entirely. But what if we paused there? What if we sit along the side of the Jordan River, by the ford the Ephraimites used for crossing, and try to pick them out before a word crosses their lips? Could we do it? Would we have been able to tell, based strictly on outward appearance and overhearing a brief conversation, who was Gileadite, who was Ephraimite, and who was just a sojourner passing through? And what would we learn from listening? What could we learn from sitting in the passage longer than the 60 seconds it takes to read the words?

I’d never actually done that. Stayed there. Sat in that moment. Pondered the words and possible implications. I’ve read the words more times than I remember, but I’ve never stayed there. And I wouldn’t have stayed there this time either. I wasn’t even reading Judges. I was reading Philippians. You know the letter. Four little chapters situated near the back of the Book. Authored by Paul. It’s an inspiring read from start to finish! An echoing challenge issued by Paul to truly know and walk in Christ. Advance the Gospel by exhibiting godly behaviors. Among fellow believers. Among non-believers. Reflect Jesus. Represent the kingdom. Because you are a citizen of heaven. 

Somewhere, in the days following my reading of Philippians 1:27, where Paul calls the addressees “citizens of heaven,” God brought the Judges account to my mind. I spent days pondering it. Analyzing it. Overthinking it. Until I came to this conclusion, the account doesn’t stretch any other way for me. Just as the citizenship of those men was indicated by their speech, so is ours. Not our physical homeland. Our spiritual one. It’s a sobering thought. (Philippians 1:27)

You see, friends, you can do a lot of things to make people believe you are a citizen of heaven. Good things. Attend church. Give to the poor. Go on mission trips. Volunteer at a soup kitchen. You can eschew all manner of things you consider unsavory. Facial piercings. Tattoos. Imbibing. You can pontificate on Scripture, pretend to have special dispensation, preside over Bible studies and home groups. You can even speak “Christianese”, say all the right phrases, use all the right words, lift your hands at all the right places during the music, and be the loudest “Amen” resounding from the congregation. It doesn’t matter. What does matter, what counts the most, are the words that spring from your lips in less-than-desirable circumstances. Your co-worker botches a project. Your child doesn’t immediately respond to your request. Your spouse hasn’t had time to do the “one thing” you asked them to do. Your neighbor, fellow parishioner, friend, or acquaintance makes a less-than-stellar life decision. How you respond, what you say and to whom you say it, is a billboard sign depicting your citizenship. Not physically. Spiritually. The thought should shake you to your core. (James 1:26; Proverbs 6:16-19; Psalm 101:5; Leviticus 19:16)

It should stir you to action. That’s what Paul was trying to do to the Philippians. Stir them to action. He calls them to live as citizens of heaven. Live worthy of the gospel. His words echo those of John the Baptist. Well before Paul’s time, John encouraged the people to live lives that showed they had repented, been redeemed, were changed. Paul is saying the same thing. Live as citizens of heaven in a way the entire world will know who you are, not just in public displays of love and devotion, but in private words at times of disappointment, discouragement, aggravation, and loss. Keep your heart in such a way that, when things go pear-shaped, the words that come from your lips about the situation and the people involved reflect your citizenship. Essentially, remember Whose you are and Who you represent. Practice living like a citizen of heaven. (Matthew 3:8; Proverbs 12:18; James 3:5; I Peter 4:15)

Unfortunately, it is much easier said than done. In the heat of the moment, when frustration is rampant and tempers are high, we often have an enormous problem holding our tongues. We strike it off as human nature. Act like it’s no big deal. But it is. It’s not how we learned Christ. It’s not how we put on Him. It isn’t the appropriate way for a citizen of heaven to respond. Paul told us that, too. In Ephesians. He said those who had learned to be like Christ, true Christians, citizens of heaven, would speak truth. Their anger and upset would not be allowed to carry them into sin. Their words would not be useless and derogatory. They wouldn’t be given to angry outbursts or slanderous remarks. Instead, their carefully chosen words would build up, encourage, and extend grace to others. All others. Those you love. Those you don’t. Because words matter. They identify you. As citizens of earth or citizens of heaven. (Ephesians 4:20-31; Colossians 4:6; Proverbs 10:19; Psalm 141:3)

Jesus, in words leaving no room for confusion, speaks the truth of the matter for us. Whatever is in your heart comes out your mouth. Good. Evil. Love. Hate. In unguarded moments, flashes of anger, flares of irritation, the unfiltered verbiage that flows from your lips is a verbal eruption of what’s in your heart. It’s a sign to those around you. Your family at home. Your friends in the world. Your colleagues in the workplace. It tells them where your citizenship lies. In Heaven or on earth. (Luke 6:43-45; Matthew 15:18) 

So. Citizens of Heaven. What do your words say about you? Are you guilty of gossip and slander, vile words, derogatory remarks? Do the words that spring from your lips in moments of upset, anger, and irritation ring of heaven or earth? Is your life an honest indication of where your citizenship lies or do you simply dress the part? When things go sideways, when hard times come, when unpleasantness blindsides you, what does your verbal response indicate about the abundance of your heart? Are you living like an inhabitant of earth or a citizen of heaven? Does your speech confirm or deny your response? (Matthew 12:36; Psalm 19:14; Ephesians 5:4; Proverbs 17:27-28; Titus 3:2)