Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Creeping along in the inky predawn darkness, she furtively glanced around to ensure no one had followed. She didn’t need company as she picked her way down the unfamiliar way. Didn’t need any distractions as she searched her memory for the next turn, next tree stump, next jutting rock. She’d come this way only once before, following men who knew the path well. Chasing them down, really. Desperate to know where they were taking the lifeless body of her Lord. On the heels of an atrocious day full of agony and anguish, her heart painfully squeezed again at the thought of not knowing where Jesus would be buried. She wanted to know. Needed to know. She was going to need to visit. Often. Bring new spices. Add flowers. Sit and think and reminisce. Talk to Him. Confide in her Friend, her Redeemer, her Savior. So she followed the men as they carried Jesus’ body to the tomb, stumbling over rough ground, twisting her ankle on partially protruding stone, attempting to quickly memorize landmarks and turns so she’d know just where to go. What had been a challenging task in the evening light was even more difficult in the darkness.   

She probably should have waited another hour. Waited for the approaching dawn to send its orange fingers of light across the sky. She hadn’t. She couldn’t. While most people were still asleep in their beds, waiting for the rooster to crow out his morning announcement of dawn, Mary was already awake. Wide awake. Not because she was waiting for that arrogant rooster to sing his song. She didn’t care about his announcement. She already knew another day was dawning. She knew the day of rest was over. She knew there was nothing to stop her from racing to the place where Jesus’ body lay. She knew her patience was exhausted. She could no longer bear the wait. She couldn’t stay in bed a moment longer. She had to go. Had to be there. Had to be near Him. Her soul would suffocate if she didn’t. 

Silently slipping out of bed, Mary quietly dressed. Swirling her cloak around her, she tiptoed out the door, carrying its weight until the very last minute to ensure no noise was made. It wouldn’t do to be caught. After days of intermittent weeping, her face wasn’t fit for human consumption. She didn’t have the emotional energy to answer questions. Absolutely didn’t care to be the local gossip fodder. Couldn’t possibly explain to the naysayers and doubters the depth of her undying dedication to the Man presumed dead. 

Only a handful would understand it. Her dedication. The reason she had left home and family to be among the group of women that followed Jesus. Only those who had been endangered, diminished, nearly destroyed by demons could ever comprehend her unceasing devotion. She’d been in the worst place when Jesus found her. Possessed by seven demons. Socially outcast. Constantly scared. Never knowing what new terror they’d inflict on her mind, her body, her spirit. Life was a misery. She felt unloved, unwanted, undesirable. Then Jesus came. He saw her as loveable, desirable, useful, worthy. His heart swelled with compassion and, in simple, authoritative words, He sent the demons packing. All of them. He rescued her, redeemed the mess of her life, saved her from the horror she’d been living. He awarded her freedom. Freedom to choose her life path, where she would go, what she would do. And Mary freely chose to follow Jesus. (Mark 16:9; Luke 8:1-3)

Scurrying along the path as quickly as the lack of light allowed, Mary thought of that day even as she worked to remember every turn of the path, every unfriendly rock, every encroaching bush. That day of deliverance had been the best day of her life. Friday had been the worst. Friday she’d watched her best Friend, her Lord, her Savior, murdered for things He hadn’t done. Her sense of desolation was overwhelming. She didn’t know where to go from here. How to keep living after the One who saved her life was dead. This pilgrimage was about finding out. Finding answers. Finding hope in the midst of the smothering darkness. Finding meaning and direction for her life after His death. Perhaps sitting at His tomb, being in His presence would bring clarity. Maybe she would hear His voice. Maybe she would find the peace her soul so desperately needed in the aftermath of Friday. 

Rounding the final turn, she picked up the pace, straining to see ahead. Trying to pick out the now stone-covered opening. The tomb should be directly in front of her, but it didn’t look right. Something was off. Maybe she was in the wrong place. This tomb was open. The stone was rolled away. It looked like a gaping cave, not a sacred resting place. For the hundredth time in three short days, her heart accelerated. Icy fingers of fear slithered around her. Her stomach clenched. Eyes she thought could not possibly hold any more tears, again released their floodgates. Someone had stolen her Lord away! They had moved His body. Changed His resting place. Panic clawed at her throat as she realized Jesus was gone and she had no idea where He was! 

Wheeling around, Mary’s feet acted when her mind wouldn’t. Pounding back down the path into town, she raced to the place Peter and John were staying. Her fists pummeled the door in desperation. They had to come. Now. They had to do something. Quickly. They had to talk to someone. Immediately. Mary needed answers. She couldn’t wait. She needed someone to tell her where Jesus was. So did Peter and John. 

Scrubbing sleep from their eyes, the men quickly donned their sandals and ran out the door. They didn’t wait for Mary. She was fine with that. The faster they got answers, the better things would be. But she wasn’t staying behind to wait, either. She was going back. Even if she couldn’t keep their pace, Mary was absolutely heading back to that tomb. Not that it would matter. Peter and John weren’t a lot of help. Their assessment was very similar to hers. Jesus wasn’t there. 

The men headed home, but Mary couldn’t. She couldn’t make her feet walk away. She couldn’t stop the tears that flowed unchecked down her face. Again. Gathering her courage, she bent down to look into the tomb. See the space. View what the disciples had seen. But Mary saw more. Mary saw two angels sitting where a body would normally lay. And they spoke to her. Asked why she was crying. She gave them the same answer she’d given the disciples earlier in the morning. Jesus was missing. She didn’t know where He was. They were about as helpful as Peter and John. They had no answers. Backing out of the tomb, Mary stood, squared her shoulders, drew in a fortifying breath, and came face to face with the gardener. 

How fortuitous! The gardener would certainly know who had been meddling around his space. Who moved what to where. Which flowers were trampled in the process. On whose authority they acted. Before she could fire her questions at him, the gardener asked his own. Why was she crying and who was she looking for? Recognizing her opening, Mary begged for answers around the lump of tears clogging her throat. She just wanted to know where Jesus was. She wanted to find Him. She wanted to be near Him. Grief-stricken, afraid, and alone, Mary urgently needed to be near the One who gave her life. Dead. Alive. It didn’t matter. Mary simply needed to be with Jesus. 

Thank God He was alive! Even if she couldn’t see Him. Even if she didn’t feel Him. Even when Mary didn’t recognize His presence, His face, His voice. Jesus knew her. He knew her name, recognized her face, read her heart. He saw the pain and confusion, the anxiety and panic. He saw the uncertainty and indecision. He saw her overwhelming grief and intense aloneness. And Jesus came to her. Met her where she was. Let her hear His voice. Gently spoke her name. Showed her she was not alone. Because the Lord knows all those who are His. He knows their tears, their fears, their consternation. He knows the cries of their hearts, the searching of their souls. God knows His children, and He comes to where they are to speak to them in dulcet tones of peace. (John 10:10; 20:1-16; II Timothy 2:19)

In a world filled with treachery and uncertainty, maybe you, like Mary, are desperately seeking Jesus. Urgently needing to be near Him. The upheaval in your life is overwhelming. The circumstances around you are threatening. The issues you face are terrifying. If so, I can think of no greater reassurance than this. You belong to God. He knows you. His eyes are on you. His ears are open to your cries. He understands the things your heart wrestles with, struggles over, aches about. He is with you. When the valley is dark and terrifying. When you can’t feel His presence. When you can’t see Him working. When you don’t hear Him speaking. When the floodwaters rise and threaten to capsize your faith. When fiery trials surround your soul and it feels you are all alone. He is there. He knows you. He knows you are at the end of your rope. He knows you are exhausted. He knows you are out of ideas, your plans have failed, your future seems bleak. He knows the enemy has told you to curse God and die. He also knows you haven’t. You haven’t stopped seeking Him. You haven’t stopped running after God. You haven’t stopped trying to be as close to Him as you can. You are still hoping and praying, trusting and believing. You know you need His strength to survive. He knows it too. And He comes to you. Right where you are. Right when your desperate heart needs Him most. Into the darkness of your shattering world, in reassuring tones, Jesus speaks your name. Reminding you that you belong to Him. He knows you. Inside and out. You are His. (I John 3:1; Isaiah 43:1-2; Psalm 23:4; Psalm 121:5-8; Psalm 34:18; I John 4:4; Romans 8:16; Galatians 3:26; Psalm 139:1-2; Psalm 56:8; Isaiah 41:10; John 14:1; I John 5:1)

There are no words to express my personal, abject joy upon hearing those words. Upon reciting them. Personalizing them. I am His. So are you. If you have chosen to follow Jesus, allowing Him to rescue you from the wreckage of your past and change your future, you belong to Him. Nothing can alter that. No one can pluck you out of His hand. The evil one can’t touch you. Even if you don’t see God in your circumstances. Even if you don’t feel Him in your surroundings. Even if you can’t see Him actively working in your situation. Those things don’t change the facts. You are His. He knows you. Your name is engraved on His hand. So don’t stop trusting. Don’t stop believing. Don’t stop striving to walk as close to Jesus as you can. Keep listening for His voice. He will speak. He always does. To those who are His. (John 10:27-30; Romans 8:35-39; Isaiah 30:21; 49:16; II Corinthians 1:21-22; Psalm 100:3)

Holding his white-haired head in his hands, the elderly man heaved a deep sigh as a stray tear traced a path down his wrinkled face. His heart was shattered. His soul ached. Nothing had turned out the way he thought it would. The lessons he’d carefully taught his sons about reverence and honor for God had fallen on deaf ears. The high standards and strong morals he’d spent years instilling in them had been flung aside as they found the things of the world more enchanting, more exciting, much less binding. Their selfish, darkened hearts turned away to chase wealth through dishonest practices. They readily accepted bribes. Were happy to turn a blind eye to perverted justice. Had been known to engage in its perversion themselves. Their defection made his stomach churn, his heart sink, his soul weep. They weren’t the godly leaders Israel needed. God knew it. Samuel knew it. (I Samuel 8:1-3) 

The elders of Israel knew it too. Approaching the aging prophet, they confronted him with the facts. His sons weren’t going to cut it. They weren’t leadership material. Unlike Samuel, they weren’t hearing or listening when God spoke. So embedded in their own illicit actions, no one wanted them to be the next leaders of Israel. They wanted someone new. Someone strong and fearless. Someone courageous in battle. Someone who would proudly stride out to fight on their behalf. They’d been shopping around, peeking over the fences, chatting up the folks in the neighboring towns. They wanted what everyone else had. They wanted a king. 

Everyone did. From the highest elder to the lowest peasant, the people fell in line chanting a demand that violated God’s plan. They had looked around at the nations with kings ruling over them. They seemed idyllic. Security and contentment appeared to blanket their communities. Courage and strength flowed from their palaces. No visible fear or concern marred their existence. This king thing seemed like a sweet deal. He would be responsible for all the tedious running of things. He’d have to make the decisions. He could be blamed for anything they didn’t like. And it would be his duty to take care of them. Make sure there was food. Remedy social issues. Keep peace with neighboring nations. Go before them and fight their battles. They could rest at ease, live their lives, work the land, and raise their families while the king kept peace across the land. Life would be better, simpler, more pleasant, if they could just have a king! (I Samuel 8:4-5, 19)

Rightfully upset and even hurt by their obvious rejection of the ways he’d so carefully taught them, Samuel hit his knees in prayer. No part of this seemed like a plan God would condone. God was their King. The One who fought their battles. Provided. Protected. Mere men, no matter how wise, courageous, or strong, could not do for them what God had historically done. How had they been so hoodwinked as to believe such an outrageous notion? Could no one read the lies between the lines of the rhetoric? They didn’t need a human king pompously riding through town on his destrier, bedecked in robe and crown. They didn’t need to be like the nations around them. They needed to follow God alone. He would be their conquering king. If only they could see the truths before their very eyes. 

Samuel wasn’t blind to the truths before him. He wouldn’t live forever. His sons were not proper leadership material. He understood the people were uncomfortable with the idea of his passing, leaving no one to take his place. Yet still, this urgent demand for a king felt much like a slap in the face. It felt like all the years of his labor had been in vain. Every moment invested in leading the people to follow God’s heart was wasted. Every effort to keep their minds focused on Him misspent. Every hour of prayer, word of encouragement, message of exhortation, and moment of leadership soundly ignored. His devotion to God’s work and God’s people amounted to nothing. Today it felt like all his efforts had been useless. He felt dissed and dismissed. The people were demanding a king, and God’s answer was not what Samuel expected. 

He was giving them what they wanted! God was answering the people’s demands with capitulation. He was going to grant them a king. One of His own choosing. One who would start well, but whose path would turn highly suspect. One who didn’t even want the job. It wasn’t the choice Samuel would have made, but then, it wasn’t about Samuel. None of it was. It didn’t reflect on his character, his abilities, his sufficiencies. He hadn’t failed. He wasn’t worthless. His life’s work hadn’t been in vain. Not one part of this event had anything at all to do with Samuel. The people hadn’t rejected him from being their prophet and judge. They hadn’t rejected his leadership. No. They were rejecting God. Their true king. The One who led their ancestors out of Egypt. The One who had given them victory in battle against the Philistines. The One who answered miraculously when they cried out to Him. The people were tossing everything God had done for them aside and chasing after what all the other nations had. They wanted a king they could see and touch and blame. They didn’t want to live by faith, they wanted to live by sight. But before God gave them the desires of their straying hearts, Samuel was tasked with warning them just how having a king would look. (I Samuel 8:6-9)

Nothing was going to turn out the way they thought it would. They wouldn’t get the carefree, abundant life they were imagining by trading the leadership of God for the leadership of man. Samuel tried to tell them. Attempted to warn them. This was going to go badly. The appointed king would take their children for his servants. They would plow his fields and reap his harvest. Their sons would fight his wars. Their daughters would be his servants. This long-desired king would take the best of what they had. Fields. Vineyards. Olive groves. He would take his tenth off the top of all their harvests. He would require the best of everything they had. Servants. Cattle. Donkeys. The people who cried out so desperately wanting a king would regret it. Abused and unhappy under the iron rule of their desired king, the miserable people would cry out to God for relief from their poor choices. Unfortunately, God would not be quick to answer. (I Samuel 8:10-18)

The warnings fell on deaf ears. All of them. The people refused to believe them. Wouldn’t contemplate the possibilities. Declined weighing the options. Unconcerned with their rejection of God, they steadfastly set their focus on the faulty desires of their sidetracked hearts. They badly wanted to be like the rest of the world. They desperately wanted the peace, protection, and prosperity they imagined came with that choice. Convinced it was the choice that would grant them the things they always wanted, they stalwartly demanded a king. They unequivocally weren’t taking “no” for an answer. Not today. Not any day. They were done hearing and listening to God. They wanted their own way. They were choosing a king, and it had nothing to do with Samuel. (I Samuel 8:19-20)

It’s an incredibly difficult lesson to learn. Not everything is about you. When the people we have prayed for, preached to, discipled, and loved decide Jesus isn’t enough for them, it hurts. When the family we’ve raised to walk after God chooses to take a different track, our hearts break. When the church we’ve poured ourselves into, physically and financially, opts for an alternate interpretation of God’s Word, we feel devastated. When, no matter how hard we pray, how loud we speak, how firmly we stand, the people around us choose a lesser path, our communities follow lesser gods, our country races wilfully toward certain destruction, it makes our souls recoil in nearly physical pain. Our heads hang. Our tears flow. It feels personal. It isn’t. It’s not about us at all. It’s about God. 

Friend, every single human has to make a very personal choice about what they will do with Jesus. His words. His ways. His will. It’s their choice. You can pray all the prayers. Say all the words. Teach all the lessons. Preach all the warnings. When it’s all said and done, the choice to accept or reject Jesus is theirs. It’s not about you at all. It’s not your glory if they accept Him. It’s not your fault if they reject Him. Not one part of that decision is about you. Even if it feels like it. Even if the evil one camps out on your shoulder saying it is. Even if the blame game he’s playing sounds plausible. Even when he says you should have prayed harder, lived better, spoken more clearly. When he says you’ve failed. Your work is useless. Your best is worthless. Your efforts have been completely in vain. Tell him to shut up. It’s not about you. It’s about God. (Deuteronomy 30:19; Joshua 24:15; Romans 14:5-12; John 3:3; Matthew 22:14)

Not everyone is going to heed your warnings. Not everyone is going to be interested in changing their ways. Not every soul to whom you witness, for whom you pray, with whom you share the Word of God is going to choose Him. Some will scoff. Some will scatter. Some will select an earthly king over an eternal One. That is their choice. They aren’t rejecting you. They are rejecting God. It’s not your failure. It’s not your fault. It’s not about you. So don’t stop. Don’t stop praying. Don’t stop preaching. Don’t stop teaching, caring, sharing, believing. Don’t give up. That’s what the evil one wants you to do. That’s why he whispers discouraging words of guilt and shame and regret in your ear. Don’t listen to him. Rather, know this, nothing you do for the sake of the Gospel is in vain. God’s words never return to Him void. Neither the work nor the outcome is about you at all. It’s all about God. (Matthew 5:16; Proverbs 14:25; Jude 1:23; Matthew 10:1-22; II Timothy 4:2-5; I Corinthians 15:58; Isaiah 55:11)

It was one of the darkest times in their history. The saddest of days.The most bereft they’d been in recent memory. The heavens were silent. God wasn’t speaking. Not in verbiage. Not in visions. No one seemed to notice. The people weren’t listening. They hadn’t been for a long time. They were too busy with other pursuits. Ungodly pastimes. Unchecked evil. Unhindered corruption. Unbridled sin was the order of the day. For everyone. Including the priests. His very own sons. He’d talked with them. Pointed out the error of their ways. Warned them of God’s wrath. Hinted they should change. Hoped they would. It hadn’t happened. Nothing had changed. Neither priests nor people seemed concerned about the heavenly silence. Content to slide deeper into their moral and spiritual decline, they failed to notice the resonating voice of God no longer penetrated their sin-saturated hearts. (I Samuel 3:1)

Eli wasn’t getting messages from God either. Not anything recent, anyway. Since the condemning prophecy against himself and his sons, the heavens were silent, a brass sky over a gloomy existence. The decision concerning his family line was made. There was nothing left to say. God had spoken. He wasn’t prone to changing His mind. Because nothing had changed on earth, Eli was certain nothing had changed in Heaven. Destruction was coming. He knew it. Heard it in the lines of conversation rolling over and over in his mind as he rested his aging, exhausted self in the usual place. The ramifications of their choices weighed on his spirit. The coming onslaught of consequences saddened his heart. The fact he hadn’t done enough to quell the evil nosedive plagued his conscience. As his eyes slid shut and sleep began to overtake him, he idly wondered what would happen to the boy in his care. (I Samuel 2:12-36)

How well he remembered the day Hannah had desperately sought the Lord for a child. He’d never forget it. Anguish etched across her face. A torrent of tears rained down her cheeks. Her lips moved at a frenetic pace. At first he’d believed her inebriated and made his way to sternly confront the woman, considering a possible ejection necessary. Instead, he’d found a completely sober, deeply broken woman pleading with God to answer her prayers. Compassion welled in Eli’s heart. Kindness flowed from his lips in words that asked God to grant whatever it was she so urgently desired. Little did he know the answer to her prayer then would be the key to unlocking God’s voice now. Yet it seemed it was so. (I Samuel 1:9-17)

Three times the child for which Hannah had prayed rushed to his bedside tonight. He’d heard a voice. Genuinely believed it was Eli’s. Came running to his side, eager to help. Except it wasn’t Eli. Failing though his memory was, he knew with absolute certainty he hadn’t called the boy. Had no idea what he was doing there. Was fairly certain he’d been mid-snore when the child awakened him. The first time. He had just started to drift off when he arrived the second time. When Samuel arrived the third time, Eli had an epiphany. Finally. God was speaking. Calling out to Samuel. Deigning to speak for the first time in a very long time. And Eli badly wanted to know what He had to say. 

Before sending the boy back to bed, Eli gave him strict instructions. The next time he heard his name called, there would be no need to come running back. Eli wasn’t calling him. Wouldn’t be calling him. God was calling. It was imperative for Samuel to answer. Immediately. In words indicating his undivided attention and readiness to receive the message.  “Speak, Lord. Your servant is listening.” Right now. I recognize Your voice. I know who You are.  I understand the message you have to give is of utmost importance. My ears are strictly tuned to hear your voice. I am your servant. And I. Am. Listening. 

It was crucial for Samuel to answer. Say exactly what he had been told to say. When God called again, Samuel needed to respond in a way that allowed God to speak. A way that welcomed His words. Samuel needed to listen. Hearing God call him was not enough. Knowing God was speaking wouldn’t suffice. Samuel needed to listen. Intently. Intentionally. Memorize the words. Take notes if necessary. Not one word should be left to possible misinterpretation. When God called Samuel again–and He most assuredly would–the boy needed to answer. “Speak, Lord. I. Am. Listening.” And he did. (I Samuel 3:1-9)  

Lying on his mat, silently staring at the ceiling, Samuel waited for the voice to call again. He didn’t move. He barely breathed. Eli had ensured he understood the abject importance of this task. He absolutely didn’t want to miss the moment if God called his name again. He wasn’t disappointed. God didn’t just call. He came. Stood there in that space. Called Samuel by name. And Samuel heard His voice. This time there was no confusion. No jumping up and running to Eli. No misunderstandings. No misgivings. Samuel was ready for it. Waiting for it. He heard God’s voice the very moment He called. Recognized it. Responded with confidence. I. Am. Listening. (I Samuel 3:10-11)

Having read the message imparted by God and Samuel’s hesitance to repeat it to Eli. It stands to reason, the words Samuel heard were not exactly what he thought they would be. They didn’t match what he hoped God would say. It wasn’t a message of hope and forgiveness. But it was a moment. A gateway moment in which Samuel proved that when God spoke he would hear His voice and he would listen, absorb the message, speak it to the one for whom it was intended. He wouldn’t shirk his duty. He would hear. He would listen. He would share the words of God with the people God had chosen to be His own. Easy words. Hard words. Words of encouragement. Words of rebuke. God’s message to God’s people. Through Samuel. Because he was listening. (I Samuel 3:12-21)

There’s a significant difference between hearing and listening. Hearing often lacks the intentionality of listening. It can be accidental, casual. It is often inattentive, disinterested. Listening, on the other hand, speaks of interest, investment, and importance. It is indicative of your level of care concerning the subject. And the speaker. Your respect for the speaker is evident in whether you distractedly hear them or actively listen to them. Friends. Co-workers. Family. God. Yes. God. He is still speaking. To you. Often. Words of wisdom. Gentle direction. Careful warning. Boundless love. If you are listening, you will hear Him. (John 10:27-28)

Unfortunately for us, there are so many voices sounding off around us that it sometimes becomes difficult to hear God speak. They aren’t all bad voices, either. Some of them have nothing but love and good intentions toward you. Admittedly, others wish only to see you cut off at the knees. It doesn’t matter. You can’t fully rely on mortal voices alone. Why? Because no person’s voice can replace the true voice of God. No human wisdom can supersede the wisdom of God. No mortal thought or reasoning will ever trump the mind of God. You can get all your advice from the finite mind of a pastor, teacher, brother, friend. It might work for you. It might not. The only advice that will ever work and never fail is the word you get from God when you are absolutely, intentionally listening. (Matthew 7:24; James 1:5; 3:17; Romans 11:33; Isaiah 40:6-8; 55:8-9; I Corinthians 3:19)  

So are you? Are you listening? To God. As the world around us sits in the exact same deplorable, sinful, debauched state it was in Eli’s day, we are blessed by the fact that God is still speaking. In spite of an egregiously wilful society, recklessly and happily headed for destruction, God has not shut up the heavens. He still has things to say. To us. To me. To you. Just as He did to Samuel, in the middle of the chaos, God is calling you to hear His voice, respond to His call, be still in that space, and listen. Attentively. Intentionally. Absorb the message God has for you. His direction. His wisdom. His discipline. His love. Share the message as applicable. Encourage someone else with His words. Caution others with His warnings. Spread the news of His love and mercy and grace. Refuse to trade your active listening for passive hearing. When God calls your name, may your response echo that of Samuel. “Yes, Lord. I. Am. Listening.” (Psalm 119:105; Isaiah 30:21; John 8:47; 16:13; Luke 11:28; Psalm 85:8)

They were doing it again. Same tune. Same lyrics. Same song. He’d heard it more times than he cared to remember. It seemed to be their theme song. Easily memorized. Frequently sung. The chorus immediately lifted at the first indication of oncoming unpleasantness, the initial sign of discomfort, the very second they didn’t get their way. Water difficult to find. Food not to their liking. Journey longer than they expected. Foes more formidable than desired. At the first sign of possible hardship ahead, the people broke into the same song and dance. Doubt. Despair. Distress. Doom. 

It was wearing on Moses’ nerves. Not for the first time. Their angry, entitled, manipulative words were always aimed at him. As if he hadn’t been simply minding his own business, tending the flock, when God called to him from a burning bush. As if it had been his idea to storm into Egypt and demand Pharaoh let the people go. As if he’d personally chosen to map their journey from bondage to promise. As if he’d personally pledged a peaceful respite in a land flowing with milk and honey. Nope. That hadn’t been him. Wasn’t even his idea. He’d actually tried to get out of it. Offered up excuses. Posed possible obstacles. Flat out asked to be excused from service. No amount of wheedling or cajoling changed God’s mind. Moses was the one. Not the planner. The leader. (Exodus 3-4)

So here he was. Trekking through the wilderness. Listening to the murmuring, complaining, groaning and wailing. Again. They craved the delicious foods in Egypt. They longed for the predictability of the past. They wondered if it would just be better to concede defeat, turn back, and see if the Egyptians would allow their return as slaves. In the middle of hardship, when faith in God was most necessary, they chose to doubt. Failed to remember the miraculous rescue. Chose to forget the water flowing from the rock. Allowed the lapse of time, the lack of amenities, the scarcity of necessities to make them question the promise of God. (Exodus 3:7-8, 16-17; 14; 17:1-7; Numbers 11)

They were currently occupying that space. The place where their impatience with the process and anxiety over looming enemies overshadowed their faith with doubt. They had lost confidence in Moses’ leadership. Lost faith in the promise of God. Lost hope that what God had promised He would absolutely perform. They wanted to go back. Could see no other option. Death in Egypt or death in the wilderness. It was all still death. Just death. Not horrendous death. Not barbaric torture. Not the abandoning of their wives and children to be absconded with by their enemies. And that was their foremost concern at this moment. They would die by the sword and their wives and little ones would be used, abused and left to die by the men who defeated them.  

Earlier that day, Joshua and Caleb had re-entered the camp with their group of explorers after taking a peek at Canaan. They had been gone for 40 days. If one judged by the enormous cluster of grapes hanging from a pole between two men, the delicious pomegranates and luscious figs, the land was everything God had promised. More than they had ever imagined. Better than their most extravagant dreams. Food in abundance. Beautiful farmland. Gorgeous fields for grazing. Plenty of water. It would be a wonderful place to put down roots and raise a family. Build a permanent temple. Create a kingdom of Israelites. It would be the perfect place. If it wasn’t inhabited by enormous, powerful, terrifying giants.  

 If they listened to Joshua and Caleb, it was a winnable battle. Yes, the inhabitants were huge. Yes, their strength was formidable. Yes, the cities were large and fortified. But. God was on their side. He had never once failed them. They could look back over their journey and see His hand of protection and provision over and over again. There was no reason to believe that had changed now. No reason not to march up and take possession of the land He promised to provide. God was not a liar. He wasn’t prone to changing His mind. He would fulfill His promise. If they just kept the faith, didn’t doubt, and followed Him. (Numbers 13:1-30; 14:6-9; 23:19)

The rest of the men felt differently. Much differently. Absorbed in contemplation the entire journey back to camp, doubt had overtaken them. Intimidated by the sheer size of their foes, they had spent the time building a case against invading the land. Their tales of giants with unbeatable strength terrified the hearers. Their verbal vomit depicting possible inflicted horrors brought gut-wrenching panic and fear. The people weren’t having it. Wanted no part of it. Not on their watch. They weren’t going to allow this to happen if they could stop it. Promised land or not, they weren’t interested in risking their lives for it. They were done. Ready to demote Moses. Ready to choose a new leader. Ready to pack their bags and head back to Egypt. Again. Because, wouldn’t it be better to go back and face the music than be ripped apart by barbarians, leaving their wives, daughters and little ones in their ruthless hands? (Numbers 13:31-33;14:1-4)

Actually, no. No, it wouldn’t be. It would not be better to turn tail and run in fear. It would not be wiser to trade their faith for doubt. It would be cowardly. It would be contemptuous. It would be costly. Immensely costly. They would learn it the hard way. Angry with their contempt and refusal to have faith in His promise, God visits Moses, revealing His plan to strike the rebellious people down with a plague. He would kill them all and build up a nation of constitutionally stronger souls to be counted as His own. In a move of undeserved grace, Moses spoke on behalf of the wayward, cowardly, grumbling people, and asked for mercy. Begged for leniency. And God relented. Forgave their sins. Kept them as His people. But love and forgiveness do not negate consequences, and the ramifications of their doubt were steep. 

They were all going to die. Not right then by a sweeping plague, but before leaving the wilderness. With the exception of Joshua and Caleb, not one of those 20 years old and older who grumbled and complained, doubted and desired to turn back would live to enter the Promised Land. They would die in the wilderness. Watch their children endure the harsh existence of that place, herding sheep and waiting out the 40 years of their exile. Never would they see the enormous clusters of grapes or taste the bountiful figs and pomegranates. Their doubt had made them miss it all. The promised blessings. The proffered goodness. The prosperous life God had carefully planned for them. They would miss it all. It’s what their doubt would cost them. (Numbers 14:10-38)

There’s something so familiar in the cries of the Israelites as they wail, “Wouldn’t it be better to head back to Egypt?” Perhaps because the premise is so familiar. Maybe because, at some point in our lives, we have all said something similar. Perhaps because there have been, are, and will be times when things get unpleasant or uncomfortable and the evil one sidles up beside us to mention that things were better before. Before we committed our lives to God. Before we set out to do His will. Before we fully consecrated every part of our hearts and souls and minds to follow God alone. The evil one says things were easier when we were still in charge. He insinuates things were better when we were forging our own path. He claims we were less stressed, had fewer worries, made more friends, were more successful when we were making our own decisions. And, if we aren’t careful, we believe him. (II Corinthians 11:14)

With a few well-whispered words, the evil one will have you believing God isn’t coming through with His promise. He’s taking too long to answer. His response doesn’t look the way you thought it would or should. He’s allowed issues and obstacles and problems to occur, and you’ve started to doubt His good intentions. You question His promise. You actively wonder if it wouldn’t be better to just quit following God’s path and forge your own trail. Maybe you mull it over silently in your mind. Maybe you mention it to a friend. Maybe you cry your question out to God in an exhausted, broken-hearted prayer. Maybe, in the middle of all your questioning and worrying and wavering, you should stop to wonder what your doubt will cost you. (Psalm 40:1; Psalm 27:13-14)

Because doubting God will cost you. Immensely. It will crowd your heart and mind with things that draw you away from Him. Anxiety. Worry. Fear. It will turn your focus inward. It will suffocate your peace. It will drown your faith. It will bring instability to your soul. Faith and doubt cannot coexist. So choose faith. Faith in God. Faith that He rewards those who diligently seek, trust, and follow Him. Even when the path is full of twists and turns. Even when it seems things have no chance of working out for your good. Even when you can’t fathom how your current circumstances can lead you to the place He promised. Have faith in God. Do not doubt. Doubt is too expensive. It could cost you everything. It could cost you the promised land. When weighed against the final fulfillment of God’s promise, is the cost of your doubt, the option of turning back, worth the price your soul will pay? Is your doubt worth anything? Is it worth everything? Is it worth your soul? What, exactly, will your doubt cost you? (Philippians 4:6-7; Mark 11:22; James 1:2-8; II Corinthians 5:7; Romans 8:28; Psalm 45:13; Hebrews 11:6)

She should have kept her mouth shut. Desperately wished she had. No matter how strong her distaste. No matter her feelings of being replaced. No matter how much better she believed her brother could have done than this foreign floozy. She should have kept it all to herself. The ugly words about his wife. The questioning words concerning his leadership. The arrogant words suggest she and Aaron could talk to and hear from God just as well as Moses. From somewhere deep in her soul, released by her annoyance with her new sister-in-law, a well of angry, jealous, pretentious words spilled from her lips, illuminating the true content of Miriam’s heart. 

It was not her finest moment. She knew it. Aaron knew it. God knew it. Unfortunately, Moses was about to know it. They had all been summoned. All three were to appear in front of the Tabernacle to meet with God. It would no doubt be a harrowing experience, the wicked thoughts and desires of her heart paraded for all to see. There would be punishment. She knew it. Over and again God had reiterated that, although His love was endless, He wouldn’t leave sin unpunished. And she had most definitely sinned. Egregiously. (Exodus 20:5-6; 34:6-7)

Dragging the toes of her sandals in the dirt, Miriam slowly made her way to the designated meeting place. She didn’t want to go. Didn’t care to attend. Didn’t dare miss the appointment. It wasn’t optional. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo in her chest. Dread and anxiety melded together, forming a tight knot in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t care to meet Aaron’s gaze. His face would surely be filled with accusation. She couldn’t make herself glance in Moses’ direction. His loving smile would soon be replaced by a wounded frown as he was blindsided by her attempted insurrection. She really didn’t want to face God. Didn’t want to hear His disappointment. Didn’t want to feel His wrath. Didn’t want to know His just punishment. Deserving though she knew she was, Miriam wished the confrontation and ensuing fallout could be avoided. It couldn’t, so she reluctantly took her place beside her brothers.   

Called to come forward, Miriam and Aaron stood trembling before the obvious wrath of God. Regret etched their ashen faces. Guilty heads hung low. Words failed them as they stood before God to give account of their previous conversation. No excuse could be made. None was available. Their words had been unkind and unwarranted. Untrue. They knew the relationship Moses had with God. Knew their own relationships with God were nowhere near the same. Moses’ relationship was personal. Nearly palpable. His information and directions weren’t carefully gleaned from visions and dreams. No. Moses took instruction directly from the lips of God, an event neither of them had experienced. Ever. They had never heard God’s actual voice themselves. Had solely relied on Moses for guidance and direction. Yet, when frustration and irritation boiled over, they presumed, through the darkness of their own hearts, that they could lift the mantle of leadership from Moses and set it on their own shoulders. Except they couldn’t. Because God wasn’t having it. 

He said it in no uncertain terms. God was angry. At them. At their words. At their motives. And He had the right to be angry. Not just because they had been busily brewing a method to abscond with Moses’ leadership. God had the right to be angry that the people He had chosen to aid Moses in the monumental task of leading the Israelite nation to the promised land were so inwardly focused. He had the right to be angry because their hearts were so full of arrogance and selfishness that they would deign to promote themselves above God’s chosen leader. God had the right to be angry that, at a time when they should have come alongside Moses, shown their support, and portrayed true holiness, they were busy gossiping and backbiting and stirring up trouble. God had the right to be angry and disappointed and heartbroken that Miriam and Aaron were more concerned about their angst with Moses and discontent with their leadership rank than they were about their own obvious lack of relationship with God Himself.

For reasons to which we are not made privy, Miriam bore the brunt of the punishment. Perhaps she initiated the entire situation, started the conversation, exacerbated the issues. Maybe Aaron simply nodded his head in agreement as his older sister spat her venom and hate. It doesn’t really matter now. As the Spirit of God withdrew from them, Miriam looked down at herself to find she’d been stricken with defiled skin. Not just a little skin infection that would heal shortly with proper care. This was far worse. A sickness from which there was no recovery outside the miraculous. Every inch of Miriam’s visible skin was covered in leprosy.  

Never had isolation seemed like a blessing, yet, from her ragged hut outside the Israelite encampment, Miriam stared at her leprous skin and counted it such. She had gotten off lightly. Not because she deserved it. Not because Aaron had begged. Not because her contrition had been immediately forthcoming. No. Miriam would spend only seven days in excommunication from her friends and family simply because Moses asked. Pleaded, really. Begged God to spare her life. Offered an alternative punishment to the death that would certainly follow this particular form of illness. She didn’t deserve the mercy. She wasn’t worthy of the grace. Yet God chose to answer. Chose to spare her. At the earnest pleading of the brother she had unabashedly derided, God stepped in. Her death sentence was replaced with a seven-day excommunication. Seven days of lonely contemplation. One hundred sixty-eight hours of self-examination. Ten thousand minutes for Miriam to change her focus, lift her eyes, and set her heart and soul to follow God alone. And she did. 

Seven days after being handed a death sentence, Miriam emerged from isolation a new woman. Physically and spiritually. Her time alone had changed more than the state of her skin. It changed the state of her heart. What before had been cluttered with murmurs and complaints, envy and jealousy, selfishness and arrogance was now filled with the peace and contentment of God. Happy to resume her role as a prophet, musician, and leader of the women. Blessed to stand in support behind Moses. Her heart no longer yearned for power and prominence. Her mouth would no longer run to express her opinions. Her body wouldn’t suffer the consequences of her sin. Neither would her soul. Miriam learned in seven days what often takes humanity a lifetime to grasp. You are what you speak. (Exodus 15:20-21; Numbers 12:1-16; Deuteronomy 24:8-9)

It isn’t a big, well-kept secret. It is common sense. Your words matter. The ones you speak in private. The ones you yell in public. The ones you know you shouldn’t say. The ones you leave unsaid. The Bible is full of words about our words. Admonitions to guard our mouths, watch our tongues, think more, speak less. Even Jesus addressed the subject. Of all the topics we needed Him to cover in His three short years of earthly ministry, the words we speak made His shortlist. Because words are powerful. What you say doesn’t simply dissipate with the half-hearted apology you offer. The insult you hurled isn’t forgotten because you followed it up with a quick, “Just kidding.” The backstabbing, judgmental gossip in which you engage is not harmless because the words were spoken in secret. God hears. God sees. God knows. The heart you hurt. The reputation you smear. The damage you cause. Life and death are in the power of your words. Not physically. Spiritually. Your life. Your death. Your choice. (Proverbs 10:19; 13:3; 17:9; 18:21; 21:23;  Matthew 12:36-37; 15:18; Luke 6:43-45)

So watch your words. Let them be few. Choose them carefully. Speak life. Into your own soul. Out of your own soul. Refuse to engage in idle gossip, malicious slander, or destructive meddling. Don’t air your grievances to every ready ear. Keep your opinion to yourself. Shut your mouth. Unless you have something kind to say. Unless your words have been vetted by the Holy Spirit. Unless you are busy encouraging, uplifting, and supporting one another to follow hard after God. Hold your tongue. Inspect your words. Examine your heart. The state of the second determines the quality of the first. Although they may be an inaccurate description of the one you choose to slander, your words will be an accurate description of your heart. Choose them wisely. Your tongue will tell the tale. You are what you speak. (Ecclesiastes 5:2-3; Ephesians 4:29; Exodus 23:1; James 1:26; 4:11; Psalm 141:3; I Thessalonians 5:11; Psalm 19:14; 139:23-24)