Don't Be a Grace-A-Lot

 

Don’t Be a Grace-A-Lot

Don't Be a Grace-A-Lot - Audio/Visual 

That famous promise God gave Abraham — that he and his children would possess the earth — was not given because of something Abraham did or would do. It was based on God’s decision to put everything together for him, which Abraham then entered when he believed. If those who get what God gives them only get it by doing everything they are told to do and filling out all the right forms properly signed, that eliminates personal trust completely and turns the promise into an ironclad contract! That’s not a holy promise; that’s a business deal. A contract drawn up by a hard-nosed lawyer and with plenty of fine print only makes sure that you will never be able to collect. But if there is no contract in the first place, simply a promise — and God’s promise at that — you can’t break it. This is why the fulfillment of God’s promise depends entirely on trusting God and his way, and then simply embracing him and what he does. God’s promise arrives as pure gift. (Romans 4:13-16 MSG)

The word “fatigue” is a familiar noun to most. It’s not a foreign word. You’re probably familiar with its definition, too, i.e., burning eyes, slumped shoulders, gloomy spirit and robotic thoughts. You’re tired. We’re tired. A tired people. A tired generation. A tired society. We race and we run. Workweeks drag like an Arctic ice sheet. Monday mornings show up on Sunday nights. We slog our way through long lines and long hours with long faces because of our long lists of the things we need to do, the Christmas gifts we need to buy, and the people we’re trying to please. There are teeth to clean. Diapers to change. Carpets, kids, canaries – everything needs our attention. The government wants more taxes. The kids want more toys. The boss wants more hours. The school, more volunteers. The parents, more visits. And the church. The church? Yes, the serve-more, pray-more, attend-more, host-more, and read-more church. And what can you say? The church speaks for God, right?

It seems like every time we catch our breath, someone else needs something else. Like the Egyptian taskmasters who demanded another brick from the Hebrew slaves to construct their newest pyramid on the block. But God intervened and delivered the Israelites from the slave drivers who served Pharaoh’s Nile-sized ego. He opened the Red Sea like a curtain and closed it like an aquarium. Pharaoh's army swam with the fishes, and the Hebrews became charter members of the “Land of ‘No More’” Club. As in, no more bricks. No more mud. No more mortar. No more straw. No more mind-numbing forced labor. It was as if all of heaven shouted, "You can rest now." And so, they did. A million or more sets of lungs sighed. They rested … for about half an inch. Well, that's the amount of space between Exodus 15 and 16. The amount of time between those two chapters is about a month. And somewhere in that half-inch, one-month gap, the Israelites decided they wanted to go back into slavery.

They remembered the delicacies of the Egyptians, which likely wasn’t anything more than some bland stew. But nostalgia isn’t a stickler for detail. So, they told Moses they wanted to go back to the land of labor, sweat and aching backs. And Moses’ response? "Did someone put a hex on you? Have you taken leave of your senses?" (Gal. 3:1 MSG) Sorry, wrong author. Those were Paul’s words, not Moses.’ Words for Christians, not Hebrews. New Testament, not Old. First century AD, not thirteenth century BC.

But the Christians of Paul's day were behaving like the Hebrews of Moses' day. Both had been redeemed, yet both turned their backs on their freedom despite the fact that the second redemption had upstaged the first. This time, God sent Jesus, not Moses. He smote Satan, not Pharaoh. Not with ten plagues, but with a single cross. The Red Sea didn't open, but the grave did. And Jesus led anyone who wanted to follow him to the land of “No More.” No more law keeping. No more striving after God's approval. "You can rest now," he told them. And they did. This time, for about fourteen pages – the distance between Peter’s sermon in Acts 2, and the gathering of the church in Acts 15. In Acts 2, grace was preached. In Acts 15, grace was questioned.

It wasn't that the people didn't believe in grace. They did. They believed in grace – a lot. They just didn't believe in grace – alone. They wanted to add to the work of Christ. Grace-a-lots believe in grace – a lot. But they argue that Jesus almost finished the work of salvation. Or that in the rowboat named “Heaven-Bound,” Jesus paddles most of the time. But every so often he needs our help. So, we give it. We accumulate good works the way I accumulated awards on my high school letterman’s jacket.

In my mind, no morning was complete without at least a brief survey of my accomplishments. Each patch was a reward for my hard work. I played football to earn the football emblem, and the chevrons that came with each successive season thereafter. I ran track to earn the winged-foot badge, and more chevrons. I played soccer to earn that soccer ball patch. I wrestled to earn that grappler’s emblem. I even had medals from my CIF accomplishments. Could anything be more gratifying than earning these patches, I dreamed? Yes. Showing them off. Which I did on the day of any one of my games during its season. I strolled through campus as if I were the king of England. Accomplishments receive applause. Guys envied them. Girls swooned over them. In fact, I thought that girls secretly longed to run their fingers over my patches and medals and then beg me for a date. Teenagers.

I became a Christian during my letterman days and assumed that God grades on a similar, merit-based system, too. Good athletes move up. Good people go to heaven. So, I resolved to amass a multitude of spiritual badges. An embroidered Bible for Bible reading. Folded hands for prayer. A kid sleeping on the pew for church attendance. I worked toward the day, that wonderful day, when God, amid falling confetti and dancing cherubim, would eternally fit me with my patch-laden Christian letterman’s jacket and welcome me into his eternal kingdom where I could humbly display my accomplishments for all to see. For all of eternity. But then some thorny questions surfaced.

For instance, if God saves good people, then how good is "good?" God expects integrity of speech, but how much? What is the permitted percentage of exaggeration, let’s say? Suppose the required score is 80 and I score a 79? But how do you know your score? So, I sought the advice of a minister. Surely, he could help me answer the "How good is good enough?" question. And he did. With one word: “Do.” Do better. Be more. Do now. "Be good, and you'll be okay." "Do more and you'll be saved." "Be right, and you'll be all right." Do. Be. Do. Be. Do. Ever heard that tune before?

Most people embrace the assumption that God saves good people. So be good. Be moral. Be honest. Be decent. Pray the rosary. Keep the Sabbath. Keep your promises. Pray five times a day facing the east. Stay clean. Stay sober. Pay taxes. Earn those patches.

Yet, for all the talk about being good, no one could answer the fundamental question: What level of good is good enough? At stake is our eternal destination, yet we’re more confident about sugar cookie recipes than the entrance requirements for heaven. Fortunately, God has the answer: "For by grace you have been saved through faith, and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God." (Eph. 2:8)

In other words, we contribute nothing. Zero. As opposed to the award-filled letterman’s jacket, salvation of the soul is unearned. It’s a gift. Our merits merit nothing. God's work merits everything. And that was Paul's message to the grace-a-lots. "Christ redeemed us from that self-defeating, cursed life by absorbing it completely into himself." (Gal. 3:13) Translation: "Say no to the pyramids and bricks. Say no to the rules and lists. Say no to slavery and performance. Jesus redeemed you.” Apparently, they didn't understand. Maybe you do. But if you don’t, then consider the example of some Chilean miners.

Trapped beneath two thousand feet of solid rock, the thirty-three men were desperate. They ate two spoonful’s of tuna, a sip of milk, and a morsel of peaches – every other day. For two months they prayed for someone to save them. On the surface above, the Chilean rescue team worked around the clock, consulting NASA and meeting with countless experts. They designed a thirteen-foot-tall capsule and drilled an excavation tunnel. There was no guarantee of success, because no one had ever been trapped underground that long and lived to tell about it.

On October 13, 2010, the men began to emerge, slapping high fives and praying. A great-grandfather. A forty-four-year-old who was planning a wedding. A nineteen-year-old. All had different stories, but all made the same decision. They trusted someone else to save them. No one returned the rescue offer with a declaration of independence: "I can get out of here on my own. Just give me a new drill." No, they’d stared at their stone tomb long enough to reach the unanimous conclusion: "We need someone to penetrate this world and pull us out." And when the rescue capsule came, they climbed in.

So why is it so hard for us to simply do the same? We find it easier to trust the miracle of the resurrection than the miracle of grace. We so fear failure that we create an image of perfection just in case heaven is even more disappointed in us than we are. The result? Fatigue. Attempts at self-salvation guarantee nothing but exhaustion. We scamper and scurry, trying to please God, collecting merit badges and brownie points, and scowling at anyone who questions our accomplishments. But the Hebrew writer says, "Your hearts should be strengthened by God's grace, not by obeying rules." (Heb. 13:9)

Jesus didn’t say, "Come to me, all who are perfect and sinless." Just the opposite. "Come to me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest." (Matt. 11:28) There’s no fine print there. A second shoe isn’t going to drop. So, let me encourage you to quit performing for God. Of all the things you must earn in life, God's unending affection is not one of them. You already have it. You can’t break God’s promise. You can rest now. So, rest and then blossom and bear fruit – not because you have to, but because your roots have sunk down deep into the soil of God’s amazing and fertile grace.

Grace,

Randy

Call Me Barabbas

 

Call Me Barabbas

Call Me Barabbas - Audio/Visual 

"You brought me this man as one who was inciting the people to rebellion. I have examined him in your presence and have found no basis for your charges against him. Neither has Herod, for he sent him back to us; as you can see, he has done nothing to deserve death. Therefore, I will punish him and then release him." With one voice they cried out, "Away with this man! Release Barabbas to us!" (Barabbas had been thrown into prison for an insurrection in the city, and for murder.) (Luke 23:14-19)

Barabbas’ jail cell contains a single square window about the size of his face. Barabbas looked through it once perhaps. When he saw the execution hill, he lowered himself to the floor, leaned against the wall and pulled his knees to his chest. That was an hour ago; he hasn't moved since. He hasn't spoken since. Odd. Barabbas had been a man of many words. When the guards came at sunrise to transfer him out of the barracks, he boasted that he would be a free man before noon. On the way to his cell, he cursed the soldiers and mocked their Caesar. But since arriving, he hasn't uttered a sound. For all his bravado and braggadocio, he knows he'll be crucified by noon and dead by sundown because what’s there to say? The cross, the nails, the torturous death – he knows what awaits him.

A few hundred yards away from his small cell in the Antonia Fortress, a not-so-small gathering of men murmur in disapproval. Religious leaders mostly. Tired, angry, bearded men. On the steps above them stand a patrician Roman and a bedraggled Galilean. The first man gestures to the second and appeals to the crowd. "’You brought me this man as one who was inciting the people to rebellion. I have examined him in your presence and have found no basis for your charges against him. Neither has Herod … he has done nothing to deserve death. Therefore, I will punish him and then release him.’ With one voice they cried out, ‘Away with this man! Release Barabbas to us!’ (Barabbas had been thrown into prison for an insurrection in the city, and for murder.)” (Luke 23:14-19)

That last sentence is all you need to know about Barabbas: he’s a rebel and a murderer. Anger in his heart and blood on his hands. Defiant. Violent. A troublemaker. A life taker. He is guilty and proud of it. So, is Pilate, the Roman governor, supposed to treat this man with grace? The crowd apparently thinks so. Stranger yet, the crowd wants Pilate to execute Jesus instead – a man whom Pilate declared had "done nothing to deserve death." Pilate has no allegiance to Jesus. The Galilean means nothing to him because if Jesus was guilty, let him pay for his crime. The governor is willing to crucify a guilty man. But an innocent one? Jesus may deserve a lecture, even a lashing, but not the cross.

Pilate makes no fewer than four attempts to release Jesus. He tells the Jews to settle the matter. (John 18:28-31) He refers the issue to Herod. (Luke 23:4-7) He tries to persuade the Jews to accept Jesus as the prisoner released at Passover. (Mark 15:6-10) He offers a compromise: scourging instead of execution. (Luke 23:22) He does all he can to release Jesus. And by concluding, "I find no fault in him at all" (John 18:38), Pilate becomes an unwitting theologian. He states first what Paul would record later on: Jesus "knew no sin." (2 Cor. 5:21) Of equal ranking with Jesus' water walking, dead raising, and leper healing is this Mt. McKinley of a truth: he never sinned.

It's not that Jesus couldn’t sin; it’s that he didn’t sin. He could have broken bread with the devil in the wilderness, or broken ranks with his Father in Gethsemane. "[He] was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin." (Heb. 4:15) Jesus was God's model of a human being. Ever honest in the midst of hypocrisy. Relentlessly kind in a world of cruelty. Heaven-focused in spite of countless distractions. When it came to sin, Jesus never did.

We, on the other hand, have never stopped sinning. We are "dead in trespasses and sins." (Eph. 2:1) We are "lost" (Luke 19:10), doomed to "perish" (John 3:16), under "the wrath of God" (John 3:36), "blinded" (2 Cor. 4:3-4), and "strangers from the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world." (Eph. 2:12) We have nothing good to offer. Our finest deeds are "rubbish" and "rags" before a holy God. (Phil. 3:8; Isa. 64:6) Just call us Barabbas. Or call us "wretched." John Newton did.

Remember the descriptor in his famous hymn? "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me." That word sounds so antiquated today. Sin apparently went the way of powdered wigs and knickers. Today, nobody is actually a wretch, are they? Misguided, poorly parented, unfortunate, addicted, improperly potty trained, maybe. But wretched? Read Jesus' one-paragraph definition of sin. “A nobleman was called away to a distant empire to be crowned king and then return. Before he left, he called together ten servants and gave them ten pounds of silver to invest for him while he was gone. But his people hated him and sent a delegation after him to say they did not want him to be their king.” (Luke 19:12-14) To sin is to say, "God, I don’t want you to be my king. I prefer a kingless kingdom. Or, better yet, a kingdom in which I’m the king."

Imagine if someone did that to you. Suppose you go on a long trip and leave your residence under the supervision of a caretaker. You trust him or her with all your possessions. While you’re away, they move into your house and claim it for their own. They engrave their name on your mailbox and place their name on your accounts. They plop dirty feet on your coffee table and invite their buddies to sleep in your bed. They claim your authority and then send you this text: "Don't bother coming back. I'm running the show now." On second thought, you don’t have to imagine that scenario since present-day squatters fit that picture to the unfortunate owner’s consternation and considerable legal expense.

The Bible's word for this is sin. Sin is not a regrettable lapse or an occasional stumble. Sin stages a coup against God's regime, like Hamas did on October 7th. Sin storms the castle, lays claim to God's throne, and defies his authority. Sin shouts, "I want to run my own life, thank you very much!" Sin tells God to get out, get lost, and don’t bother coming back. Sin is insurrection of the highest order, and you are an insurrectionist. So am I. So is every single person who has ever taken a breath.

One of the most stinging indictments of humanity is found in Isaiah 53:6: "We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to his own way." Your way may be substance abuse, my way may be accumulation, another person's way may be sensual stimulation or religious self-promotion, but every person has tried to go his or her own way without God. It’s not that some of us have rebelled. We all have. "There is no one righteous, not even one; there is no one who understands, no one who seeks God. All have turned away, they have together become worthless; there is no one who does good, not even one." (Rom. 3:10-12)

This is an unpopular but essential truth – all ships that land at the shore of grace weigh anchor from the port of sin. We must start where God starts. We won't appreciate what grace does until we understand who we are. We are rebels. We are Barabbas. Like him, we deserve to die. Four prison walls, thickened with fear, hurt and hate, surround us. We’re incarcerated by our past, including our low-road choices and high-minded pride. We have been found guilty. We sit on the floor of the dusty cell, awaiting the final moment.

And our executioner's footsteps echo against stone walls. Head between our knees, we don't look up as he opens the door; we don't lift our eyes as he begins to speak. We know what he’s going to say: "Time to pay for your sins." But we hear something else. "You're free to go. They took Jesus instead of you." The door swings open, the guard barks, "Get out," and we find ourselves in the light of the morning sun, shackles gone, crimes pardoned, wondering, “What just happened?” Grace happened. Christ took away your sins. But where did he take them? To the top of a hill called Calvary, where he endured not just the nails of the Romans, the mockery of the crowd, and the spear of the soldier but the anger of God.

Saturate your heart in this, the finest summary of God's greatest accomplishment: "God in his gracious kindness declares us not guilty. He has done this through Christ Jesus, who has freed us by taking away our sins. For God sent Jesus to take the punishment for our sins and to satisfy God's anger against us. We are made right with God when we believe that Jesus shed his blood, sacrificing his life for us." (Rom. 3:24-25) God didn't overlook your sins, lest he endorse them, and he didn't punish you, lest he destroy you. He instead found a way to punish the sin and preserve the sinner. Jesus took your punishment and mine, and God gave us credit for Jesus' perfection. Incredible.

We aren’t told how the first Barabbas responded to the gift of freedom. Maybe he scorned it out of pride or refused it out of shame. We don't know. But you can determine what to do with yours. You can personalize it. You see, as long as the cross is God's gift to the world, it will touch you but not change you. Precious as it is to proclaim, "Christ died for the world," it’s much more personal to whisper, "Christ died for me." "For my sins he died." "He took my place on the cross." "He carried my sins, today's hard-heartedness." "Through the cross he claimed, cleansed and called me." "He felt my shame and spoke my name."

Interestingly, Barabbas means “son of the father,” i.e., bar (son of) abba(s) (father), and Pilate gave the people a choice: release the “son of the father,” or the “Son of the Father.” The people chose the former. And you? What will you say? “The scripture says, ‘Worship the Lord your God and serve only him.’” (Luke 4:8) So, don’t run with the crowd; be wiser. Be the Barabbas who says, "Thank you." Be the one who thanks God for the day Jesus, the Son of the Father, took your place.

Grace,

Randy

The God who Stoops

 

The God who Stoops

The God who Stoops - Audio/Visual 

As Jesus was speaking, the teachers of religious law and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in the act of adultery. They put her in front of the crowd. “Teacher,” they said to Jesus, “this woman was caught in the act of adultery. The law of Moses says to stone her. What do you say?” They were trying to trap him into saying something they could use against him, but Jesus stooped down and wrote in the dust with his finger. They kept demanding an answer, so he stood up again and said, “All right, but let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone!” Then he stooped down again and wrote in the dust. (John 8:3-8)

The voices yanked her out of bed. "You whore!" "What kind of woman are you?" Priests slammed open the bedroom door, threw back the window curtains and pulled off the covers and before she could even feel the warmth of the morning sun, she felt the heat of their scorn. She scarcely had time to cover up before they marched her through the narrow streets where the elite of Jerusalem became a jury and rendered their verdict with icy glares and crossed arms.

And as if the bedroom raid and walk of shame weren’t enough, the men thrust her into the middle of a morning Bible study. “Early the next morning [Jesus] was back again at the Temple. A crowd soon gathered, and he sat down and taught them. As he was speaking, the teachers of religious law and Pharisees brought a woman they had caught in the act of adultery. They put her in front of the crowd.” (vv. 2, 3) Stunned students stood on one side of her, and pious plaintiffs stood on the other. They had their questions and convictions; she had her dangling negligee and smeared lipstick. "This woman was caught in the very act of adultery," her accusers roared.

Caught in the very act. In the moment. In his arms. In the passion. Caught in the very act by the Jerusalem Council on Morals and Decency. "The law of Moses says to stone her. What do you say?" (v. 4) The woman had no exit. Deny the accusation? She’d been caught. Plead for mercy? From whom? From God? His self-appointed spokesmen were squeezing stones and snarling their lips. No one would speak for her. But someone would stoop for her. Jesus "stooped down and wrote in the dust." (v. 6)

We’d expect him to stand up, step forward or maybe even ascend a stair or two and speak. But, instead, he leaned over. He descended lower than anyone else – beneath the priests, the people, even beneath the woman. The accusers looked down on her. But to see Jesus, they had to look even farther down. The teacher’s prone to stoop, however. He stooped to wash feet and to embrace children. He stooped to pull Peter out of the sea, and to pray in the Garden. He stooped before the Roman whipping post and stooped to carry the cross. Grace is a God who stoops. Here, he stooped to write in the dirt.

Maybe Jesus wrote in the dust for his own benefit. Or, maybe for hers. To divert gaping eyes from the scantily clad, just-caught woman who stood in the center of the circle? We don’t know. But the posse grew impatient with the silent, stooping Jesus. "They kept demanding an answer, so he stood up." (v. 7) And he stood, all right, but not to preach – his words would be very few. And not for long since he’d soon stoop again. He stood on behalf of the woman. He placed himself between her and the lynch mob and said, "'All right, stone her. But let those who have never sinned throw the first rock!'”

Then he stooped again and resumed writing in the dust. (John 8:7-8) Name-callers shut their mouths. Rocks fell to the ground. Jesus resumed his scribbling. "When the accusers heard this, they slipped away one by one, beginning with the oldest, until only Jesus was left in the middle of the crowd with the woman." (v. 9) But Jesus wasn't finished. He stood one final time and asked the woman, "Where are your accusers?" (v. 10) What a question. But it wasn’t just for her. He asks you the same.

Voices of condemnation shout at us as well. "You aren't good enough." "You'll never improve." "You failed – again." The voices in our world. The voices in our head. Who is this morality law enforcement officer who issues a citation at every stumble? Who reminds us of our every mistake? Doesn’t he ever shut up? No. Because Satan never shuts up. The apostle John called him the Accuser. (Rev. 12:9-10) Day after day. Hour after hour. Relentless; tireless. The Accuser makes a career out of accusing. He’s a pro at it. Unlike the conviction of the Holy Spirit, Satan's condemnation doesn’t bring about repentance or resolve, just regret. He has one aim: "to steal, and to kill, and to destroy." (John 10:10) He steals your peace, kills your dreams, and destroys your future. He even enlists people to help peddle his poison. Friends dredge up your past. Preachers preach all guilt and no grace. Even parents, some of whom, it seems, own a travel agency specializing in guilt trips.

Condemnation is the preferred commodity of Satan. He will repeat the adulterous woman scenario as often as you let him, marching you through the city streets and dragging your name through the mud. He pushes you into the center of the crowd and megaphones your sin: this person was caught in an act of immorality . . . stupidity. . . dishonesty . . . irresponsibility. But he won’t have the last word.

Jesus has already acted on your behalf. He stooped for you, just like he did for the woman. Low enough to sleep in a manger, work in a carpentry shop, and sleep in a fishing boat. Low enough to rub shoulders with crooks and lepers. Low enough to be spat on, slapped, nailed and speared. Low enough to be buried. And then he stood. Up from the slab of death. Tall. High. He stood up for the woman and silenced her accusers, and he does the same for you. He is “in the presence of God at this very moment sticking up for us." (Rom. 8:34) Let that sink in for just a moment. In the presence of God, in defiance of Satan, Jesus Christ rises to your defense. Christ offers unending intercession on your behalf.

Jesus said farewell to your earthly condemnations: Stupid. Unproductive. Slow. Fast talker. Quitter. Cheapskate. You are, instead, who he says you are: Spiritually alive. Heavenly positioned. Connected to God. A billboard of mercy. An honored child. That’s the "aggressive forgiveness we call grace." (Rom. 5:20) Satan’s been left speechless and without ammunition because who can accuse the people God has chosen? No one – God’s the one who makes them right. Who can say God's people are guilty? No one – Jesus died, was raised from the dead and now sits at the right hand of God appealing to God for us. (Rom. 8:33-34) Against that onslaught, the accusations of Satan sputter and fall like the leaves during the season that bears their descent.

So why then do we still hear them? The accusations. Why do we, as Christians, still feel guilt? Not all guilt is bad, mind you. God uses appropriate doses of guilt to awaken us to sin. We know guilt is God-given when it causes "indignation . . . alarm . . . longing . . . concern . . . ." (2 Cor. 7:11) God's guilt brings enough regret to change us. Satan's guilt, on the other hand, brings enough regret to enslave us.

Curiously, or maybe ironically, the character for the word righteousness in Chinese is actually a combination of two words: the word, “Lamb,” written over the word, “Me.” The lamb is on top, covering the person. And whenever God looks down at you, that’s what he sees: the perfect Lamb of God covering you. So, it really boils down to this: Do you trust your Advocate or your Accuser? Your answer to that question has serious implications. It certainly did for Jean Valjean.

Victor Hugo introduced us to this character in his classic, Les Misérables. A just-released prisoner, Jean Valjean has wandered for days in the Alpine chill but can’t find a place to stay. No one will take him in. He’s a convicted felon. No one wants to expose their home and safety to an ex-con. Not until Valjean knocks on the door of the bishop's house. Monseigneur Myriel is seventy-five, and the French Revolution has taken its toll on him, too – all of his valuables were confiscated, except some silverware, a soup ladle, and two candlesticks. Touched, the bishop asks the visitor to warm himself by the fire and then takes the ex-prisoner to a table where they dine on soup and bread, figs, and some cheese with wine using the bishop's remaining silverware. Afterward, he shows Valjean to a bedroom. But in spite of the comfort, the ex-thief can't sleep. In spite of the kindness of the bishop, he can't resist the temptation. So, he stuffs the silverware into his knapsack. The priest, meanwhile, sleeps through the robbery and Valjean disappears into the night. But he doesn't get far. The police catch him and march him back to the bishop's house. Valjean knows what his capture means – prison for the rest of his life.

But then something astonishing happens. Before the officer can explain the crime, the bishop steps forward. "Oh! There you are! I'm so glad to see you. I can't believe you forgot the candlesticks! They are made of pure silver as well.... Please take them with the forks and spoons I gave you." Valjean is stunned. The bishop dismisses the policemen and then turns and says, "Jean Valjean, my brother, you no longer belong to evil, but to good. I have bought your soul from you. I take it back from evil thoughts and deeds and the Spirit of Hell, and I give it to God." Valjean has a choice: believe the priest or believe his past. Fortunately, Jean Valjean believes the priest. He becomes the mayor of a small town. He builds a factory and gives jobs to the poor. He takes pity on a dying mother and raises her daughter. Grace changed him, and it can change you, too.

Don’t listen to Satan's voice. You "have an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous." (1 John 2:1) As your Advocate, he defends you and says on your behalf, "There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus." (Rom. 8:1) And wasn't that the message of Jesus to the woman? "Where are your accusers? Didn't even one of them condemn you?" "No, Lord," she said. And Jesus said, "Neither do I. Go and sin no more." (John 8:10-11) Within a few moments the courtyard was empty. It was just Jesus and the woman. Her critics had all left and there she was, alone with Jesus.

She sees the rocks on the ground, abandoned and unused. And she looks at the scribbling in the dust. It's the only sermon that Jesus ever wrote. And even though we don't know the words, maybe Jesus wrote: My grace is bigger than your sin because grace is the God who stoops – even for you.

Grace,

Randy