There wasn't any particular reason I should have stopped on the road that day. I walk down it every other day without hesitating. I know it as well as that inscrutable mouse seems to know every bit of my master's home. As much as I am at a loss to determine the whereabouts of that ashy-brown creature, I am even more unable to describe precisely what made me stop that day. I remember shifting my delicately woven basket from one hip to the other as my sandaled feet resigned from sending the dry dust in choking swirls across my path. I stopped and stared at a man traveling easily in the opposite direction.
I know I'm just a servant. I don't know why I stopped. I shouldn't have looked at him...but I couldn't help it.
It wasn't that he was handsome. I had spent countless hours with my master's daughter at her window, admiring the soldiers who passed by day after day, their dark eyes flickering suspiciously back and forth and their gleaming armor shining with each ray of the sun. He wasn't like any of those soldiers. He was just...normal. He had simple clothes, a bit of dirt under his fingernails, and callouses on his feet. He had no feature worthy of capturing the eyes of those who acknowledged him. He was just...human. A normal human, plain and simple...
His eyes were different though. They were dark, like those of any other Jew. But they were different somehow. Maybe that was what stopped me that day. I looked into his eyes as I paused in the road. He looked into mine, and he smiled at me—faintly and simply. I think the smile was more in his eyes than it was on his face. Those eyes had so much in them—such gentleness, such joy, such love, a twinge of sorrow, a glimmer of contentment. They seemed to burn right through me, as if he knew everything about me in a single glance, but there was no hostility there, no strange motives. I didn't—couldn't—fear his penetrating gaze. I should have followed him.
But my master needed me. When the man had left the street, I continued on my way. Duty calls.
I heard that he died last week. Crucified, I think. They say he broke some law of his people, claiming to be their king. I nearly laughed when I heard that. He looked nothing like a king.
I wonder what was in his eyes that day. I still remember his gaze as if he were looking at me now. Even while dying, I can't imagine those dark depths filled with anything but love and joy, gentleness and peace—more sorrow, perhaps, and pain, undoubtedly—but otherwise the same as when I saw him in the road.
This morning, I finally learned why his eyes were so remarkable, so catching while the rest of his features were so plain. The reason why he looked so human is that he was much, much more than that.
You see, those gentle hands with the dirty fingernails were nailed to a gruesome cross. His calloused feet shared their fate. His loving eyes were blurred by his thorn-pierced brow, and his simple smile was twisted for a bit to reflect the pain that his body bore. He died that day, and those beautiful eyes were closed. It seemed like the end.
But the grave only held him for three days. His eyes, burning with unparalleled love and unfathomable joy, were open again. They'll be open forever.
I guess He was a king. He wasn't the king we thought He would be. He died. And even when He rose again, He didn't bother building a kingdom. He just encouraged His followers to do what He did, to live a life of love for God and man—a life of pure unselfishness and sacrificial love.
He never was what we expected. But, as it turns out, He's everything we actually needed.
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Thursday, June 12, 2014
God Is for Everybody: In Defense of the Theology of Sherlock Holmes
I've been a fan of the Sherlock Holmes stories ever since I can remember. The beautiful writing style, the brilliant detective and his fantastic observations and deductions, the captivating story lines—in short, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work is an unceasing pleasure to read. I've enjoyed the movies which have sought to replicate this famous character as well. You can guess, then, that when I heard about the BBC series Sherlock, it did not take much convincing for me to jump into it.
I must say that I think the show is well-written, well-casted, and definitely enjoyable. Nothing compares to the original stories, of course, but this is certainly one of the best renditions I have encountered. Even so, my admiration of the work is stunted by a few depictions of the character of Sherlock which appear to be entirely inconsistent with Doyle's portrayal, though I suppose they align with the dominating worldviews of our time. One of these came across in a suddenly and passionately critical yet almost discreet comment in Sherlock's best man speech in "The Sign of Three." (Don't worry. I won't spoil the story.) After describing some differences between himself and Watson, Sherlock notes wildly, "And contrast is, after all, God's own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation. Or it would be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity for the family idiot."¹
I hope you were as shocked as I was to discover this quote, whether you watched the episode or read it for the first time here. Its use is understandable. Why would any secular writer portray a detective who is, supposedly, the most brilliant individual in all the world (save for his brother) as a theist of any sort when today's intellectual standard is an uncompromising adherence to atheism? Let me phrase this more simply: It makes sense that a modernized Sherlock would fit with the reigning worldviews of today, namely, that God is nothing more than an invention of the human mind meant to satisfy a thirst for purpose.
However, the quote is inexcusably wrong on two accounts. First of all, despite its connection with the favorite worldview of today, it does not fit with the characterization of Mr. Holmes in Doyle's writings. In fact, to me, it seems as though Sherlock's theology in the original narratives is pretty sound. Take this quote from Holmes himself in "A Case of Identity," for instance: "Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence."² Or this one, from "The Naval Treaty": "There is nothing in which deduction is so necessary as in religion...It can be built up as an exact science by the reasoner. Our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers, our desires, our food, are really necessary for our existence in the first instance. But this rose is an extra. Its smell and its colour are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to hope from the flowers."³ I'll leave the explanation of these quotes to your own capacity for reasoning. However, I will note that they, at the very least, contradict the idea that Sherlock Holmes thought of God as merely a "ludicrous fantasy."
Secondly, even if this quote was taken directly from the lips of Doyle's detective, it would still be drastically inaccurate. Why? Because God is not just for the "family idiot." God is for everybody. For the intellectual who embraces logic and the power of human reasoning for discovering truth, He is the best answer to the universal questions of humankind. For the simple heart that longs not for complicated creeds but for simple goodness, He is everything that one could ask for. For the easygoing individual who merely wants a happy life, He provides the most inexplicable joy and the most solid purpose. For the lonely, impoverished widow, He is True Love and Faithful Providence. For the child, He is a Father. For the weak, He is strong. For the successful, He is meaning. For everyone, He is everything. And we all stand before Him equally, each desperately needing Him to be who He is.
So what does this mean for you, my reader? It means that God is for you too. What are you needing today? For what does your desperate soul hunger? Is there a thirst that nothing seems to quench? Take it to God. He is the answer. He is the One who fills us completely.
My dear friend, turn to Him. Like Sherlock Holmes, look at the flowers. See how He cares for them and wonder at His perfect care for you (Matthew 6:28-30). He is exactly what you need: the answer to your questions, the cleansing for your broken soul. Go take a look.
"My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from Him. He alone is my rock and my salvation; He is my fortress, I will never be shaken." —Psalm 62:1-2 (NIV, 1984)
I must say that I think the show is well-written, well-casted, and definitely enjoyable. Nothing compares to the original stories, of course, but this is certainly one of the best renditions I have encountered. Even so, my admiration of the work is stunted by a few depictions of the character of Sherlock which appear to be entirely inconsistent with Doyle's portrayal, though I suppose they align with the dominating worldviews of our time. One of these came across in a suddenly and passionately critical yet almost discreet comment in Sherlock's best man speech in "The Sign of Three." (Don't worry. I won't spoil the story.) After describing some differences between himself and Watson, Sherlock notes wildly, "And contrast is, after all, God's own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation. Or it would be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity for the family idiot."¹
I hope you were as shocked as I was to discover this quote, whether you watched the episode or read it for the first time here. Its use is understandable. Why would any secular writer portray a detective who is, supposedly, the most brilliant individual in all the world (save for his brother) as a theist of any sort when today's intellectual standard is an uncompromising adherence to atheism? Let me phrase this more simply: It makes sense that a modernized Sherlock would fit with the reigning worldviews of today, namely, that God is nothing more than an invention of the human mind meant to satisfy a thirst for purpose.
However, the quote is inexcusably wrong on two accounts. First of all, despite its connection with the favorite worldview of today, it does not fit with the characterization of Mr. Holmes in Doyle's writings. In fact, to me, it seems as though Sherlock's theology in the original narratives is pretty sound. Take this quote from Holmes himself in "A Case of Identity," for instance: "Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence."² Or this one, from "The Naval Treaty": "There is nothing in which deduction is so necessary as in religion...It can be built up as an exact science by the reasoner. Our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers, our desires, our food, are really necessary for our existence in the first instance. But this rose is an extra. Its smell and its colour are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to hope from the flowers."³ I'll leave the explanation of these quotes to your own capacity for reasoning. However, I will note that they, at the very least, contradict the idea that Sherlock Holmes thought of God as merely a "ludicrous fantasy."
Secondly, even if this quote was taken directly from the lips of Doyle's detective, it would still be drastically inaccurate. Why? Because God is not just for the "family idiot." God is for everybody. For the intellectual who embraces logic and the power of human reasoning for discovering truth, He is the best answer to the universal questions of humankind. For the simple heart that longs not for complicated creeds but for simple goodness, He is everything that one could ask for. For the easygoing individual who merely wants a happy life, He provides the most inexplicable joy and the most solid purpose. For the lonely, impoverished widow, He is True Love and Faithful Providence. For the child, He is a Father. For the weak, He is strong. For the successful, He is meaning. For everyone, He is everything. And we all stand before Him equally, each desperately needing Him to be who He is.
So what does this mean for you, my reader? It means that God is for you too. What are you needing today? For what does your desperate soul hunger? Is there a thirst that nothing seems to quench? Take it to God. He is the answer. He is the One who fills us completely.
My dear friend, turn to Him. Like Sherlock Holmes, look at the flowers. See how He cares for them and wonder at His perfect care for you (Matthew 6:28-30). He is exactly what you need: the answer to your questions, the cleansing for your broken soul. Go take a look.
"My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from Him. He alone is my rock and my salvation; He is my fortress, I will never be shaken." —Psalm 62:1-2 (NIV, 1984)
———————————————
¹ Sherlock Season 3, Episode 2 (2014).
² The Complete Sherlock Holmes, p. 174. Barnes & Noble, Inc. (2009).
³ Ibid., pp. 425-6.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
The Power of Pain
I'm sure you're reading this because you're curious. Aren't we all, deep down, desperately curious to see if anyone has the answer to the question we're all asking? Pain. Pain. Pain. You feel it, don't you? We all do. And, I believe, every one of us is wrestling with questions about it which can hardly be put into words. We just hurt, and we don't know what else to say.
As I write this, I beg you to bear with me and to forgive the restrictions that inevitably guard the written word. I understand only too well how subtly and dangerously faceless written communication can be, and though I am not convinced that any writing can express the deep vulnerability I wish to share with my readers—especially on a topic as delicate as this one—I must do my best with what I have. Please know, as you read this, that I am no stranger to pain. I may not understand the exact aches that threaten each of your hearts, but I know what it feels like to hurt. Don't wail for me, though. I get a lot of responses like that when I write things like this. I write not to secure your sympathy but to relate with your reality. You hurt, and I hurt; and that's why I'm writing. I do not expect to be able to embrace every aspect of the thing we call "pain" in one blog post, but I think I've got a decent start, by God's grace. Read on, then, if you would, keeping these things in mind.
I think the best place to begin this discussion is to discover what question exactly we are asking when it comes to pain. The media would have us believe that we must find the cure. "How can we stop it?" they ask. This is one question we must avoid. Pain can't be stopped—not yet, anyway. Thinking that we can stop it will do nothing more than frustrate us when we realize that it persists. Knowing it cannot be stopped, some well-meaning Christians will suggest that we merely hope in God's promises to destroy evil and to bring us into an eternity where pain is ceased. This is true, thankfully. In proceeding, I have no intention of diminishing or disdaining this hope. It is beautiful. However, I understand that it is quite difficult for us to be content with this when we see no relief from the pain we feel during this life. We want a bit more than this hope, a more narrow approach to our question. We are looking for something "right here, right now." Strangely, I think we would all be okay with the notion that pain exists and will not be stopped during this life if we could find the answer to the question that burns relentlessly through the head of every human that feels the dull ache of a bleeding heart: "What do I do with the pain I feel now?"
Turn to God.
Before you roll your eyes and discount this as the silly answer that could summarize practically every Sunday school class, consider it seriously, for as long as it takes. It is true.
Why? Because of what "pain," at its deepest root, really is. Pain is the clearest, most direct call we could ever receive to turn to God. C.S. Lewis put it this way: "God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world."¹ Ultimately, pain begs us to look up even while its severity threatens to push our heads down. It brings us into a position in which we have no choice but to acknowledge the decision we were given life to make. It's easy to ignore the weight of that decision when we feel as though we are soaring above the clouds, but pain forces us to face up. We can choose God, or we can choose to oppose Him. No other option exists. At first, it seems quite unfortunate that it takes something as extreme and, well, painful as pain to get our attention. Why couldn't God just show up and tell us plainly what decision we were supposed to make, give us all the pros and cons of both sides, let us choose, and then leave us alone? 'Cuz we wouldn't get it. Think about it. We would never be able to see God, know Him as He really is, and embrace the gift of grace that He has given if we didn't see how desperately we need Him. G.K. Chesterton puts it this way: "One sees great things from the valley; only small things from the peak."² There's a certain knowledge of God that can only come from suffering. We see our God to a fuller extent when we know what walking through the "valley of the shadow of death" really looks like. And, we might note, the slightest taste of pain is the surest testimony of our need for our Creator and Savior. When we capitalize on that and turn to Him, we realize that He fulfills us completely, and we get to spend our life here on earth and an eternity in heaven praising Him for it. If we didn't know pain, we would never know God. If we didn't know pain, we would never have a reason to praise Him.
The answer, then, is what I said before. Turn to God. Get on your knees—now—and turn to your Savior. He loves you. He can heal you. I know this from experience. He may not stop the pain. Don't expect Him to. But He will give you hope, comfort, and purpose in it. He will use the cracks in your heart to shine through you and reach others. I cannot find words to describe the beauty of this, but I know it even more surely than the pain I mentioned earlier. When we turn to our God, we are filled with His love. His joy lifts up our heads and extends our hands. It pushes us to tell others of the goodness we have found. When they see a broken heart burning with inexplicable love, they too will turn to God.
In light of all this, I beg you to stop fearing pain, to stop trying to dull or stop it. Let it do what it was meant to do. Let it bring you and everyone who sees you to God, the One we were meant to cling to in the first place. Pain was meant to grab our attention. It was meant to show us even more of the greatness of our God. Do you see? This is why the cross is so important, so perfect. Pain was meant to change the world.
As I write this, I beg you to bear with me and to forgive the restrictions that inevitably guard the written word. I understand only too well how subtly and dangerously faceless written communication can be, and though I am not convinced that any writing can express the deep vulnerability I wish to share with my readers—especially on a topic as delicate as this one—I must do my best with what I have. Please know, as you read this, that I am no stranger to pain. I may not understand the exact aches that threaten each of your hearts, but I know what it feels like to hurt. Don't wail for me, though. I get a lot of responses like that when I write things like this. I write not to secure your sympathy but to relate with your reality. You hurt, and I hurt; and that's why I'm writing. I do not expect to be able to embrace every aspect of the thing we call "pain" in one blog post, but I think I've got a decent start, by God's grace. Read on, then, if you would, keeping these things in mind.
I think the best place to begin this discussion is to discover what question exactly we are asking when it comes to pain. The media would have us believe that we must find the cure. "How can we stop it?" they ask. This is one question we must avoid. Pain can't be stopped—not yet, anyway. Thinking that we can stop it will do nothing more than frustrate us when we realize that it persists. Knowing it cannot be stopped, some well-meaning Christians will suggest that we merely hope in God's promises to destroy evil and to bring us into an eternity where pain is ceased. This is true, thankfully. In proceeding, I have no intention of diminishing or disdaining this hope. It is beautiful. However, I understand that it is quite difficult for us to be content with this when we see no relief from the pain we feel during this life. We want a bit more than this hope, a more narrow approach to our question. We are looking for something "right here, right now." Strangely, I think we would all be okay with the notion that pain exists and will not be stopped during this life if we could find the answer to the question that burns relentlessly through the head of every human that feels the dull ache of a bleeding heart: "What do I do with the pain I feel now?"
Turn to God.
Before you roll your eyes and discount this as the silly answer that could summarize practically every Sunday school class, consider it seriously, for as long as it takes. It is true.
Why? Because of what "pain," at its deepest root, really is. Pain is the clearest, most direct call we could ever receive to turn to God. C.S. Lewis put it this way: "God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world."¹ Ultimately, pain begs us to look up even while its severity threatens to push our heads down. It brings us into a position in which we have no choice but to acknowledge the decision we were given life to make. It's easy to ignore the weight of that decision when we feel as though we are soaring above the clouds, but pain forces us to face up. We can choose God, or we can choose to oppose Him. No other option exists. At first, it seems quite unfortunate that it takes something as extreme and, well, painful as pain to get our attention. Why couldn't God just show up and tell us plainly what decision we were supposed to make, give us all the pros and cons of both sides, let us choose, and then leave us alone? 'Cuz we wouldn't get it. Think about it. We would never be able to see God, know Him as He really is, and embrace the gift of grace that He has given if we didn't see how desperately we need Him. G.K. Chesterton puts it this way: "One sees great things from the valley; only small things from the peak."² There's a certain knowledge of God that can only come from suffering. We see our God to a fuller extent when we know what walking through the "valley of the shadow of death" really looks like. And, we might note, the slightest taste of pain is the surest testimony of our need for our Creator and Savior. When we capitalize on that and turn to Him, we realize that He fulfills us completely, and we get to spend our life here on earth and an eternity in heaven praising Him for it. If we didn't know pain, we would never know God. If we didn't know pain, we would never have a reason to praise Him.
The answer, then, is what I said before. Turn to God. Get on your knees—now—and turn to your Savior. He loves you. He can heal you. I know this from experience. He may not stop the pain. Don't expect Him to. But He will give you hope, comfort, and purpose in it. He will use the cracks in your heart to shine through you and reach others. I cannot find words to describe the beauty of this, but I know it even more surely than the pain I mentioned earlier. When we turn to our God, we are filled with His love. His joy lifts up our heads and extends our hands. It pushes us to tell others of the goodness we have found. When they see a broken heart burning with inexplicable love, they too will turn to God.
In light of all this, I beg you to stop fearing pain, to stop trying to dull or stop it. Let it do what it was meant to do. Let it bring you and everyone who sees you to God, the One we were meant to cling to in the first place. Pain was meant to grab our attention. It was meant to show us even more of the greatness of our God. Do you see? This is why the cross is so important, so perfect. Pain was meant to change the world.
——————————————
¹ The Problem of Pain (1940), p. 406 in The Complete C.S. Lewis Signature Classics, HarperOne (2002).
² The Innocence of Father Brown (1911).
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Forgiven-ness
It's been two days since Easter...two days of staring at earless chocolate bunnies, piles of candy wrappers, dirty dishes, and crumpled church bulletins—the inevitable leftovers of an annual celebration which seems to bewilder most of the U.S. population...
I don't know what Easter was like for you. Maybe it was a blur of sugar and relatives. Maybe you went to church. Maybe you actually enjoyed church. Maybe, while you were at church, you actually thought about what Easter really means. Perhaps it crossed your mind that eggs and bunnies and pastel colors don't really matter, that "Easter" is actually a celebration of the fact that a man from Nazareth rose from the dead after being tortured and crucified and spending three days in a grave. I sincerely hope that Easter, for you, was a time of peace and reflection, a time to thank Christ for His work on the cross and for the miracle of His resurrection.
...but what's on your mind now? I think we would all like to answer this question the same way that we would have answered two days ago, with words that sound as if they were taken straight from the New Testament, full of praise and thankfulness and passion for the creed we preach. But I've talked to a lot of people since Sunday, including myself (it really helps to clarify things, you know), and it seems like most of us are missing something. It's not like we lost it after Easter. Rather, in our failure to live as if every day were Easter—a celebration of the resurrection of our Savior—we have slipped into complacency and worry.
We're not the only ones to slide in and out of spiritual highs. Look at Elijah, for example. After standing before the nation of Israel in opposition to the prophets of Baal and boldly calling on his God, this powerful prophet watched fire come down from heaven and consume his sodden sacrifice. He then, by the power of God, outran King Ahab's chariot for about seventeen miles. He had every reason to trust in God and to rest in his identity in his Maker. But the very next chapter of his story (I Kings 19) records him moaning over his life, crying, "I have had enough, LORD...Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors" (v. 4, NIV 1984). (If you have some time, read the rest of his story to see how God replies. It's pretty cool.)
Why do we, like Elijah, so often fall into forgetfulness? Do we not realize the extent to which we are saved?
Read this. Read it slowly, and know that it is true!
"The LORD is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love. He will not always accuse, nor will He harbor His anger forever; He does not treat us as our sins deserve or repay us according to our iniquities. For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is His love for those who fear Him; as far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us. As a father has compassion on his children, so the LORD has compassion on those who fear Him; for He knows how we are formed, He remembers that we are dust. As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more. But from everlasting to everlasting the LORD's love is with those who fear Him..." —Psalm 103:8-17a (NIV 1984)
Finger through the rest of Scripture. Ease your mind in taking in the love letter that your Creator has written for you. Look at what He has done. Remember that you are FORGIVEN.
There's no need for our spiritual life to feel like a rollercoaster. We serve an unchanging God. Even though our circumstances may whirl around us in what looks, to our finite eyes, like pure chaos, our God stands firm. And we are anchored to Him.
Rooted in this identity, we can live in a state of forgiven-ness. Grasp this. Know that it is true. By God's grace, you are not who you used to be. You are forgiven, and this is a big deal. Bob Goff phrases this concept well: "Every time we believe the lie that we're who we used to be, we roll the stone back into place like nothing happened."¹
Beloved child of God, let your old self rot with the chocolate bunnies you threw out after Easter. Don't touch it again. Live in forgiven-ness, knowing that you are free. Start singing a new song. You, my friend, are free.
I don't know what Easter was like for you. Maybe it was a blur of sugar and relatives. Maybe you went to church. Maybe you actually enjoyed church. Maybe, while you were at church, you actually thought about what Easter really means. Perhaps it crossed your mind that eggs and bunnies and pastel colors don't really matter, that "Easter" is actually a celebration of the fact that a man from Nazareth rose from the dead after being tortured and crucified and spending three days in a grave. I sincerely hope that Easter, for you, was a time of peace and reflection, a time to thank Christ for His work on the cross and for the miracle of His resurrection.
...but what's on your mind now? I think we would all like to answer this question the same way that we would have answered two days ago, with words that sound as if they were taken straight from the New Testament, full of praise and thankfulness and passion for the creed we preach. But I've talked to a lot of people since Sunday, including myself (it really helps to clarify things, you know), and it seems like most of us are missing something. It's not like we lost it after Easter. Rather, in our failure to live as if every day were Easter—a celebration of the resurrection of our Savior—we have slipped into complacency and worry.
We're not the only ones to slide in and out of spiritual highs. Look at Elijah, for example. After standing before the nation of Israel in opposition to the prophets of Baal and boldly calling on his God, this powerful prophet watched fire come down from heaven and consume his sodden sacrifice. He then, by the power of God, outran King Ahab's chariot for about seventeen miles. He had every reason to trust in God and to rest in his identity in his Maker. But the very next chapter of his story (I Kings 19) records him moaning over his life, crying, "I have had enough, LORD...Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors" (v. 4, NIV 1984). (If you have some time, read the rest of his story to see how God replies. It's pretty cool.)
Why do we, like Elijah, so often fall into forgetfulness? Do we not realize the extent to which we are saved?
Read this. Read it slowly, and know that it is true!
"The LORD is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love. He will not always accuse, nor will He harbor His anger forever; He does not treat us as our sins deserve or repay us according to our iniquities. For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is His love for those who fear Him; as far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us. As a father has compassion on his children, so the LORD has compassion on those who fear Him; for He knows how we are formed, He remembers that we are dust. As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more. But from everlasting to everlasting the LORD's love is with those who fear Him..." —Psalm 103:8-17a (NIV 1984)
Finger through the rest of Scripture. Ease your mind in taking in the love letter that your Creator has written for you. Look at what He has done. Remember that you are FORGIVEN.
There's no need for our spiritual life to feel like a rollercoaster. We serve an unchanging God. Even though our circumstances may whirl around us in what looks, to our finite eyes, like pure chaos, our God stands firm. And we are anchored to Him.
Rooted in this identity, we can live in a state of forgiven-ness. Grasp this. Know that it is true. By God's grace, you are not who you used to be. You are forgiven, and this is a big deal. Bob Goff phrases this concept well: "Every time we believe the lie that we're who we used to be, we roll the stone back into place like nothing happened."¹
Beloved child of God, let your old self rot with the chocolate bunnies you threw out after Easter. Don't touch it again. Live in forgiven-ness, knowing that you are free. Start singing a new song. You, my friend, are free.
——————————————
¹ Facebook post from 04.21.2014.
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