Nails

Nails

Long ago, even before he made the world, God loved us and chose us in Christ to be holy and without fault in his eyes. His unchanging plan has always been to adopt us into his own family by bringing us to himself through Jesus Christ. And this gave him great pleasure. So we praise God for the wonderful kindness he has poured out on us because we belong to his dearly loved Son. He is so rich in kindness that he purchased our freedom through the blood of his Son, and our sins are forgiven.…

God’s secret plan has now been revealed to us; it is a plan centered on Christ, designed long ago according to his good pleasure. And this is his plan: At the right time he will bring everything together under the authority of Christ —everything in heaven and on earth. Furthermore, because of Christ, we have received an inheritance from God, for he chose us from the beginning, and all things happen just as he decided long ago. (Ephesians 1:4–7, 9–11)

He never should have asked me to keep that list. Honestly, I dreaded even showing it to him. He was a skilled builder, and during the construction had become more than just a former client; he’d become a friend. And he built us a great addition. But the addition had a few … well … mistakes. And until he was finished, I hadn’t seen them. But then again, until he’d finished, I hadn’t spent a lot of time looking. But once the project becomes your own, you see every flaw. “Make a list of them,” he told me. “If you say so,” I thought.

Several tiles were loose. A beam had split. The paint was chipped. The concrete had some cracks, and hadn’t been the exact color I’d hoped. These, just to name a few. As I said, the addition was nice, but the list seemed to grow.

And considering the list of the contractor’s mistakes made me think about God making a list of my mistakes. After all, hasn’t he supposed to have taken up residence in my heart? And if I see flaws in my addition, imagine what he sees in me. Ugh.

The door hinges to the prayer room have grown rusty from underuse. The stove called jealousy is overheating. The sub-floor is weighted down with too many regrets. The attic is cluttered with too many secrets. And can’t someone raise the window and chase the bitterness out of this heart of mine?

The list of our weaknesses. Would you like anyone to see yours? Would you like them to be made public? How would you feel if they were posted high so that everyone, including Christ himself, could see?

Well, they were. Yes, there’s a list of your failures. Christ has chronicled your shortcomings. And, yes, that list has been made public. But you’ve never seen it. Neither have I. Come with me to the hill of Calvary, and I’ll show you why.

Watch as the soldiers shove the Carpenter to the ground and stretch his arms against the beams. One presses a knee against a forearm and a spike against a hand. Jesus turns his face toward the nail just as the soldier lifts the hammer to strike it. But wait.

Couldn’t Jesus have stopped him? With a flex of the biceps, with a clench of the fist, he could have resisted. Isn’t this the same hand that stilled the sea? Cleansed the Temple? Summoned the dead?

But the fist doesn’t clench … and the moment isn’t aborted. The mallet rings and the skin rips and the blood begins to drip, then rush. Then the questions follow. Why? Why didn’t Jesus resist? “Because he loved us,” we reply.

And that’s true, wonderfully true. But it’s only partially true. There’s more to his reason. He saw something that made him stay. As the soldier pressed his arm, Jesus rolled his head to the side, and with his cheek resting on the wood he saw a mallet, a nail and a soldier’s hand.

But he saw something else. He saw the hand of God. Looking intently at it, it appeared to be the hand of a man. Long fingers of a woodworker. Callous palms of a carpenter. It appeared even common. It was, however, anything but. Because those fingers formed Adam out of clay, and wrote truth into tablets. With a wave, that hand toppled Babel’s tower and split the Red Sea. From that hand flew the locusts that plagued Egypt, and the raven that fed Elijah.

Is it any wonder then that the psalmist celebrated liberation by declaring: “You drove out the nations with Your hand .… It was Your right hand, Your arm, and the light of Your countenance.” (Ps. 44:2–3) The hand of God is a mighty hand.

The hands of Jesus. Hands of incarnation at his birth. Hands of liberation as he healed. Hands of inspiration as he taught. Hands of dedication as he served. And hands of salvation as he died.

The crowd at the cross concluded that the purpose of the pounding was to skewer the hands of Christ to a beam. But they were only half-right. We can’t fault them for missing the other half. They couldn’t see it. But Jesus could. And heaven could. And we can.

Through the eyes of Scripture we see what others missed but what Jesus saw. “He canceled the record that contained the charges against us. He took it and destroyed it by nailing it to Christ’s cross.” (Col. 2:14)

Between his hand and the wood there was a list. A long list. A list of our mistakes: our lusts and lies and greedy moments and prodigal years. A list of our sins. And dangling from the cross is an itemized catalog of your sins. The bad decisions from last year. The bad attitudes from last week. There, in broad daylight for all of heaven to see, is a list of your mistakes.

God has done with us what I was doing with the addition. He has penned a list of our faults. The list God has made, however, cannot be read. The words can’t be deciphered. The mistakes are covered. The sins are hidden. Those at the top are hidden by his hand; those down the list are covered by his blood. Your sins are “blotted out” by Jesus. “He has forgiven you all your sins: he has utterly wiped out the written evidence of broken commandments which always hung over our heads, and has completely annulled it by nailing it to the cross.” (Col. 2:14)

This is why he refused to close his fist. He saw the list. But what kept him from resisting? This warrant, this tabulation of your failures, and mine. He knew the price of those sins was death. He knew the source of those sins was you and me. And since he couldn’t bear the thought of eternity without us, he chose the nails.

The hand squeezing the handle was not a Roman infantryman. The force behind the hammer was not an angry mob. The verdict behind the death was not decided by jealous Jews. Jesus himself chose the nails.

So the hands of Jesus opened up. Had the soldier hesitated, Jesus himself would have swung the mallet. He certainly knew how; he was no stranger to driving nails into wood. As a carpenter he knew what it took. And as a Savior he knew what it meant. He knew that the purpose of the nail was to place your sins where they could be hidden by his sacrifice and covered by his blood. So the hammer fell.

And the same hand that stilled the seas stills your guilt. The same hand that cleansed the Temple cleanses your heart. The hand is the hand of God. The nail is the nail of God. And as the hands of Jesus opened for the nail, the doors of heaven opened for you.

Grace,

Randy

Sanctifiation

Sanctification

Under the old covenant, the priest stands and ministers before the altar day after day, offering the same sacrifices again and again, which can never take away sins. But our High Priest offered himself to God as a single sacrifice for sins, good for all time. Then he sat down in the place of honor at God’s right hand. There he waits until his enemies are humbled and made a footstool under his feet. For by that one offering he forever made perfect those who are being made holy. (Hebrews 10:11-14)

Over the years, I’ve played in a number of golf tournaments, usually to raise money for a charitable cause. I mean, if you’re going to spend money playing golf, it may as well go to a good cause, right? In one of those tournaments, the teams were comprised of a pro and three amateurs, and the lowest score of any player would be recorded. In other words, even on the holes where I stunk, if one of my partners did well, I did well. And that’s exactly what happened on seventeen of the eighteen holes.

Let’s take a long par five, for example. Where I score an eight but the pro, or one of my partners scores a four, guess whose score is recorded? Correct. The four. My eight is forgotten and the other player’s birdie is noted. And for duffers like me, I could really get used to that kind of scoring system. In other words, I got credit for the good work of someone else simply by virtue of being on his team.

And Christ has done the same for me and you. What my team did for me during that once-in-a-lifetime tournament, our Lord does for us every day of the week. Because of his performance, we close our daily round with a perfect score. It doesn’t matter if we hooked a few into the woods, or sliced one into the drink. What matters is that you showed up to play and joined the right foursome. In this case, your foursome’s pretty good: it’s you, the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit. A better team doesn’t exist.

The fancy theological term for this is positional sanctification. Simply stated, it means that you are given a prize, not because of what you do, but because of who you know. But there’s a second term that was illustrated in my golf game that day. (What kind of mind finds theology on a fairway, especially so many years after the fact?) Because not only can we see a picture of positional sanctification, but there’s an equally clear portrait of progressive sanctification, too. Here’s what I mean.

Remember my contribution on the golf course? Right. One out of eighteen holes. On one hole I actually made a par. My par went on the card and carried the team. Want to guess which hole it was? Right again. The last one. Though I offered so little, however, I did improve with each hole. The pro kept giving me tips and changing my grip until I finally made a contribution. I improved progressively. The prize came because of the pro’s score. The improvement came because of the pro’s help.

Positional sanctification comes because of Christ’s work for us. Progressive sanctification comes because of Christ’s work in us. Both are gifts from God. “With one sacrifice he made perfect forever those who are being made holy.” (Heb. 10:14; my emphasis) See the blending of the tenses? “He made perfect” (positional sanctification) those who are “being made holy” (progressive sanctification). Positional and progressive sanctification. All in one verse.

Stated differently, it’s God’s work for us and God’s work in us. Neglect the first, and you grow fearful. Neglect the second, and you grow lazy. Both are essential, and both are seen in the moistened dirt at the base of the cross of Christ. Remember the scene?

“But one of the soldiers stuck his spear into Jesus’ side, and at once blood and water came out.” (John 19:34) Even a casual student of Scripture knows the connection between blood and mercy. As far back as the son of Adam, worshipers knew that “without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness.” (Heb. 9:22) How Abel knew this truth is anyone’s guess, but somehow he knew to offer more than prayers and parsnip. He knew to offer a life. He knew to pour out more than his heart and his desires; he knew to pour out blood. So, with a field as his temple and the ground as his altar, Abel became the first to do what millions would later imitate. He offered a blood sacrifice for sins.

And those who eventually followed suit formed a long line behind him: Abraham, Moses, Gideon, Samson, Saul and David, just to name a few. They knew that the shedding of blood was necessary for the forgiveness of sins. Jacob knew it too; hence, the stones were stacked for an altar. Solomon knew it, and the Temple was built. Aaron knew it; therefore, the priesthood began. Haggai and Zechariah knew it; as a result, the Temple was built again.

But this long line ended at the cross. What Abel sought to accomplish in the field, God achieved with his Son on the cross. What Abel began, Christ completed. After his sacrifice there would be no more sacrificial system because “he came as High Priest of this better system which we now have.” (Heb. 9:11)

After Christ’s sacrifice there would be no more need to shed blood. He “once for all took blood into that inner room, the Holy of Holies, and sprinkled it on the mercy seat; but it was not the blood of goats and calves. No, he took his own blood, and with it he, by himself, made sure of our eternal salvation.” (Heb. 9:12) The Son of God became the Lamb of God; the cross became the altar; and we were “made holy through the sacrifice Christ made in his body once and for all time.” (Heb. 10:10)

What needed to be paid was paid. What had to be done was done. Innocent blood was required. Innocent blood was offered – once and for all time. Bury those five words deep in your heart. Once and for all time. And at the risk of sounding like an elementary school teacher, let me ask an elementary question: If the sacrifice was offered once and for all time, does it need to be offered again?

No, it doesn’t. You are positionally sanctified. Just as the achievements of my team were credited to me, so the achievement of Jesus’ blood is credited to us. And just as my skills improved through the influence of a teacher, your life can improve the longer and closer you walk with Jesus. The work for us is complete, but the progressive work in us is ongoing. So, if his work for us is seen in the blood that was shed, what might the water – that also flowed from his side – represent? (John 19:34) His work in us.

Remember the words of Jesus to the Samaritan woman? “The water I give will become a spring of water gushing up inside that person, giving eternal life.” (John 4:14) Jesus offers, not a singular drink of water, but a perpetual artesian well.

And the well isn’t a hole in your backyard, but the Holy Spirit of God in your heart. “If anyone believes in me, rivers of living water will flow out from that person’s heart, as the Scripture says.” Jesus was talking about the Holy Spirit. The Spirit had not yet been given, because Jesus had not yet been raised to glory. But later, those who believed in Jesus would receive the Spirit. (John 7:38–39)

Water, in this verse, is a picture of the Spirit of Jesus working within us. He’s not working to save us, mind you; that work’s already been done. He’s working to change us. Here’s how Paul described the process. “Do the good things that result from being saved, obeying God with deep reverence, shrinking back from all that might displease him. For God is at work within you, helping you want to obey him, and then helping you do what he wants.” (Phil. 2:12–13)

As a result of “being saved” (the work of the blood), what do we do? We obey God “with deep reverence,” and shrink back “from all that might displease him.” Practically put, we love our neighbor and refrain from gossip; we refuse to cheat on spouses and do our best to love people who’re tough to love. Do we do this in order to be saved? No. These are “the good things that result from being saved.”

A similar dynamic occurs in marriage. For instance, are a bride and groom ever more married than they are on that first day? The vows are made and the certificate is signed — could they be any more married than that? Perhaps. Because imagine them fifty years later. Six kids later. A bunch of jobs and a cluster of victories later. After half a century of marriage, they finish each other’s sentences and order each other’s food. Wouldn’t they have to be more married on their fiftieth anniversary than on their wedding day? Maybe.

But on the other hand, how could they be? The marriage certificate hasn’t matured like some kind of savings bond. But the relationship has. And that’s the difference. Technically, they’re no more united than they were when they left the altar. But relationally, they’re completely different. Marriage is both a done deal and a daily development; something you did and something you do.

The same is true of our walk with God. Can you be more saved than you were the first day of your salvation? No. But can a person grow in salvation? Absolutely. It, like marriage, is a done deal and a daily development.

The blood is God’s sacrifice for us. The water is God’s Spirit within us. And we need both. John is very concerned that we know that, too. Because it’s not enough to know what came forth; John wants us to know how they came forth: “At once blood and water came out.” (John 19:34) John doesn’t emphasize one over the other; it’s both. But we do sometimes, don’t we?

Some accept the blood but forget the water. We want to be saved, but don’t want to be changed. Others accept the water, but forget the blood. They’re busy for Christ, but they’re never at peace in Christ. What about you? Do you tend to lean one way or the other? Do you feel so saved that you never serve? Are you so happy with your team’s score that you don’t even bother to get out of the golf cart? If that’s you, then let me ask a question. Why does God have you on the course? Why didn’t he just beam you up the moment he saved you? The fact is, you and I are here for a reason, and that reason is to glorify God in our service.

Or, is your tendency the opposite? Perhaps you always serve for fear of not being saved. Perhaps you don’t trust your team. You’re worried that a secret card exists on which your score is actually being recorded – and it’s not very good. Is that you? If so, then know this: the blood of Jesus is enough to save you. Engrave in your heart the announcement of John the Baptist – Jesus is “the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.” (John 1:29). The blood of Christ does not cover your sins, conceal your sins, postpone your sins, or even diminish your sins. It takes away your sins, once and for all time.

Jesus allows your mistakes to be lost in his perfection. And as the four of us golfers stood in the clubhouse that day to receive some sort of recognition, the only ones who knew of the poverty of my game were my teammates, and they didn’t tell. And when you and I stand in heaven to receive our prize, only one could know all of our sins, but he won’t embarrass you — he’s already forgiven and forgotten them.

So enjoy the game; your prize is secure. But while you’re on the course, why don’t you ask the Teacher for some help with your swing – he can improve your game.

Grace,

Randy

Wisdom

Wisdom

To the man who pleases him, God gives wisdom, knowledge and happiness, but to the sinner he gives the task of gathering and storing up wealth to hand it over to the one who pleases God. This too is meaningless, a chasing after the wind. (Ecclesiastes 2:26)

Let me ask you something. Would you buy a house if you were allowed to see only one of its rooms? Or, would you purchase a car if you were permitted to see only its tires and a taillight? Would you pass judgment on a book after reading only one paragraph? Right. Neither would I.

Good judgment requires a broad picture. Not only is that true in purchasing houses, or cars, or books, it’s true in evaluating life. For instance, one failure doesn’t make a person a failure any more than one achievement makes a person a success. “The end of the matter is better than its beginning,” wrote the sage. (Ecclesiastes 7:8) “Be … patient in affliction,” echoed the apostle Paul. (Romans 12:12) “Don’t judge a phrase by one word,” said the woodcutter. The woodcutter? Sorry; here’s the story.

Once upon a time, there was an old man who lived in a tiny village. Although extremely poor, he was the envy of every villager because he owned a beautiful white horse. Even the king coveted his treasure because a horse like this had never been seen before — such was its splendor; its majesty; its strength. People offered unbelievable prices for the horse, but the old man always refused to sell. “This horse is not a horse to me,” he would tell them. “It’s a person. How could you sell a person? He’s a friend, not a possession. How could you sell a friend?” Granted, the man was very poor and the temptation to sell the horse was enormous. But he never sold the horse.

One morning the horse was found missing from the stable. All the villagers came out to see the old man. “You old fool,” they mocked, “we told you that someone would steal your horse. We warned you that you’d be robbed. You’re dirt poor. How could you have ever hoped to protect such an incredibly valuable animal? It would have been better if you’d sold him. You could’ve gotten whatever price you asked. No amount of money would have been too high. Now, the horse is gone and you’ve been cursed with misfortune.”

The old man responded, “Don’t speak too quickly. Say only that the horse is not in the stable. That’s all we know; the rest is judgment. If I’ve been cursed or not, how can you know? How can you judge?” The people rebuked the old man. “Don’t make us out to be fools, old man! We may not be philosophers, but great philosophy isn’t needed here. The simple fact that your horse is gone is a curse.”

The old man spoke again. “All I know is that the stable’s empty, and the horse is gone. The rest I don’t know. Whether it’s a curse or a blessing, I can’t say. All we can see is a fragment. Who can say what will come next?” But the people of the village ridiculed him. They thought the old guy was crazy. They’d always thought he was a fool. I mean, if he wasn’t, he would’ve sold the horse and lived off the money, right? But instead, he was a poor woodcutter – an old man still cutting firewood and dragging it out of the forest to sell to the villagers. He lived hand to mouth in the grip of miserable poverty. Now he’d proven that he was, in fact, a fool.

But after a few days, the horse returned. He hadn’t been stolen after all. He’d simply run away into the forest. And not only had he returned, but he’d brought a dozen wild horses with him. Once again the village people went out to the woodcutter’s place and spoke with the old man. “Old man, you were right and we were wrong. What we thought was a curse was a blessing. Please forgive us.”

The man responded, “Once again, you’ve gone too far. Say only that the horse is back. Say only that a dozen horses returned with him, but don’t judge. How do you know if this is a blessing or not? You see only a fragment. Unless you know the whole story, how can you judge? You read only one page of a book. Can you judge the whole book? You read only one word of a phrase. Can you understand the entire phrase? Life is so vast, yet you judge all of life with one page or one word. All you have is a fragment! Don’t say that this is a blessing. No one knows. I’m content with what I know, and I’m not perturbed by what I don’t.”

“Maybe the old man’s right,” they said to each other. So, they said little. But deep down inside, they knew he was wrong. They knew it was a blessing – twelve wild horses had returned with one horse! With a little bit of work, the animals could be broken and trained and sold for a lot of money.

It just so happens that the old man had a son, an only son, and the young man began to break the wild horses. After a few days’ work, however, he fell off one of the horses and broke both of his legs. Once again the villagers gathered ‘round the old man and cast their judgment. “You were right,” they said. “You proved you were right. The dozen horses weren’t a blessing; they were a curse. Your only son has broken his legs, and now, old man, you have no one to help you. You’re poorer now than before.”

The old man spoke again. “You people are obsessed with judging. You can’t go that far. Say only that my son broke his legs. Who knows if it’s a blessing or a curse? No one knows. We only have a fragment. Life comes in fragments.” It just so happened that a few weeks later the country had become engaged in war against a neighboring country, and all of the young men of the village were required to join the army. Only the son of the old man was excluded, because he was injured.

Once again the people spoke with the old man, this time crying and screaming because their sons had been taken, and there was little chance that they’d return because the enemy was strong and the war would be a losing battle. They’d never see their sons again. “You were right, old man,” they wept. “God knows you were right. This proves it. Your son’s accident was a blessing. His legs may be broken, but at least he’s with you. Our sons are gone forever.”

The old man spoke again. “It’s impossible to talk with you. You always draw conclusions. No one knows. Say only this: Your sons had to go to war, and mine did not. No one knows if it’s a blessing or a curse. No one is wise enough to know. Only God knows.” And the old man was right. Only God knows.

We only have a fragment. Life’s mishaps and horrors are only a page out of a life-sized book. We should be slow about drawing conclusions. We should reserve judgment on life’s storms until we know the whole story. I don’t know where the woodcutter learned his patience. It was just a fable, wasn’t it? Or was it. Maybe he learned it from another woodcutter in Galilee. Because it was the Carpenter who said it best: “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.” (Matthew 6:34)

But that doesn’t stop us, does it? We worry. So we make lists. Lists are reassuring. They comfort us. They suggest that the crazy, zooming, blooming chaos of the universe can be mastered and tamed (and maybe even understood) within the confines of a tidy little column. To list is to understand, to solve, and even to control. For that reason, we simply can’t resist the urge, particularly at the end of the year, to spew out lists like Washington, D.C. spews out legislation.

We list the best movies; the best books; the worst dressed; the most used; the least popular; the most mysterious; the highest paid. We salute the good. We satire the bad. And we sum up the year on lists. And although New Year’s Day probably ranks at the top of the list of list-producing days, including those notorious New Year’s Resolutions, the rest of the year is by no means “list-less.”

For instance, your grocery list makes a trip to the market manageable. Your calendar probably has a “To Do” space, where you organize and number things you’d like to do but probably won’t. Your syllabus tells you which books to buy. Your itinerary tells you which plane to take. And your cell phone tells you which numbers to dial.

If it’s any consolation, the Bible has its share of lists, too. Moses brought one down from the mountain. Noah might have used one as he loaded the ark. Jesus gave a list of principles in the Sermon on the Mount. Matthew and Luke listed the genealogies of Jesus. John listed the splendors of heaven. There are lists of the gifts of the Spirit. Lists of good fruit and bad. Lists of salutations and greetings.

So, if you’re going to make a list, make it like a lighthouse: immutable; immovable. And candidates for this list only qualify if they have characteristics like a lighthouse: they warn you of potential danger; they signal safe harbor; they’re stronger than the storm; and they shine brightest in the fog.

These kinds of lists contain more than just good ideas, personal preferences or honest opinions. They’re God-given, time-tested truths that define the way we should navigate our lives. Observe them and enjoy safe passage. Ignore them and you’ll crash into the ragged rocks of reality. In U.S. Naval Institute Proceedings, the magazine of the Naval Institute, Frank Koch illustrated the importance of obeying these lighthouse lists.

Two battleships assigned to the training squadron had been at sea on maneuvers in heavy weather for several days. I was serving on the lead battleship and was on watch on the bridge as night fell. The visibility was poor with patchy fog, so the captain remained on the bridge keeping an eye on all activities.

Shortly after dark, the lookout on the wing reported, “Light, bearing on the starboard bow.” “Is it steady or moving astern?” the captain called out. The lookout replied, “Steady, Captain,” which meant we were on a dangerous collision course with that ship. The captain then called to the signalman, “Signal that ship: ‘We are on a collision course, advise you change course twenty degrees.’” Back came the signal, “Advisable for you to change course twenty degrees.” The captain said, “Send: ‘I’m a captain, change course twenty degrees.’” “I’m a seaman second-class,” came the reply. “You had better change course twenty degrees.”

By that time the captain was furious. He spat out, “Send: ‘I’m a battleship. Change course twenty degrees.’” Back came the flashing light, “I’m a lighthouse.” We changed course.

Smart move. The wise captain shifts the direction of his craft according to the signal of the lighthouse. And a wise person does the same. So, here’s a few of the lights we should look for, and the signals we should heed:

·         Love God more than you fear hell;

·         When no one is watching, live as if someone is;

·         Succeed at home first;

·         Don’t spend tomorrow’s money today;

·         Pray twice as much as you fret;

·         Listen twice as much as you speak;

·         Only harbor a grudge when God does;

·         It’s wiser to err on the side of generosity than on the side of scrutiny;

·         God has forgiven you – you’d be wise to do the same;

·         When you can’t trace God’s hand, trust his heart.

Here’s a few more:

 ·         Toot your own horn and the notes will be flat;

·         Don’t feel guilty for God’s goodness;

·         The book of life is lived in chapters, so know your page number;

·         Never let the important be the victim of the trivial; and last but not least,

·         Live your liturgy.

 Approach life like the woodcutter, or like a voyage on a ship. Be wise and don’t draw hasty conclusions based upon a fragment. Enjoy the view. Explore the vessel. Make friends with the captain. Even fish a little. And then get off when you get home.

Grace,

Randy