Gridlock
I am shocked that you are turning away so
soon from God, who in his love and mercy called you to share the eternal life
he gives through Christ. You are already following a different way that
pretends to be the Good News but is not the Good News at all. You are being
fooled by those who twist and change the truth concerning Christ. . . . And yet
we Jewish Christians know that we become right with God, not by doing what the
law commands, but by faith in Jesus Christ. So we have believed in Christ Jesus,
that we might be accepted by God because of our faith in Christ – and not
because we have obeyed the law. For no one will ever be saved by obeying the
law. (Gal. 1:6-7; 2:16)
The prodigal son
trudges along the dusty road toward home. His smell makes passersby hold their
noses and walk wide circles around him. But he doesn't notice; he doesn’t care.
Eyes to the ground, he rehearses his speech: "Father," his voice
barely audible, “I have sinned against heaven and against you. I'm not worthy
to be called your son." He rehashes his confession over and over again,
wondering if he should say more, less, or simply make a U-turn back to the pigpen.
After all, he’d cashed in the trust fund and trashed the family name. Over the
last year, he'd awakened with more parched throats, headaches, women, and
tattoos, than a Hollywood rock star. How could his father ever forgive him? “Maybe
I could offer to pay off the credit cards,” he thinks. He's so focused on
penance-planning that he fails to hear the sound of his father sprinting toward
him. The dad embraces his mud-layered boy as if he were a returning war hero.
He tells the servants to bring a robe, a ring and some sandals, as if to say,
"No boy of mine is going to look like Pigpen.
Fire up the grill. Bring on the drinks. It's time to celebrate!"
Meanwhile, big
brother stands on the porch and sulks. "No one ever gave me a party,"
he mumbles, arms crossed. The father tries to explain, but the jealous son
won't listen. He huffs and shrugs and grumbles something about cheap grace,
saddles his high horse, and rides off. But you knew that, right? You've read
the parable of the prodigal son. (Luke 15:11-32) But did you read what happened
next? It's a real page-turner, but here’s a summary.
The older
brother resolves to rain on the forgiveness parade. If Dad won't exact justice
on the kid, then he will. "Nice robe there, little brother," he tells
him one day. "Better keep it clean. One spot and Dad will send you to the
cleaners with it." The younger brother waves him away. But the next time
he sees his father he quickly checks his robe for stains. A few days later big
brother warns him about the ring. "Quite a piece of jewelry Dad gave you,
bro. But he prefers that you wear it on your thumb." "My thumb? He
didn't tell me that." "Well, some things you're just supposed to
know." "But it won't fit my thumb." "What's your goal –
pleasing our father or your own personal comfort?" the spirituality
monitor chirps as he walks away. But big brother isn't finished. With the
pleasantness of an IRS auditor, he taunts, "If Dad sees you with loose straps,
he'll take those fancy sandals back." "He will not. They were a gift.
He wouldn't . . . would he?" The ex-prodigal then leans over to tighten the
straps. As he does, he spots a smudge on his robe. Trying to rub it off, he
realizes the ring is on a finger, not his thumb. And that's when he hears his father
say, "Hello, son." And there the boy sits, wearing a spotted robe,
loose laces, and a misplaced ring. Overcome with fear, he reacts with a
"Sorry, Dad," and runs away.
Too many tasks.
Keeping the robe spotless, the ring positioned, the sandals snug – who could
meet those kinds of standards? Gift preservation begins to wear on the young
man. So, he avoids the father he feels he can't please, quits wearing the gifts
he can't maintain, and even begins longing for the simpler days of the pigpen.
"No one hounded me there," he thinks. That kind of summarizes it. What?
You don’t recall reading that part? Well, it’s on page 1,199 of my Bible, in
the book of Galatians.
Thanks to some
legalistic big brothers, Paul's readers had gone from grace-receiving to law-keeping.
Their Christian life had taken on the same level of joy as a colonoscopy. And Paul
was puzzled. “I am shocked that you are turning away so soon from God, who in
his love and mercy called you to share the eternal life he gives through
Christ. You are already following a different way that pretends to be the Good
News, but is not the Good News at all. You are being fooled by those who twist
and change the truth concerning Christ. . . . And yet we Jewish Christians know
that we become right with God, not by doing what the law commands, but by faith
in Jesus Christ. So we have believed in Christ Jesus, that we might be accepted
by God because of our faith in Christ – and not because we have obeyed the law.
For no one will ever be saved by obeying the law.” (Gal. 1:6-7; 2:16)
Joy snatchers had
infiltrated the Roman church, too. So, Paul had to remind them as well,
"But people are declared righteous because of their faith, not because of
their work." (Rom. 4:5) And Philippian Christians had heard the same
foolishness. Big brothers weren't telling them to wear a ring on their thumb,
but they were insisting that the men had to be circumcised to be saved. (Phil. 3:2)
Even the Jerusalem church, the flagship, heard the solemn monotones of the
Quality Control Board – where non-Jewish believers were being told, "You
cannot be saved if you are not circumcised as Moses taught us." (Acts
15:1) It was everywhere, and the churches were suffering from the same malady:
grace gridlock. The Father might let you in the gate, but you have to earn your
place at the table. God makes the down payment on your redemption, but you pay
the monthly installments. Heaven gives the boat, but you have to row it if you
ever want to see the other shore. Grace gridlock. Taste, but don't drink. Wet
your lips, but never quench your thirst. Can you imagine such a sign over a
fountain? "No swallowing, please. Fill your mouth but not your stomach."
Ridiculous. What good is water if you can't swallow it?
And what good is
grace if you don't let it reach deep? For instance, what image best describes
your heart? A water-drenched kid dancing in front of an open fire hydrant, or a
desert tumbleweed? Here’s how you know. Does God's grace define you? Deeply flowing grace clarifies, once and for all, who
we are. But God is so rich in mercy, and
he loved us so very much, that even while we were dead because of our sins, he
gave us life when he raised Christ from the dead. (It is only by God's special
favor that you have been saved!) For he raised us from the dead along with
Christ, and we are seated with him in the heavenly realms – all because we are
one with Christ Jesus. And so God can always point to us as examples of the
incredible wealth of his favor and kindness toward us, as shown in all he has
done for us through Christ Jesus. God saved you by his special favor when you
believed. And you can't take credit for this; it is a gift from God. Salvation
is not a reward for the good things we have done, so none of us can boast about
it. (Eph. 2:4-9) Look how grace defines us. We are spiritually alive:
"he gave us life" (v. 5); heavenly positioned: "seated with him
in the heavenly realms" (v. 6); connected to God: "one with Christ
Jesus" (v. 6); billboards of mercy: "examples of the incredible
wealth of his favor and kindness toward us" (v. 7); and honored children:
"God saved you by his special favor." (v. 8)
Grace defines
you. As grace sinks in, earthly labels begin to fade. Society labels you like a
can on an assembly line. Stupid. Unproductive. Slow learner. Fast talker.
Quitter. Cheapskate. But as grace infiltrates, criticisms begin to disintegrate.
You know you aren't who they say you are, because you’re who God says you are.
Spiritually alive. Heavenly positioned. Connected to the Father. A billboard of
mercy. An honored child. Of course, not all labels are negative. Some people
regard you as handsome, beautiful, clever, successful, or efficient. But even a
White House office doesn't compare with being "seated with him in the
heavenly realms." Grace creates the Christian's résumé. It certainly did for
Mephibosheth.
Talk about a
redefined life. After assuming the throne of Saul, "David began wondering
if anyone in Saul's family was still alive, for he had promised Jonathan that
he would show kindness to them." (2 Sam. 9:1) The Philistines, you'll
remember, defeated Saul in battle. After the smoke of conflict passed, David
sought to display mercy to Saul's descendants. A servant named Ziba remembered:
"Yes, one of Jonathan's sons is still alive, but he’s crippled." (v.
3) No name offered. Just his handicap. Labeled by misfortune. An earlier
chapter revealed the mishap. When word of Saul's and Jonathan's deaths reached
the capital, a nurse in Jonathan's house swept up his five-year-old boy and
fled. But in her haste, she stumbled and dropped him, crippling the boy in both
feet. So where does Mephibosheth turn? Can't walk. Can't work. Father and
grandfather dead. Where can the crippled grandson of a failed leader go?
How about
Lo-debar. Sounds like a place that charm forgot. Like Notrees, Texas, or Weed, California,
or Nothing, Arizona, or maybe Accident, Maryland. Lo-debar, Israel. Appropriate
place for Mephibosheth. Stuck with a name longer than his arm. Dropped like a
cantaloupe from a wet paper sack. How low can you go? Low enough to end up
living in the low-rent district of Lo-debar. Maybe you know its streets. If
you've ever been dropped, you do. Dropped from the list. Dropped by a guy.
Dropped by the team. Dropped at the orphanage. And now you walk with a limp.
People don't remember your name, but they remember your pain. "He's the
alcoholic." "Oh, I remember her. The widow." "You mean the
divorced woman from Nowheresville?" "No. Lo-debarville." You
live labeled.
But then
something Cinderella-like happens. The king's men knock on your Lo-debar door.
They load you in a wagon and carry you into the presence of the king. You
assume the worst and begin praying for a quick execution. But the servants
don't drop you off at the gallows; they set you at the king's table, and right
above your plate sits a placard with your name on it. "And from that time
on, Mephibosheth ate regularly with David, as though he were one of his own
sons." (2 Sam. 9:11)
From Lo-debar to
the palace; from obscurity to royalty; from no future to the king's table.
Quite a move for Mephibosheth. And quite a reminder for us, because he models
our journey. God lifted us from the dead-end streets of Lo-debarville and sat
us at his table. "We are seated with him in the heavenly realms."
(Eph. 2:6) Meditate on that verse. Next time the arid desert winds blow,
defining you by yesterday's struggles, reach for God's goblet of grace and
drink. Grace defines who you are. The parent you can't please is just as
mistaken as the doting uncle you can't disappoint. People hold no clout. Only
God does. And according to him, you are his. Period. "For we are God's
masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so that we can do the good
things he planned for us long ago." (Eph. 2:10)
Suppose
Mephibosheth had seen this verse. Imagine someone back in the Lo-debar days
telling him, "Don't be discouraged, friend. I know you can't dance or run.
Others kick the soccer ball, and you're stuck here staring out the window. But
listen, God wrote your story. He cast you in his drama. Three thousand years
from now your story will stir an image of grace for some readers in the 21st
century." Would he have believed it? I don't know. But I hope that you
will. You hang as God's work of art, a testimony in his gallery of grace.
Over a hundred
years ago, a group of fishermen were relaxing in the dining room of a Scottish
seaside inn, trading fish stories. One of the men gestured widely, depicting
the size of the proverbial fish that got away. His arm struck the server’s tea
tray, sending the teapot flying into the whitewashed wall, where its contents
left an irregular brown splotch. The innkeeper surveyed the damage and sighed,
"The whole wall will have to be repainted." "Perhaps not,"
offered a stranger. "Let me work with it." Having nothing to lose,
the proprietor consented. The man pulled pencils, brushes, some jars of linseed
oil, and pigment out of an art box. He sketched lines around the stains and
dabbed shades and colors throughout the splashes of tea. In time, an image
began to emerge: a stag with a great rack of antlers. The man inscribed his
signature at the bottom, paid for his meal, and left. His name was Sir Edwin
Landseer, the famous painter of wildlife. In his hands, a mistake had become a
masterpiece.
God's hands do
the same, over and over. He draws together the disjointed blotches in our life
and renders them an expression of his love. We become pictures: "examples
of the incredible wealth of his favor and kindness toward us." (Eph. 2:7).
Who determines your identity? What defines you? The day you were dropped? Or
the day you were carried to the King's table? Receive God’s work. Drink deeply
from his well of grace. As grace sinks into your soul, Lo-debar will become a
dot in the rearview mirror. Dark days will define you no more. You’re in the
palace now. And now you know what to say to the big brothers of this world. No
need for frantic robe cleaning, or rules for ring wearing. Your deeds don’t
save you. And your deeds won’t keep you saved. Grace does.
So, the next
time big brother starts dispensing more snarls than a bunch of hungry Rottweilers,
loosen your sandals, set your ring on your finger, and quote the apostle of
grace who said, “By the grace of God I am what I am.” (1 Cor. 15:10)
Break the
gridlock, and let God’s grace reach your heart.
Grace,
Randy
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