Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Disgruntled aggravation settled in the lines of the disciples faces as the slap of sandals sounded on the hardened path behind them. Seriously!? This was not the plan. At all. Their schedule had effectively been dismantled by a horde of sticky-fingered, dusty, runny-nosed children, and now some crazy guy was racing up behind them, calling out to Jesus, actively thwarting their attempt to get on the road.  

Heaving irritated sighs, the disciples turned to watch as the young man screeched to a halt and dropped to his knees before Jesus. A quick perusal of his carriage and attire told his story. This wasn’t just some average guy. Although disheveled from his near-sprint through town, his wealth was glaringly apparent. Robe of the finest quality. Sandals of the best leather. Hands adorned with heavy gold rings. When his breathing calmed enough for him to speak, his voice was well modulated, his verbiage educated. The disciples wondered what he could possibly need from Jesus. 

Thankfully, they didn’t have to wait to find out. The first words breathlessly blurted out formed a question that had doubtless been eating away at his conscience for quite some time. “Teacher, what can I do to secure eternal life?” Silence fell over the disciples. The infernal bellyaching about a journey and timetable stopped. They gathered closer. Not in an effort to ward off the man. No. They didn’t want him to go anywhere. Not before they heard the answer to his question. If there was a way to buy, borrow, or earn eternal life, they absolutely wanted to know about it. If there was a neat trick, a side door, an easier way, they certainly wanted to use it. But their hope for such a clue was useless. There wasn’t one. Jesus’ answer was the same one they had been hearing all their lives. Obey the commandments. The ones everyone knows. Don’t kill. Don’t commit adultery. Don’t lie to, steal from, or defraud your neighbor. Respect and honor your parents. That was it. No side roads. No tricks. No surprises. Keep the law. It was that simple. They had been doing it their entire lives. 

An enormous sigh of relief echoed from the young man before them at the realization. Worry lines relaxed in a smile. This was good news. He was already safe. He’d learned to keep all those commands as a child. He’d been raised to strictly adhere to those principles. His worries had been for nothing. Random kernels of thought blown out of proportion. What a relief! This eternal life thing was easier than he’d anticipated! His life didn’t need to change at all. Except it did.

Unfortunately for the young man, his celebratory congratulations were premature. Jesus wasn’t finished speaking. His next words fell like grenades into the lightened heart of the rich young man. Heavy words. Hard words. Honest words. Words laced with the everlasting love of the God who is unwilling that anyone should perish in their sins and wants everyone to have eternal life. “Sell it all. Everything you own. Houses. Vineyards. Flocks. Herds. Elaborate jewelry. Embroidered cloaks. Costly sandals. Give it all up. Sell it all. Give the earnings away. Feed the orphans. Pay the widow’s bills. Donate to the poorhouse. When it is all gone, when everything you hold dear on this earth has become nothing to you, come, follow Me.” (Mark 10:13-22; II Peter 3:9)

Centuries later, in another time, another place, a different society, it is impossible for us to fully comprehend the impact of those words on that young man. We can only know how they would affect us today. Having found our security in our physical abilities, mental faculties, and financial accounts, our hearts quake at the very thought of letting go of it all to blindly follow Jesus Christ! Our hearts and minds stop just short of unequivocal surrendering everything to God so He can accomplish His will, His way. The very concept causes our fingers to involuntarily tighten around the imaginary controls of our lives. Standing utterly still, we carefully weigh the cost. Is relinquishing everything to gain the One thing worth anything really worth it? 

The young man must have felt something similar. Staggering under the weight of Jesus’ words, his eyes filled with tears. He thought of his comfortable bed, cushy sandals, soft robes. He considered his servants, houses, and lands. He mentally tallied his gold and silver. He remembered the parties and friends and festivities of his current lifestyle. And he made his choice. The cost was too great. His things too important. He loved them far too much. Standing there in that crossroads, weighing the earthly against the eternal, he made his final determination. Following Jesus simply wasn’t worth it. Lowering his eyes, he backed away, surrendering his life to the world and his eternity to damnation. His expensive sandals were nearly sounless as he disappeared down the road. His choice told the story. He got the answer he came for, but not the answer he wanted. He chose to exchange his soul for the world. 

Astonishment covered the disciples’ faces. They were acutely familiar with leaving everything behind to follow Jesus. They had done it themselves. Laid aside their nets. Abandon their boats. Forfeited their livelihoods. Admittedly, they hadn’t had as much to lose. They weren’t living in the lap of luxury. Eating bonbons. Entertaining beautiful women. Nothing currently in their world held them back. Not the boat, the net, the fish, the sea. Not James and John’s father. Not one stopped to question what they would eat, where they would sleep, or how they would survive. They simply chose to abandon everything earthly for the glorious opportunity to walk with Jesus for eternity. Why? Because their hearts knew what their minds were only still grasping. Jesus was worth it. (Mark 1:16-20)

So worth it, in fact, that they followed immediately. There was no hesitation. No hosting farewell parties. No visiting relatives. No sorting and packing, and closing up their homes. Jesus said, “Follow me,” and they did. Immediately. Even Matthew. Sitting in his tax booth, Matthew was busy. People were lined up waiting their turn at his window. He had a job to do right where he was. Authorities relied on him to do his job. His paycheck was dependable. Yet, when Jesus called, he immediately hung his “Closed” sign in the window, hopped out of his booth, resigned from his job, and signed on for a future of preaching, persecution, and poverty. Why? Because Matthew knew the tallies. He knew the earthly cost of following Jesus was far less than the eternal cost of denying Him. (Mark 2:13-15)

He wouldn’t be the last to decide this. The Bible teems with accounts of individuals who gave up security, dignity, prosperity, and social safety because they deemed Jesus worth it. Martyrs of the faith, like Stephen. Offenders turned defenders of the faith like Saul turned Paul. Preachers and missionaries of the Gospel when it wasn’t popular or prosperous. Philip. Silas. Barnabas. Followers of Jesus Christ who refused to be deterred by persistent confrontation, raging persecution, or threat of prosecution. People who believed with every fiber of their being that following Jesus was worth anything, even if it required giving up everything, because their lives would be worth nothing unless they gained the One thing worth having–the daily presence of Jesus Christ in their lives. (Acts 4-28)

Accounts of people making that bold choice are not limited to the tissue pages of your Bible and yellowed pages of history books. People consistently give their lives, their resources, their time, their talents completely to Christ, deeming nothing worth more than following Him. People from your lifetime, your list of acquaintances, your neighbors, your friends. People who so strongly believe Jesus is worth everything, worth anything, that they have sacrificed it all to follow Him. Maybe you have watched their lives, been astonished at what they have been willing to give up, leave behind, or deny themselves. Perhaps you have shaken your head and wondered how they were going to live without constant internet access, shopping, recreation, family, or friends. Maybe you have heard the call yourself, but are hesitant. Weighing the options. Wondering if full surrender and absolute abandonment of your own selfish pursuits is truly worth it. Hear me when I say this. It is. Following Jesus is worth anything, worth everything. No matter what. But you have to choose it for yourself. You have to relinquish yourself willingly. God will never take the wheel without you asking. He won’t hook up a tow and forcibly drag you His way. He will call. The choice to follow will always be yours alone. 

Knowing that truth, I feel compelled to ask, how much is Jesus worth to you? Is He worth more than the boat and house, and vacation? Is your relationship with Christ worth more than your social status, friend count, or family connections? Is following Him more important than chasing a list of achievements, accolades, and adulations? Is Jesus worth more to you than the new job, the college acceptance, the team win? Would you sacrifice the earthly to gain the eternal? Is Jesus worth anything to you? Is He worth everything to you? What place does Jesus hold in your life? Are you willing to answer His call to lay it all down, set it all aside, sell it, drop it, give it away, and come, follow Him? Right now? Today? (Mark 10:23-31)

If you don’t have an answer, friend, you need one. Just as He did the rich young ruler, the disciples, the saints who decorate the halls of time, Jesus is calling. Calling you. He’s saying the same thing he said to each of them in one manner or another. “Lay it all down. Give it all up. Come. Follow Me. Completely. Immediately.” Only you can choose the answer. Only you know if there is anything in your life that keeps you from wholly following Jesus. Earthly comfort. Social accolades. Worldly ideals. Only you can decide if He is worth it. But weigh it wisely. Think long and hard. Ask yourself serious questions. With this world passing away and eternity stretching before you, is it worth it to trade the eternal for the earthly? Is following Jesus worth it to you? Worth everything? Worth anything? Worth losing the world but gaining your soul? Do you know and believe in the heart of your being that following Jesus is worth anything, even if it means sacrificing everything, to gain the one thing most worth having? “Christ in you, the hope of glory.” (Colossians 1:27; Philippians 3:7-8)

In New Testament parables, Jesus tells of a man who uncovered great treasure buried in a field. Desiring the treasure for his own, he sold everything he had to buy the field. Another man, a sea merchant, upon laying eyes on a pearl of enormous value, so desperately desired to have it that he sold everything he owned to buy it. The correlation is clear even if the question is only implied. Is Jesus your treasure, your pearl of great price? Is He worth everything, worth anything? Have you chosen Him above all things? In a world where you can have anything, have you chosen the One thing that is worth more than everything? I hope you have. I hope you do. I hope you, like the disciples, find the permanent presence of Jesus Christ to be worth more than the passing presents of this world. Poised on earth, gazing into the foreverness of eternity, weighing your options, I hope you choose Jesus. More than everything. More than anything. May you know and believe that following Jesus is worth it. (Matthew 13:44-46, 16:24, 19:29; Luke 9:23, 12:33; Mark 8:34-35; John 12:26)

Dismay lined his face as he surveyed the signs of neglect around him. Echoes of their fervent pledge rang in his ears. Irritation bubbled into frustration. They hadn’t kept it. At all. The promise that slipped easily from their lips in the emotional high of the moment had clearly been forgotten in the relentless grind of daily life. They had neglected the house of God. Not the physical one, necessarily, the spiritual one. The one that lived in their hearts and breathed through their lives. The house of God that should be exhibited in every word and action. It was disheartening. Distressing. Dismaying. It was also revealing. Highlighting how distracted they had become and how far they had strayed in his absence. It broke his heart. It also fired his temper. He hadn’t even been gone that long! Not nearly long enough for the people to forget his words or forsake their vow. Yet here he stood. Surveying the task before him, Nehemiah squared his shoulders and strode purposefully into the temple. (Nehemiah 10:30-39)

He would start there. Although many tasks called for his attention, none felt so pressing as throwing out that Ammonite, Tobiah! He was a troublemaker. An enemy of God and Israel. Rancid. Ridiculous. Joining with others, Tobiah had tried to stop the reconstruction of their walls. He had worked diligently against them. Going so far as to set up an attack on Nehemiah’s life. When those efforts failed, he found a way to wriggle into the Jewish community. Married his son to the daughter of a prominent Jewish family. Shook enough hands and kissed enough babies that no one raised an eyebrow when Eliashib cleaned out a room at the temple for him to inhabit. It was a disgrace! He had no business there. He needed to go. Now. Everything he had in that space had to go. His person. His possessions. His presence. Every area must be purified. Every corner. Every wall. Every floorboard. They needed the space for its intended use. It was a storeroom for contributions. Essentially, holding the daily bread for the temple staff. Shockingly, there wasn’t much to put back in. (Nehemiah 2:10, 19, 4:1-14, 6:1-14)

This was part of the broken promise. The unkept vow. The obvious neglect. The people had quit bringing in their tenths of grain, new wine, and fresh oil. In fact, supplies had become so scarce, the Levites and singers had been forced to go back to their fields and work to keep food on their tables, disrupting the flow of service in the temple. This was not the agreement. It wasn’t the requirement. It didn’t match the promise they had solemnly sworn. They had neglected the house of God. Not because they couldn’t afford to do so. Judging by the teeming Sabbath day farmer’s market happening in front of him, the people were doing quite well. Grain, wine, grapes, figs, and all manner of other goods flowed freely. The Tyrian fishmongers were doing a fine business. Perhaps that was why the stores in the temple were so depleted. The people had traded time with God for a sale at the local grocers. 

It would cost them. If they didn’t get their minds back on track, they would stir up God’s anger against them. It was probably already simmering. So busy and settled were they among the foreign people, they overlooked the false gods. Maybe. Maybe they allowed them. Allowed their spouses, taken from the strange religions around them, to bring their idols into their homes. Maybe they thought they could handle it. Maybe they believed they could just ignore the idol and still be fine themselves. Maybe they thought it wouldn’t matter if the gods were in their homes as long as they still attended temple meetings. Maybe they just wanted to fit in with the people around them. The reason doesn’t matter. God’s law was clear. There could be no other gods. He alone was their God. By their careless mixing and mingling, they exhibited how little they learned from the life of King Solomon. He, too, had followed other gods, drawn to their altars by his love for foreign wives. They were in the same situation. Their sons had married pagan daughters. Their daughters had been given in marriage to pagan sons. The eyes of their hearts, blinded by their own desires, had set their sights on things of the world around them rather than on the things of God above. 

Nehemiah wasn’t having it. Like a whirling dervish, he flew into the temple, throwing out furnishings and biting off orders. Satisfactorily finished there, he confronted the leaders of the people, sternly questioning why they had neglected the house of God. Why had they done the exact opposite of the promise they made? Once the officials had lined up the people to bring their required contributions to the storehouse, Nehemiah set his sights on the Sabbath farmer’s market, the people neglecting worship to sell and shop, those choosing to disconnect from God’s direct commands and deviate from their explicit promise. Fearing the wrath of God on His children for their disobedience, Nehemiah rebukes and removes the sellers. And the buyers. This isn’t a time for business. It’s a time for worship. Tomorrow will be another day for shopping and selling. Today was a day of rest for their bodies and worshipping God. Focusing on Him. Checking their own hearts and lives for earthly distractions that would disengage their souls from following their God. 

The introspection might save them. In those quiet moments of soul evaluation, they could look at their lives and determine where they were falling short. They could see where they had let up, let go, given in, given up. Through enlightened eyes, they could see the damage their earthly distractions were causing. They could see where they had lowered their standards. They could recognize the areas of mediocrity and complacency. They could acknowledge their sins and shortcomings, their faults and failures. They could repent and reconcile with Almighty God. It was Nehemiah’s deepest hope as he cleared the temple and purified the people–that they would not neglect the house of God. Physically or spiritually. (Nehemiah 13)

It wouldn’t be the last time the temple was cleansed. Centuries later, at a time when the people were again neglecting and misappropriating the house of God, Jesus came. Angry at the abuse and misuse of His Father’s house, Jesus made a whip out of cords and entered the temple grounds on holy business. Cracking that whip in the air overhead, He drove out the oxen and sheep awaiting sale and slaughter, sending their owners scurrying after them. Approaching the money changers, He unceremoniously dumped drawers and flipped tables. Coins rolled in a hundred directions, sending their keepers scrambling. People darted, dodging racing animals, rolling coins, and flying tables. Dove marketers grabbed their cages and fled the scene. In the background, Jesus was heard roaring, “My Father’s house is a place of prayer and worship. For everyone. Jews. Gentiles. All people. Everywhere. This is not a commercial space. It is sacred. Stop treating it like the local farm auction!” (Mark 11:15-18; Luke 19:45-47: John 2:14-16; Matthew 21:12-13)

Somewhere between the creation of the Old Testament temple and the book of Acts, the house of God for His people becomes the church of God in His people. It is not a stationary structure of white siding, steepled roof, and stained glass windows. It is not expansive campuses with spaces for every imaginable event. It is not big screens, QR codes, or bands vibrating the seats with throbbing bass. It is not a place from which we come and go. The church of God is not a building at all. It isn’t tangible. The true church of God is in His people. Everything God stands for, His laws and ordinances, His promises and pathways, should show in how we live our lives. Choices. Words. Actions. Reactions. How we live every day tells the world if we truly belong to God or if we simply claim His name while remaining distracted and enamoured by the things of the world around us.   

I wonder what truths our actions are speaking today. As we meddle and gossip, and embellish the truth. We forcefully declare our uneducated opinions. As we follow our own paths, speak our own truths, be true to ourselves alone. As we chase down the self-serving, self-important, self-exalting things of our society. As we wildly strive to be known and loved and honored by the people around us rather than resting in the limitless love and acceptance of Jesus Christ. As we give way to the verbiage and ideas of the world that soft pedal sin and short-sell God. I wonder what the actions of God’s church are telling the congregation of unbelievers today. Because they are watching. (Deuteronomy 18:9, 4:9-31; I John 2:15; Ephesians 4;29; James 1:26; Romans 6;16)

Whether or not you realize or believe it, the world is watching the church. They are watching to see what happens when the evil one walks among us, attempting to sow discord, discontent, and disagreement. They are monitoring our reactions to world events, political posturing, and social unrest. They are examining our actions and reactions to unpleasant circumstances and situations beyond our control. They are listening to our words of fear, anger, envy and arrogance. They are watching where we turn and what we do in joy and sorrow, triumph and loss. And they are waiting. Waiting to see if the tenants of our faith hold. Does our confidence really rest in God? Do we draw our strength from Him? Are we completely dedicated to following Him or are we easily swayed by the social popularity contests of our day? When we vowed not to neglect the house of God, the law of God, our life in God, did we mean it? Are we keeping it? The world will know. Because they are watching. (Colossians 4:5-6)

Admittedly, as I look at the church of our day, I can’t help but feel we are in need of a temple cleansing, too. A time of intense introspection and scrutinization where we measure what we promised to be and do and follow against who we are, what we are doing, and who we are truly following. A moment in which we are brutally honest with ourselves about who we are trying to please. Our God or our peers. A day of self-examination, of heart extermination, when we repent of the earthly distractions that have turned our heads and drawn our hearts aside, leaving us wallowing in a pool of our own mediocrity. A time when we can be reconciled and restored to the place we were when we first decided to follow Jesus. An hour, a minute, a day, when we fall to our knees and ask God to make us His church. Completely. The way He wants us to be. People of whom He could never be ashamed. Spotless. Blameless. Perfect. Without wrinkle. Before God. In front of the world. Because they are watching. (Ephesians 5:27; II Corinthians 13:5; Joshua 23:6; James 1:23-24; Matthew 7:21-23)

The words rushed over him like a rogue wave, knocking him off balance and carrying him into waters he had no desire to tread. He wasn’t sure how to respond. In his three years of travels with Jesus, he’d heard a million words and a thousand voice inflections. Compassion. Frustration. Exasperation. He’d seen Jesus angry as He cleansed the temple. Heard His sadness as He mourned the spiritual state of His people. Listened to His love as He encouraged people to find rest for their souls in Him. None of those moments sounded like this. The tone was different. Warning laced with hope. It grabbed Peter’s attention and set off his alarm bells, but it didn’t alter his penchant for the impetuous. (Matthew 11:28-29, 23:37-39; Mark 11:15-18)

Jesus clearly had the wrong guy. It sounded like Jesus was implying Peter was going to fall away from the faith and turn away from following Jesus. Yeah. No. That wasn’t happening. Peter would never do that. He was going the distance with Jesus. Every. Single. Step. Accusations. Imprisonment. Punishment. Death. Peter wasn’t going to leave Jesus’ side. He wasn’t going to betray Him, deny Him, defy Him. There would never be a moment when he wasn’t following hard after God. Never. Not in this lifetime. Peter said so. But Jesus knew differently.  

It was the reason He issued the warning in the first place. Satan was gunning for Peter. He wanted to beat and shake and toss Peter like proverbial wheat. He wanted to challenge his faith. Test his resolve. Shake his soul. And God wasn’t planning to stop him. As risky as it was given Peter’s history of impulsivity, God would allow the tests to come. This was Peter’s warning. Terrifically difficult spiritual times were coming. He would struggle. He would falter. He would fail. But. Jesus was praying for him. Praying that he wouldn’t completely abandon his faith. Praying that, even if he got off course, even if he leapt before he looked, even if his words left the blocks before his brain sounded the starting blast, Peter would come back. Back to God. Back to a place of repentance and reconciliation. Back to the faith that could carry him through every storm of life. And once he was back, Jesus prayed he would strengthen the faith of others. (Luke 22:31)

Quickly, in his normal rash fashion, Peter assured Jesus he was ready for the test. So ready. He was robust and resilient. He was poised and prepared. He was alert and aware. Nothing could catch him off guard. Nothing would make him turn aside or away from following Jesus. His faith may have wobbled in the past, but it was iron-strong now. He was going all the way. He wouldn’t leave Jesus’ side. Ever. If Jesus would allow Him to go along to the place He said Peter couldn’t go right now, the space Jesus was preparing for them in eternity, Peter was absolutely up for it. “Let’s go, Jesus. Right now. You and me. I’m here for all of it!” (John 13:36-38, 14:3)

In a quiet voice, reverberating with sad resolve, Jesus broke the hard truth to Peter. It wouldn’t go down that way. In a few short hours, when the world he knew exploded into chaos, when people came to haul Jesus away to a ridiculous excuse for a trial, beatings, and a gruesome death on a rough-hewn cross, Peter would crack under the pressure. He would fall apart, aside, away. Before sunrise, when the rooster crowed to wake the world, Peter would deny even being acquainted with Jesus. At all. Not once. Not twice. Three times. But Jesus was still praying for him. (Luke 22:33-34)

Knowing Peter would vehemently deny Him, violently disclaim Him, vociferously dismiss their association, Jesus still prayed for him. Prayed the devil wouldn’t win the war. Prayed that Peter wouldn’t allow this failure to define his future. Prayed that his faith, the little mustard seed planted in the depths of his soul, would bring him back to the way of God. Prayed that, although he had not completely withstood the test, although he had made a mess of things, although he was obviously a work in progress, Peter would return in repentance and reconciliation and use his experiences to strengthen the faith and determination of those around him. 

Standing in the courtyard vigorously contesting his acquaintance with Jesus, Peter was shocked to hear the rooster call his announcement of another day. Across the crowd, their eyes collided. Jesus’ saddened look with Peter’s agonized gaze. The world seemed to slow and crash to a halt around Peter. What Jesus said would happen had, indeed, occurred. Peter had done the thing he vowed not to do. He had failed in the face of temptation, trouble, trial, and torture. Unable to stand the thought of his magnificent failure, unwilling to watch the impending horror unfold, Peter turned on his heel and fled. 

There is no record of where Peter’s flight ended. Maybe he only made it to the corner of the next building. Maybe he hid in an alley. Maybe he fled the entire way to Gethsemane, where Jesus admonished them to watch and pray so they wouldn’t fall prey to temptation. It isn’t important. Where Peter went doesn’t matter, what he did there does. Peter wept. Bitterly. Wretchedly. Agonizingly. In distress and regret, self-recrimination and spiritual flagellation, Peter fell to the ground, buried his face in his knees, and sobbed. He hadn’t meant to do that. Had no intention of failing. Didn’t think he had the capacity. He intended to follow Jesus to death. As long as it was a theoretical future event. He hadn’t actually thought it would happen. The reality was so much scarier than he realized it would be. The ramifications of admitting association with Jesus were enormous. Faced with the very real choice of life or death, Peter forgot all the miracles Jesus had done. He forgot the omnipotence of the Father. He allowed the fear to capsize his faith. And he regretted it. 

Kneeling there alone, shaken and shattered by his own failures and shortcomings, Peter wept out his grief and shame to God, finding reconciliation with the Father through the prayers of Jesus the Son. Prayers Jesus had been praying for Peter long before Peter even recognized his need for them. Deep, urgent beseeching of God for his soul. Moaning and groaning, tears and pleading, begging that Peter’s faith, no matter how small and seemingly insignificant, wouldn’t completely shrivel up and die. Prayers that in spite of the trials and temptations barrelling Peter’s direction, he would find that little seed of faith in the depths of his soul and stand on it. Build his spiritual house around it. Prayers that Peter, washed up in a storm of life,  would come out swinging, growing in faith and grace to be a spiritual powerhouse through which Jesus could and would begin building his church. (Matthew 16:18) 

I don’t know about you, but I take great comfort in this thought. Jesus is praying for me. Not just speaking quick words as He runs off to monitor the most recent global crisis. No. He’s spending time in prayer for me. Serious prayer. Urgent, desperate intercession. He is on His knees before the Father. His words come out in a nearly indecipherable groan. Tears flow down His face. His heart is laid bare before the Father begging for what I need. Not my wants. Not the tiny things my microscopic mind desires. Not what I hope He will give me. The prayers of the Son to the Father are so much more than that. Through the wide lens of God’s future view, Jesus looks at the entire picture of my life and knows exactly what I need for my crisis today and my faith in the future. His prayers are for God’s will to be done in my life, to strengthen my faith, and encourage my heart. As I endure the trials and testings of life, as I am pounded and tossed like the ancient grains of wheat, as the evil one does everything in his power to steal my heart away from God the Father, Jesus the Son is praying for me. Praying that my faith will not fail. 

Friend, there is no thought more precious. Jesus thinks about you. Constantly. He sees your future. Acknowledges the trials, troubles, and temptations that are already lining up against you. He notices every little thing that has the ability to knock you down and the capacity to keep you there. And Jesus is praying about them, over them, around them. For you. It won’t stop the storms. They are coming. Life is made up of them. But Jesus is praying for you. Praying that when those times come, when everything spins out of control in every part of your life, that your faith will be robust enough to weather the storm. He’s praying that when trials knock you down, you’ll get back up. He’s praying you will share your faith with others, encouraging them to keep going when things look bleak and they want to quit. He’s praying you’ll remember these things: You may be down, but you aren’t out. Your faith may wobble, but it doesn’t need to fail. Your strength may wane, your heart fail, your flesh struggle, but you are not alone. When words fail you, when your thoughts won’t line up, when it seems your faith is beyond repair, do not give up. Jesus has been praying over this exact moment your entire life. And He is still praying. For you. (Romans 8:26-27, 34; Hebrews 7:25; I John 2:1; John 17; Psalm 34:17-18, 73:26, 139:17; I Peter 4:12; Hebrews 10:35; Acts 14:22; Galatians 6;9; II Chronicles 15:7)

She should have returned long ago. Better yet, they should never have left. Not for any reason. Not even the famine that gripped their land. Never should she have mildly packed up her belongings, bid goodbye to her friends, stifled her sobs, harnessed her tears, and set out behind her husband and sons to a new land. Not without a discussion. A long one. One in which every possible outcome had been thoroughly examined. It hadn’t happened. There had been no discussion. Elimelech decided to leave, and they went. She didn’t challenge him. It wasn’t how things were done. Wives didn’t disagree with their husbands. Wives were obedient and biddable, not argumentative and questioning. In retrospect, Naomi wished she had put up a proper fuss.

Nothing good had come of her time in Moab. Death stole her husband and robbed her of her sons. In just a few years, she lost everything important to her. More aptly, God had taken away everything she loved. That’s how she felt. God, who could give in great abundance, had taken with outrageous abandonment. Her heart was shattered. Her life was empty. She had nothing left. Nothing except a couple Moabite daughters-in-law. Her friends, if she still had any, were back in Bethlehem. The life she knew, the people she was comfortable with, the traditions she held dear, were all back home. There was nothing left for her in Moab. She needed to leave. Needed to go back home. She had heard positive things. 

The famine that had encouraged Elimelech to bring them on this god-forsaken adventure had abated. God had looked down on His people. He heard their prayers for help. He paid attention to their needs. He was actively providing food. Things were balancing out over in Bethlehem. It was time to go home. Time to sort through the belongings she had collected in Moab. Time to determine what was necessary and what wasn’t. Time to pack her bags, strap on her sturdiest sandals, and make the trek back home. 

Sadly, she’d need to leave the girls behind. As much as she loved them, it wasn’t fair for them to follow her home to a place they knew nothing about. New customs. New religion. They might be outcasts there. Unaccepted. Derided. Abused. And there was no reason for them to stay. Naomi wasn’t getting another husband. She wasn’t even interested in that. Even if she did, her childbearing years were past. She wasn’t interested in that, either. Even if she was, Ruth and Orpah were still young women. They weren’t going to wait around for her to meet a man, have a son, raise him to manhood, just so they could stay in her family. That would be ridiculous! The wisest thing for them to do was go back to their parents’ homes. Perhaps a man from among their own people would marry them and give them a home and children. 

At first, they resisted. They weren’t going anywhere. They loved Naomi and planned to stay. They would accompany her home. Start a new life in her hometown just as she had in theirs. This time Naomi had the discussion. By the time she was done presenting the hard truths, Orpah chose to leave. Ruth wasn’t budging. Not toward home, anyway. Her mind was made up. The matter was settled. She was going to Bethlehem. She would acclimate to a new culture and fit in with new people. She would leave the gods of Moab behind and happily embrace the God of Naomi. She would follow Naomi to death, be there to care for and help her. When her final breath was taken, Ruth would be the one holding her hand. Chin tilted in determination, Ruth stared Naomi down until she acquiesced. They were going together. Nothing would separate them. But being together didn’t solve all their problems. 

Arriving back in Bethlehem, the women of the town were excited about their arrival. They couldn’t believe Naomi was back. They were happy to listen to tales of her travels. Rejoiced to see her alive. Wept over her losses. Happily met her daughter-in-law. Yet oddly lacking in the Biblical account is how the needs of Naomi and Ruth would be met. Their husbands were dead. They were on their own. Where were they going to live? What were they going to eat? How were they to afford their daily needs? And the townspeople, excited as they were to see Naomi and hear her news, are not recorded as offering help. No one offered a night at the local bed and breakfast. No one organized a meal train. No one expressed concern over how they would survive. In short, everyone wanted to hear the stories, but no one offered to help. Home or not, they were still very much on their own. (Ruth 1)

Determined to rectify their situation, Ruth decided to venture into the surrounding barley fields to see what the harvesters had left behind. It was harvest season. Inevitable, some got dropped on the ground and forgotten. If God was still paying attention to the needs of His people, perhaps she would find enough leftovers to sustain herself and Naomi. Maybe she could find extra to sell at the market. Perhaps she could get them through their personal famine and ward off starvation. At least for a while. 

Not by chance, Ruth landed in the field of Boaz. She didn’t know who he was. Had no idea he was a relative of her late father-in-law. Was clueless that he was someone who could help her little family of two. Asking permission first, she began to glean behind the harvesters, keeping to herself and attempting to be inconspicuous. But Boaz noticed her presence. He knew all his workers. Male. Female. He hadn’t seen her before, but he knew all about her. He knew what she had sacrificed to follow and care for Naomi. He respected her faithfulness and integrity. And he wanted her to stay. Glean only with his harvesters. Gather as much as she could. Come back day after day. Relax. She was safe there. He promised. (Ruth 2)

Hearing the story later, Naomi began hatching a plan. She wanted to make sure Ruth’s future was secure. And harvest wouldn’t last forever. This good fortune would come to an end. So, using her powers of persuasion, she sent Ruth to propose to Boaz. Or propose that he propose to her. Either way, it wasn’t a comfortable thing to do. Ruth wouldn’t ordinarily put herself in that position. She almost threw up from nerves before she even arrived. This could go in any direction. Maybe he’d agree to her plan. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he would kick her out loudly for all to see, tarnishing her reputation. Maybe he would sneak her out under the cover of darkness. Nothing was certain. Nothing except for the fact that, just as He had through the local famine in Bethlehem and the personal famine of Ruth and Naomi, God was paying attention to their needs. He was actively seeing her predicament. And God was working. 

Interestingly, Boaz was not put off by Ruth’s unorthodox methods. He was cautious, but interested. Everything must pass through the proper channels. Anyone else in line to claim both the property and the woman deserved the opportunity to do so. It couldn’t be decided right then. They would have to wait for the decision. It was nerve-wracking. For Ruth, at least. Sneaking home in the pre-dawn darkness, Ruth felt the worry and anxiety of her situation and what she had just done settle over her. What if Boaz changed his mind? What if the other guy decided he wanted to stake his claim? What if he was a horrible man with a temper and a penchant for using his fists? What if no one wanted her and she became the town harlot? What was going to happen if none of this worked and they were left to struggle their way through the rest of their years on earth? 

Speaking from years of watching God do His thing, Naomi spoke. “Calm down. Be patient. It will all be settled soon. You will have your answer. Wait. And while you wait, trust that the God who sees your needs is not passively watching, but actively participating in every decision that concerns His people.” It was a lesson she had learned over time. As bitter as the events of her life had been, she could still look back and see how God had been actively at work in her life. She had never been completely alone. When her husband had died, she had her sons. When her sons had died, she had her daughters-in-law. When Orpah had returned to her family home, Ruth stayed. God had never allowed her to be alone. He had actively been taking care of her even when she couldn’t see it, when her soul was steeped in grief and mourning. Not one part of Naomi doubted that this situation would be any different. Whether she directly told Ruth to trust God or not, it is the underlying message of the words. Man can be unpredictable, but God never is. He leaves nothing to chance, because we are all part of something bigger, something better, than we can even dream or imagine. (Ruth 3)

God left nothing to chance in Ruth’s world. When the wait was finally over, Boaz became their redeemer. He bought the land from Naomi. He took Ruth as his wife. They were safely cared for the rest of their lives. And Ruth had a son. They named him Obed. He fathered a son named Jesse. The father of David. And twenty-eight generations later, in the same town, from the same lineage came Jesus. The Messiah. The Savior of the world. Not by some strange twist of fate or happenstance. Not through a series of unfortunate events. No. Not by chance at all, but by the active plan of God. Because nothing happens by chance in God’s world. (Ruth 4; Matthew 1:1-16; Proverbs 16:33; Psalm 103:19)

Everything that happened then was part of a grand heavenly plan to bring Jesus into the world. Not strictly through pure bloodlines and perfect parentage, but through a heritage that included everyone. Saints and sinners alike. It was not by chance that Boaz’s mother was Rahab, the prostitute. It was not an accident that Obed’s mother was a Moabitess. It was the grand plan of God for you and me that everyone would be welcomed into the family of God. No matter who you are or what your heritage is. When it seemed to the people of Naomi’s day that God wasn’t paying attention to the famine in the land. When Naomi felt He had stolen her joy and left her bitter with grief and sorrow. When Ruth worried about the outcome of her spontaneous actions. God was paying attention to each thing. He was actively working and moving, and doing. He was using those situations and circumstances to enact His plan for His people in His world. A plan of salvation. A plan of love. A carefully orchestrated plan to point every soul, everywhere, to Himself. Not one thing was left to chance. Because nothing happens by chance in God’s world. And it is all God’s world. (Psalm 24:1; Colossians 1:16; Nehemiah 9:6; Acts 17:24-25)

From the beautiful dawn of creation to the devastating downward spiral of this 21st-century society, God has been in charge. This is His world. Always has been. Always will be. He is sovereign. Nothing takes Him by surprise. Not the antics of politicians. Not the vitriol of world leaders. Not our disappearing resources or our depleting strength. He knew it what would happen long before it did. He is not confused when you make a poor choice. He is not caught off guard when war breaks out. He does not become frantic when things on earth take a left turn. No, friend. God is calmly, confidently working through all the frustrating situations and horrible circumstances on earth to bring about what He planned from the beginning of time. For the world at large. For you individually. 

See, God knew you before you were born. He knew every twist and turn your life would take. He knew every fear you would have, every victory you would win, every choice you would make. He planned for them. Every incident in your life–pleasant or bitter–is being used to work out God’s plan for you. But you have to trust Him. You have to believe that God is paying attention to your needs and actively working for you. Even if the famine doesn’t end. Even if the proposal fails. You have to cast your faith in the God who is actively, intentionally making all things new and trust His heart of never-ending love for you. You have to believe He is still working. Even when He is quiet. Even when you can’t see it. Even when you can’t hear His voice or feel His touch. Because your world is God’s world and nothing happens there by chance. Not. One. Thing. (Ephesians 2:10; II Corinthians 4:17-18; Psalm 139:13-18; Joel 2:25; Deuteronomy 30:3; Revelation 21:5)

God didn’t accidentally create you. He didn’t forget your gifts or talents. He didn’t do a haphazard job and then recklessly toss you into the world without a care for who you are or what you would become. No. You were meticulously crafted in His own image. He has a plan and a purpose for your life. And He is working it out. Through all those trials and troubles. Through all the worry and stress. Through all the fear and uncertainty. God is working. He is active. So wait for Him. Find solace in the knowledge that God leaves not one detail to chance. Refuse to be anxious. The God who planned your life centuries before you were even conceived is paying attention to your needs. He hears your cries for help. His answer will come. At just the right time, in just the right way, a carefully curated response to your need will arrive. You can trust Him. He will make all things new. Not by chance, but according to the beautiful plan He created just for you. (Psalm 37:23, 145:19; Isaiah 46:9-10; Proverbs 21:1; Genesis 1:26-27; Jeremiah 29:11; Philippians 1:6)

It wasn’t the first time someone had asked the question. It wouldn’t be the last. It may, however, be the final time someone had the nerve to lace the words with this specific undertone. False humility with a heavy side of superiority. “What do I need to do on earth to receive eternal life in death?” It was obviously a test. An attempt to measure Jesus’ knowledge and agreement with their law. A way to determine if His teaching matched their beliefs. The answer was critical. Steadily holding the man’s gaze above the heads of those seated between them, Jesus responded with a question of his own. One, the man should have no problem answering, given his educational status. What did the law say they should do? What was his personal interpretation? Without pause, the man offered up the answer every self-respecting religious person would, “Love God with every part of your being. Love your neighbor as you love yourself.” 

As answers go, he couldn’t have been more accurate. According to the law and according to Jesus. But he had a follow-up question. One that wasn’t specifically covered in the law handed down through Moses. “Who, exactly, is my neighbor?” Who do I need to love well? Who must I care for? To whom am I obligated to offer compassion and understanding? The people next door? Everyone on my street? Those of the same lineage? The right heritage? The Jews? The Gentiles? Please, Jesus, don’t make it those other people whose name shall remain unspoken? Arrogance and superiority faded as the man stood, expectantly waiting for his answer. And Jesus, overlooking his impatience, launched into a story.   

One day, a man was travelling from Jerusalem to Judea. He knew the route before he left. The path as well as the surrounding terrain. He knew the danger. Having weighed the options, he chose the path for its expediency, not its safety. He had taken every precaution. Carefully, he packed his things. Secreted his valuables in hidden pockets of his robe. Tied his money belt securely under his outer garment. From the outside, he looked like an ordinary man headed on an ordinary trip. Inside, he knew the possible dangers ahead. Blind curves hide bands of brutal robbers. Steep drops, thick brush, sharp rocks. All things that made hiding a body easy. If they even cared. The robbers lacked any form of moral fiber, stopping at nothing to steal from those making an honest living rather than work honestly themselves. They had no mercy. They would steal no matter the cost. One’s life was never more important than their potential loot. And there were few, if any, ramifications for their behavior. Still, knowing the road between the two cities was strictly traveled at one’s own risk, the man chose that treacherous path. 

Not far into his journey, all the man’s fears were recognized. Rounding a particularly steep, hairpin curve, he was attacked by a band of thieves. The odds were against him. He didn’t stand a chance. Desperately searching for everything of value hidden on his person, the robbers yanked off his robe, jerked off his money belt, searched every possible fold of fabric for hidden treasure. Then, rather than just make off with the loot, they took the time to beat him. Severely. Grabbing his arms, one man held him powerless as the others landed blow after relentless blow. Pain ricocheted through him as his nose was broken. His lip split and swelled. Both eyes were blackened. Cuts and bruises covered his body. Blood ran down his face and chest. When finally he drifted from consciousness, the robbers tossed his limp body into a ditch by the side of the road and gleefully made off with their ill-gotten gains.  

He would have died there, despite the procession of passersby. Although largely unconscious, his intense fear prohibited him from crying out even in his lucid moments. Not everyone noticed him there. Some were walking on the other side of the road and missed him. Some were deep in conversation with their traveling companions. Others were simply too grossed out to help. They came, looked at his broken self, and walked away. Like the priest. He was aghast at the sight. He could barely drag his eyes away. It was disgusting. Disturbing. Distracting. Not knowing if the man was dead or alive, he didn’t even stop to check. Didn’t speak to him. Didn’t touch him. Quickly, he decided it wasn’t his responsibility. He was a priest, after all. He couldn’t risk touching a dead body. Averting his eyes from the horrible sight, he scurried to the opposite side of the road and continued his journey. The Levite who came along after him did the same thing. Maybe for the same reasons. Maybe for different ones. Maybe he wasn’t sure if the man was a Jew or not. Maybe he wasn’t certain it wasn’t one of the robbers who had gotten his due after double-crossing his mates. Maybe, staring into the possibility of his fate being the same and overcome by the reality of his own mortality, the Levite’s fear overcame him and he, too, crossed the road and hurried on his way. 

Time passed. Perhaps minutes. Maybe hours. Enough that the wounded man’s injuries severely impacted his chances of survival. His breathing had become erratic. The few waking seconds had revealed pain so intense that he welcomed the return of the enveloping darkness. Nearing the crossing between this life and the next, the dying man didn’t hear the clip-clop hooves of an approaching donkey. He didn’t see the man walking along the road. Didn’t notice his clothes, his wealth, his social status. He didn’t even try to open his eyes. Not as the man stopped to check on him. Not when he pulled out his first aid kit and began washing and dressing his wounds. Not as he was carefully lifted, wrapped in the man’s own cloak, loaded on his donkey, and hauled into town. Approaching the nearest inn, his savior booked a room and spent the night nursing him to stability. The physical wounds would take a few weeks to heal. The mental scars would take longer. That was okay. He didn’t need to go anywhere. The man who stopped to save his life had to leave, but he could stay. For as long as he needed. His bill was covered. By a Samaritan. (Luke 10:25-37)

It would have been quite a shock for a Jewish man to discover his savior was a Samaritan. No one was more repulsive. There was an unwritten no-contact order between them. If the tables were turned, it is unlikely the currently convalescing man would have stopped to help the other. But that was then. That was before. Before the man had experienced the love of a neighbor, the way it was meant to be. Love that treated him not only how the Samaritan would want to be treated, but how the Samaritan himself had experienced love. 

For as long as I can remember, this parable has been used to encourage us to treat others the way we want to be treated. That may not be incorrect. But recently, I have begun to wonder if we have missed something. Lost something in translation. Have we focused so much on “loving your neighbor as you love yourself,” that we missed the real meaning of the words? Is it possible, probable even, that Jesus’ actual words meant, “Love others the way you have been loved?” By God. With exquisite tenderness, unending kindness, unfathomable grace. Look on one another with eyes of compassion. See yourself in the injured and infirm, those on the fringes of society, the lost souls, the least respected, the frequently rejected. Feel their pain and, rather than judge from a distance and excuse yourself from rendering aid, respond with the same love, compassion, and care you have received. From God. Because loving your neighbor isn’t about how much you love yourself. It’s about how much you have been loved. And that is abundant. Because you were once that half-dead traveler. (John 13:34)

 At one point or another, you were cautiously picking your way through life, hoping to make the right decisions, seeking to further yourself, your ambitions, your hopes, your dreams. You were the one set upon by the thief who comes to steal and kill and destroy. Your hope. Your dreams. Your joy. You found yourself spiritually broken and left for dead by the side of life’s road. You were not pretty. There was nothing about you that would draw anyone to your side. In fact, plenty of people saw your fall from grace and chose to pass by, forming judgments, spouting opinions, doing more damage to your already bruised and battered heart. You didn’t believe help would come. Then Jesus showed up. Maybe you didn’t recognize Him at first. Didn’t hear the dulcet tone of His voice as He called you His beloved. Maybe you were afraid to trust His words because your love for yourself was non-existent. You hated what you had become. Maybe you were scared to put yourself in His care, worried that He would require more than you had to give. Which was nothing. You had nothing left. No strength. No courage. No faith. Yet, in the back of your mind, you knew there was no other way you were getting out of that ditch. So you made a choice. (John 10:10; Song of Solomon 6:3)

Looking into eyes brimming with compassion, you tentatively placed your hand in His outstretched one. As your fingers touched, you looked down and noticed something. His hand was scarred, too. In that moment, you knew. He had been where you were. Bruised and beaten, slaughtered by the best efforts of the devil to triumph over the souls of mankind, but He hadn’t let hell win. He’d triumphed. Overall of it. Death. Grave. Hell. The steadfast, unmovable, faithful love of the Father had carried Him. The same love now flows through Him and over you. Not because of who you were or what you had done, but because Jesus loved you with the same love He had known. The love of God that transcends our circumstances, our situations, our sins. Love that offers us life when the enemy thinks he has sealed our death. Love of God spread so heavily in our hearts that it flows out of us and onto the people we meet. Everyone. Everywhere. They are all our neighbors. Each one deserves to experience the love of God we ourselves have known. And it should come through us. (Romans 5:5; Psalm 103:1-22)

It hasn’t happened. Not everyone knows this love. That’s our fault. We haven’t loved others the way we have been loved. Not our friends. Not our enemies. Not our neighbors. We haven’t loved unconditionally. When people meet our standards and expectations. When they don’t. When we understand them. When we don’t. When they are struggling, striving, seeking, sobbing. When they are soaring. We haven’t silently sat in the suffering of others. We haven’t cared for their grief, wiped their tears, held their hand. We haven’t truly loved. Real, true, genuine love is gentle, tender, compassionate, kind. It holds our hearts in careful hands, offering courage and strength, help and hope. It is not judgmental. It is firm and honest, but never harsh. It is everything we read in I Corinthians 13, but fail to embody in everyday life. It is how we should treat every person we meet. With the same love God has loved us. (I Corinthians 13:4-8; Colossians 4:6; Ephesians 4:32; Romans 12:15; Luke 6:37)

In a world where we judge quickly and condemn harshly, we need to go back and sit in God’s love for us. Silently. Soak it in. Stare at our wretched attitudes, unworthy performances, and ridiculous arrogance and admit how unlovable we are, then revel in the exquisite tenderness with which God loves us still. We need to sit in that space for as long as it takes. Until we feel it in every part of our being. Then go share it. Actively look for opportunities to exhibit the love of God in human form, in ways that truly count. Be present. Sit in the space of mourning with them. Mourning sin. Mourning loss. Give comfort. Render aid. Speak words of compassion. Do acts of service. Help with housework, cooking, or childcare when unexpected illness strikes. Confidently pray God’s peace into the turmoil of their lives. Be available. No matter how far their fall from grace, how desperate their situation, how dark their circumstances. Sit in the ditch beside them. Gently clean their wounds. Kindly bandage the injuries inflicted on their hearts by the evil one. Constantly bathe their souls in the love of God with which you are so intimately acquainted. Be the love of God shining throughout the world. Indiscriminately. Continually. To everyone. Everywhere. No matter their age, race, religion, political affiliation, or sexual orientation. Allow the love of God that flows to every human being without discrimination, multiply and fill your heart so greatly that it overflows to every soul around you. Impact the world for Jesus by compassionately choosing to obediently love others, all others, as God has loved you. (Colossians 2:13; I Timothy 4:12; Romans 5:8; I John 4:7-8; John 4:19)