Confession

Confession - Audio/Visual

Confession

If we claim we have no sin, we are only fooling ourselves and not living in the truth. But if we confess our sins to him, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all wickedness. If we claim we have not sinned, we are calling God a liar and showing that his word has no place in our hearts. (1 John 1:8-10)

Confession. The word conjures up a lot of different images. Backroom interrogations. Chinese water torture. Admitting dalliances to a priest who sits on the other side of a black curtain. Or maybe walking down the church aisle and filling out a card. Is that what John had in mind? No, I don’t think so.

Confession is not telling God what he doesn't know. That’s impossible. Confession is not complaining – if I merely recite my problems and rehash my woes, I'm just whining. And confession is not blaming – pointing fingers at others without pointing any at me may feel good, but it doesn't promote healing. Confession is a lot more than that. Confession is a radical reliance on grace; a proclamation of our trust in God's goodness. "What I did was bad," we acknowledge, "but your grace is greater than my sin, so I confess it."

The truth is that if our understanding of grace is small, our confession will be small: reluctant, hesitant, and hedged with excuses and qualifications, full of fear of punishment. But great grace creates an honest confession. Like the one of the prodigal who prayed, "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you, and I am no longer worthy to be called your son." (Luke 15:18-19) Or the confession of the tax collector who begged, "God, be merciful to me a sinner!" (Luke 18:13) The best-known prayer of confession came from King David, even though he took an interminably long time to offer it.

This Old Testament hero dedicated a season of his life to making stupid, idiotic, godless decisions. Stupid decision #1: David didn't go to war with his soldiers in the spring. He stayed home, instead, with way too much time on his hands and, apparently, romance on his mind. While walking on his balcony, he spotted Bathsheba, a bathing beauty, bathing. Stupid decision #2: David sent servants to chauffeur Bathsheba to his palace and escort her into his bedroom, where rose petals carpeted the floor and champagne chilled in the corner. A few weeks later she told him that she was expecting their child. David, still living in the fog of bad choices, continued his “winning” streak. Stupid decisions #3, #4, and #5: David deceived Bathsheba's husband, had him murdered and behaved as if he’d done nothing wrong. The baby was born, and David was still unrepentant. Yes, that David.

The man after God's own heart allowed his own to grow rock-hard. He suppressed his wrongdoing and paid a steep price for it. Later on, he would describe it this way: "When I refused to confess my sin, I was weak and miserable, and I groaned all day long. Day and night your hand of discipline was heavy on me. My strength evaporated like water in the summer heat." (Ps. 32:3-4) Sin's present reality had replaced sin's earlier euphoria. David began to see in Bathsheba not a picture of beauty, but a symbol of his own weakness. Could he see her face without imagining the face of her husband, whom he had betrayed and then had murdered? Most of all, could he look at her and not sense the gaze of God upon himself? He knew his secret sin was no secret at all.

Six Psalms later, he prayed, "O Lord, do not rebuke me in your anger or discipline me in your wrath. For your arrows have pierced me, and your hand has come down upon me ... there is no health in my body; my bones have no soundness because of my sin. My wounds fester and are loathsome because of my sinful folly. My back is filled with searing pain." (Ps. 38:1-3, 5, 7) Bury misbehavior and expect pain. Period. Unconfessed sin is like a knife lodged in the soul – you can’t escape the misery it creates. Ask Li Fuyan.

This Chinese man had tried every treatment imaginable to ease his throbbing headaches. Nothing helped. An X-ray finally revealed the culprit. A rusty four-inch knife blade had been lodged in his skull for four years. Apparently, in an attack by a robber, Fuyan had suffered lacerations on the right side of his jaw. What he didn’t know was that the knife blade that had caused the lacerations had broken off inside his head. That would certainly explain Li’s stabbing pain. We can't live with foreign objects buried in our bodies. Or in our souls. What would an X-ray of your interior reveal? Regrets over a teenage relationship? Remorse over a poor choice? Shame about the marriage that didn't work, the habit you couldn't quit, the temptation you didn't resist, or the courage you couldn't find? Guilt lies hidden beneath the surface, festering, irritating. Sometimes it’s so deeply embedded that you don't even know the cause. You become moody and cranky. You're prone to overreact. You're angry, irritable. Touchy. Understandable, since you have a shank of shame rusting away in your soul.

Interested in an extraction? Confess. Request a spiritual MRI. "Search me, O God, and know my heart; try me, and know my anxieties; and see if there is any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting." (Ps. 139:23-24) As God brings misbehavior to mind, agree with him and apologize. Let him apply grace to the wounds. But don't make this inward journey without God. Many voices urge you to look deep within and find an invisible strength or some sort of hidden power. A dangerous exercise. Self-assessment without God's guidance leads to denial or shame. We can either justify our misbehavior with a million excuses, or design and indwell a torture chamber. Either justification or humiliation. We don’t need either one. What we need is a prayer of grace-based confession, like David's.

After a year of denial and a cover-up, he finally prayed, "God, be merciful to me because you are loving. Because you are always ready to be merciful, wipe out all my wrongs. Wash away all my guilt and make me clean again. I know about my wrongs, and I can't forget my sin. You are the only one I have sinned against; I have done what you say is wrong. You are right when you speak and fair when you judge." (Ps. 51:1-4) David had waved the white flag. No more combat. No more arguing with heaven. He came clean with God. How about you? Your moment might look something like this.

Bedtime. The pillow beckons. But so does your guilty conscience. An encounter with a co-worker turned nasty earlier in the day. Words were exchanged. Accusations were made. Lines were drawn in the sand. Names were called. Tacky, tacky behavior. You bear some, if not most, of the blame. The old version of you would have suppressed the argument; crammed it into an already-crowded cellar of unresolved conflicts. The quarrel would have festered into bitterness and poisoned yet another relationship. But you aren't the old version of you. Grace is happening, rising like a morning sun over a wintry meadow, scattering shadows and melting the frost. Warmth. God doesn't scowl at the sight of you. You once thought he did – arms crossed and angry, perpetually ticked off. Now you know better.

You've been “Boazed” and bought, foot washed and indwelled by Christ. You can risk honesty with God. You tell the pillow to wait, and you step into the presence of Jesus. "Can we talk about today's argument? I’m sorry that I reacted the way I did. I was harsh, judgmental and impatient. You have given me so much grace. I gave so little. Please forgive me." There, doesn't that feel better? No special location is required. No chant or candle needed. Just a prayer. The prayer will likely prompt an apology, and the apology will quite possibly preserve a friendship and protect a heart. You might even hang a sign on your office wall: "Grace happens here." Or, maybe your prayer needs to probe a little deeper.

Beneath the epidermis of today's deeds are the unresolved actions of years past. Like King David, you made one stupid decision after another. You stayed when you should have gone, looked when you should have turned, seduced when you should have abstained, hurt when you should have helped, denied when you should have confessed. Talk to God about these buried blades. Go to him as you would go to a trusted physician. Explain the pain, and revisit the transgression together. Welcome his probing and healing touch. And trust his ability to receive your confession more than your ability to make it. We all have an unruly perfectionist who indwells us raising cankerous doubts like, "Was my confession sufficient? Did I forget any sin?" Of course you did. Who among us knows all our violations?

Who of us has felt sufficient remorse for our failings? If the cleansing of confession depends on the confessor, we’re all sunk; none of us have confessed accurately or adequately. However, the power of confession lies not with the person who makes it, but with God who hears it. God may even send you to talk to the church. "Confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another so that you may be healed." (James 5:16) James calls us to not only confess up to God, but to confess out to each other.

Like the church in ancient Ephesus, "many of the believers began to confess openly and tell all the evil things they had done." (Acts 19:18) And what was the result of their confessions? "So in a powerful way the word of the Lord kept spreading and growing." (v. 20) People are attracted to honesty. Find a congregation that believes in confession. Avoid a fellowship of perfect people where you won’t fit in, and seek one where members confess their sins and show humility; where the price of admission is simply an admission of guilt. Healing happens in a church like that. Followers of Christ have been given authority to hear confession and proclaim grace. "If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them…." (John 20:23)

Confessors find a freedom that deniers don't. "If we say we have no sin, we are fooling ourselves, and the truth is not in us. But if we confess our sins, he will forgive our sins, because we can trust God to do what is right. He will cleanse us from all the wrongs we have done." (1 John 1:8-9) Did you hear the certainty of those words? "He will cleanse us." Not he might, could, would, or has been known to. He will cleanse you. Tell God what you did. Again, it's not that he doesn't already know, but the two of you need to agree. And spend as much time as you need. Share all the details you can. Then let his grace flow over your mistakes and carry you to the place where God created you to be.

Grace,

 Randy

Masterpiece

Masterpiece - Audio/Visual

Masterpiece

She dropped to her knees, then bowed her face to the ground. “How does this happen that you should pick me out and treat me so kindly — me, a foreigner?” Boaz answered her, “I’ve heard all about you — heard about the way you treated your mother-in-law after the death of her husband, and how you left your father and mother and the land of your birth and have come to live among a bunch of total strangers. God reward you well for what you’ve done — and with a generous bonus besides from God, to whom you’ve come seeking protection under his wings.” She said, “Oh sir, such grace, such kindness — I don’t deserve it. You’ve touched my heart, treated me like one of your own. And I don’t even belong here!” (Ruth 2:10-13)

Two figures crested the horizon of the Judean desert. One, an old widow; the other, a young one. Wrinkles crevice the face of the first; desert dust powders the cheeks of both. Ten years earlier, a famine had driven Naomi and her husband out of Bethlehem. They’d left their country and immigrated to enemy territory – Moab. There they found fertile soil to farm, and girls for each of their two sons to marry. But then tragedy struck. Naomi's husband died. So did her sons. So, Naomi resolved to return to her hometown of Bethlehem. Ruth, one of her daughters-in-law, was determined to go with her. No money. No possessions. No children. Nothing.

In the twelfth century B.C., a woman's security was found in her husband, and her future was secured by her sons. These two widows had neither; they'd have been lucky to find a bed at the Salvation Army. And although we may be three thousand years from Ruth, our circumstances aren’t that much different, frankly. Hopes the size of a splinter, and solutions as scarce as sunlight in the rainforest. Drought, doubt, debt and disease. It’s a war zone out there, and we ask ourselves if grace actually happens to sick moms, unemployed dads, and penniless widows from Moab.

The women shuffled into the village and set about to find some food. Ruth went to a nearby field to scavenge enough grain to make some bread for herself and her mother-in-law. Enter Boaz. Picture a guy straight out of GQ: square jaw, wavy hair, biceps that flex, pecs that pop, teeth that sparkle, and pockets that jingle. His education? Ivy. Jet? Lear. Farm? Extremely profitable. House? Sprawling and paid for. He had no intention of interrupting his charmed, bachelor life by getting married. But then he saw Ruth. She wasn't the first immigrant to forage grain from his fields, but she was the first to steal his heart. Her glance caught his for a moment. And a moment was all it took.

As fast as you can turn a page in your Bible, Boaz learned her name, story and Facebook status. He upgraded her workstation, invited her for supper, and told her manager to send her home happy. In a word, he gave her grace. At least that’s the word Ruth uses: "Oh sir, such grace, such kindness – I don’t deserve it. You've touched my heart, treated me like one of your own. And I don't even belong here." (Ruth 2:13) That evening, Ruth left with thirty pounds of grain and a smile she couldn't wipe off her face. When she arrived home, such as it was, Ruth told Naomi about her adventure, and Naomi recognized the name. And then she recognized the opportunity. "Boaz . . . Boaz,” as she drummed her fingers on their meager table. “That name sounds familiar. Hmmm. That’s it. Now I remember. He's Rahab's boy! Ruth, Boaz is one of our cousins!" And then Naomi's head began to spin with possibilities.

This being harvest season, Boaz would be eating dinner with the men and spending the night on the threshing floor to protect his crop from thieves. So, Naomi told Ruth, "Wash and perfume yourself, and put on your best clothes. Then go down to the threshing floor, but don't let him know you are there until he has finished eating and drinking. When he lies down, note the place where he’s lying. Then go and uncover his feet and lie down. He will tell you what to do." (3:3-4) Pardon me while I wipe the steam off my glasses. How did this midnight, Moabite seduction get into the Bible? Boaz – full bellied and sleepy; Ruth – bathed and perfumed. “He’ll tell you what to do?” Really? What was Naomi thinking?

She was thinking it was time for Ruth to get on with her life. Ruth was still grieving the death of her husband. When Naomi told her to "put on your best clothes," she used a phrase that describes the clothing worn after a time of mourning. In other words, as long as Ruth was dressed in black, Boaz – respectable man that he was – would keep his distance. New clothing, on the other hand, would signal Ruth's re-entrance into society by changing out of her clothes of sorrow. Of course, Naomi was also thinking about the law of the kinsman-redeemer. Here’s the law in a nutshell.

If a man died without children, his property was left to his brother – not his wife. This kept the land in the family. But it also left the widow vulnerable. So, to protect her, the law required the brother of the deceased to marry the childless widow. If, on the other hand, the deceased husband had no brother, his nearest male relative was to provide for the widow, but he didn't have to necessarily marry her. The law kept the property in the family and gave the widow protection and, sometimes, a husband. While Naomi and Ruth had no living children, they did have a cousin. Boaz. It was worth the gamble.

"So she [Ruth] went down to the threshing floor and did everything her mother-in-law told her to do. When Boaz had finished eating and drinking and was in good spirits, he went over to lie down at the far end of the grain pile." (vv. 6-7) Ruth lingered in the shadows, watching the men wander off to bed, one by one. Soon, laughter and chatter gave way to snoring. And that’s when Ruth made her move. She stepped carefully between the lumps of sleeping men in the direction of Boaz. Upon reaching him, she "uncovered his feet and lay down. In the middle of the night something startled the man, and he turned and discovered a woman lying at his feet." (vv. 7-8) Startled is probably an understatement.

This gesture was roughly equivalent to the giving of an engagement ring. "'I am your servant Ruth,' she said. 'Spread the corner of your garment over me, since you are a kinsman-redeemer.'" (v. 9) Pretty gutsy move because Boaz was under no obligation whatsoever to marry her; he was a relative, but not Elimelech’s brother. Besides, Ruth was a foreigner and he was a prominent landowner. She was a destitute alien. He was a local power broker. "Will you cover us?" she asked him. Boaz just smiled.

The next day, Boaz convened a meeting of ten city leaders. He summoned another man who, as it turned out, was actually a closer relative of Naomi than Boaz. And when Boaz told the closer relative about the property, the man jumped at his rights of first refusal and agreed to purchase the property. But then Boaz showed him the fine print: "On the day you buy the land from Naomi and from Ruth the Moabitess, you acquire the dead man's widow in order to maintain the name of the dead with his property." (4:5) The land, in other words, came with strings attached – an old widow woman and an illegal alien. The relative balked, and we have a hunch that Boaz probably knew that he would.

Ruth's story is your story; our story. We all wear robes of death. She buried her husband; we've buried our dreams, desires and aspirations. We're out of options. But our Boaz has taken note of us. Just as the landowner approached Ruth, Christ came to us "while we were yet sinners." (Rom. 5:8) He made the first move. "Will you cover us?" we asked, and Grace smiled. Not just mercy, mind you, but grace.

You see, grace goes beyond mercy. Mercy gave Ruth some food. Grace gave her a husband and a home. Mercy gave the prodigal son a second chance. Grace threw him a party. Mercy prompted the Samaritan to bandage the wounds of the victim. Grace prompted him to leave his credit card as payment for the victim's care. Mercy forgave the thief on the cross. Grace escorted him into paradise. Ruth's story is a picture of how grace happens in hard times. Jesus is your kinsman-redeemer. He spotted you in the wheat field, ramshackled by heartache and hurt. And he’s resolved to romance your heart. Feeling marginalized and discarded? Others may think so. Even you may think so. But God sees in you a masterpiece. He will do with you what Vik Muniz did with the garbage pickers of Gramacho.

Just a few years ago, Jardim Gramacho was the Godzilla of garbage dumps. What Rio de Janeiro discarded, Gramacho took. And what Gramacho took, catadores scavenged. About three thousand garbage pickers scraped a living out of the rubbish, salvaging 200 tons of recyclable scraps daily. They trailed the never-ending convoy of trucks, trudging up the mountains of garbage and then sliding down the other, snagging scraps along the way. Plastic bottles, tubes, wires and paper were sorted and sold to wholesalers who stood at the edge of the dump. Across the bay, the Christ the Redeemer statue extends his arms toward Rio's million-dollar beachfront apartments along the Ipanema and Copacabana beaches. Tourists flock to the beaches; but no one comes to Gramacho. No one except for Vik Muniz.

This Brazilian-born artist convinced five garbage workers to pose for individual portraits. Suelem, an eighteen-year-old mother of two. Isis, a recovering drug addict. Zumbi, who read every book he found in the trash. Irma, who cooked discarded produce in large pots and then sold it. And Tiao, who organized the workers into an association. Muniz took photos of their faces then enlarged the images to the size of a basketball court. He and the five catadores outlined the facial features with trash. Bottle tops became eyebrows. Cardboard boxes became chin lines. Rubber tires overlaid shadows. Images gradually emerged from the trash. Muniz then climbed onto a 30’ platform and took new photos. The result? The second-most-popular art exhibit in Brazilian history, exceeded only by the works of Picasso. Vik donated the profits to the local garbage pickers' association, and treated Gramacho with grace.

Grace does that. God does that. Grace is God walking into your world with a sparkle in his eye and an offer that's hard to resist. "Sit still for a bit. I can do wonders with this mess of yours." Believe his promise. Trust it. Cling like a barnacle to every hope and covenant. Imitate Ruth and then get busy. Go to your version of the grain field, and get to work. This is no time for inactivity or despair. Off with the mourning clothes. Take some chances; take the initiative. You never know what might happen. Ruth's troubled life helped give birth to grace incarnate. Who's to say yours won't do the same?

Grace,

Randy

Malodorous

Malodorous - Audio/Visual

Malodorous

Jesus knew that the Father had given him authority over everything and that he had come from God and would return to God. So he got up from the table, took off his robe, wrapped a towel around his waist, and poured water into a basin. Then he began to wash the disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel he had around him …. After washing their feet, he put on his robe again and sat down and asked, “Do you understand what I was doing? You call me ‘Teacher’ and ‘Lord,’ and you are right, because that’s what I am. And since I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you ought to wash each other’s feet. (John 13:3-5; 12-14)

Hurts. Too many of them. When kids mock the way you walk, or teachers ignore your work, or when your girlfriend drops you, or your husband abandons you, or the company fires you, it hurts. Rejection always does. As surely as summer brings sun, so people bring pain. Sometimes deliberately. Sometimes randomly.

Victoria Ruvolo can tell you a thing or two about random pain. On a November evening in 2004, this forty-four-year-old was driving to her home on Long Island; she'd just attended her niece's recital and was ready for the couch, a warm fire and some relaxation. She doesn't remember seeing the silver Nissan approaching her from the east. She remembers nothing about the eighteen-year-old boy leaning out of the window, holding – of all things – a frozen turkey. He threw it at her windshield. The twenty-pound bird crashed through the glass, bent the steering wheel inward, and shattered her face. The violent prank left her fighting for her life in the ICU. Fortunately, she survived – but only after doctors wired her jaw, attached one eye with a synthetic film, and bolted titanium plates to her skull. She can't look in the mirror today without a reminder of her hurt over a decade ago.

Now, you probably haven’t been hit by a frozen turkey, but maybe you married one, work for one, or got left by one. So where do you turn? Hitman.com? Jim Beam and friends? Pity Party Caterers? That’s probably why we can relate to the reaction of some U.S. soldiers in Afghanistan a while ago. One of the Marines had received a “Dear John” letter. Understandably, he was devastated. But to add insult to injury, his girlfriend wrote, "Please return my favorite picture of myself because I would like to use that photograph for my engagement picture in the county newspaper." Wow. But his buddies came to his defense. They went through the barracks and collected pictures of all the other soldiers' girlfriends. They filled an entire shoe box. So the jilted Marine mailed the photos to his ex-girlfriend with this note: "Please find your picture and return the rest. For the life of me, I can't remember which one you are."

Retaliation has its appeal, doesn’t it? But Jesus has a better idea. John 13 records the events of the final night before Jesus' death. He and his followers had gathered in the Upper Room for Passover. John begins his narrative with a lofty statement: "Jesus knew that the Father had given him authority over everything and that he had come from God and would return to God." (John 13:3) Jesus knew who he was, where he’d come from and where he was going, "so he got up from the table, took off his robe, wrapped a towel around his waist, and poured water into a basin. Then he began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them with the towel he had around him." (John 13:4-5)

To tell you the truth, I’m not a real big foot fan. Ask me to look you in the face? Sure. Shake your hand? Gladly. Put an arm around your shoulder? Happy to. But rub your feet? Come on, now. Feet stink. No one has yet to create a fragrance named Gym Sock Musk because feet are not typically known for their sweet smell. Or their good looks, for that matter. We want to see faces, not feet. Feet have heels. Feet have toenails. Bunions and fungus. Corns and calluses. And although there are some exceptions of course, feet can smell bad and look pretty ugly, which, I believe, is the point of this story. Jesus touched the stinky, ugly parts of his disciples.

Knowing that all authority was his, he exchanged his robe for a servant's garb, lowered himself to knee level, and began to rub away the grime, the grit, and the grunge his disciple’s feet had collected on the journey. This was the assignment of a slave, the job of the lowest servant on the totem pole. But in the Upper Room there were no servants. A pitcher of water? Yes. A basin and a towel? Sure – sitting on the table in corner. But no one touched them. No one so much as made a move in their general direction. Each disciple had hoped someone else would reach for the basin first. Peter thought John would. John thought Andrew would. Each apostle assumed someone else would wash their feet. And Someone else did.

Jesus didn't exclude a single follower, though we wouldn't have faulted him had he bypassed Philip, for instance. When Jesus told the disciples to feed five thousand hungry people, Philip, in effect, snapped back, "That's impossible!" (See John 6:7) So what does Jesus do with someone who questions his commands? Apparently, he washes a rebel’s feet. James and John lobbied for cabinet-level positions in Christ's kingdom. So what does Jesus do when people use his kingdom for personal advancement? He slides a basin in their direction. Peter quit trusting Christ in the storm. He tried to talk Christ out of going to the cross. Within hours Peter would curse the very name of Jesus and hightail his way into hiding. In fact, all twenty-four of Jesus' followers' feet would soon scurry, leaving Jesus to face his accusers alone. Ever wonder what God does with promise breakers? He washes their feet.

And Judas. The lying, conniving, greedy rat who sold Jesus down the river for a pocket full of cash. Jesus surely won't wash his feet, will he? We desperately hope not. Because if he washes the feet of his Judas, we’ll have to wash the feet of ours. Our betrayer. Our turkey-throwing miscreant. That ne'er-do-well. That good-for-nothing villain. Jesus' Judas walked away with thirty pieces of silver for his betrayal. Your Judas may have walked away with your virginity, security, spouse, job, childhood, retirement or investments. “You expect me to wash his feet and let him go?” Most people don't want to. In fact, most people keep a pot of anger on low boil. But you aren't "most people."

Look at your feet. They’re wet; grace soaked. Your toes and arches and heels have felt the cool basin of God's grace. Jesus has washed the grimiest parts of your life. He didn't bypass you and carry the basin toward someone else, did he? So then, can't you share your grace with others? "Since I, the Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you ought to wash each other's feet. I have given you an example to follow. Do as I have done to you." (John 13:14-15) To accept grace is to accept the responsibility of giving it in return. “Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us.” (Luke 11:4) Victoria Ruvolo did.

Nine months after her disastrous November night, she stood face to face with her offender in court. Ryan Cushing was no longer the cocky, turkey-tossing kid in the silver Nissan. He was trembling, tearful, and apologetic. For New York City, he had come to symbolize a generation of kids out of control.

People packed the room to see him get his comeuppance. But the judge's sentence enraged them instead – six months behind bars, five years' probation, some counseling, and public service. The courtroom erupted. Everyone objected. Everyone, that is, except for Victoria Ruvolo. The reduced sentence was her idea. In full view of the judge and the crowd, she held him tight and stroked his hair. He sobbed, and she spoke: "I forgive you. I want your life to be the best it can be." Victoria had allowed grace to shape her response. "God gave me a second chance at life, and I passed it on," she says. "If I hadn't let go of that anger, I'd be consumed by this need for revenge. Forgiving him helps me move on." Forgiveness helps the forgiven, and heals the forgiver.

Victoria Ruvolo knows how to fill a basin. How about you? You can build a prison of hate if you want to. Each brick a hurt. Design it with one cell and a single bunk because you’ll be alone. Hang large video screens on each of the four walls so recorded images of the offense can play over and over again, twenty-four hours a day. Appealing? No, appalling. Harbored grudges suck the joy out of life. Revenge won't paint the blue back into your sky, or restore the spring in your step. It will leave you bitter, bent and angry. So give the grace that you've been given. You won’t endorse the deeds of your offender when you do; Jesus didn't endorse your sins by forgiving you. Grace doesn't tell the daughter to like the father who molested her. It doesn't tell the oppressed to wink at injustice. The grace-defined person still sends thieves to jail and expects an ex- to pay child support. Grace is not blind. It sees the hurt full well. But grace chooses to see God's forgiveness even more. Grace refuses to let hurts poison the heart. "See to it that no one misses the grace of God and that no bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many." (Heb. 12:15) Where grace is lacking, bitterness abounds. Where grace abounds, forgiveness grows.

On October 2, 2006, around 10:00 a.m., Charles Roberts entered the West Nickel Mines Amish School in Pennsylvania. He carried a 9 mm handgun, a 12 gauge shotgun, a rifle, a bag of black powder, two knives, tools, a stun gun, six hundred rounds of ammunition, K-Y lubricant, wire and plastic flex ties. Using the ties, he bound eleven girls, ages six to fifteen. As he prepared to shoot them, Marian Fisher, thirteen, stepped forward and said, "Shoot me first." Her younger sister Barbie allegedly asked Roberts to shoot her second. He shot ten young girls. He then killed himself. Three of the girls died immediately; two others died in the hospital by the next morning. The tragedy stunned the nation. But the forgiveness of the Amish community even more so. More than half the people who attended the killer’s funeral were Amish. An Amish midwife who had helped birth several of the girls murdered by Roberts made plans to take food to his family's house. She said, "This is possible if you have Christ in your heart."

You see, sequence matters. Jesus washes first; we wash next. He demonstrates; we follow. He uses the towel then extends it to us, saying, "Now you do it. Go ahead. Walk across the floor of your upper room, and wash the feet of your Judas." So, go ahead. Get your feet wet. Set your feet in the basin. Let God’s hands wipe away every dirty part of your life – your dishonesty, angry outbursts, hypocrisy, addictions and pornography. Let him touch them all. And as his hands do their work, look across the room. Forgiveness may not happen all at once. But it can, and it starts with a grace-washed first step. Yours.

Grace,

Randy