In the days before radar and Ring video doorbells, the job of the watchman of a city was critical. It was his job to be alert and constantly on the lookout for any dangers that could threaten the city, especially dangers that come in the form of enemy forces marching on the city in time of war. If he saw an approaching threat, he was to raise the alarm immediately. Time was of the essence. The sooner the inhabitants of the city were alerted, the better chances they had of being prepared to meet the danger and respond appropriately. The job was a stewardship of trust on behalf of the people, whose welfare depended on the watchman doing his job properly. Falling asleep while on watch has always been treated as a serious crime, since it could lead to devastating consequences for many others.

You can guess exactly what this has to do with us. We don’t have watchmen any more who patrol the physical walls of the city, but you and I are watchmen with a spiritual job description. Our job is to warn other people—our family, neighbors, co-workers—of coming spiritual danger. And falling asleep while on duty is no less serious for us than it was for watchmen back in the day. God made this point abundantly clear to the prophet Ezekiel. He said, “So you, son of man, I have made a watchman for the house of Israel. Whenever you hear a word from my mouth, you shall give them warning from me. If I say to the wicked, O wicked one, you shall surely die, and you do not speak to them to warn the wicked to turn from his way, that wicked person shall die in his iniquity, but his blood I will require at your hand. But if you warn the wicked to turn from his way, and he does not turn from his way, that person shall die in his iniquity, but you will have delivered your soul” (Ezekiel 33:7-9).

The reality is that if Ezekiel failed to faithfully discharge his duties as a watchman for the house of Israel and people died in their sin, Ezekiel was partially responsible for their demise. Though not guilty for their sins, by failing to warn them he becomes complicit in their condition. On the flip side, Ezekiel was not responsible for their demise if they refused to hear his warning. In that case, they alone would bear the consequences for their actions. As the recipients of God’s greatest and final revelation through Jesus Christ (Heb. 1:1-2), this ought to be a sobering passage. We know the answer to people’s greatest need. We know the standard by which all people will be judged. We know the God who loves all people and longs for them to be in a relationship with him. If we know all this and do nothing to share it with others, then whose is the greater guilt, theirs or ours?

Most people who get a taste of power, popularity, and influence have a very hard time letting go. This fact is what makes the ancient story about the Roman politician Lucius Cincinnatus (c. 519–c. 430 BC) so remarkable. In times of great crisis, the Roman senate could elect a dictator who was given absolute power in a last-ditch effort to handle the crisis. He was expected to lay aside his powers after resolving the threat. It was impossible that giving one man such great power didn’t also bring with it the temptation to misuse that power and to hold on to it after the crisis was over. Some dictators did indeed abuse that power, but Cincinnatus was so highly respected by his fellow state officials that not once but twice he was made dictator by the senate. On both occasions, he used his power to quickly resolve the threat and then promptly resigned, turning his power back over to the senate. He was long remembered by the Romans as a model of selflessness and service to his people.

This story about Cincinnatus reminds me of a story in the Bible about another man who knew his place and was strong enough and humble enough to let go of his influence and position—John the Baptist. Before Jesus even began his ministry, John was leading a wildly successful campaign in the wilderness, teaching the people about the kingdom of God and baptizing crowds of people (Matt. 3: 5-6). John was called by God for this moment in time. His job was to prepare the people for Jesus. But how tempting would it have been for John to make it all about himself when he saw how popular his message was and how many scores of people were following him? But John didn’t make it about himself. He knew his place in the story and he stuck to it. Then Jesus began his own ministry, which would quickly begin to eclipse John’s ministry (John 4:1-2), and John’s response shows us exactly where his loyalties were. 

Some of John’s followers came to him and said “Rabbi, he who was with you across the Jordan (i.e. Jesus)—look, he is baptizing, and all are going to him” (John 3:26). John could have been disgruntled that the success of Jesus’ ministry was taking away from John’s ministry. Instead, he said, “A person cannot receive even one thing unless it is given him from heaven. …I said, ‘I am not the Christ, but I have been sent before him.’ …The friend of the bridegroom, who stands and hears him, rejoices greatly at the bridegroom’s voice. Therefore this joy of mine is now complete. He must increase, but I must decrease” (John 3:28-30). He couldn’t have said it any better. Like John, we have a role to play in God’s story. But it’s God’s story. It’s not about us—it’s all about Jesus. Don’t try to make it about you. Make it about Jesus.

There is a song I grew up singing in church that takes its lyrics nearly word-for-word from the book of Lamentations: “The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases. His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning. Great is thy faithfulness. ‘The Lord is my portion’ says my soul. Therefore, I will hope in him. Therefore I will hope in him” (Compare Lamentations 3:22-24). These words are meaningful at face value—a declaration of God’s unending love and faithfulness and a resolve to trust in him. But the words of this song are even more impactful when understood in their context. Jeremiah did not write these words from a place of security, comfort, or ease. In fact, quite the opposite.

First, we have to remind ourselves that Lamentations is a lament (a cry of weeping and mourning) about the destruction of God’s temple and the city of Jerusalem. And we get a vivid description of that event in Jeremiah 51-52. “In the fifth month, on the tenth day of the month… Nebuzaradan the captain of the bodyguard, who served the king of Babylon, entered Jerusalem. And he burned the house of the Lord, and the king’s house and all the houses of Jerusalem; every great house he burned down. And all the army of the Chaldeans, who were with the captain of the guard, broke down all the walls around Jerusalem” (Jer. 52:12-14). What a devastating sight it would have been to see the temple of the Lord desecrated, its gold and silver stripped and hauled off, and what was left torched.

How could this happen? How could the house of the Lord be trampled by the foreigners, the very enemies of God and his people? Where was God and why was he allowing the pagans to boast in their victory over Judah and the god of the Jews? This was a dark and bitter time for the Jews as they watched their capital city burn before their eyes.

Although it would have been easy for the people to blame or question God in the face of this destruction, it was the very character of God which gave Jeremiah confidence and hope in the midst of such unspeakable defeat. Near the very center of the book of Lamentations is Jeremiah’s confident expression of hope in God: “But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: the steadfast love of the LORD never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness” (Lam. 3:21-23). And Jeremiah is exactly right. God is faithful to reward the obedient, and faithful to punish the disobedient. He’s always loving, and always faithful. Jeremiah’s declaration and focus on God is all the more remarkable when we recognize the defeat and destruction he was surrounded by. At a time like that, only God’s faithfulness and loyal love could bring Jeremiah hope.