Coming Home

Coming Home

But when the time arrived that was set by God the Father, God sent his Son, born among us of a woman, born under the conditions of the law so that he might redeem those of us who have been kidnapped by the law. Thus we have been set free to experience our rightful heritage. You can tell for sure that you are now fully adopted as his own children because God sent the Spirit of his Son into our lives crying out, “Papa! Father!” Doesn’t that privilege of intimate conversation with God make it plain that you are not a slave, but a child? And if you are a child, you’re also an heir, with complete access to the inheritance. (Gal. 4:4-7)

Search the faces of the local Haitian children’s home for a little girl named Angelique. Study the fifty-seven dark-skinned, bright-eyed, curly-haired, Creole-speaking, fun-loving children for a unique seven-year-old girl. At first glance, she doesn’t look much different than the others – she eats the same rice and beans; plays on the same grassless playground. She sleeps beneath a tin roof, like all the other girls, and hears the nearly nightly pounding of the tropical rain. However, although she may appear to be the same, don't be fooled. She lives in a different world – a world called, “Coming Home.”

See the slender girl wearing the pink shirt? The girl with the prominent cheekbones, bushy hair and a handful of photos? Ask to see the pictures, and Angelique will let you. Fail to ask her, however, and she’ll show you the snapshots anyway. The photos bear the images of her future family. She's been adopted, and the pictures remind her of her coming home. Within a month, maybe two at the most, she'll be there. She knows the day is coming, and every opening of the gate jump-starts her heart. Any day now her father will appear. He promised he'd be back. He came once to claim her, and he'll come again to carry her home. Until then she lives with a heart waiting for her homecoming. Shouldn't we all?

Our Father paid us a visit, too. Haven’t we been claimed? Adopted? "So you should not be like cowering, fearful slaves. You should behave instead like God's very own children, adopted into his family – calling him 'Father, dear Father.'" (Rom. 8:15) God searched you out. Before you knew you were orphaned by sin, he'd already filed the paperwork and selected the wallpaper for your room. "For God knew his people in advance, and he chose them to become like his Son, so that his Son would be the firstborn, with many brothers and sisters." (Rom. 8:29) Abandon you to a fatherless world? No way. Not a chance. Those privy to God's family Bible can read your name because he wrote it there. What's more, he covered the adoption fees. Neither you nor Angelique can pay your way out of the orphanage, so “God sent his Son, born among us of a woman, born under the conditions of the law so that he might redeem those of us who have been kidnapped by the law. Thus we have been set free to experience our rightful heritage.” (Gal. 4:5) In other words, we don't finance our adoption. But we do have to accept it.

Granted, Angelique could tell her prospective parents to get lost. But she hasn't. And in the same way, you could tell God to get lost, too. But you wouldn't, would you? The moment we accept his offer we go from orphans to heirs – “Heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ." (Rom. 8:17) Heirs. Heaven knows no stepchildren or grandchildren. Just children. You and Christ share the same Will. What he inherits, you inherit. You’re headed home. But sometimes we forget that fact.

We grow a little too accustomed to the hard bunks and tin plates of the orphanage. Seldom do we peer over the fence into the world to come. And how long has it been since you showed someone your pictures? Is Peter talking to you when he urges, "Friends, this world is not your home, so don't make yourselves cozy in it"? (1 Pet. 2:11) We’ve been adopted, we just haven’t been transported yet. We have a new family, but not our heavenly house. We know our Father's name, but we haven't seen his face. He’s claimed us, but has not yet to come for us.

So here we are. Caught between what is and what will be. No longer orphans, but not home yet, either. So, what do we do in the meantime? And, frankly, sometimes it’s just that – a mean time. Time made mean with chemotherapy, drivers driving with more beer than brains in their bodies, and backstabbers who make life on earth feel like a time-share in Afghanistan. So, how do we live in the meantime? How do we keep our hearts headed home? Paul weighs in with this suggestion: “And even we Christians, although we have the Holy Spirit within us as a foretaste of future glory, also groan to be released from pain and suffering. We, too, wait anxiously for that day when God will give us our full rights as his children, including the new bodies he has promised us. Now that we are saved, we eagerly look forward to this freedom. For if you already have something, you don't need to hope for it. But if we look forward to something we don't have yet, we must wait patiently and confidently.” (Rom. 8:23-25)

Interesting that Paul calls the Holy Spirit a “foretaste” – “We have the Holy Spirit . . . as a foretaste of future glory." (v. 23) No person with a healthy appetite needs a definition for that word. I’ve had a few foretastes, haven’t you? For instance, not long ago, I was in the kitchen sniffing around the dinner trimmings – just like my big, yellow Labrador, True, sniffs around the kitchen island for a treat. And then when my wife wasn’t looking, I snatched a foretaste – a morsel of meatloaf, or a corner of the cornbread. Pre-dinner snacks stir our appetites for the table, right? Well, samplings from heaven's kitchen do the same.

There are moments, perhaps too few, when time evaporates and heaven hands you an hors d'oeuvre. For instance, your newborn has just passed from restlessness to rest. Beneath the amber light of a midnight moon, you trace a soft finger across tiny, sleeping eyes and wonder, “God gave you to me?” A pre-libation from heaven's winery. Or, you're lost in the work you love to do; were just made to do. And as you step back from the moist canvas, or hoed garden, or rebuilt V-eight engine, satisfaction flows within you like a long drink of cool water, and the angel asks, "Another aperitif?" Or maybe the lyrics to the hymn say what you couldn't but wanted to. And for a moment, a splendid moment, there are no wars, no wounds, or tax returns. Just you, God, and a silent assurance that everything is right with the world. Rather than dismiss or disregard such moments as good luck, or coincidence, relish them instead. They can attune you to heaven. The tough ones can, too.

"[We] also groan to be released from pain and suffering. We, too, wait anxiously for that day when God will give us our full rights as his children, including the new bodies he has promised us." (v. 23) Do you think Angelique groans? Orphans tend to do that because they live lonely lives. Seeing a child with a mother and father, they groan. They see a house and think of their bunk. They groan. When they wonder what happened to their biological parents, wouldn't they groan? Of course they would.

But Angelique's groans are numbered. Every cafeteria meal brings her closer to home cooking, and each dormitory night carries her closer to a room of her own. And every time she longs to call someone mama, she remembers that she soon will. Her struggles stir longings for home. So, let your bursitis-plagued body remind you of your eternal one; let acid-inducing days prompt thoughts of unending peace. Are you falsely accused? Acquainted with abuse? Mudslinging is a part of this life, but not the next. And rather than begrudging life's troubles, listen to them. Certain moments are so hideous, nothing else will do.

In 1992, a Time magazine essay entitled Corridors of Agony escorted readers into the ugly world of abused children. There, we met Antwan, age ten, puppet-stringed to neighborhood bullies and drug peddlers. They demanded his presence; he feared their punishment. When police appeared, the troublemakers stashed their drugs in his socks, thinking the boy wouldn't be searched. Tragically, Antwan knew the police better than he knew his teachers. What hope does a boy like Antwan have?

The writer then took us to his sparse apartment. His mother, Syrita, owned one light bulb. When she left the kitchen, she carried the lone bulb to the living room. As she screwed it into the lamp, the dim glow illuminated a poster on a far wall of a young black boy crying. The caption above read, "He will wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying, nor pain. All of that has gone forever." (Rev. 21:4)

Write checks of hope on that promise. Do not bemoan time passing; applaud it. The more you drink from God's well, the more you urge the clock to tick. Every bump of the second hand brings you closer to a completed adoption. As Paul writes, "We, too, wait anxiously for that day when God will give us our full rights as his children." (Rom. 8:23)

There was a time, long ago, when my kids celebrated my arrival home. They’d hear the car and scamper to the window, pressing noses and hands against the windowpane next to the front door. And as I pulled into the drive, I could see them jumping inside the house. You'd think someone had switched their M&M's for coffee beans. No returning Caesar ever felt more welcomed. And as I opened the door, they tackled my knees and flooded the entryway with a tsunami-sized joy. Their dad was home.

It's been too long since I searched for God that way. Too seldom do I hear the thunder and think, “Is that God?” I've let days pass without even so much as a glance to the eastern sky. Let's do better. "Let heaven fill your thoughts. Do not think only about things down here on earth." (Col. 3:2) How about regular ladle dips into the well of God's return? Don't you know Angelique's coming home dominates her thoughts? The pictures – can she see them and not think of it? Blessings and burdens. Both can alarm-clock us out of a slumber. Gifts stir homeward longings. So do struggles. Every homeless day carries us closer to the day our Father will come to take us home.

Coming home. What a homecoming that will be.

Grace,

Randy

Gridlock

Gridlock

I am shocked that you are turning away so soon from God, who in his love and mercy called you to share the eternal life he gives through Christ. You are already following a different way that pretends to be the Good News but is not the Good News at all. You are being fooled by those who twist and change the truth concerning Christ. . . . And yet we Jewish Christians know that we become right with God, not by doing what the law commands, but by faith in Jesus Christ. So we have believed in Christ Jesus, that we might be accepted by God because of our faith in Christ – and not because we have obeyed the law. For no one will ever be saved by obeying the law. (Gal. 1:6-7; 2:16)

The prodigal son trudges along the dusty road toward home. His smell makes passersby hold their noses and walk wide circles around him. But he doesn't notice; he doesn’t care. Eyes to the ground, he rehearses his speech: "Father," his voice barely audible, “I have sinned against heaven and against you. I'm not worthy to be called your son." He rehashes his confession over and over again, wondering if he should say more, less, or simply make a U-turn back to the pigpen. After all, he’d cashed in the trust fund and trashed the family name. Over the last year, he'd awakened with more parched throats, headaches, women, and tattoos, than a Hollywood rock star. How could his father ever forgive him? “Maybe I could offer to pay off the credit cards,” he thinks. He's so focused on penance-planning that he fails to hear the sound of his father sprinting toward him. The dad embraces his mud-layered boy as if he were a returning war hero. He tells the servants to bring a robe, a ring and some sandals, as if to say, "No boy of mine is going to look like Pigpen. Fire up the grill. Bring on the drinks. It's time to celebrate!"

Meanwhile, big brother stands on the porch and sulks. "No one ever gave me a party," he mumbles, arms crossed. The father tries to explain, but the jealous son won't listen. He huffs and shrugs and grumbles something about cheap grace, saddles his high horse, and rides off. But you knew that, right? You've read the parable of the prodigal son. (Luke 15:11-32) But did you read what happened next? It's a real page-turner, but here’s a summary.

The older brother resolves to rain on the forgiveness parade. If Dad won't exact justice on the kid, then he will. "Nice robe there, little brother," he tells him one day. "Better keep it clean. One spot and Dad will send you to the cleaners with it." The younger brother waves him away. But the next time he sees his father he quickly checks his robe for stains. A few days later big brother warns him about the ring. "Quite a piece of jewelry Dad gave you, bro. But he prefers that you wear it on your thumb." "My thumb? He didn't tell me that." "Well, some things you're just supposed to know." "But it won't fit my thumb." "What's your goal – pleasing our father or your own personal comfort?" the spirituality monitor chirps as he walks away. But big brother isn't finished. With the pleasantness of an IRS auditor, he taunts, "If Dad sees you with loose straps, he'll take those fancy sandals back." "He will not. They were a gift. He wouldn't . . . would he?" The ex-prodigal then leans over to tighten the straps. As he does, he spots a smudge on his robe. Trying to rub it off, he realizes the ring is on a finger, not his thumb. And that's when he hears his father say, "Hello, son." And there the boy sits, wearing a spotted robe, loose laces, and a misplaced ring. Overcome with fear, he reacts with a "Sorry, Dad," and runs away.

Too many tasks. Keeping the robe spotless, the ring positioned, the sandals snug – who could meet those kinds of standards? Gift preservation begins to wear on the young man. So, he avoids the father he feels he can't please, quits wearing the gifts he can't maintain, and even begins longing for the simpler days of the pigpen. "No one hounded me there," he thinks. That kind of summarizes it. What? You don’t recall reading that part? Well, it’s on page 1,199 of my Bible, in the book of Galatians.

Thanks to some legalistic big brothers, Paul's readers had gone from grace-receiving to law-keeping. Their Christian life had taken on the same level of joy as a colonoscopy. And Paul was puzzled. “I am shocked that you are turning away so soon from God, who in his love and mercy called you to share the eternal life he gives through Christ. You are already following a different way that pretends to be the Good News, but is not the Good News at all. You are being fooled by those who twist and change the truth concerning Christ. . . . And yet we Jewish Christians know that we become right with God, not by doing what the law commands, but by faith in Jesus Christ. So we have believed in Christ Jesus, that we might be accepted by God because of our faith in Christ – and not because we have obeyed the law. For no one will ever be saved by obeying the law.” (Gal. 1:6-7; 2:16)

Joy snatchers had infiltrated the Roman church, too. So, Paul had to remind them as well, "But people are declared righteous because of their faith, not because of their work." (Rom. 4:5) And Philippian Christians had heard the same foolishness. Big brothers weren't telling them to wear a ring on their thumb, but they were insisting that the men had to be circumcised to be saved. (Phil. 3:2) Even the Jerusalem church, the flagship, heard the solemn monotones of the Quality Control Board – where non-Jewish believers were being told, "You cannot be saved if you are not circumcised as Moses taught us." (Acts 15:1) It was everywhere, and the churches were suffering from the same malady: grace gridlock. The Father might let you in the gate, but you have to earn your place at the table. God makes the down payment on your redemption, but you pay the monthly installments. Heaven gives the boat, but you have to row it if you ever want to see the other shore. Grace gridlock. Taste, but don't drink. Wet your lips, but never quench your thirst. Can you imagine such a sign over a fountain? "No swallowing, please. Fill your mouth but not your stomach." Ridiculous. What good is water if you can't swallow it?

And what good is grace if you don't let it reach deep? For instance, what image best describes your heart? A water-drenched kid dancing in front of an open fire hydrant, or a desert tumbleweed? Here’s how you know. Does God's grace define you? Deeply flowing grace clarifies, once and for all, who we are. But God is so rich in mercy, and he loved us so very much, that even while we were dead because of our sins, he gave us life when he raised Christ from the dead. (It is only by God's special favor that you have been saved!) For he raised us from the dead along with Christ, and we are seated with him in the heavenly realms – all because we are one with Christ Jesus. And so God can always point to us as examples of the incredible wealth of his favor and kindness toward us, as shown in all he has done for us through Christ Jesus. God saved you by his special favor when you believed. And you can't take credit for this; it is a gift from God. Salvation is not a reward for the good things we have done, so none of us can boast about it. (Eph. 2:4-9) Look how grace defines us. We are spiritually alive: "he gave us life" (v. 5); heavenly positioned: "seated with him in the heavenly realms" (v. 6); connected to God: "one with Christ Jesus" (v. 6); billboards of mercy: "examples of the incredible wealth of his favor and kindness toward us" (v. 7); and honored children: "God saved you by his special favor." (v. 8)

Grace defines you. As grace sinks in, earthly labels begin to fade. Society labels you like a can on an assembly line. Stupid. Unproductive. Slow learner. Fast talker. Quitter. Cheapskate. But as grace infiltrates, criticisms begin to disintegrate. You know you aren't who they say you are, because you’re who God says you are. Spiritually alive. Heavenly positioned. Connected to the Father. A billboard of mercy. An honored child. Of course, not all labels are negative. Some people regard you as handsome, beautiful, clever, successful, or efficient. But even a White House office doesn't compare with being "seated with him in the heavenly realms." Grace creates the Christian's résumé. It certainly did for Mephibosheth.

Talk about a redefined life. After assuming the throne of Saul, "David began wondering if anyone in Saul's family was still alive, for he had promised Jonathan that he would show kindness to them." (2 Sam. 9:1) The Philistines, you'll remember, defeated Saul in battle. After the smoke of conflict passed, David sought to display mercy to Saul's descendants. A servant named Ziba remembered: "Yes, one of Jonathan's sons is still alive, but he’s crippled." (v. 3) No name offered. Just his handicap. Labeled by misfortune. An earlier chapter revealed the mishap. When word of Saul's and Jonathan's deaths reached the capital, a nurse in Jonathan's house swept up his five-year-old boy and fled. But in her haste, she stumbled and dropped him, crippling the boy in both feet. So where does Mephibosheth turn? Can't walk. Can't work. Father and grandfather dead. Where can the crippled grandson of a failed leader go?

How about Lo-debar. Sounds like a place that charm forgot. Like Notrees, Texas, or Weed, California, or Nothing, Arizona, or maybe Accident, Maryland. Lo-debar, Israel. Appropriate place for Mephibosheth. Stuck with a name longer than his arm. Dropped like a cantaloupe from a wet paper sack. How low can you go? Low enough to end up living in the low-rent district of Lo-debar. Maybe you know its streets. If you've ever been dropped, you do. Dropped from the list. Dropped by a guy. Dropped by the team. Dropped at the orphanage. And now you walk with a limp. People don't remember your name, but they remember your pain. "He's the alcoholic." "Oh, I remember her. The widow." "You mean the divorced woman from Nowheresville?" "No. Lo-debarville." You live labeled.

But then something Cinderella-like happens. The king's men knock on your Lo-debar door. They load you in a wagon and carry you into the presence of the king. You assume the worst and begin praying for a quick execution. But the servants don't drop you off at the gallows; they set you at the king's table, and right above your plate sits a placard with your name on it. "And from that time on, Mephibosheth ate regularly with David, as though he were one of his own sons." (2 Sam. 9:11)

From Lo-debar to the palace; from obscurity to royalty; from no future to the king's table. Quite a move for Mephibosheth. And quite a reminder for us, because he models our journey. God lifted us from the dead-end streets of Lo-debarville and sat us at his table. "We are seated with him in the heavenly realms." (Eph. 2:6) Meditate on that verse. Next time the arid desert winds blow, defining you by yesterday's struggles, reach for God's goblet of grace and drink. Grace defines who you are. The parent you can't please is just as mistaken as the doting uncle you can't disappoint. People hold no clout. Only God does. And according to him, you are his. Period. "For we are God's masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so that we can do the good things he planned for us long ago." (Eph. 2:10)

Suppose Mephibosheth had seen this verse. Imagine someone back in the Lo-debar days telling him, "Don't be discouraged, friend. I know you can't dance or run. Others kick the soccer ball, and you're stuck here staring out the window. But listen, God wrote your story. He cast you in his drama. Three thousand years from now your story will stir an image of grace for some readers in the 21^st century." Would he have believed it? I don't know. But I hope that you will. You hang as God's work of art, a testimony in his gallery of grace.

Over a hundred years ago, a group of fishermen were relaxing in the dining room of a Scottish seaside inn, trading fish stories. One of the men gestured widely, depicting the size of the proverbial fish that got away. His arm struck the server’s tea tray, sending the teapot flying into the whitewashed wall, where its contents left an irregular brown splotch. The innkeeper surveyed the damage and sighed, "The whole wall will have to be repainted." "Perhaps not," offered a stranger. "Let me work with it." Having nothing to lose, the proprietor consented. The man pulled pencils, brushes, some jars of linseed oil, and pigment out of an art box. He sketched lines around the stains and dabbed shades and colors throughout the splashes of tea. In time, an image began to emerge: a stag with a great rack of antlers. The man inscribed his signature at the bottom, paid for his meal, and left. His name was Sir Edwin Landseer, the famous painter of wildlife. In his hands, a mistake had become a masterpiece.

God's hands do the same, over and over. He draws together the disjointed blotches in our life and renders them an expression of his love. We become pictures: "examples of the incredible wealth of his favor and kindness toward us." (Eph. 2:7). Who determines your identity? What defines you? The day you were dropped? Or the day you were carried to the King's table? Receive God’s work. Drink deeply from his well of grace. As grace sinks into your soul, Lo-debar will become a dot in the rearview mirror. Dark days will define you no more. You’re in the palace now. And now you know what to say to the big brothers of this world. No need for frantic robe cleaning, or rules for ring wearing. Your deeds don’t save you. And your deeds won’t keep you saved. Grace does.

So, the next time big brother starts dispensing more snarls than a bunch of hungry Rottweilers, loosen your sandals, set your ring on your finger, and quote the apostle of grace who said, “By the grace of God I am what I am.” (1 Cor. 15:10)

Break the gridlock, and let God’s grace reach your heart.

Grace,

Randy

Vaccination

Vaccination

He was despised, and we did not care. Yet it was our weaknesses he carried; it was our sorrows that weighed him down. And we thought his troubles were a punishment from God, a punishment for his own sins! But he was pierced for our rebellion, crushed for our sins. He was beaten so we could be whole. He was whipped so we could be healed. All of us, like sheep, have strayed away. We have left God’s paths to follow our own. Yet the Lord laid on him the sins of us all. (Isaiah 53:3-6)

In October, 1347, a fleet from Genoa returned from the Black Sea, carrying in their holds Europe’s death sentence. By the time the ships landed in Messina, Italy, most of the sailors were dead. The few who survived wished they hadn't. Fever racked their bodies. Festering boils burst open on their skin. And although authorities had ordered the vessels out of the harbor, it was too late. Flea-infested rats had already scampered down the ropes into the village, and the bubonic plague had begun its ruthless march across the continent. Within a short and brutal five years, 25 million people (one-third of Europe's population) had died. And that was just the beginning.

As late as 1665, the epidemic left another 100,000 Londoners dead until a bitter, yet mercifully cold, winter killed the fleas. The healthy quarantined the infected, and the infected counted their days. If you were to make a list of history's harshest scourges, the Black Plague would probably rank near the top. But it’s not the highest. Call the disease catastrophic or disastrous, but humanity's deadliest? No. Scripture reserves that title for an older pandemic that by comparison makes the Black Plague seem like the common cold. No culture avoids it, no nation escapes it, and no person sidesteps its infection. Blame the bubonic plague on the Yersinia pestis bacterium. But blame the plague of sin on a godless decision.

Adam and Eve turned their heads toward the hisssss of the snake and, for the first time, ignored God. They acted as if they had no heavenly Father at all. His will was ignored, and sin, with death on its coattails, entered the world. Sin sees the world with no God in it. Where we might think of sin as slip-ups or missteps, God views sin as a godless attitude that leads to godless actions. "All of us, like sheep, have strayed away. We have left God’s paths to follow our own." (Isa. 53:6) The sinful mind dismisses God. His counsel goes un-consulted. His opinion, unsolicited. His plan, unconsidered. The sin-infected grant God the same respect that middle-schoolers give a substitute teacher – acknowledged, but not taken very seriously. And the lack of God-centeredness leads to self-centeredness.

Sin celebrates its middle letter – sIn. It proclaims, "It's your life, right? So, go ahead. Pump your body full of drugs, your mind with greed, and your nights with pleasure." The godless lead a me-dominated, childish life; a life of "doing what we felt like doing, when we felt like doing it." (Eph. 2:3) God says to love, but we choose to hate. God instructs, "Forgive," but we opt to get even. God calls for self-control, but we promote self-indulgence. And sin, for a season, quenches that thirst. But so does salt water. Given time, however, the thirst returns – and more demanding than ever. "Having lost all sensitivity, they have given themselves over to sensuality so as to indulge in every kind of impurity, with a continual lust for more." (Eph. 4:19)

We pay a high price for such self-obsession: Paul speaks of sinners when he describes those who knew God, but they wouldn't worship him as God, or even give him thanks. And then they began to think up foolish ideas of what God was like. The result was that their minds became dark and confused. So, God let them go ahead and do whatever shameful things their hearts desired. As a result, they did vile and degrading things with each other's bodies. (Rom. 1:21, 24) And you've seen the chaos, haven’t you? The husband ignoring his wife; the dictator murdering the millions; grown men seducing the young; the young propositioning the old. When we do what we want, and no one cares what God wants, humanity implodes. The infection of the person leads to the corruption of the populace.

Extract God and expect earthly chaos and eternal misery. God’s made it clear – the plague of sin will not cross his shores. Infected souls will never walk his streets. "Unjust people who don't care about God will not be joining in his kingdom. Those who use and abuse each other, use and abuse sex, use and abuse the earth and everything in it, don't qualify as citizens in God's kingdom." (1 Cor. 6:9-10) God refuses to compromise the spiritual purity of heaven. And therein lies the awful fruit of sin – lead a godless life and expect a godless eternity. Spend a life telling God to leave you alone, and he will – you’ll have an existence "without God and without hope." (Eph. 2:12) Jesus will "punish those who reject God and who do not obey the Good News about our Lord Jesus. They will suffer the punishment of eternal destruction, separated from the presence of the Lord and from his glorious might." (2 Thess. 1:8-9)

Christ doesn’t keep any secrets about hell. His description chills the soul: a place of darkness (Matt. 8:12); a fiery furnace (Matt. 13:42); a place where "the worm does not die; the fire is never put out." (Mark 9:48) Citizens of hell beg to die, but they can’t. Beg for water, but receive none. They pass into a dawnless night. So what can we do? If all have been infected and the world is corrupted, to whom do we turn? Or, to re-ask the great question of Scripture: "What must I do to be saved?" (Acts 16:30)

The answer offered then is the answer offered still: "Put your entire trust in the Master Jesus." (Acts 16:31) But why Jesus? Why not Muhammad or Moses? Joseph Smith or Buddha? What uniquely qualifies Jesus to safeguard the sin-sick? In a sentence: Christ, the sinless, became sin so that we, the sin-infected, could be counted sinless. "God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God." (2 Cor. 5:21) Christ not only became the sin offering by receiving God's wrath for the sins of humanity, he overcame the punishment for sin (death) through his glorious resurrection from the dead.

Life's greatest calamity, from God's perspective, is that people die in sin. In one sentence Christ twice warned, "I told you that you would die in your sins; if you do not believe that I am the one I claim to be, you will indeed die in your sins." (John 8:24) So, forget earthquakes or economic downturns. The ultimate disaster is carrying your sins to your casket. Heaven can’t fathom a worse tragedy. And heaven couldn’t offer a greater gift than this one: "Christ . . . never sinned, but he died for sinners that he might bring us safely home to God." (1 Pet. 3:18)

What if a miracle worker had done something comparable with the Black Plague? Imagine a man born with bubonic resistance. The bacterium couldn’t penetrate his system unless he allowed it to. And, incredibly, he does. He pursues the infected and makes this offer: "Touch my hand. Give me your disease, and receive my health." (2 Cor. 5:21) The boil-and-fever-ridden would have had nothing to lose. They’d look at his extended hand and reach to touch it. And, true to the man's word, bacteria pass from their system into his. But their relief spells his anguish. His skin erupts and his body heaves. And as the healed stand in awe, the disease-bearer hobbles away. We don’t have one of those stories in our history books. But we do in our Bible.

Jesus took the punishment, and that made us whole. Through his bruises we get healed. . . . God has piled all our sins, everything we've done wrong on him, on him. . . . He took on his own shoulders the sin of the many; he took up the cause of all the black sheep. (Isa. 53:5-6, 12) Christ responds to universal sin with a universal sacrifice, taking on the sins of the entire world. This is Christ's work for you. But God's salvation song has two verses. He not only took your place on the cross, but he takes his place in your heart. That’s the second stanza: Christ's work in you. "It is no longer I who live," Paul explained, "but Christ lives in me." (Gal. 2:20) Or as he told one church, "Don't you realize that all of you together are the temple of God and that the Spirit of God lives in you?" (1 Cor. 3:16) In salvation, God enters the hearts of his Adams and Eves. He permanently places himself within us, and that has some powerful implications. "When God lives and breathes in you (and he does, as surely as he did in Jesus), you are delivered from that dead life." (Rom. 8:11) Here’s how it works.

It took three hundred years, but the Black Plague finally reached the quaint village of Eyam, England. George Viccars, a tailor, unpacked a parcel shipped from London. The cloth he'd ordered had finally arrived. But as he opened and shook it, he released plague-infected fleas. Within four days he was dead, and the village was doomed. The town unselfishly quarantined itself, seeking to protect the region. Other villages deposited food in an open field and left the people of Eyam to die alone. But to everyone's amazement, many survived. A year later, when outsiders again visited the town, they found that half the residents had resisted the disease. But how could that happen? They had touched it. Breathed it. One surviving mother had buried six children and her husband in one week. The gravedigger had handled hundreds of diseased corpses yet hadn't died. Why not? How did they survive? Lineage.

Through DNA studies of descendants, scientists found proof of a disease-blocking gene. The gene garrisoned the white blood cells, preventing the bacteria from gaining entrance. The plague, in other words, could touch people with this gene but not kill them. Hence a sub-populace swam in a sea of infection but emerged untouched. All because they had the right parents. So, what's the secret for surviving the Black Plague? Picking the right ancestry, I guess. They couldn't, of course. But by God you can pick yours.

You can select your spiritual father. You can change your family tree from that of Adam to God. And when you do, he moves in. His resistance becomes your resistance. His Teflon coating becomes yours. Sin may entice you, but will never enslave you. Sin may, and will, touch you, discourage you, distract you, but it cannot condemn you. Christ is in you, and you are in him, and "there is no condemnation for those who belong to Christ Jesus." (Rom. 8:1) If nothing else, trust that truth. Trust the work of God for you. Then trust the presence of Christ in you. Take frequent, refreshing drinks from his well of grace, because we all need regular reminders that we are not fatally afflicted. So don't live as though you are.

A few years ago my doctor noticed an infrequent, irregular heartbeat. Not always; just occasionally. I immediately imagined the worst, and by the time I consulted a specialist, I'd already prepared for an early departure. But the EKG and treadmill test proved me wrong. It was the remnants of a murmur I’d had as a child. Trace the condition back to caffeine, stress, maybe a family tree, I suppose, but the doctor told me, "You're in good health." Upon hearing the news, I did what you might expect. I began to weep and asked my doctor, "How much time do I have left?" The doctor cocked his head, puzzled. "Any chance you could help me break the news to my family?" Still he didn't respond. Assuming he was emotionally overcome, I gave him a hug and left. Stopping at a hospital supply store, I ordered a wheelchair and hospital bed, and inquired about home healthcare. “Hey, wait a second,” maybe you're thinking. “Didn’t you hear what the doctor told you?” And I'm wondering the same thing: didn’t you hear what heaven told you?

"The blood of Jesus . . . purifies us from all sin." (1 John 1:7) So then why the guilt? Why the regret? Why the shadow of shame? Shouldn't we live with a skip in our step and a smile on our face? Oh, and that response to the doctor about my irregular heartbeat? I made that part up. Honestly, I gave him a handshake, smiled at the receptionist, and went on my way - relieved. And now, when I get those occasional little flutters, I chalk it up to an aging body, or too much caffeine, perhaps, and place my trust in the doctor's words. You would do well to do the same.

Just as my heart will occasionally flutter, we all will occasionally sin. And when you do, remember: sin may touch, but cannot claim you. Christ is in you. Trust his work for you. He took your place on the cross. And then trust his work “in” you. Your heart is his home, and he’s your master.

Call it the great vaccination.

Grace,

Randy