Finish

Finish

Dear brothers and sisters, if another believer is overcome by some sin, you who are godly should gently and humbly help that person back onto the right path. And be careful not to fall into the same temptation yourself. Share each other’s burdens, and in this way obey the law of Christ. If you think you are too important to help someone, you are only fooling yourself. You are not that important….

So let’s not get tired of doing what is good. At just the right time we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don’t give up. Therefore, whenever we have the opportunity, we should do good to everyone — especially to those in the family of faith. (Gal. 6:1-3; 9-10)

While Jesus was climbing up the hill of Calvary, Judas was climbing another — the hill of regret. And he walked it alone. Its trail was rock-strewn with shame and hurt, and its landscape as barren as his soul. Thorns of remorse tore at his ankles and shins. The lips that had once kissed a king were now cracked with grief. And on his shoulders he bore a burden that bowed his back — his own failure. Why Judas betrayed his master is really not important. Whether motivated by anger or greed, the end result was the same — regret.

Many years ago, I visited the Supreme Court. And as I sat in the visitors’ chambers, I imagined the splendor of the scene. The chief justice, flanked by his colleagues, robed in honor. The apex of justice. The representation of the efforts of countless minds through thousands of decades. Here was man’s best effort to deal with his own failures.

How pointless it would have been, however, if – in my mind’s eye – I had approached the bench and requested the Court’s forgiveness of my mistakes. Forgiveness for talking back to my mother. Forgiveness for being disloyal to a friend. Forgiveness for pledging “I won’t” on Sunday, and then saying “I will” on Monday. Forgiveness for the countless hours I’ve spent wandering in society’s gutters.

It would be pointless because the Justices could do nothing. Maybe a few days in jail to appease my guilt. But forgiveness? It’s not the Court’s to give. Maybe that’s why so many of us spend so many hours on that hill of regret: we haven’t found a way to forgive ourselves.

So up the hill we trudge. Weary, wounded hearts wrestling with unresolved mistakes. Sighs of anxiety; tears of frustration; words of rationalization; moans of doubt. For some the pain is on the surface. For others the hurt is submerged, buried in a past of bad memories. Parents, lovers, professionals. Some trying to forget, others trying to remember, but all trying to cope. We walk silently in single file with shackles of guilt. Paul was the man who posed the question that’s on all our lips: “Who will rescue me from this body of death?” (Rom. 7:24)

And at our trail’s end there stand two trees. One is weathered and leafless. It’s dead but still sturdy; it’s bark is gone, leaving smooth wood bleached white by the years. Twigs and buds no longer sprout. Only bare branches fork from the trunk. And on the strongest of these branches is a hangman’s noose. It was there that Judas dealt with his failure. If Judas had only looked at the adjacent tree. It’s dead, too, and it’s wood is also smooth. But there’s no noose tied to its crossbeam. No more death on this tree. Once was enough. One death for all.

Those of us who have also betrayed Jesus know better than to be too hard on Judas for choosing the tree he did. Because to think that Jesus would really unburden our shoulders and unshackle our legs after all we’ve done to him is hard to believe. In fact, it takes just as much faith to believe that Jesus can look past my betrayals as it does to believe that he rose from the dead. Both are just as miraculous.

What a pair, these two trees. Only a few feet from the tree of despair stands the tree of hope. Life so paradoxically close to death. Goodness within arm’s reach of darkness. A hangman’s noose and a life preserver swinging in the same shadow. But there they stand.

And we can’t help but be a bit stunned by the inconceivability of it all. Why does Jesus stand on life’s most barren hill and await me with outstretched, nail-pierced hands? A crazy, holy grace it’s been called. A type of grace that doesn’t hold up to logic. But then I guess grace doesn’t have to be logical; if it were, it wouldn’t be grace. But grace unaccepted leads to regrets unaffected. And regret can keep us from finishing, making quitters of us all.

Many years ago, Simon and Garfunkel enchanted those of us who can remember with the song of a poor boy who went to New York on a dream, but fell victim to the harsh life of the city. Penniless, and with only strangers as friends, he spent his days “laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters where the ragged people go, looking for the places only they would know.”

It’s easy to picture this young lad, dirtied face and worn clothes, looking for work and finding none. He trudges the sidewalks and battles the cold, and dreams of going “where the New York City winters aren’t bleeding me, leading me home.” He entertains thoughts of quitting. Going home. Giving up — something he never thought he would do.

But just when he picks up the towel to throw it into the ring he encounters a boxer. Remember these words? In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade, and he carries a reminder of every blow that laid him down or cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame ‘I am leaving, I am leaving!’ but the fighter still remains.

“The fighter still remains.” There’s something magnetic in that phrase. It rings with a trueness. Those who can remain like the boxer are a rare breed. I don’t necessarily mean winning; I just mean remaining. Hanging in there. Finishing. Sticking with it until it’s done.

Unfortunately, few of us actually do that. Our human tendency is to quit too soon. Our human tendency is to stop before we cross the finish line. And our inability to finish what we’ve started is sometimes seen in the smallest of things: a partly mowed lawn; a half-read book; letters begun but never completed; an abandoned diet; a car up on blocks. Or, it shows up in life’s most painful areas: an abandoned child; a cold faith; a job hopper; a wrecked marriage; an un-evangelized world.

Any chance you’ve considered giving up? If so, I want to encourage you to remain. I want to encourage you to remember Jesus’ determination on the cross. Jesus didn’t quit. But don’t think for one minute that he wasn’t tempted to. Watch him wince as he hears his apostles backbite and quarrel. Look at him weep as he sits at Lazarus’s tomb, or hear him wail as he claws the ground of Gethsemane. Did he ever want to quit? You bet. That’s why his words are so splendid. “It is finished.”

Stop and listen for a moment. Can you imagine that cry from the cross? The sky is dark. The other two victims are moaning. The jeering mouths are silent. Perhaps there’s thunder. Perhaps there’s weeping. Perhaps there’s silence. Then Jesus draws in a deep breath, pushes his feet down on that Roman nail and cries, “It is finished!” Tetelestai – paid in full.

Finished? What’s finished?

The history-long plan of redeeming man was finished. The message of God to man was finished. The works done by Jesus as a man on earth were finished. The task of selecting and training ambassadors was finished. The job was finished. The song had been sung. The blood had been poured. The sacrifice had been made. The sting of death had been removed. It was over. Tetelestai. In the Greek perfect tense, it could just as easily be translated, “It has been finished.” In other words, a completed action with consequences into the future.

So, was that a cry of defeat? Hardly. Had his hands not been fastened down maybe a triumphant fist would have punched the dark sky. No, this was no cry of despair. It was a cry of completion. A cry of victory. A cry of fulfillment. Yes, even a cry of relief. The fighter remained. And thank God that he did. Thank God that he endured.

Are you close to quitting? Reconsider. Are you discouraged as a parent? Hang in there. Are you weary with doing good? Do just a little more. Are you pessimistic about your job? Roll up your sleeves and go at it again. No communication in your marriage? Give it one more shot. Can’t resist temptation? Accept God’s forgiveness and go one more round. Is your day framed with sorrow and disappointment? Are your tomorrows turning into never? Is hope a forgotten word?

Remember, a finisher is not a person without wounds or weariness. To the contrary, the finisher, like the boxer, is scarred and bloody. Mother Teresa is credited with saying, “God didn’t call us to be successful, just faithful.” The fighter, like our Master, is pierced and full of pain. He, like Paul, may even be bound and beaten. But he remains.

The Land of Promise, says Jesus, awaits those who endure. It’s not just for the ones who make the victory laps, or drink the champagne. The Land of Promise is for those who simply remain to the end. So, let’s endure and be encouraged by a chorus of verses designed to give us staying power:

Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. (James 1:2-3)

Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet so that what is lame may not be put out of joint but rather be healed. (Heb. 12:12-13)

Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. (Gal. 6:9)

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day — and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing. (2 Tim. 4:7-8)

Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him. (James 1:12)

So, thank you, Paul Simon. Thank you, apostle Paul. Thank you, apostle James. But most of all, thank you, Lord Jesus, for teaching us to remain, to endure, and in the end, to finish.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Randy