Second Chance

Second Chance

After all, the Law itself is really concerned with the spiritual—it is I who am carnal, and have sold my soul to sin. In practice, what happens? My own behavior baffles me. For I find myself not doing what I really want to do but doing what I really loathe. Yet surely if I do things that I really don’t want to do, I am admitting that I really agree with the Law. But it cannot be said that “I” am doing them at all—it must be sin that has made its home in my nature. (And indeed, I know from experience that the carnal side of my being can scarcely be called the home of good!) I often find that I have the will to do good, but not the power. That is, I don’t accomplish the good I set out to do, and the evil I don’t really want to do I find I am always doing. Yet if I do things that I don’t really want to do then it is not, I repeat, “I” who do them, but the sin which has made its home within me.

In my mind I am God’s willing servant, but in my own nature I am bound fast, as I say, to the law of sin and death. It is an agonizing situation, and who on earth can set me free from the clutches of my sinful nature? I thank God there is a way out through Jesus Christ our Lord. (Romans 8:14-20; 23-25)

One hundred thirty feet tall, including its pedestal. 1,145 tons of reinforced Brazilian tile, concrete and soapstone. Positioned on a mountain half a mile above sea level, it’s the famous Christ the Redeemer statue that overlooks the city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Few tourists who go to Rio cannot resist snaking up Corcovado Mountain to see this looming monument. The head alone is twelve feet tall, and the armspan – from fingertip to fingertip — ninety-eight feet.

As beautiful as it is, however, there are two ironies about the statue. The first is its blind eyes. Now, I know – all statues have blind eyes. But it’s as if the sculptor of this statue intended that the eyes be blind. There are no circles to suggest sight. There are only Little Orphan Annie openings. What kind of redeemer is that? Blind? Eyes fixated on the horizon, but refusing to see the mass of people at its feet?

But the second irony can be found by following the features downward: past the strong nose, past the prominent chin, past the neck to the cloak of the statue. On the outside of the cloak there’s a heart. A Valentine’s heart. A simple heart. A stone heart. Again, what kind of redeemer is that? A heart made of stone? Held together, not with passion and love, but by concrete and mortar. What kind of redeemer is that? Blind eyes and a stony heart? Unfortunately, it’s the kind of redeemer most people have.

Oh, most people wouldn’t admit to having a blind redeemer with a stone heart. But for some, Jesus is like a good luck charm. Call him the “Rabbit’s Foot Redeemer.” You know. Pocket-sized. Handy. Easily packaged. Easily understood. Easily diagramed. You can put his picture on your wall, or you can stick it in your wallet as insurance. You can frame him, dangle him from your rear view mirror or glue him to your dashboard.

His specialty? Getting you out of a jam. Need a parking place? Rub the redeemer. Need help on a quiz? Pull out the rabbit’s foot. No need to have a relationship with him. No need to love him. Just keep him in your pocket next to your four-leaf clover.

For others, he’s an “Aladdin’s Lamp Redeemer.” New jobs. Pink Cadillacs. New and improved spouses. Your wish is his command. And what’s more, he conveniently re-enters the lamp when you don’t want him around.

And then, for some, Jesus is a “Monty Hall Redeemer.” “All right, Jesus, let’s make a deal. For fifty-two Sundays a year, I’ll put on a costume — coat and tie, hat and hose — and I’ll endure any sermon you throw at me. In exchange, you give me the grace behind pearly gate number three.”

The Rabbit’s Foot Redeemer. The Aladdin’s Lamp Redeemer. The Monty Hall Redeemer. Few demands, no challenges. No need for sacrifice. No need for commitment. Sightless and heartless redeemers. Redeemers without power. But that’s not the Redeemer of the New Testament. Compare the Cristo Redentor to the one seen by a frightened woman early one morning in Jerusalem.

It’s dawn. The early morning sun stretches a golden blanket across the streets of the city. A cat stretches as it awakens. The noises are scattered. A rooster crows his early morning recital. A dog barks to welcome the day. A peddler shuffles down the street, his wares on his back. And a young carpenter speaks in the temple courtyard. Jesus sits surrounded by a horseshoe of listeners. Some nod their heads in agreement and open their hearts in obedience. They’ve accepted the Teacher as their teacher and are learning to accept him as their Lord. Others are curious, wanting to believe, yet wary of this one whose claims stretch the boundaries of belief.

Whether cautious or convinced, they listened keenly. They arose early. There was something about his words that was more comforting than sleep. And we don’t know his topic that morning. Prayer, perhaps. Or maybe kindness or anxiety. But whatever it was, it was soon interrupted when a mob bursts into the courtyard. Determined, they erupt out of a narrow street and thunder toward Jesus. The listeners scramble to get out of the way. The mob is made up of religious leaders: the elders and deacons of their day. Respected and important men. And struggling to keep her balance on the crest of this angry wave is a scantily clad woman.

Only moments before she’d been in bed with a man who was not her husband. Was this how she made her living? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe her husband was gone, her heart was lonely, the stranger’s touch was warm, and before she knew it … she had done it. We don’t know. But we do know that a door was jerked open and she was yanked from bed. She barely had time to cover her body before she was dragged into the street by men who were probably her father’s age.

Curious neighbors stuck heads through open windows. Sleepy dogs yelped at the ruckus. And now, with holy strides, the mob storms toward the teacher. They throw the woman in his direction. She nearly falls. “We found this woman in bed with a man!” cries the leader. “The law says to stone her. What do you say?” Cocky with borrowed courage, they smirk as they watch the proverbial mouse go for the cheese.

The woman searches the faces, hungry for a compassionate glance. She finds none. Instead, she sees accusation. Squinty eyes. Tight lips. Gritted teeth. Stares that sentence without seeing. Cold, stony hearts that condemn without feeling. She looks down and sees the rocks in their hands — the rocks of righteousness intended to stone the lust, and life, right out of her. The men squeeze the rocks so tightly that their fingertips are white. They squeeze them as if the rocks were the throat of the preacher they hate. In her despair she looks at the Teacher. But his eyes don’t glare. “Don’t worry,” the eyes whisper, “it’s okay.” And for the first time that morning she sees kindness. (John 8:1-5)

When Jesus saw her, what did he see? Did he see her as a father sees his grown daughter as she walks down the wedding aisle? The father’s mind racing back through time watching his girl grow up again — from diapers to dolls. From classrooms to boyfriends. From the prom date to the wedding day. The father sees it all as he looks at his daughter. And as Jesus looked at this daughter, did his mind race back? Did he relive the act of forming this child in heaven? Did he see her as he had originally made her?

“Knitted together” is how the psalmist described the process of God making man. (Psalm 139:13) Not manufactured or mass-produced, but knitted. Each thread of personality tenderly intertwined. Each string of temperament deliberately selected. God as creator. Pensive. Excited. Inventive. An artist – brush on pallet, seeking the perfect shade. A composer – fingers on keyboard, listening for the exact chord. A poet – pen poised on paper, awaiting the precise word. The Creator, the master weaver, threading together the soul. Each one different. No two alike. None identical.

On earth, Jesus was an artist in a gallery of his own paintings. He was a composer listening as the orchestra interpreted his music. He was a poet hearing his own poetry. Yet his works of art had been defaced. Creation after battered creation. He had created people for splendor. They had settled for mediocrity. He had formed them with love. They had scarred each other with hate. When he saw businessmen using God-given intelligence to feed Satan-given greed …. When he saw tongues that had been designed to encourage used as daggers to cut …. When he saw hands that had been given for holding used as weapons for hurting …. When he saw eyes into which he’d sprinkled joy now burning with hatred …. I wonder. Did it weary him to see hearts that were stained, even discarded?

Jesus saw such a heart as he looked at this woman. Her feet were probably bare, maybe muddy. Her arms may have hid her chest and her hands perhaps clutching at each other under her chin. And her heart was ragged; torn as much by her own guilt as by the mob’s anger. So, with the tenderness only a father can have, he set out to untie the knots and repair the holes.

So, he begins by diverting the crowd’s attention. He draws on the ground. Everybody looks down. The woman feels relief as the eyes of the men look away from her. The accusers are persistent. “Tell us, Teacher! What do you want us to do with her?” Now, he could have asked why they didn’t bring the man. The Law indicted him as well. He could have asked why they were suddenly blowing the dust off an old command that had sat on the shelves for centuries. But he didn’t. He just raised his head and offered an invitation, “I guess if you’ve never made a mistake, then you have the right to stone this woman.” He looked back down and began to draw again. (John 8:6-8)

Someone cleared his throat as if to speak, but no one spoke. Feet shuffled. Eyes dropped. Then thud … thud … thud … rocks fell to the ground. And they all walked away. Beginning with the grayest beard and ending with the blackest, they turned and left. They came as one, but they left one by one. And then Jesus told the woman to look up. “Is there no one to condemn you?” He smiled as she raised her head. She saw no one, only rocks — each one a miniature tombstone to mark the burial place of a man’s arrogance. “Is there no one to condemn you?” he asked. There is still one who can, she thinks. And she turns to look at him. What does he want? What will he do?

Maybe she expected him to scold her. Perhaps she expected him to walk away from her. I’m not sure, but I do know this: what she got, she never expected. She got a promise and a commission. The promise: “Then neither do I condemn you.” The commission: “Go and sin no more.” (John 8:9-11)

The woman then turns and walks into anonymity. As far as we know, she’s never seen or heard from again. But we can be confident of one thing: on that morning in Jerusalem, she saw Jesus and Jesus saw her. And could we somehow transport her to Rio de Janeiro and let her stand at the base of the Christo Redentor, I think I know what her response would be. “That’s not the Jesus I saw,” she would say. And she’d be right. Because the Jesus she saw didn’t have a hard heart. And the Jesus that saw her didn’t have blind eyes. However, if we could then, somehow, transport her to Calvary and let her stand at the base of the cross you know what she’d say: “That’s him,” she’d whisper. “That’s him.”

She would recognize his hands. The only hands that held no stones that day were his. And on this day they still hold no stones. She’d recognize his voice: “Father, forgive them…” And she’d recognize his eyes. How could she ever forget those eyes? Clear and tear-filled. Eyes that saw her not as she was, but as she was intended to be.

You know, it’s not every day that you get a second chance. Most of the time we’re just glad to get a first one. “Get it to me by 3 p.m. or you’re fired!” “I’m sorry, but your grades aren’t high enough to admit you into the program.” “I don’t love you anymore.” The fact is, we all fail. We do things we regret. We say things we deplore. And we hurt people we love. But we’re not alone in this. Even the Apostle Paul was no stranger to failure.

Have you been there? Have you shared Paul’s frustration? If you have, then listen as he shows us the way out of our despair: It is an agonizing situation, and who on earth can set me free from the clutches of my sinful nature? I thank God there is a way out through Jesus Christ our Lord. No condemnation now hangs over the head of those who are “in” Jesus Christ. (Romans 7:24 – 8:1) If I’d been Paul, I would have put a “Hallelujah!” at the end of that paragraph. What an incredible statement. What an awesome reality!

Need a second chance? Come to Jesus. He’s no statue, and second chances are his specialty.

Grace,

 Randy

Relatives

Relatives

Then Jesus’ mother and brothers came to see him. They stood outside and sent word for him to come out and talk with them. There was a crowd sitting around Jesus, and someone said, “Your mother and your brothers are outside asking for you.”

Jesus replied, “Who is my mother? Who are my brothers?” Then he looked at those around him and said, “Look, these are my mother and brothers. Anyone who does God’s will is my brother and sister and mother.” (Mark 3:31-35)

Give me a word picture to describe a relative in your life who really bugs you. A parasite, perhaps? – your wife has this brother who never works and always expects you and your family to provide. Or, a cactus wearing a silk blouse? – she looks nice. Everyone thinks she’s the greatest, but get close to her and she is prickly, dry, and … thirsty for life. Maybe a marble column – dignified, noble, but high and hard.

That’s how it can be sometimes with difficult relatives. Stuck to someone with whom we can’t communicate. And it’s not as if they’re a neighbor from whom you can move away, or an employee you can fire. They’re family. And you can choose your friends, but you can’t … well, you know the rest. Odds are, you probably know very well.

Maybe you’ve got someone like that in your life – someone you can’t talk to but can’t walk away from. A mother who whines, or an uncle who slurps his soup, or a sister who flaunts her figure. A dad who’s still waiting for you to get a real job, or a mother-in-law who wonders why her daughter married you. Sticky wicket relationships — stuck together but falling apart.

It’s like being in a crammed elevator – people thrust together by chance on a short ride, saying as little as possible. The only difference is you’ll eventually get off the elevator and never see them again — not so with the difficult relative. Family reunions, Christmas, Thanksgiving, weddings, funerals. They’ll be there.

And you’ll be there sorting through the tough questions. Why does life get so relatively difficult? If we expect anyone to be sensitive to our needs, it’s our family members isn’t it? When we hurt physically, we want our family to respond. When we struggle emotionally, we want our family to know. But sometimes they act like they don’t know. And sometimes they even act like they don’t care.

In her book, Irregular People, Joyce Landorf tells of a woman in her thirties who learned that she needed a mastectomy. She and her mother seldom communicated, so the daughter was apprehensive about telling her. One day over lunch, however, she decided to reveal the news. “Mother, I just learned that I am going to have a mastectomy.” The mother was silent. The daughter asked her if she’d heard what she’d said. The mother nodded affirmatively. Then she calmly dismissed the subject by saying, “You know your sister has the best recipe for chicken enchiladas.” What can you do when those closest to you keep their distance? When you can get along with others, but you and your relatives can’t?

Does Jesus have anything to say about dealing with difficult relatives? Is there an example of Jesus bringing peace to a painful family? Yes, there is. His own.

It may surprise you, but Jesus had a difficult family. Maybe it surprises you to know that Jesus had a family at all; you may not be aware that Jesus had brothers and sisters. He did. Quoting Jesus’ hometown critics, Mark wrote, “[Jesus] is just the carpenter, the son of Mary and the brother of James, Joseph, Judas, and Simon. And his sisters are here with us.” (Mark 6:3)

It may even shock you to know that his family was less than perfect. But they were. So, if your family doesn’t appreciate you, take heart, neither did Jesus’. In fact, here’s Jesus’ conclusion on life in the neighborhood: “A prophet is honored everywhere except in his hometown and with his own people and in his own home.” (Mark 6:4)

I wonder what he meant when he said those last five words – and in his own home. Because he went to the synagogue where he was asked to speak. And the people were proud that this hometown boy had done well — until they heard what he said. He referred to himself as the Messiah, the one to fulfill prophecy. Their response? “Isn’t this Joseph’s son?” Translation? This is no Messiah. He’s just like us! He’s the plumber’s kid from down the street. He’s the accountant on the third floor. He’s the construction worker who used to date my sister. God doesn’t speak through familiar people, especially through some Jewish kid who grew up in our own back yard.

One minute he’s a hero, the next he’s a heretic. And then look at what happens next. “But when they heard this, everyone in the synagogue was furiously angry. They sprang to their feet and drove him right out of the town, taking him to the brow of the hill on which it was built, intending to hurl him down bodily. But he walked straight through the whole crowd and went on his way.” (Luke 4:29–30)

What an ugly moment. Jesus’ neighborhood friends tried to kill him. But even uglier than what we see is what we don’t see. Notice what’s missing from this verse. Note what words should be there, but aren’t. “They intended to hurl him down bodily (from the brow of the hill, i.e., cliff), but Jesus’ brothers came and defended him.” We’d like to read that, but we can’t because it doesn’t say that. That’s not what happened. When Jesus was in trouble, his brothers were either not around or, worse yet, part of the mob.

They weren’t always invisible, though. There was a time when they spoke. There was a time when they were seen with him in public. Not because they were proud of him but because they were ashamed of him. “His family … went to get him because they thought he was out of his mind.” (Mark 3:21). Jesus’ siblings thought their brother was a lunatic. They weren’t proud — they were embarrassed!

“He’s off the deep end, Mom. You should hear what people are saying about him.”

“People say he’s crazy.”

“Yeah, somebody asked me why we don’t do something about him.”

“It’s a good thing Dad isn’t around to see what Jesus is doing.”

Hurtful words spoken by those closest to Jesus. But it gets worse, because here’s some more: So Jesus’ brothers said to him, “You should leave here and go to Judea so your followers there can see the miracles you do. Anyone who wants to be well known does not hide what he does. If you are doing these things, show yourself to the world.” (Even Jesus’ brothers did not believe in him.) John 7:3–5

Listen to the sarcasm in those words. They drip with ridicule. How does Jesus put up with these morons? How can you believe in yourself when those who know you best don’t? How can you move forward when your family wants to pull you back? Or worse yet, commit you! When you and your family have two different agendas, what do you do? Fortunately, Jesus gives us some answers.

It’s worth noting that he didn’t try to control his family’s behavior, nor did he let their behavior control his own. He didn’t demand that they agree with him. He didn’t sulk when they insulted him. He didn’t make it his mission to try to please them.

I think a lot of us have a fantasy that our family will be like the Waltons, an expectation that our dearest friends will be our next of kin. Jesus didn’t have that expectation. Look how he defined his family: “Look, these are my mother and brothers. Anyone who does God’s will is my brother and sister and mother.” (Mark 3:35)

When Jesus’ brothers didn’t share his convictions, he didn’t try to force them. He recognized that his spiritual family could provide what his physical family did not. The fact is, if Jesus himself couldn’t force his family to share his convictions, what makes you think you can force yours?

We can’t control the way our family responds to us. When it comes to the behavior of others toward us, our hands are tied. We have to move beyond the naive expectation that if we do good, people will treat us right. They may. And, then again, they may not. We can’t control how people respond to us.

If your brother’s a jerk, you could be the world’s best sister and he still won’t tell you so. If your aunt doesn’t like your career, you could change jobs a dozen times and still never satisfy her. If your sister is always complaining about what you got and she didn’t, you could give her everything and she still may not change.

As long as you think you can control people’s behavior toward you, you are held in bondage by their opinions. If you think you can control their opinion and their opinion isn’t positive, then guess who you have to blame? Yourself. It’s a game with unfair rules and fatal finishes. Jesus didn’t play it, nor should we.

We don’t know if Joseph affirmed his son Jesus in his ministry — but we know God did: “This is my Son, whom I love, and I am very pleased with him.” (Matt. 3:17) I can’t assure you that your family will ever give you the blessing you seek, but God will. Let God give you what your family doesn’t. If your earthly father doesn’t affirm you, then let your heavenly Father take his place.

How do you do that? By emotionally accepting God as your father. You see, it’s one thing to accept him as Lord, another to recognize him as Savior — but it’s another matter altogether to accept him as Father. To recognize God as Lord is to acknowledge that he is sovereign and supreme in the universe. To accept him as Savior is to accept his gift of salvation offered on the cross. But to regard him as Father is to go a step further. Ideally, a father is the one in your life who provides and protects. And that’s exactly what God has done.

He has provided for your needs. (Matt. 6:25–34) He has protected you from harm. (Ps. 139:5) He has adopted you. (Eph. 1:5) And he has given you his name. (1 John 3:1) God has proven himself a faithful father. Now, it falls upon each of us to be trusting children. Let God give you what your family doesn’t. Let him fill the void others have left. Rely upon him for your affirmation and encouragement.

Look at Paul’s words: “You are God’s child, and God will give you the blessing he promised, because you are his child.” (Gal. 4:7)

Having your family’s approval is desirable but not necessary for happiness, and not always possible. Jesus did not let the difficult dynamic of his family overshadow his call from God. And because he didn’t, the chapter has a happy ending.

So, what happened to Jesus’ family?

“Then [the disciples] went back to Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives .… They all continued praying together with some women, including Mary the mother of Jesus, and Jesus’ brothers.” (Acts 1:12, 14)

Wow, what a change! The ones who mocked him now worship him. The ones who pitied him now pray for him. What if Jesus had disowned them? Or worse yet, what if he’d suffocated his family with his demand for change? He didn’t. He gave them space, time and grace instead. And because he did, they changed. How much did they change? Well, one brother became an apostle (Gal. 1:19), and others became missionaries. (1 Cor. 9:5)

So, don’t lose heart. God still changes families. They’re like flowers in a bouquet: there's always one determined to face in an opposite direction from the way the Arranger intended.

Grace,

Randy

Guilt

Guilt

The Lord is compassionate and merciful, slow to get angry and filled with unfailing love. He will not constantly accuse us, nor remain angry forever. He does not punish us for all our sins; he does not deal harshly with us, as we deserve. For his unfailing love toward those who fear him is as great as the height of the heavens above the earth. He has removed our sins as far from us as the east is from the west.

 The Lord is like a father to his children, tender and compassionate to those who fear him. For he knows how weak we are; he remembers we are only dust. Our days on earth are like grass; like wildflowers, we bloom and die. The wind blows, and we are gone — as though we had never been here. But the love of the Lord remains forever with those who fear him. His salvation extends to the children’s children of those who are faithful to his covenant, of those who obey his commandments. (Psalms 103:8-18)

Some time ago we had a Christmas cookie swap at church. The plan was very simple – the price of admission to the party was a tray of cookies. And your tray entitled you to pick cookies from the trays that the other attendees brought. In fact, as I recall, you could leave with as many cookies as you brought. Sounds simple . . . if you know how to bake.

But what if you can’t? What if you can’t tell a pot from a pan? What if, like me, you are culinarily challenged? What if you’re as comfortable in an apron as a bodybuilder in a tutu? If that’s the case, you’ve got a problem. And I had a problem. I had no cookies to bring; hence I would have no place at the party. I would be left out, turned away, shunned and dismissed. Okay, well that’s a little melodramatic, but that was my plight. And it reminded me that, as plights go, yours and mine are a lot worse.

You see, God is planning a party . . . a party to end all parties. Not a cookie party, but a feast. Not laughter and chitchat in a room at a church building, but wide-eyed wonder in the throne room of God. And the guest list is very impressive. For instance, your question to Peter about walking on the water? You’ll be able to ask him. And that’s just one example. But more impressive than the names of the guests are the natures of the guests: no egos, and no power plays. Guilt, shame and sorrow will all be checked at the door. Disease, death and depression will be the Black Plagues of a distant past. What we now see on a daily basis, there we will never see.

And what we now see vaguely, there we will see clearly. We will see God. Not by faith. Not through the eyes of Moses, or Abraham or David. Not by way of Scripture or sunsets or summer rains. We will see not only God’s work or words, but we will see Him. He’s not the host of the party; he is the party! His goodness is the banquet. His voice is the music. His radiance is the light, and his love is the endless topic of discussion.

There’s just one catch – the price of admission is pretty steep. You see, in order to come to the party, you need to be righteous. Not good. Not decent. Not a taxpayer, or a churchgoer. No, citizens of heaven are righteous, as in “R-I-G-H-T”ous.

Granted, all of us do what is right occasionally. Maybe even a few of us predominantly do what is right. But do any of us always do what’s right? According to the apostle Paul we don’t. “There is none righteous, no, not one.” (Rom. 3:10) In fact, Paul is pretty adamant about it, because he goes on to say, “No one anywhere has kept on doing what is right; not one.” (Rom. 3:12).

Some may beg to differ, of course, like the one who might say, “I’m not perfect, but I’m better than most folks. I’ve led a good life. I don’t break the rules. I don’t break hearts. I help people. I like people. Compared to others, I think I could say I’m a righteous person.” Well, I used to try that one on my mother. She’d tell me my room wasn’t clean, and I’d ask her to consider my friend’s room across the street. His was always messier than mine, and she knew it because Patrick’s mom and my mom were friends.

Never worked. She’d walk me down the hall to her room. And when it came to tidy rooms, my mom was righteous. Her closet was just right. Her bed was just right. Her bathroom was just right. Compared to hers, my room was . . . well . . . just wrong. She would show me her room and say, “This is what I mean by clean.” And God does the same. He points to himself and says, “This is what I mean by righteous.”

Righteous is who God is. Need proof? Consider these verses: “Our God and Savior Jesus Christ does what is right.” (2 Pet. 1:1) “God is a righteous judge.” (Ps. 7:11) “The Lord is righteous, he loves justice.” (Ps. 11:7) God’s righteousness “endures forever” (Ps. 112:3), and “reaches to the skies.” (Ps. 71:19) Isaiah described God as “a righteous God and a Savior.” (Isa. 45:21) And on the eve of his death, Jesus began his prayer with the words, “Righteous Father….” (John 17:25)

Get the point? God is righteous. His decrees are righteous. (Rom. 1:32) His judgment is righteous. (Rom. 2:5) His requirements are righteous. (Rom. 8:4) His acts are righteous. (Dan. 9:16) Daniel declared, “Our God is right in everything he does.” (Dan. 9:14)

God is never wrong. He has never rendered a wrong decision, experienced the wrong attitude, taken the wrong path, said the wrong thing, or acted the wrong way. He is never too late or too early, too loud or too soft, too fast or too slow. He has always been, and will always be right. He is righteous.

In fact, when it comes to righteousness, God runs the table without so much as even a bank shot. And when it comes to righteousness, we don’t even know which end of the pool cue to hold. Hence, our plight.

So, will God, who is righteous, spend eternity with those who are not? Well, let me ask you this: Would Harvard admit a third-grade dropout? If it did, the act might be benevolent, but it wouldn’t be right. If God accepted the unrighteous, the invitation would be even nicer, but would He be right? Would He be right to overlook our sins, or lower His standards? No. He wouldn’t be right. And if God is anything, He is right.

He told Isaiah that righteousness would be his plumb line, the standard by which his house is measured. (Isa. 28:17) If we are unrighteous, then, we’re left in the hallway with no cookies. Or to use Paul’s analogy, “we’re sinners, every one of us, in the same sinking boat with everybody else.” (Rom. 3:19) Then what are we to do?

Carry a load of guilt? Well, that’s what many of us do.

Just think. What if our spiritual baggage were visible? Suppose the luggage in our hearts was literal luggage on the street. You know what you’d probably see most of all? Suitcases of guilt. Bags bulging with binges, blowups and compromises. Look around you. See that fellow in the gray suit? He’s dragging a decade of regrets. Or, how ‘bout the kid with the baggy jeans and a nose ring? He’d give anything to take back the words he said to his mother this morning. But he can’t. So he tows them along. Maybe the woman in the business suit, or the mom at the grocery store? She’d rather run for help, but she can’t run at all. Not hauling that carpetbag of guilt everywhere she goes.

Here’s the point. The weight of weariness can definitely pull us down, and self-reliance can certainly mislead us. Disappointments may very well discourage us, and anxiety might plague us. But guilt? Guilt absolutely consumes us. So what do we do? Because our Lord is right, and we are wrong. His party is for the righteous, and we are anything but guiltless. So, what do we do?

Well, I can tell you what I did. I confessed my need. Remember my Christmas cookie dilemma? This was my reply to the e-mail invitation I received: “I can’t bake, so I can’t be at the party.” No mercy. But a saintly sister had mercy on me. How she heard about my problem, I don’t know. Maybe my e-mail went viral, or my name found its way on to an emergency prayer list. But I do know this. Only moments before the cookie exchange I was given a gift: a plate of cookies. And by virtue of that gift, I had a privileged place at the party.

Did I go? You bet your cookies I did. Like a prince carrying a crown on a pillow, I carried my gift into the room, set it on the table and stood tall. And because some good soul heard my plea, I was given a place at the table.

And because God hears our plea, we’ll be given the same. Only, he did more — so much more — than bake cookies for us. It was, at once, history’s most beautiful and most horrific moment. Jesus stood in the tribunal of heaven. Sweeping a hand over all creation, he pleaded, “Punish me for their mistakes. See that murderer over there? Give me his penalty. And that adulteress? I’ll take her shame. The bigot, the liar, the thief? Do to me what you would do to them. Treat me as you would a sinner.”

And God did. “For Christ died for sins once for all, the righteous for the unrighteous, to bring you to God.” (1 Pet. 3:18)

Yes, righteousness is what God is, and, yes, righteousness is what we are not, and, yes, righteousness is what God requires. But “God has a way to make people right with him.” (Rom. 3:21) David said it like this: “He leads me in the paths of righteousness.” (Ps. 23:3 NKJV)

The path of righteousness is a narrow, winding trail up a steep hill. And at the top of the hill is a cross. And at the base of the cross are bags. Countless bags full of innumerable sins. Calvary is the compost pile for guilt. Would you like to leave yours there as well? You can, you know.

One final thought about the Christmas cookie caper. Did everyone know I didn’t cook the cookies? If they didn’t, I told them. I told them that I was there because of someone else’s work. My only contribution was my own confession.

We’ll be saying the same for eternity – as far as the east is from the west.

Grace,

Randy