Grace-Defined

 

Grace-Defined

Grace-Defined - Audio/Visual

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 agent, 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. So, 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 you 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 a sign like that over a fountain? "No swallowing, please. Fill your mouth but not your stomach." That’s crazy. 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 a grocery shelf. 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 are 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 maybe 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. And 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 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) Grace-defined.

Grace,

Randy

Thanks-living

 

Thanks-living

Thanks-living - Audio/Visual

Now on his way to Jerusalem, Jesus traveled along the border between Samaria and Galilee. As he was going into a village, ten men who had leprosy met him. They stood at a distance and called out in a loud voice, “Jesus, Master, have pity on us!”

When he saw them, he said, “Go, show yourselves to the priests.” And as they went, they were cleansed.

One of them, when he saw he was healed, came back, praising God in a loud voice. He threw himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him — and he was a Samaritan.

Jesus asked, “Were not all ten cleansed? Where are the other nine? Has no one returned to give praise to God except this foreigner?” Then he said to him, “Rise and go; your faith has made you well.” (Luke 17:11-19)

It’s a tribute to modern medicine that most of us, fortunately, don’t know much about leprosy. So what we know about the disease we only know from what we’ve read in the Bible, unless you want to Google it. But if we had lived during Biblical times, we probably would have known a whole lot more because it was the most feared disease in its day. It was deadly, incurable and hopeless. The ancients feared it so much that anyone suspected of having the disease was banished from society. In fact, in the rabbinic writings of the time there are remedies for all kinds of diseases, but there’s nothing listed for leprosy. The rabbis said that curing leprosy was like “raising the dead.” Pretty grim stuff.

So, there’s Jesus, traveling near the border of Samaria and Galilee, and it’s there where he meets a group of lepers. We don’t know precisely where this encounter took place because you can’t even find the small town on a map. But it was somewhere south of Nazareth and north of Sychar. And it’s no surprise that Jesus would encounter these unfortunate men between Galilee and Samaria. Galilee was Jesus’ home base. He was raised there. He had family and boyhood friends there. He made his headquarters at Capernaum on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. Most of his miracles, and much of his teaching was done in Galilee. It was the land of his greatest popularity. But Samaria? Well, that was another matter altogether.

You see, observant Jews avoided Samaria at almost all costs. The story goes back hundreds of years to the Assyrian captivity which began in 722 B.C. Some of the Jewish people had intermarried with the Assyrians and had become, in the eyes of their countrymen, half-breeds and traitors. In other words, they were unclean. Over the centuries, then, the Samaritans had become a mixed race with a mixed religion. The Jewish people hated the Samaritans, and the Samaritans’ feelings were mutual.

And it’s here, on the frontier between Galilee and Samaria, in the DMZ between the Jews and the Samaritans, that Jesus meets ten lepers. And frankly, where else could they go? The Jews didn’t want them and neither did the Samaritans. So, here’s a colony of lepers joined by their common misfortune and misery. Their only uniting characteristic is the foul disease that had cast them out of society. And as Jesus enters the village, these men stand a long way off and cry out to him for mercy.

The word had spread. "He’s here,” said one of the lepers. “Who’s here?” said the other. “Jesus of Nazareth,” said the first. “Do you think he could heal us?” said another. “I don’t know, but let’s find out.” So, there they stand; the most ragged choir in all of Israel – ten lepers crying out to Jesus for mercy. “Have mercy. Have Mercy,” came the cry from lips that had seen too little mercy and too much condemnation. So what’s Jesus’ response? Will he heal them right then and there on the spot? That was certainly within his power, and no doubt was what the lepers had probably hoped he would do. But, instead, Jesus said something that, well, seems a little unexpected. When he saw them, he said to them, “Go and show yourselves to the priests.”

Now, at first glance you might think that Jesus was simply blowing them off. You might even think that he didn’t intend to heal them at all. And if you were to come to that conclusion, you could probably infer that Jesus meant to impress upon them the utter hopelessness of their condition. But all of those inferences would be wrong. As a matter of fact, Jesus fully intended to heal them, but he also intended to do it in keeping with the demands of the Law of Moses since if Jesus hadn’t sent the lepers to the priest, no one would have ever believed that the miracle had taken place at all.

But that’s not the whole story here. The last part of verse 14 says that “as they went they were cleansed.” In other words, they were healed as they went to go see the priest. Not before. Not after. That means that when they left to go see the priest, they still had leprosy. Now how do you suppose they felt when Jesus said, “Go show yourselves to the priest?” Go show what to the priest? That they were still lepers? Really? They didn’t have anything to show the priest that he wanted to see. In fact, the last thing the priest wanted to see was ten smelly, disheveled, deformed and wretched lepers. In fact, I wonder if one of them may have even said, “Why bother?” But off they went, this shuffling band of sufferers marching off to see the priest, maybe even doubting their healing the entire way.

So they take one step – they’re still lepers. They take two steps – nothing happens. They take a third step – the leprosy still clings to their skin. But on that fourth step, or maybe the fifth, or maybe the hundredth, something wonderful, something unbelievable, something they never dreamed possible happened. With that next step, they were healed. Instantly. Miraculously. All ten. All at once. They were healed as they went. Not before. Not after. But in the act of going they were healed. Why? Because it was the act of going that was an act of their faith. And it didn’t matter how they felt about it. God honored their going in spite of what may have been some serious doubts along the way.

Like the lepers, our faith moves mountains when our faith moves us. When Jesus said, “Go show yourselves to the priest,” he was really saying, “Act as if you’re already healed.” What a great piece of advice. So many times we pray and pray and pray and nothing seems to happen. But when our faith, shaky though it may be, finally moves us to action God honors it and answers begin to come. Unfortunately, too many of us are trapped by the curse of passive religion. You know what that is, don’t you? It’s the view that says trusting God means letting him do it all. So, for instance, we pray, “Lord, I need money,” but we refuse to go out and look for a job. Passive religion uses God as an excuse to do nothing. But trusting God does not equal doing nothing. Remember: the ten lepers were healed as they went. It’s a marvelous miracle, but it’s not the end of the story. Another miracle is about to happen.

Ten were healed and only one came back to give thanks. Luke says he fell on his face before the Lord. He’s been healed of leprosy. For who knows how many years he’s been a leper living in his remote, little corner of the world, separated from his family, forgotten by his friends, cut off from his own people. But suddenly the disease vanishes and with it the twisted limp, the crooked fingers and the atrophied muscles. Then Luke adds, “He was a Samaritan.” The shock and amazement in that statement is such that we ought to read it this way: “Think of that! A Samaritan of all people.” Remember, Jesus was a Jew and the Jews thought Samaritans were half-breed traitors. To make matters worse, he was a Samaritan and a leper. To a Jew, you couldn’t find a more repulsive combination. He was from the wrong race, with the wrong religion and he had the worst-possible disease. In religious speak, this Samaritan knew almost nothing, and what he knew was mostly wrong. But he knew Jesus had healed him, and he knew enough to be grateful to God.

Now, Luke doesn’t say so directly but I think he may have also been implying that the other nine were Jews. And if that’s true, then what this story really means is that those who should have been the most grateful weren’t. And the one man who shouldn’t have come back did. And this story pictures life as it really is. It’s a picture of the abundant grace of God. I mean, this is a wholesale cure – a whole hospital’s healed with only a word. Ten at a time. It’s a huge miracle. It’s also a picture of the prevalence of ingratitude. Nine out ten people will probably forget almost every blessing they’ve ever received. But it’s also a picture of unexpected grace. Grateful hearts, it seems, pop up where you least expect them.

Jesus then asks the Samaritan three questions. “Were there not ten healed?” Yes. “Where are the other nine?” Gone. “Is there no one here but this foreigner?” No one. And if you listen carefully, you can even sense, perhaps, a tinge of sadness in Jesus’ voice. He wanted to know about the others. Where are they? Weren’t they healed? Why didn’t they come back and say, “Thank You"? Good question. So, why didn’t they come back? Well, maybe they were in a hurry to see the priest. Or, maybe they thought Jesus would be gone when they got back. Perhaps they assumed Jesus knew how grateful they were and they didn’t need to tell him what he already knew. I mean, he’s God after all. Or, maybe they were just too busy. So where are they now? Gone off with their blessings. Gone to see the priest. Gone to see their families. Gone with no word of thanks. Gone.

But when you really look at these ten lepers, they’re all alike aren’t they? All had leprosy. All were outcasts from society. All were determined to do something about it. All had heard about Jesus and believed he could help them. All appealed to him. All obeyed his word. All were healed. So, on the surface they appear to be identical. Yet what a difference. One returned. Nine went on. One was grateful. Nine were not. One man found forgiveness. Nine didn’t. One man got two miracles. Nine got one. All ten were healed. (That’s one miracle) But the Samaritan was healed and forgiven. (That’s two miracles) And I think that’s what Jesus meant when he said, “Your faith has made you well” – well, spiritually. So, where are the nine? The answer is they got what they wanted and then promptly left the building. Jesus performed a mighty miracle for them and they said, “Thanks, Lord. We can take it from here.” Sadly, that kind of attitude can be found in each one of us, even those who were raised in the church. The reason? Because we have so little appreciation for what God has done for us. We just don’t love the Lord that much, or just not enough to express gratitude for his blessings.

But isn’t gratitude the highest duty of the believer and the supreme virtue – the fountain from which all other blessings flow? Yes. But its corollary, ingratitude, is the leprosy of the soul. It eats away from the inside. It destroys our happiness, cripples our joy, withers our compassion, paralyzes our praise and renders us completely numb to all the blessings of God.

Every good thing in the Christian life flows from gratitude, or thankfulness. And when I realize the goodness of God – not in the abstract or in the theoretical, but personally – then, and only then, am I free to go, free to pray, free to tell, free to do, free to be. I don’t need to be coerced. I don’t need to be pressured. When we can finally look and see what God has done; when we can count our many blessings and name them one by one; when we can understand that every good and perfect gift comes down from the Father above; when we can see that life itself comes gift-wrapped from on high; when we know, really know, that all of life is God’s grace … then we begin to praise; we begin to give; we begin to sing; we begin to tell; we begin to serve; we begin to enter into the “Abundant Life.”

When we finally understand that we were born lepers, and then we see what Jesus has done for us, and when it finally breaks through that only by the grace of God do we have anything valuable at all, only then does life really begin to change. At that point, wonderful things begin to happen to us. What was duty is now privilege. What was law is now grace. What was demanded is now volunteered. What was forced is now free. What was drudgery is now joy. What was taken for granted is now offered up in praise to God. When it finally breaks through to us, then we come running, gladly, just like the leper.

Ten men were healed that day, but only one came back to give thanks. Which one are you? Far too many of us take our blessings for granted and groan about duties. But it doesn’t have to be that way. Praise is a choice. A thankful heart is a choice you make. No one is forced into bitterness. You choose the way you live. The one who returned to give thanks chose not to forget what Jesus had done for him. The secret then of a thankful heart is a conscious choice not to forget what God has done for you. That’s called, “Thanks-living.”

Grace,

Randy

Vaccination

Vaccination

Vaccination - Audio/Visual

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 of 1347, a fleet from Genoa, Italy returned from the Black Sea carrying in their holds Europe’s death sentence. By the time the ships had 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, or 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 a slip-up or misstep, 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 – s I n. 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 sea 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 COVID-19, 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 hospice. “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? And that response to the doctor about my irregular heartbeat? I made that part up, of course. 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