Surrender

Surrender - Audio/Visual

Surrender

It happens so regularly that it’s predictable. The moment I decide to do good, sin is there to trip me up. I truly delight in God’s commands, but it’s pretty obvious that not all of me joins in that delight. Parts of me covertly rebel, and just when I least expect it, they take charge. I’ve tried everything and nothing helps. I’m at the end of my rope. Is there no one who can do anything for me? Isn’t that the real question? The answer, thank God, is that Jesus Christ can and does. (Romans 7:21-25)

Charles Robertson should have turned himself in. Not that he’d have been acquitted, or anything; he robbed a bank. But at least he wouldn't have been the laughingstock of Virginia Beach. Cash-strapped Robertson, 19, went to Jefferson State Bank on a Wednesday afternoon, filled out a loan application, and left. Apparently he changed his mind about the loan and opted for a quicker plan. He returned within a couple of hours with a pistol, a bag and a note demanding money. The teller complied, and all of a sudden Robertson was holding a sack of cash. Figuring the police were fast on their way, he dashed out the front door. He was halfway to the car when he realized he'd left the note. Fearing it could be used as evidence against him, he ran back into the bank and snatched it from the teller.

Now holding the note and the money, he ran a block to his parked car. That's when he realized he'd left his keys on the counter when he'd returned for the note. Panic set in. So, Robertson ducked into the restroom of a fast-food restaurant. He dislodged a ceiling tile and hid the money and the .25 caliber handgun. Scampering through alleys and creeping behind cars, he finally reached his apartment where his roommate, who knew nothing about the robbery, greeted him with the words, "I need my car." You see, Robertson's getaway vehicle was a loaner. But rather than confess to the crime and admit the bungle, Robertson shoveled yet another spade of dirt deeper into the hole: "Uhhhhh …, your car was stolen," he lied.

While Robertson watched in panic, the roommate called the police to inform them of the stolen vehicle. About twenty minutes later an officer spotted the "stolen" car a block from the recently robbed bank. Word was already on the scanner that the robber had forgotten his keys. The officer put two and two together and tried the keys in the car. They worked. So, detectives went to the address of the person who'd reported the missing car. There they found Robertson. He confessed, was charged with robbery, and was put in jail. No bail. No loan. No kidding. Some days it's hard to do anything right.

It's even harder to do anything wrong right. But then again, Robertson's not alone. We've all done the same. Perhaps we didn't take money, but we've taken advantage, or taken control, or taken leave of our senses. And then, like the thief, we've taken off. Dashing down alleys of deceit. Hiding behind buildings of work to be done, or deadlines to be met. Though we try to act normal, anyone who looks closely at us can see we are on the lam: eyes darting and hands fidgeting, we chatter nervously. Committed to the cover-up, we scheme and squirm, changing the topic and changing direction. We don't want anyone to know the truth, especially God.

But from the beginning God has called for honesty. He's never demanded perfection, but he has expected truthfulness. Nehemiah knew the value of honesty. Upon hearing of the crumbled walls in Jerusalem, did he fault God? Did he blame heaven? Hardly. Read his prayer: "I confess the sins we Israelites have done against you. My father's family and I have sinned against you. We have been wicked toward you and have not obeyed the commands, rules, and laws you gave your servant Moses." (Neh. 1:6-7) Here’s the second most powerful man in the kingdom turning himself in, and accepting responsibility for the downfall of God’s people. Why? Because before there can be honest worship, there have to be honest hearts.

Confession does for the soul what preparing the land does for the field. Before the farmer sows the seed, he works the acreage, removing the rocks and pulling the stumps. He knows that seed grows better if the land is prepared. Confession is the act of inviting God to walk the acreage of our hearts. God's seed grows better if the soil of the heart is cleared. And so the Father and the Son walk the field together, digging and pulling, preparing the heart for seed and then for fruit. Confession invites the Father to work the soil of the soul. Confession seeks pardon from God, not amnesty.

Pardon presumes guilt; amnesty, derived from the same Greek word as amnesia, "forgets" the alleged offense without imputing guilt. Confession admits wrong and seeks forgiveness; amnesty denies wrong and claims innocence. Many mouth a prayer for forgiveness while in reality claiming amnesty. Consequently our worship is cold, and our faith is weak. We’re better at keeping God out than we are at inviting God in. Sunday mornings are full of preparing the body for worship, preparing the hair for worship, preparing the clothes for worship . . . but preparing the soul? It’s like going to church on the run. Just like we spend our lives – on the run. But grace means you don’t have to run anymore; it's finally safe to turn ourselves in. That’s what Peter did.

Remember Peter? Flash-the-sword-and-deny-the-Lord Peter? The apostle who boasted one minute and bolted the next? He snoozed when he should have prayed. He denied when he should have defended. He cursed when he should have comforted. He ran when he should have stayed. We remember Peter as the one who turned and fled, but do we remember Peter as the one who returned and confessed? We should. Because how did the New Testament writers know of his sin? For instance, who told them of his betrayal? And how did they know the details? Who told them of the girl at the gate and the soldiers surrounding the fire? How did Matthew know it was Peter's accent that made him a suspect? How did Luke learn of Jesus’ stare after the rooster crowed? And, for that matter, who told all four of the noisy bird and the flowing tears? The Holy Spirit? Maybe. But isn’t it also possible that each learned of the betrayal as a result of an honest confession from the man himself?

Like the bank robber, Peter bungled it and ran. But unlike the robber, Peter stopped and thought. Somewhere in the Jerusalem shadows he quit running, fell to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and gave up. But not only did he give up, he opened up. He went back to the room where Jesus had broken the bread and shared the wine. There he was, every burly bit of him filling the door frame. "Guys, I've got to get something off my chest." And that's when they learned of the fire and the girl and the look from Jesus. That's when they hear of the cursing mouth and the crowing rooster. Maybe that's how they heard the story. Peter had turned himself in. How can we be so sure? Well, two reasons.

The first is that he couldn’t stay away. When word came the tomb was empty, who was first out the room? Peter. When word came that Jesus was on the shore, who was first out of the boat? Peter. He was on the run again. Only now he was running in the right direction. Here’s a good rule of thumb: those who keep secrets from God keep their distance from God. Those who are honest with God draw near to God. This isn’t novel. It happens between people. If you loan me your car and I wreck it, will I look forward to seeing you again? No. And it’s no coincidence that the result of the very first sin was to duck into the hedges. Adam and Eve ate the fruit, heard God in the garden, and crept behind the bushes.

The second is that he couldn't stay silent. Only fifty days after denying Christ, Peter is preaching Jesus. Peter cursed his Lord at the Passover, but he proclaimed his Lord at the feast. This isn’t the action of a fugitive. So, what took him from traitor to orator? He let God deal with the secrets of his life. "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 1:9) The fugitive lives in fear, but the penitent lives in peace.

Jesus has never demanded that we be perfect, only that we be honest. But honesty is a stubborn virtue for most of us. "Me, a thief?" we ask with the revolver in one hand and the bag of cash in the other. It wasn't easy for Peter, because he considered himself the MVA – most valuable apostle. Wasn't he one of the early draft picks? Wasn't he one of the chosen three? Didn't he confess Christ while the others were silent? Peter never thought he needed help until he lifted his eyes from the fire and saw the eyes of Jesus. "While Peter was still speaking, a rooster crowed. Then the Lord turned and looked straight at Peter." (Luke 22:60-61)

Jesus and Peter were not the only two in the midnight street that night, but they might as well have been. Jesus is surrounded by accusers, but he doesn't respond. The night air is full of taunts, but Jesus doesn't hear. But let one follower slip when he should have stood, and the Master's head pops up and his eyes search through the shadows and the disciple knows. "The Lord looks down from heaven and sees every person. From his throne he watches all who live on earth. He made their hearts and understands everything they do." (Ps. 33:13-15) You know when God knows. You know when he’s looking. Your heart tells you. Your Bible tells you. Your mirror tells you. The longer you run, the more complicated life gets. But the sooner you confess, the lighter your load becomes.

David knew this. He wrote: “When I kept things to myself, I felt weak deep inside me. I moaned all day long. Day and night you punished me. My strength was gone as in the summer heat. Then I confessed my sins to you and didn't hide my guilt. I said, ‘I will confess my sins to the LORD,’ and you forgave my guilt.” (Ps. 32:3-5) So, are you keeping any secrets from God? Any parts of your life off-limits? Any part of your past or present that you hope you and God will never discuss? Learn a lesson from the robber: the longer you run, the worse it gets. And learn a lesson from Peter: the sooner you speak to Jesus, the more you'll speak for Jesus. Once you're in the grip of grace, you're free to be honest. So, surrender before things get worse. You'll be glad you did. Honest to God, you will.

Grace,

Randy

Paupers

Paupers - Audio/Visual

Paupers

(Saul’s son Jonathan had a son named Mephibosheth, who was crippled in both feet. He was five years old when the news came from Jezreel that Saul and Jonathan were dead. Mephibosheth’s nurse had picked him up and ran away. But as she hurried to leave, she dropped him, and now he was lame ….) (2 Sam. 4:4)

Family therapist, Paul Faulkner, tells the story of a man who took steps to adopt a troubled teenager. But you’d have to question his logic – the girl was destructive, disobedient and dishonest. One day, she came home from school and thrashed the house looking for money. By the time the father arrived home from work, she was gone and the house was a disaster. Friends urged him to terminate the adoption. “Let her go,” they said. “After all, she’s not really your daughter.” His response was simply, “Yes, I know. But I told her she was.”

God, too, made a covenant to adopt His people, and His covenant’s not invalidated by our ransacking His house looking for something to steal. But it’s one thing to love us when we’re obedient and willing, but when we ruin his house and steal what’s His? But the father didn’t look at the wrecked house and say, “Come back when you’ve learned some respect, young lady!” And God doesn’t look at our frazzled lives and say, “I’ll die for you when you deserve it,” any more than David looked at Mephibosheth and say, “I’ll rescue you when you’ve learned to walk.”

(Saul’s son Jonathan had a son named Mephibosheth, who was crippled in both feet. He was five years old when the news came from Jezreel that Saul and Jonathan were dead. Mephibosheth’s nurse had picked him up and ran away. But as she hurried to leave, she dropped him, and now he was lame ….) (2 Sam. 4:4) The parentheses around this verse are not a typographical error. Mephibosheth is bracketed into the Bible – literally. Frankly, the verse doesn’t tell us much, either: just his name (Mephibosheth); his calamity (he was dropped by his nurse); and his deformity (he was handicapped).

Mephibosheth was the son of Jonathan, and the grandson of Saul, the first king of Israel. Saul and Jonathan had been killed in battle, leaving the throne to be occupied by David. Now in those days, the new king often staked out his territory by “eliminating” the family of the previous king. And although David had no intention of following this tradition, Saul’s family didn’t know that. So, they hurried to escape, and of special concern to them was little, five year old Mephibosheth since, upon the deaths of his father and grandfather, he was the presumptive heir to the throne. So, if David was intent on murdering Saul’s heirs, this boy would be first on his “hit list.” As a result, the family got out of town. But in their haste, Mephibosheth slipped from the arms of his nurse, permanently damaging both feet. And for the rest of his life he would be handicapped – a cripple.

For nearly twenty years the young prince had lived far away, unable to walk to the king and way too fearful to talk to him. He was unable to help himself. Meanwhile, David’s kingdom was flourishing. Under his leadership, Israel grew to ten times its original size. He knew no defeat in battle, or insurrection in his court. Israel was at peace, the people were thankful, and David, the shepherd-made-king, did not forget his promise to Jonathan.

David and Jonathan had been legendary friends, meeting its ultimate test the day David learned that Saul was trying to kill him. Jonathan pledged to save David, but asked his friend for one favor in return: “You must never stop showing your kindness to my family, even when the Lord has destroyed all your enemies from the earth.” (1 Sam. 20:14-15)

So now David, perhaps standing on the balcony overlooking his kingdom, was reminiscing about his friendship with Jonathan. Perhaps David thought, “Had it not been for Jonathan saving my life, none of this would’ve happened.” Whatever his mood, David turned to his servants and said, “Is anyone still left in Saul’s family? I want to show kindness to that person for Jonathan’s sake!” (2 Sam. 9:1) David had been delivered, and now he wanted to return the favor. A servant named Ziba knew of a descendant. “Jonathan has a son still living who is crippled in both feet.’ The king asked Ziba, ‘Where is this son?’ Ziba answered, ‘He is at the house of Makir son of Ammiel in Lo Debar.’” (Vs. 3 and 4)

Just one sentence and David knew he had more than he’d bargained for. The boy was crippled in both feet, and who would’ve blamed David for asking Ziba, “Are there any other options, like any healthy family members?” Who would have faulted David for thinking, A cripple just won’t fit into the castle crowd. Only the elite walk these floors, and this kid can’t even walk. And what service can he provide? He has no wealth, no education, no training. And who knows what he looks like. All these years he’s been living in … what was it again? Lo Debar? Even the name means “barren place.” Surely there’s someone I can help who isn’t so needy.  But David’s only response was, “Where is this son?” (Vs. 4)

How long had it been since Mephibosheth had been called a son? In all previous references he was called a cripple. Every mention of him thus far was followed by his handicap. But the words of David make no mention of his affliction. He doesn’t ask, “Where’s Mephibosheth, this problem child?” Rather, he asks, “Where’s this son?” Maybe you know what it’s like; each time your name is mentioned, your calamity follows – like Pig Pen in the Peanuts comic strip. “Have you heard from John lately? You know, the guy who got divorced?” Or, “We got a letter from Jerry. Remember him, the addict?” Or, “Sharon’s in town. What a shame she has to raise those kids alone.” Or, maybe, “I saw Melissa today. I don’t know why she can’t keep a job.” Your past follows you wherever you go, and Mephibosheth carried his stigma for twenty years. When people mentioned his name, they mentioned his problem.

There’s a knock on the front door. Makir goes to answer it and there stands Ziba with an authoritative look on his face in his gardening cloths. He bluntly tells Makir the news: "David wants to see Mephibosheth. And there sits middle-aged Mephibosheth, sitting on his mat in the corner of the room by the cool breeze of a window. Even in the heat of the day, however, he feels a cold chill run through his arms and back. Now, finally, after all of these years, David’s found him and his life’s over. “It’s not fair,” he thinks. I mean, it’d started out great: his father was prince Jonathan, and his grandfather was King Saul, the first great king of Israel and Judah. He was royalty, and royalty had its perks. When he was young, everything seemed to come his way - the gifts, the friends, and the fun - all because he was royalty. Back then he even had a royal name, "Mirab Baal," meaning "opponent of Baal." Baal was a false god. But now even his name was different: Mephibosheth – “Son of Shame," all because of that one day when his world was turned upside-down.

On the day that his dad Prince Jonathan, and his grandpa King Saul died in battle, Mirab Baal's life went terribly wrong. His nurse took him to Lo Debar, a city far away from the palace. To further protect the now-dethroned heir apparent, his name was changed from Mirab Baal to Mephibosheth; after all who would be interested in a person with a name like "Son of Shame." He had to learn how to live without functional legs. He had to learn to sit again. He had to learn to be carried by others. He had to learn to be cared for by others. And his nurse continued to care for him, but living in secret, without his dad, without his grandpa, was hard, very hard, and hard for a very long time.

It wasn't fair. He’d heard his grandpa had badly disobeyed God: King Saul, again and again, had tried to kill David. King Saul had even gone to a witch to see if he could get some spiritual advice. As a result, grandpa Saul died, and so did his dad, Prince Jonathan, and Mirab Baal, now Mephibosheth, was left for years to fend for himself. Now, Ziba was at the door. "King David wants to see Mephibosheth. NOW!" And just then, a flash of anger ripped through Mephibosheth. How did King David hear that he was here, anyway? There was only one answer – Ziba. Ziba was in charge of taking care of his property, and Ziba wanted the property for himself. So what better way than to rat out Mephibosheth so that the new king would eliminate him and leave all the property to Ziba.

But there was nothing Mephibosheth could do. His legs didn’t work. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t fight. He could only face the end of his life with honor. He was cursed. Because of his grandfather, everything had gone wrong for him, and at times he’d wished he’d never been born a prince. But there was no way of changing that now. Ziba was at the door, and soldiers, the king’s soldiers no less, had forced their way in past Makir. They picked him up by the arms and placed him on the muddy floor of a chariot and the cross-country race began to the city of Jerusalem.

When they arrived, they put him on the floor, down the steps from the throne where King David was seated. Mephibosheth stretched out his hands and put his face to the ground not daring to even look at the king. He hoped that the sword would fall quickly to end his life. Though he may have been told that David was kind, what assurances did he have? And though the emissaries surely said that David meant no harm, he was afraid. The anxiety was on his face that faced the floor, and David’s first words to him were, “Don’t be afraid.” Your King is known to say the same thing to you, too. The most repeated command from the lips of Jesus is, “Fear not.” In fact, the command to not be afraid appears in every book of the Bible. Mephibosheth had been called, found and rescued, but he still needed assurance. Don’t we all.

And just as David kept his promise to Jonathan, so God keeps his promise to us. The name Mephibosheth means “Son of Shame.” And that’s exactly what David intended to correct for the young prince. In quick succession, David returned all of Mephibosheth’s land, crops, and servants, and then insisted that the cripple eat at the king’s table – not just once but four (4) times. “I will give you back all the land of your grandfather Saul, and you will always eat at my table.” “But Mephibosheth, your master’s grandson, will always eat at my table.” “So Mephibosheth ate at David’s table as if he were one of the king’s sons.” “Mephibosheth lived in Jerusalem, because he always sat at the king’s table.  And he was crippled in both feet.” (2 Sam. 9:7, 10, 11, 13) Do you see yourself in this story?

We are children of royalty, crippled by the fall, permanently marred by sin, living parenthetical lives on earth only to be remembered by the King. Driven not by our beauty but by his promise, He calls us to Himself and invites us to take a permanent place at His table. And though we often limp more than we walk, we take our place next to the other sinners-made-saints and we share in God’s glory. Like Mephibosheth, we are sons and daughters of the King, and our greatest offering is nothing in comparison to what we’ve been given.

“Crippled.” “Pauper” – they’re not a pejorative; they’re an adjective. It describes a noun, maybe a person just like you.

Grace,

Randy

Grace-Works

Grace-Works Audio/Visual

Grace-Works

So what do we do? Keep on sinning so God can keep on forgiving? I should hope not! If we’ve left the country where sin is sovereign, how can we still live in our old house there? Or didn’t you realize we packed up and left there for good? That is what happened in baptism. When we went under the water, we left the old country of sin behind; when we came up out of the water, we entered into the new country of grace — a new life in a new land! (Romans 6:1-3)

Exactly what does a grace-driven Christian look like? In Romans 6 Paul asks a crucial question: "How can we who died to sin still live in it?" (v. 2 RSV) How can we who have been made right not live righteous lives? How can we who have been loved not love? How can we who have been blessed not bless? How can we who have been given grace not live graciously? Paul seems stunned that an alternative would even exist. How could grace result in anything but gracious living? "So what do we do? Keep on sinning so God can keep on forgiving?” (v. 1)

The two-dollar term for this philosophy is antinomianism: anti meaning "against," and nomos meaning "moral law." Promoters of the idea see grace as a reason to do bad rather than a reason to do good. Grace grants them a license to sin. The worse I act the better God seems. And this isn't Paul's first reference to the teaching. In Romans 3:7, Paul writes, "A person might say, 'When I lie, it really gives him the glory, because my lie shows God's truth.'" What a scam. You mothers wouldn't tolerate it. Can you imagine your teenager saying, "Mom, I'll keep my room messy so the whole neighborhood can see what a great housekeeper you are"? A boss wouldn't let the employee say, "The reason I'm so lazy is to give you an opportunity to display your forgiveness." No one respects the beggar who refuses to work, saying, "I'm just giving the government an opportunity to demonstrate its benevolence." Sound familiar in this election season? We wouldn't tolerate it, and we wouldn't do it. Would we?

Maybe we don't sin so God can give grace, but do we ever sin knowing God will give grace? Do we ever compromise tonight, knowing we'll confess tomorrow? It's easy to be like the guy visiting Las Vegas who called the preacher, wanting to know the hours for Sunday services. The preacher was impressed. "Most people who come to Las Vegas don’t think much about church." "Oh, I'm not coming to go to church. I'm coming for the gambling and parties and wild women. And if I have half as much fun as I intend, I'll need a church come Sunday morning." Is that the intent of grace? Is God's goal to promote disobedience? Hardly. "Grace . . . teaches us not to live against God nor to do the evil things the world wants to do. Instead, grace teaches us to live now in a wise and right way and in a way that shows we serve God." (Titus 2:11-12) God's grace has released us from selfishness. So, why return?

Think of it this way. Sin put you in prison. Sin locked you behind the bars of guilt and shame and deception and fear. Sin did nothing but shackle you to a wall of misery. Then Jesus came and paid your bail. He served your time; he satisfied the penalty and set you free. Christ died, and when you cast your lot with him, your old self died, too. The only way to be set free from the prison of sin is to serve its penalty. In this case, the penalty is death. Someone has to die, either you or a heaven-sent substitute. You cannot leave prison unless there’s a death. But that death occurred at Calvary. And when Jesus died, you died to sin's claim on your life. You’re free.

Near the city of Sao Jose dos Campos, Brazil is a remarkable facility. Twenty years ago the Brazilian government turned a prison over to two Christians. The institution was renamed Humaita, and the plan was to run it on Christian principles. With the exception of two fulltime staff, all the work is done by inmates. Families outside the prison adopt an inmate with whom to work during and after his term. Chuck Colson visited the prison and made this report:

When I visited Humaita I found the inmates smiling – particularly the murderer who held the keys, opened the gates and let me in. . . . My guide escorted me to the notorious prison cell once used for torture. Today, he told me, that block houses only a single inmate. As we reached the end of a long concrete corridor and he put the key in the lock, he paused and asked, "Are you sure you want to go in?" "Of course," I replied impatiently, "I've been in isolation cells all over the world." Slowly he swung open the massive door, and I saw the prisoner in that punishment cell: a crucifix, beautifully carved by the Humaita inmates – the prisoner Jesus, hanging on a cross. "He's doing time for the rest of us," my guide said softly.

Christ has taken your place. There’s no need for you to remain in the cell. Ever heard of a released prisoner who wanted to stay? Me either. When the doors open, prisoners leave. The thought of a person preferring jail over freedom doesn't compute. Once the penalty is paid, why live under bondage? And you have been discharged from the penitentiary of sin. Why, in heaven's name, would you ever want to set foot in that prison again? Paul reminds us: "Our old life died with Christ on the cross so that our sinful selves would have no power over us and we would not be slaves to sin. Anyone who has died is made free from sin's control." (Rom. 6:6-7) He’s not saying that it’s impossible for believers to sin; he's saying it’s stupid for believers to sin. Because what does the prison have that you desire? Do you miss the guilt? Are you homesick for dishonesty? Do you have fond memories of being lied to and forgotten? Was life better when you were dejected and rejected? Do you have a longing to once again see a sinner in the mirror? It doesn’t make any sense to go back to prison.

But not only has a price been paid, a vow has been made. "Did you forget that all of us became part of Christ when we were baptized?" (Rom. 6:3) Baptism was no casual custom, no ho-hum ritual. Baptism was, and is, "a pledge made to God from a good conscience." (1 Pet. 3:21) Paul's high regard for baptism is demonstrated in the fact that he knew all of his readers had been instructed in its importance. "You have been taught that when we were baptized into Christ we were baptized into his death." (Rom. 6:2) So, what kind of amnesia is this? Like a bride horrified to see her new husband flirting with women at the wedding reception, Paul asks, "Did you forget your vows?" (Rom. 6:3)

Baptism is a vow, a sacred vow of the believer to follow Christ. Just as a wedding celebrates the fusion of two hearts, baptism celebrates the union of sinner with Savior. We "became part of Christ when we were baptized." (v. 3) Do the bride and groom understand all of the implications of their marriage? No. Do they know every challenge or threat they’ll face? No. But they know that they love each other and vow to be faithful to the end. When a willing heart enters the waters of baptism, does he know the implications of the vow? No. Does she know every temptation or challenge? No. But both know the love of God and are responding to him.

To return to sin after sealing our souls in baptism is like committing adultery on your honeymoon. Can you imagine the distraught bride discovering her husband in the arms of another woman only days after hearing his vow at the altar? Among her many sizzling words (and that’s putting it nicely) would likely be the question, "Have you forgotten what you said to me?" Similarly God asks, "Does our union mean nothing to you? Is our covenant so fragile that you would choose the arms of a harlot over mine?" Who, in their right mind, would want to abandon those vows? Who will care for you more than Jesus? Have we forgotten what life was like before our baptism? Have we forgotten the mess we were in before we were united with him? I choose the word mess intentionally. Let me share mine.

Do you know the mess that I'm glad I’m finally out of? My college dorm. Of all the names I've been called, no one has ever accused me of being a neat-freak. Some people have a high threshold of pain; I have a high threshold of sloppiness. Not that my mom didn't try. And not that she didn't succeed. As long as I was under her roof, I stacked my plate and picked up my shorts. But once I was free, I was free indeed. Most of my life I've been a closet slob. I was slow to see the logic of neatness. Why make up a bed if you’re going to sleep in it again tonight? Does it make sense to wash dishes after only one meal? Isn't it easier to leave your clothes on the floor at the foot of the bed so they'll be there when you get up and put them back on the next morning? Is anything really gained by putting the lid on the toothpaste tube tonight only to remove it again tomorrow? I was as compulsive as anyone, only I was compulsive about being messy. Life was too short to match your socks; just buy longer pants. But then I got married and became a new man. I’d been exposed to my wife’s higher standards.

Isn't that what’s happened with us? Isn't that the heart of Paul's argument? How could we who have been freed from sin return to it? Before Christ our lives were out of control, sloppy and indulgent. We didn't even know we were slobs until we met him. Then he moved in. Things began to change. What we threw around we began putting away. What we neglected we cleaned up. What had been clutter became order. Oh, there were (and still are) occasional lapses of thought and deed, but by and large he got our house in order. Suddenly we find ourselves wanting to do good. Go back to the old mess? Are you kidding? "In the past you were slaves to sin – sin controlled you. But thank God, you fully obeyed the things that you were taught. You were made free from sin, and now you are slaves to goodness." (Rom. 6:17-18)

Can a discharged prisoner return to confinement? Yes. But let him remember the gray walls and long nights. Can a newlywed forget his vows? Yes. But let him remember his holy vow and his beautiful bride. Can a converted slob once again be messy? Yes. But let him consider the difference between the filth of yesterday and the purity of today. Can one who has been given a free gift not share that gift with others? I suppose. But let him remember that the gift was given freely. Let him remember that all of life is a gift of grace. And let him remember that the call of grace is to live a gracious life. That’s how grace works.

Grace,

Randy