But God

 

But God

Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. (Phil. 4:4-5)

Place a finger on each of your temples and then offer this prayer: “Thank you, Lord, for my amygdala. Thank you, Lord, for the two almond-shaped neural clusters that reside inside my brain. I wouldn't be alive without them.” And that’s the truth. Thanks to your amygdalae, you ducked your head when the baseball screamed in your direction because your amygdalae operate like an alarm system. For instance, if an intruder breaks a window or pries open a lock to your house, your home security system warns you. Bells, alarms, horns, lights. Get up, get out and get safe! The system alerts you before you even have time to think about it. Your amygdalae do the same.

We don't consciously think, A car is coming. I'm in its way. The car is big; I am small. The car is fast; I am slow. I better move. Amygdalae prompt a reaction before we know one is needed. And when the amygdalae command, the rest of the body reacts. Our pupils dilate, improving our vision. We breathe faster, pumping more oxygen into our lungs. Our pulse rate increases, infusing more blood into the system. Adrenaline turns us into Hercules or Wonder Woman. We’re ready for fight or flight; suddenly faster, stronger and more alert. We like our amygdalae. But we don't like supersensitive ones.

We don't want a home security system that goes off at the gust of a breeze, or the bark of a dog. We don't want that in our homes, nor do we want that in our heads. Perpetual anxiety is amygdalae with an itchy trigger finger. They see a mole on the skin and think cancer. They see a dip in the economy and think recession. Perpetual anxiety is the mental alarm system that never quite turns off. Limited anxiety is helpful. We need to be alerted to danger. What we don't need is to live in a state of high alert. And here’s why: God created our brains to replenish themselves with natural mood elevators and tranquilizers like dopamine and serotonin. These restore joy and peace. But if the amygdalae never stop, the natural tranquilizers never have an opportunity to do their work. The brain never resets. We become edgy and unsettled. That’s the bad news. The good news is that God can calm our amygdalae.

Paul urges us to "rejoice in the Lord always." (Phil. 4:4) Not just on paydays, Fridays, good days, or birthdays, but to rejoice in the Lord always. You aren't the first to read the word always and arch an eyebrow. Always? "Yeah, right," mumbles the patient from the hospital bed. "How?" sighs the unemployed dad. "Really?" questions the mother of the baby born with a disability. It’s one thing to rejoice in the Lord when life is good, but when the odds are against you? Joseph knew this challenge.

At least at its beginning, Joseph's story is about abandonment. His brothers had disliked his dreams and swagger and decided to kill him and throw him into a pit. Had their greed not been a feather heavier than their thirst for blood, he would’ve died. When they had a chance to sell him to traveling merchants, they did. And his father was completely uninvolved. You'd hope to read about the sudden appearance of Jacob who searched for his son, rescued him and took him home. But we don’t because Jacob didn't. He was MIA. Joseph was carted off to Egypt and raffled off like a farm animal at the San Diego County Fair. The great-grandson of Abraham was sold to the highest bidder. Even so, he landed on his feet.

He worked his way to the top of Potiphar's household. But then the mistress of the house put the hanky-panky on him. The lady went shady, and Joseph got out, leaving her holding his coat. When she accused him of attempted rape, her husband took her side and tossed Joseph in prison. Joseph landed in jail for a crime he didn't commit. Still, he didn't give up. He became a model prisoner. He made his bed, made friends, and made a good impression on the warden who recognized him as inmate of the month and promoted Joseph to convict-in-charge. Joseph met the King’s butler and asked for his help. The butler agreed but quickly forgot, and cruelty tipped the scales. Joseph languished in prison for two years with no word and no solution. Two years. Plenty of time to give up. Plenty of time for the world to turn gray, for gargoyles of dread to appear. Plenty of time to wonder, Is this how God treats his children? Is this God's reward for good behavior? Do your best, and this is what you get? A jail cell and a hard bed? If Joseph asked those questions, we don't know. But if you do, you’re not alone.

You weren't thrown in jail, like Joseph, but then again, maybe you were. Or you ended up in AA or a women's shelter or an unemployment line. And you wonder, I believe in God. Is he aware? Does he even care? Deism says no. God created the universe and then abandoned it. Pantheism says no. Creation has no story or purpose unto itself; it’s only a part of God. Atheism says no. Not surprisingly, the philosophy that dismisses the existence of a god will, in turn, dismiss the possibility of a divine plan. Christianity, on the other hand, says, "Yes, there is a God. Yes, this God is personally and powerfully involved in his creation." "The Son is the radiance of God's glory and the exact representation of his being, sustaining all things by his powerful word." (Heb. 1:3)

God is the one in charge of everything, even the smallest details of our lives. He isn't making up this plan as he goes along. He didn't wind up the clock and walk away. "The Most High God rules the kingdom of men and sets over it whom he will." (Dan. 5:21) He "executes judgment, putting down one and lifting up another." (Ps. 75:7) "The fierce anger of the LORD will not turn back until he has executed and accomplished the intents of his mind." (Jer. 30:24) Pretty starchy verbs there: God "rules," "sets," "executes," and "accomplished." These terms attest to the existence of a heavenly Architect and blueprint, and his blueprint includes you. "In him we were also chosen, . . . according to the plan of him who works out everything in conformity with the purpose of his will." (Eph. 1:11) So if God is in charge, why was Joseph in prison? Or why is your friend's marriage in disarray? Why does God permit challenges to come our way? Wouldn't an almighty God prevent them? Not if they serve his higher purpose.

Remember the rest of Joseph's story? When Pharaoh was troubled by his dreams, the butler finally remembered Joseph's request. He mentioned Joseph to Pharaoh, and as fast as you can say providence, Joseph went from prison to palace. Joseph interpreted the dream, which was a forecast of a famine. Pharaoh promoted him to prime minister, and Joseph successfully navigated the 7-year crisis and saved not only the Egyptians, but Jacob’s family as well. Years later Joseph would tell his brothers, "You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives. So then, don't be afraid. I will provide for you and your children." (Gen. 50:20-21) Two words at the heart of this passage reveal the heart of providential hope: but God. "You intended to harm me, but God . . . ." What was intended as harm became good. Why? Because Joseph kept God in the middle of his circumstances. Joseph viewed the sufferings of his life through the lens of divine providence. We should all do the same. Because if you don't, anxiety will stalk you every day of your life.

I have no words to counter the stress of the atheist or the agnostic. What alleviates their anxiety? Yoga? Deep-breathing exercises? Stress-relief candles? God's sovereignty, on the other hand, bids us to fight the onslaught of fret with the sword that is etched with the words “… but God.” The company is downsizing, but God is still sovereign. The cancer is back, but God still occupies the throne. I was a jerk during the first years of my marriage, but God showed me how to lead a family. I was an anxious, troubled soul, but God has been giving me courage. The brothers had every intention to harm Joseph. But God, in his providence, used their intended evil for ultimate good. He never robbed the brothers of their free will. He never imposed his nature upon them. But neither did he allow their sin and their sin nature to rule the day. He rerouted evil into good. God uses all things to bring about his purpose. He will not be deterred in his plan to sustain and carry creation to its intended glory.

The ultimate proof of providence is the death of Christ on the cross. No deed was more evil. No other day was so dark. Yet God not only knew of the crucifixion, but he also ordained it. As Peter told the murderers, "This man was handed over to you by God's deliberate plan and foreknowledge; and you, with the help of wicked men, put him to death by nailing him to the cross. But God raised him from the dead, freeing him from the agony of death, because it was impossible for death to keep its hold on him." (Acts 2:23-24) Everyone thought the life of Jesus was over – but God. His Son was dead and buried, but God raised him from the dead. God took the crucifixion of Friday and turned it into the celebration of Sunday. And he can do the same for you.

I'm sorry for the pain that life has given you. I'm sorry if your parents neglected you. I'm sorry if your teacher ignored you. I'm sorry if a heartbreaker said "I do" on your wedding day but "I don't" every day thereafter. I'm sorry if you were inappropriately touched, intentionally mocked or unfairly dismissed. I'm sorry if you ended up in Egypt. But if the story of Joseph teaches us anything, it’s this: we have a choice. We can either wear our hurt, or we can wear our hope. We can outfit ourselves in our misfortune, or we can clothe ourselves in God's providence. We can cave in to the pandemonium of life, or we can lean into the perfect plan of God. And we can believe this promise: "In all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." (Rom. 8:28)

Horatio Spafford was a prosperous lawyer and Presbyterian Church elder. In 1871 he and his wife, Anna, suffered tragic financial losses in the Chicago fire. So, in November of 1873, Anna and their children set sail for Europe with a group of friends to enjoy some time away. Horatio stayed home to take care of some business but planned to join his family later. On December 2^nd he received a telegram from his wife that began, "Saved alone. What shall I do?" He soon learned that the steamer his family was on had collided with a British vessel and had sunk. Their four daughters drowned, and Anna survived. He promptly left for England to bring Anna back home. En route, while sailing on the ship, he wrote the lyrics to a song that would become an anthem to the providence of God; words written by a grief-stricken husband and father on a storm-tossed sea whose first verse begins, When peace, like a river, attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll; whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say, It is well, it is well, with my soul. May we so trust in the providence of God that we can say the same.

Grace,

Randy

Surrender Your Guilt to Jesus

 

Surrender Your Guilt to Jesus

hSurrender Your Guilt to Jesus - Audio/Visual 

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. (Phil 4:6)

There’s a guilt that sits in the soul like a lead balloon. There’s a guilt that says, “I did bad,” and then there’s a guilt that concludes, “I am bad.” Have you ever had that deep, dark guilt? Ever come face-to-face with a version of you that you’ve never known? If so, what sucked you under? A one-night stand? Took what wasn't yours? Or, maybe, not so much a moment in life but a season of it. You failed as a parent. You blew your career. You misspent your youth. You squandered your money. The result? Guilt. And the consequence of that guilt? Anxiety. Lists of anxiety triggers typically include busy schedules, unrealistic demands or rush-hour traffic. But behind the frantic expressions on the faces of people you see every day is unresolved regret. Maybe that face is yours. Interestingly, humanity's first occasion for anxiety can be attributed to guilt. "That evening [Adam and Eve] heard the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden; and they hid themselves among the trees." (Gen. 3:8)

What happened to the first family? Until Genesis 3:8 there was no indication that they ever felt any fear or trepidation. They’d certainly never hidden from God before. That’s because they had nothing to hide. "The man and his wife were both naked, but they felt no shame." (Gen. 2:25) But then came the serpent and the forbidden fruit. The first couple said “Yes” to the serpent's temptation, and “No” to God. And when they did, their world collapsed like a house of cards. They scurried into the bushes and went into hiding, feeling a mixture of both shame and dread. Covered in crumbs from the cookie jar they’d been told to avoid, they engaged in a flurry of cover-ups. Note the sequence. Guilt quickly followed by anxiety. Adam and Eve didn't know how to process their failure, and neither do we.

Granted, we don't duck into the bushes – we have more sophisticated ways of dealing with our guilt. We numb it, for instance. With a bottle of Jack Daniels. With a little Internet pornography. With drugs. With a rendezvous at the motel. And then we deny it. Pretend we never stumbled. Concoct a plan to cover up the bad choice. One lie leads to another, then another. We adjust the second story to align with the first. And before long our automatic reaction to any question is, “How can I keep up the charade?” Or we minimize it. We didn't really sin. We just lost our way, or got caught up in the moment, or took the wrong path or had a lapse in judgment. Others decide to bury it. Suppress the guilt beneath a mound of work and a calendar of appointments. The busier we stay, the less time we spend with the people we’ve come to dislike the most: ourselves.

Of course, we can always punish it. Cut ourselves. Hurt ourselves. Beat ourselves up. Flog ourselves. And if it’s not with whips, then it’s with rules. More rules. Long lists of things to do and observances to keep. A painful penance. Pray more. Study more. Give more. Show up earlier. Stay up later. And then there’s always avoiding even the mention of it. Just don't bring it up. Don't tell the family, the friends, the buddies. Keep everything on the surface and hope the Loch Ness Monster of guilt keeps lingering in the deep. Or we simply redirect it. Lash out at the kids. Take it out on the spouse. Yell at the employees, or the driver in the next lane.

Some choose to offset it. Determine never to make another mistake. Build the perfect family. Create the perfect career. Score perfect grades. Be the perfect Christian. Everything has to be perfect – hair, car, tone of voice. Always in control, and absolutely maniacal when it comes to slip-ups or foul-ups, by us or others. Finally, some just give up and embrace it. We didn't get drunk – we are drunks. We didn't screw up – we are screw-ups. We didn't just do bad – we are bad. Bad to the bone bad. We might even take pride in our “badness” because it's only a matter of time until we do something bad . . . again. Adam and Eve hid behind fig leaves, bushes and lies. Not much has really changed.

So, what kind of person does unresolved guilt create? An anxious one. Forever hiding, running, denying, pretending. Unresolved guilt will turn you into a miserable, weary, angry, stressed-out, fretful, anxious hot mess. In a psalm David probably wrote after his affair with Bathsheba, the king said: When I refused to confess my sin, my body wasted away, and I groaned all day long. Day and night your hand of discipline was heavy on me. My strength evaporated like water in the summer heat. (Ps. 32:3-4) Interpretation? Guilt sucks the life out of our souls. But grace and mercy restores them, and the apostle Paul clung to both.

To the same degree that he believed in God's sovereignty, he also relied on God's mercy because no one had more reason to feel the burden of guilt than Paul. He’d orchestrated the deaths of Christians. He was the first century version of a terrorist, taking believers into custody and then spilling their blood. "Paul was like a wild man, going everywhere to devastate the believers, even entering private homes and dragging out men and women alike and jailing them." (Acts 8:3) And he was a legalist to the core. Before he knew Christ, Paul had spent a lifetime trying to save himself. His salvation depended on his perfection and performance. You can read Paul’s resumé in Philippians 3:4-6. It’s very impressive. So impressive that Paul had blood on his hands and religious diplomas on his wall. But then came the Damascus Road experience when Jesus appeared. So much for the resumé.

Once Paul saw Jesus, he literally couldn't see anymore – at least for a time. But there were other things he couldn’t see. He couldn't see the value in his resumé anymore. He couldn't see the merit in his merits, or the worth in his good works anymore. He couldn't see reasons to boast about anything he’d done anymore. And he couldn't see any option except to spend the rest of his life talking less about himself and more about Jesus. As a result, he became the poet of grace. "But all these things that I once thought very worthwhile – now I've thrown them all away so that I can put my trust and hope in Christ alone." (Phil. 3:7) In exchange for self-salvation, God gave Paul righteousness. "Now I am right with God, not because I followed the law, but because I believed in Christ." (Phil. 3:9)

Paul gave his guilt to Jesus. He didn't numb it, deny it, minimize it, bury it, punish it, avoid it, redirect it, or embody it. He surrendered it. As a result, he would write, "I am still not all I should be, but I am bringing all my energies to bear on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I strain to reach the end of the race and receive the prize for which God is calling us up to heaven because of what Christ Jesus did for us." (Phil. 3:13-14) So what would the apostle say to a guilt-laden adult or teenager? Maybe something like, "Rejoice in the Lord's mercy. Trust in his ability to forgive. Abandon your attempts at self-salvation or justification. No more hiding behind fig leaves. Throw yourself upon the mercy and grace of Christ, and Christ alone."

A happy saint is one who is, simultaneously, aware of the severity of sin and the immensity of God’s grace. It’s not a cheap grace, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer would describe in his book, The Cost of Discipleship. Sin is not diminished, nor is God's ability to forgive it. The saint simply dwells in grace, not in guilt. This is the tranquil soul. God's grace is the fertile soil out of which courage sprouts as Paul would later tell Titus, "God's readiness to give and forgive is now public. Salvation's available for everyone! . . . Tell them all this. Build up their courage." (Titus 2:11, 15) The benefit of being a great sinner is dependence upon a great grace – a forgiveness that is too deep to be plumbed, and too high to be summited. You have never been more or less saved than the moment you were first saved. Not one bad deed can deduct from your salvation any more than one good deed can enhance it. Our salvation has nothing to do with our work, and everything to do with the finished work of Jesus Christ on the cross.

Do you know this kind of grace? If not, then maybe that’s the source of your anxiety. Perhaps you thought the problem was your calendar, your marriage or your job. Maybe it’s unresolved guilt. So don't indulge in it. Don't drown in the bilge of your own condemnation. There’s a reason why a car’s windshield is bigger than the rearview mirror – your future matters considerably more than your past. God's grace is greater than your sin. What you did was not good, but your God is good. And he will forgive you. He’s ready to write a new chapter in your life.

In one of Henri Nouwen's books, he wrote about the lesson of trust he learned from a family of trapeze artists known as the Flying Rodleighs. He visited with them for a time after watching them fly through the air with such elegant poise. When he asked one of the flyers the secret of trapeze artists, the acrobat gave this reply: “The secret is that the flyer does nothing and the catcher does everything. When I fly to Joe [my catcher], I have simply to stretch out my arms and hands and wait for him to catch me and pull me safely over the apron. . . . The worst thing the flyer can do is to try to catch the catcher. I am not supposed to catch Joe. It's Joe's task to catch me. If I grabbed Joe's wrists, I might break them, or he might break mine, and that would be the end for both of us. A flyer must fly, and a catcher must catch, and the flyer must trust, with outstretched arms, that his catcher will be there for him.”

In the great trapeze act of salvation, God is the catcher and we’re the flyers. We trust. Period. We rely solely upon God's ability to catch us. And as we do, a wonderful thing happens: we fly. Your Father has never dropped anyone, and he’s not going to start with you. His grip is sturdy, and his hands are open. As the apostle proclaimed, "And I know the Lord will continue to rescue me from every trip, trap, snare, and pitfall of evil and carry me safely to his heavenly kingdom. May he be glorified throughout eternity. Amen." (2 Tim. 4:18)

Place yourself entirely in his care. And as you do, you’ll find that it’s possible – yes, possible – to surrender your guilt to Jesus and be anxious for nothing.

Grace,

Randy