Leave It

Leave It

Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about you. (1 Peter 5:7)

The hill’s quiet now. Not still, just quiet. Because for the first time all day there’s no noise. The noise began to subside when the darkness — that weird midday darkness — fell. And the darkness seemed to douse the ridicule because there were no more taunts, no more jokes and no more jesting. And, in time, no more mockers. One by one the onlookers turned and began their descent. That is, all the onlookers except me and you. We didn’t leave. We came to learn.

And so we’ve lingered in the semidarkness and listened. We’ve listened to the soldiers cursing, the passersby questioning, and the women weeping. But most of all, we’ve listened to the trio of dying men groaning their hoarse, guttural, thirsty groans. They groaned with each rolling of the head, and each pivot of the legs. But as the minutes became hours, their groans diminished, too. The three seemed as if they were dead. And if it weren’t for their belabored breathing, you’d have thought they were.

Then he screamed. As if someone had yanked his hair, the back of his head slammed against the sign that bore his name, and he screamed. And his scream cut the dark. Standing as straight as the nails would permit, he cried as one calling for a lost friend, “Eloi!” His voice was raspy, scratchy. “My God!” Ignoring the volcano of erupting pain, he pushed upward until his shoulders were higher than his nailed hands. “Why have you forsaken me?”

And the soldiers stared. The weeping of the women ceased. One of the Pharisees sneered sarcastically, “He’s calling Elijah.” But no one laughed. He’d shouted a question to the heavens, and you half expected heaven to shout back in return. And apparently it did. Because the face of Jesus softened, and an afternoon dawn broke as he spoke a final time: “It is finished. Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

Then, as suddenly as the silence was broken, the silence returned. And now all’s quiet. The mocking has ceased because there’s no one to mock. The soldiers are busy with the business of cleaning up the dead. Two men have come. Dressed well and meaning well, they are given the body of Jesus. And we are left with the relics of his death: three nails; three cross-shaped shadows; and a braided crown with scarlet tips.

Bizarre, isn’t it? The thought that this blood is not man’s blood but God’s? That’s crazy. To think that these nails held your sins and mine to a cross? Absurd, don’t you think? That a scoundrel’s prayer was offered and answered? Or, is it more absurd that another scoundrel offered no prayer at all? Absurdities and ironies. The hill of Calvary is nothing if not both.

We would have scripted the moment differently, don’t you think? Ask us how a God should redeem his world, and we’d have scripted white horses, flashing swords and evil laying flat on its back. God on his throne. But God on a cross? A split-lipped, puffy-eyed, blood-masked God on a cross? Sponge thrust in his face? Spear plunged in his side? Dice tossed at his feet? No, we wouldn’t have written the drama of redemption that way. But, then again, we weren’t asked to. The players and props were heaven-picked and God-ordained. We weren’t asked to design the hour.

But we have been asked to respond to it. Because in order for the cross of Christ to be the cross of our life, we need to bring something to the hill. We’ve seen what Jesus brought. With scarred hands he offered forgiveness. Through torn skin he promised acceptance. He took the path to take us home. He wore our garment to give us his own. We’ve seen the gifts he brought. Now we ask, what will we bring?

We aren’t asked to paint the sign, or carry the nails. We aren’t asked to wear the spit, or bear the crown. But we are asked to walk the path and leave something at the cross. We don’t have to, of course. Many don’t. Many have done what we’ve done before. More minds than ours have read about the cross; better minds than ours have written about it. Many have pondered what Christ left; fewer have pondered what we must leave.

We can observe the cross and analyze the cross. We can read about it, even pray to it. But until we leave something there, we haven’t really embraced the cross. We’ve seen what Christ left. Shouldn’t we as well? How about starting with our bad moments, or those bad habits? Leave them at the cross. Our selfish moods and white lies? Give them to God. Our binges and bigotries? God wants them all. Every flop, every failure. He wants every single one. Why? Because he knows we can’t live with them.

Many a summer afternoon at my grandmother’s, I’d play football with my cousin in the empty field next to her house. Many a summer afternoon was spent imitating Roger Staubach or Johnny Unitas or Bart Starr. But that empty field had grass burrs, and grass burrs hurt. You can’t play football without falling, and you couldn’t fall in my grandmother’s field without getting stuck. A few times I pulled myself out of a sticker patch so hopelessly covered that I had to have help. Kids don’t rely on other kids to pull out grass burrs. You need someone with skill. So, I’d call time out and limp to the house so my grandmother could pluck out the stickers — one by painful one. I wasn’t too bright, but I knew this: if I wanted to get back into the game, I needed to get rid of those stickers. 

And every mistake in life is like a grass burr. You can’t live without falling, and you can’t fall without getting stuck. But guess what? We aren’t always as smart as young ballplayers. We sometimes try to get back into the game without dealing with the stickers. It’s as if we don’t want anyone to know we fell, so we pretend we never did. Consequently, we live in pain. We can’t walk well, sleep well, or rest well. We’re touchy.

Does God want us to live like that? No. Listen to his promise: “This is my commitment to my people: removal of their sins.” (Rom. 11:27) God does more than forgive our mistakes; he removes them. We simply have to take them to him. He not only wants the mistakes we’ve made, but he wants the ones we’re making. Are you cheating at work or cheating at marriage? Are you mismanaging money? Are you mismanaging your life? If so, don’t pretend nothing’s wrong. Don’t pretend you don’t fall. Don’t try to get back in the game. First go to God. The first step after a stumble has to be in the direction of the cross. “If we confess our sins to God, he can always be trusted to forgive us and take our sins away.” (1 John 1:9) So, what can you leave at the cross? Start with your bad moments. And while you are there, give God your mad ones, too.

Remember the story about the man who was bitten by the dog? When he learned the dog had rabies, he began making a list. The doctor told him there was no need to make a will because the rabies could be cured. “Oh, I’m not making a will,” he replied. “I’m making a list of all the people I want to bite.” Couldn’t we all make such a list? We’ve already learned that friends aren’t always friendly, and neighbors aren’t always neighborly. We’ve already learned that some workers never work, and some bosses are always bossy. We’ve learned that a promise made is not always a promise kept. We’ve already learned that we tend to fight back. To bite back. To keep lists and snarl lips and growl at people we don’t like.

God wants that list. He inspired one servant to write, “Love does not keep a record of wrongs.” (1 Cor. 13:5) He wants us to leave the list at the cross. Not easy. “Just look what they did to me!” as we point to our hurts. “Just look what I did for you,” he reminds us and points to the cross. Paul said it this way: “If someone does wrong to you, forgive that person because the Lord forgave you.” (Col. 3:13) You and I are commanded — not urged, commanded — to keep no list of wrongs.

Besides, do we really want to keep one? Do we really want to catalog all our mistreatments? Do we really want to growl and snap our way through life? God doesn’t want us to either. We need to give up our sins before they infect us, and our bitterness before it incites us, and give God our anxieties before it inhibits us. And, since we’re there, let’s give God our anxious moments, too.

A man told his psychologist that his anxieties were disturbing his dreams. Some nights he dreamed he was a pup tent; other nights he dreamed he was a tepee. The doctor quickly analyzed the situation and replied, “I know your problem. You’re too tense.” Most of us are. So next time, try taking those anxieties to the cross. Next time you’re worried about your health or house or finances or flights, take a mental trip up the hill. Spend a few moments looking again at the pieces of the passion. Run your thumb over the tip of the spear. Balance a spike in the palm of your hand. Read the wooden sign written in your own language.

He did all of this for you and me. And knowing this, knowing all he did for us there, don’t you think he’ll look out for us here? Or as Paul wrote, “God did not keep back his own Son, but he gave him for us. If God did this, won’t he freely give us everything else?” (Rom. 8:32) We could do ourselves a favor by taking our anxious moments to the cross. Leave them there with your bad moments, your mad moments, and your anxious moments. Oh, and your final moment.

Frankly, barring the return of Christ first, we’ll have one. A final moment. A final breath. A final widening of the eyes and beating of the heart. In a split second we’ll leave what we know and enter what we don’t. And that’s what bothers us. Death is the great unknown. We’re always a bit skittish about the unknown. God promises to come at an unexpected hour and take us from the gray world we know to a golden world we don’t. But since we don’t, we aren’t sure we want to go. We even get upset at the thought of his coming. For that reason God wants us to trust him. “Don’t let your hearts be troubled,” he urged. “I will come back and take you to be with me so that you may be where I am.” (John 14:1,3)

Troubled about your final moments? Leave them at the foot of the cross. Leave them there with your bad moments, mad moments and anxious moments. And about this time maybe you’re thinking, “You know, if I leave all those moments at the cross, I won’t have any moments left but good ones.”

I guess you won’t.

Grace,

Randy

Saturday

Saturday

Early on Sunday morning, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and found that the stone had been rolled away from the entrance. She ran and found Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved. She said, “They have taken the Lord’s body out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they have put him!”

Peter and the other disciple started out for the tomb. They were both running, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He stooped and looked in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he didn’t go in. Then Simon Peter arrived and went inside. He also noticed the linen wrappings lying there, while the cloth that had covered Jesus’ head was folded up and lying apart from the other wrappings. Then the disciple who had reached the tomb first also went in, and he saw and believed — for until then they still hadn’t understood the Scriptures that said Jesus must rise from the dead. Then they went home. (John 20:1-10)

Let’s talk about grave clothes for a minute. Fun stuff, huh? Hardly. Make a list of depressing subjects, and burial garments would be somewhere between an Internal Revenue Service audit and long-term dental care. No one likes grave clothes. No one discusses grave clothes. For instance, have you ever tried to spice up the conversation at the dinner table with, “So, what are you planning to wear to your funeral?” Probably not. Or, have you ever seen a store specializing in burial garments, like “Clothes to Die For”? Most people don’t talk about grave clothes much.

The apostle John, apparently, was an exception to this rule. Ask him, and he’ll tell you how he came to see burial garments as a symbol of triumph. Mind you, he didn’t always see them that way. A tangible reminder of the death of his best friend, Jesus, they used to seem like a symbol of tragedy. But on that first Easter Sunday, God took the clothing of death and made it a symbol of life. So, could God do the same for you?

We all face tragedy. What’s more, we’ve all received the symbols of tragedy. Yours might be an ID bracelet from the hospital, a scar, or a summons from the Superior Court. For a few at my church, it’s an ash heap that was once called home. We don’t like these symbols, nor do we want these symbols. Like wrecked cars in a junkyard, they clutter up our hearts with memories of bad days. But could God use these things for something good? I mean, how far can we really go with verses like, “In everything God works for the good of those who love him.” (Rom. 8:28)

But does “everything” include tumors and tests and tempers and terminations? John would say, “Yep.” John would tell you that God can turn any tragedy into a triumph, if only you will wait and watch. And, to prove his point, he would tell you about one Friday in particular:

Later, Joseph from Arimathea asked Pilate if he could take the body of Jesus. (Joseph was a secret follower of Jesus, because he was afraid of some of the leaders.) Pilate gave his permission, so Joseph came and took Jesus’ body away. Nicodemus, who earlier had come to Jesus at night, went with Joseph. He brought about seventy-five pounds of myrrh and aloes. These two men took Jesus’ body and wrapped it with the spices in pieces of linen cloth, which is how they bury the dead. (John 19:38–40)

Reluctant during Christ’s life, but courageous at his death, Joseph and Nicodemus came to serve Jesus. They came to bury him. They ascended the hill bearing the burial clothing. Pilate had given his permission. Joseph of Arimathea had given a tomb. Nicodemus had brought the spices and linens. In fact, John states that Nicodemus brought seventy-five pounds of myrrh and aloes. The amount is worth noting, because a quantity like that was typically used only for a king. John also comments on the linens because, to him at least, they were a picture of a Friday tragedy. As long as there were no grave clothes, as long as there was no tomb, as long as there was no coroner, there was hope. But the arrival of the hearse triggered hope’s exit. And to this apostle, the grave clothes symbolized tragedy.

And could there have been a greater tragedy for John than a dead Jesus? Because three years earlier John had turned his back on his career and threw his lot in with the Nazarene carpenter. Earlier in the week John had enjoyed a ticker-tape parade as Jesus and the disciples entered Jerusalem. But how quickly things had turned. The people who had called Jesus king on Sunday were calling for his torture and death the following Friday. These linens were a tangible reminder that his friend and his future were wrapped in cloth and sealed behind a rock.

Of course, John didn’t know on that Friday what you and I know now. He didn’t know that Friday’s tragedy would be Sunday’s triumph. John would later confess that he “did not yet understand from the Scriptures that Jesus must rise from the dead.” (John 20:9) That’s why what he did on Saturday is so important. But the truth is that we don’t know anything about that particular Saturday; we don’t have a verse to read, or even a little bit of knowledge to share. All we know is that when Sunday came, John was there because when Mary Magdalene came looking for him, she found him.

But Jesus was dead. The Master’s body was lifeless. John’s friend and future were buried. But John hadn’t left. Why? Was he waiting for the resurrection? No. As far as he knew, the lips were forever silent and the hands forever still. He wasn’t expecting a Sunday surprise.

Then why was he there, because you’d think he would have left. Who was to say that the men who crucified Christ wouldn’t come after him as well? The crowds were pleased with one crucifixion, so maybe the religious leaders would call for more. So why didn’t John get out of town? Perhaps the answer was pragmatic: maybe he was taking care of Jesus’ mother. Or, perhaps he didn’t have anywhere else to go. Or, maybe he didn’t have any money or energy or direction … or all of the above. Or, maybe he lingered because he loved Jesus.

To some, Jesus was a miracle worker. To others, Jesus was a master teacher. And to the masses, Jesus was the hope of Israel. But to John, he was all of these and much more. To John, Jesus was a friend. And you don’t abandon a friend — even when that friend is dead. John stayed close to Jesus.

He had a habit of doing that, too. For instance, he was close to Jesus in the upper room. He was close to Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. He was at the foot of the cross at the crucifixion, and he was a quick sprint from the tomb at the burial. Did he understand Jesus? No. Was he glad Jesus did what he did? No. But did he leave Jesus? No.

What about you? When you’re in John’s position, what do you do? When it’s Saturday in your life, how do you react? When you are somewhere between yesterday’s tragedy and tomorrow’s triumph, what do you do? Do you leave God, or do you linger near him? John chose to linger. And because he lingered on Saturday, he was around on Sunday to see the miracle.

Mary said, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they have put him.” So Peter and the other follower started for the tomb. They were both running, but the other follower ran faster than Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent down and looked in and saw the strips of linen cloth lying there, but he did not go in. Then following him, Simon Peter arrived and went into the tomb and saw the strips of linen lying there. He also saw the cloth that had been around Jesus’ head, which was folded up and laid in a different place from the strips of linen. Then the other follower, who had reached the tomb first, also went in. He saw and believed. (John 20:2–8)

As we learn from the narrative, Peter and John were given the news very early on Sunday morning: “Jesus’ body is missing!” And you get the distinct impression that Mary was urgent, both with her announcement and her opinion. She thought Jesus’ enemies had taken his body away. So, being typical guys, the two disciples take off for the hewn-rock sepulcher, John outrunning Peter and arriving first. What he saw, however, so stunned him that he froze at the entrance. But what was so stunning? “Strips of linen cloth,” apparently. He saw “the cloth that had been around Jesus’ head … folded up and laid in a different place from the strips of linen.” He saw “cloth lying.” So?

Well, the original Greek provides some insight. John employs a term that means “rolled up,” or “still in their folds.” In other words, these burial wraps had not been ripped off and thrown on the ground. They were, instead, still in their original state, i.e., the linens were undisturbed. The grave clothes were still rolled and folded. But how could that be? Because if friends had removed the body, wouldn’t they have taken the clothes too? But if enemies had taken the body, wouldn’t they have done the same? And if not, if for some reason friends or enemies had unwrapped the body, would they have been so careful to dispose of the clothing in such a neat and tidy fashion? Not likely. But if neither friend nor foe took the body, who did?

That was John’s question, and that question led to John’s discovery. “He saw and believed.” (John 20:8) Through the rags of death, John saw the power of life. Odd, don’t you think, that God would use something as sad as a burial wrap to change a life? But God’s like that. In his hand a bunch of empty wine jugs at a wedding become a symbol of power; the coin of a widow becomes a symbol of generosity; a crude manger in Bethlehem becomes a symbol of devotion; and a tool of death becomes a symbol of love. So, should we be so surprised that he takes the wrappings of death and makes them the picture of life?

Which takes us back to my question. Could God do something similar in your life? Could he take what today is a token of your tragedy and turn it into a symbol of triumph? Yes, He can. And all you have to do is what John did – don’t leave; hang around and remember the second half of that Romans passage: “God works for the good of those who love him.” (Rom. 8:28) That’s how John felt about Jesus. He loved him. He didn’t understand him or even always agree with him, but he loved him. And because he loved him, he stayed near him.

The Bible says that “in everything God works for the good of those who love him.” But if you’re having a hard time believing his word, try this. Remove the word everything, and replace it with the symbol of your own tragedy. For instance, for John, the verse would read: “In burial clothing God works for the good of those who love him.” So, how would Romans 8:28 read in your life?

In hospital stays God works for the good. In divorce papers God works for the good. In a prison term God works for the good. If God can change John’s life through a tragedy, could he use a tragedy to change your own?

As hard as it may be to believe, you could be only a Saturday away from a resurrection.

Grace,

Randy

Costly

Costly

Now the tax collectors and “sinners” were all gathering around to hear him. But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law muttered, “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.”

Then Jesus told them this parable: “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.

“Or suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Doesn’t she light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it? And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin.’ In the same way, I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.” (Luke 15:1-10)

Luke tells us that Jesus told not one, but actually three, separate parables to the Pharisees and the scribes, or teachers, that day who were complaining about the fact that not only did Jesus welcome “sinners,” but he ate with them, too.

The first parable is called the Parable of the Lost Sheep, and it’s the story of a man who was tending a flock of one hundred sheep when one goes wandering off. Maybe it was just a matter of sheep-inattentiveness. However, instead of simply writing the sheep off as a loss, the shepherd went searching until he found that lost sheep. And after finding it, he called everyone around to “Rejoice with me, for I have found my lost sheep.” (Verse 6)

The second parable is called the Parable of the Lost Coin. In this story, a woman has ten silver coins in her house but somehow loses one of them. Maybe it was just a matter of being a little careless. But, like the shepherd, she’s not going to write it off as a loss either. So she “lights a lamp, sweeps the whole house, and searches diligently until she finds it.” (Verse 8) And when she does, just like the shepherd, she calls her friends and neighbors over and says, “Rejoice with me, for I have found my lost coin.” (She was also happy that her house was clean, too, and just in time for the party!) The third parable’s the story we’ve been studying over the last few weeks, the Parable of the Prodigal Son.

Now, there are some obvious similarities in these three stories. For instance, in each parable something is lost, i.e., a sheep, a coin and a son. And, in each, the one who loses something gets it back, i.e., the shepherd, the woman and the father. And, finally, each of the narratives ends on a festive note, and we see people rejoicing and celebrating when the lost have been found.

But with all their similarities, there’s one glaring difference between the last parable and the first two. Did you spot it? Look a little harder, because it’s there. Yep, in the first two parables, the shepherd and the woman go out and search frantically for the lost sheep and the lost coin. Nothing gets in the way of these determined “searchers.” So, by the time we get to the last story, and we hear about the deplorable conditions in which the younger son finds himself, we kind of expect that someone will go out and search for him, too. But no one does. It’s surprising, maybe even a little disquieting, don’t you think? I believe it was intentional.

You see, by placing the three parables side-by-side-by-side, Jesus is inviting us to think, and perhaps ask ourselves, “Shouldn’t someone have gone out looking for the lost boy, just like in the first two parables?” (Probably) “But, if so, who would that be? The father? The older brother, maybe? How about a search party? Better yet, how ‘bout Columbo?” (Sorry)

Of course, Jesus knew his Word like the back of his hand, and he knew that at its very beginning (Genesis 4) it tells another story of an elder and younger brother – Cain and Abel. And in that story, God tells the resentful and proud older brother, “You are your brother’s keeper.”

The late Edmund Clowney, a one-time Escondido resident and professor at Westminster Theological Seminary, recounted in a sermon he once gave the true life story of Daniel Dawson, an Army Lieutenant, whose reconnaissance plane had been shot down over the Vietcong jungle. When his brother, Donald, heard the report, he sold everything he had, left his wife with $20, and went to Vietnam. When he arrived, he got his hands on some soldier’s gear and wandered through the guerilla-controlled jungle, looking for his brother. He carried leaflets with pictures of the plane, and offered a reward to anyone who could provide him with news of the missing pilot. He became known as Anh toi phi-cong — the brother of the pilot, or just “the brother.”

And isn’t that what the older brother in the parable should have done? I mean, this is what a true elder brother would have done, don’t you think? He would have said something like, “Look, Dad, my younger brother was a fool for demanding his inheritance and then simply disappearing. But it’s been months since we’ve heard from him, and I’m getting a little concerned – just like you. Fact is, he’s probably broke and in a gutter somewhere. So, I’m gonna go look for him and when I find him, I’ll bring him back. And if his inheritance has been wasted, as I expect, I’ll bring him back at my expense.” Wait. At the older brother’s expense? Yes, at the brother’s expense.

Because, as Jesus said, the father had divided his property between the two boys before the younger one left town. Everything had been divvied up. The younger brother had gotten his share and, we know from the story, his share was completely gone. So, when the father says to the older brother, “My son, everything I have is yours,” he’s not kidding. He’s telling the literal truth. Every penny that remained of the family estate now belonged to the older brother. Every robe, every ring, every sandal, every fattened calf was the older brother’s by right.

It’s tempting to believe that the restoration of the younger brother didn’t involve a cost. We get there by pointing out the fact that the younger brother wanted to make restitution, but his father wouldn’t let him. So, we conclude, his acceptance back into the family was without cost. And we use this conclusion to support the proposition that forgiveness and love should always be free and unconditional. But that’s an oversimplification, I think, and here’s why.

If someone breaks your cell phone, you could demand that they buy you a new one. Right? The alternative, of course, is to forgive them and pay for the replacement yourself, or simply go without your cell phone. (Really?) OK, but now imagine something more serious – someone has maliciously damaged your reputation. Again, like the phone scenario, you have two options. The first would be to make that person pay by going to others who know him and then ruining his name as a way of restoring your own. On the other hand, you could forgive him and take on the much more difficult task of attempting to set the record straight without vilifying him in the process. The forgiveness is free and unconditional to the perpetrator, but it’s costly to you.

Mercy and forgiveness must be free and unmerited to the wrongdoer, because if the wrongdoer has to do something to merit it, then it’s not mercy, is it? But forgiveness always comes at a cost to the one who forgives. And while the parable of the prodigal son showed us how free the father’s forgiveness was, it also gives us insight into its costliness. You see, the younger brother’s restoration was free to him, but it came at an enormous cost to the older brother because the father could not reinstate him except at the expense of his older son. There was no other way.

But Jesus doesn’t put a true elder brother in the story, does he? One who was willing to pay whatever it cost to go on a search and rescue mission looking for his derelict, younger brother. The younger son gets a Pharisee for a brother, instead. And maybe that’s why the parable leaves us hanging – we’re never told what the elder brother eventually decided. But by putting a flawed elder brother in the story, Jesus is inviting us to imagine what a true older brother would’ve done, or what he’d look like.

So, think of the kind of brother we need. We need one who doesn’t just go to the next country to find us, but one who’ll move heaven and earth to do so. We need a brother who is willing to pay not just money, but the cost of his own life to bring us into God’s family. We’ve all rebelled against God. And it doesn’t matter if you’re a “younger brother” or an “older brother,” because we all deserve rejection.

You see, one of the points of the parable is that forgiveness isn’t free. It always involves a price. Someone has to pay. Again, there was no way for the younger brother to return to the family unless the older brother paid the price, himself. And Jesus, our true “older brother,” paid for our redemption with his life – on a cross.

We need to soften our hearts and be moved by the sight of what it cost to bring us home. Jesus emptied himself of his glory and became a servant. (Phil. 2:5-9) He laid aside the omnipotence of his being and, at the cost of his life, paid the debt for our sin and purchased us the only place our hearts can truly find rest – in his Father’s house. And once we begin to comprehend this staggering truth, it can transform us from the inside out. I mean, why wouldn’t you want to offer yourself to someone like that?

John Newton, the author of the hymn, Amazing Grace, wrote another hymn (Olney Hymns, Hymn 3) that succinctly makes this point:

“Our pleasure and our duty,

Though opposite before;

Since we have seen his beauty,

Are joined to part no more:

It is our highest pleasure,

No less than duty’s call;

To love him beyond measure,

And serve him with our all.”

In a few short words, Newton perfectly summarizes our dilemma: we either turn from God and pursue our heart’s desire, like the younger brother, or we repress our desires and perform our moral obligations, like the older brother. But the sacrificial, costly love of Jesus on the cross changes all of that. Because when we see the beauty of what Jesus has done for us, it attracts us to him. We realize that the love we’ve been seeking in other things is really in Jesus. It also eliminates our fear, because if the Lord of the universe loves us enough to die for us, then about what do we have to be afraid?

We will never stop being younger brothers or elder brothers until we acknowledge our need for him, and then rest in faith and gaze with awe at the work of our true elder brother, Jesus Christ. Then, we won’t need religion, because we’ll have a relationship, instead.

Grace,

Randy