Direction

Rocks

The people left their tents to cross the Jordan, led by the priests carrying the Ark of the Covenant. When the priests got to the Jordan and their feet touched the water at the edge (the Jordan overflows its banks throughout the harvest), the flow of water stopped. It piled up in a heap—a long way off—at Adam, which is near Zarethan. The river went dry all the way down to the Arabah Sea (the Salt Sea). And the people crossed, facing Jericho.

And there they stood; those priests carrying the Ark of the Covenant stood firmly planted on dry ground in the middle of the Jordan while all Israel crossed on dry ground. Finally the whole nation was across the Jordan, and not one wet foot.

When the whole nation was finally across, God spoke to Joshua: "Select twelve men from the people, a man from each tribe, and tell them, 'From right here, the middle of the Jordan where the feet of the priests are standing firm, take twelve stones. Carry them across with you and set them down in the place where you camp tonight.'

When your children ask you, 'What are these stones to you?' you'll say, 'The flow of the Jordan was stopped in front of the Ark of the Covenant of God as it crossed the Jordan—stopped in its tracks. These stones are a permanent memorial for the People of Israel.'"  (Joshua 13:1-4; 4:1-3; 6-7)

Many years ago, I saw Fiddler on the Roof, a story about social turmoil that would soon break out into the Russian revolution. But Tevye, the main character, doesn’t know that. He only senses that the world is changing and he’s got to find a way to balance who he is and what he believes against the realities of a changing world. For him, traditions give stability to his life – an anchor point that can’t be touched by the prejudices of the people around him, by the persecutions against his faith, or even by the shifting whims of political leaders.

We don’t hear much talk about traditions, today. In fact, in many churches, “tradition” is used in a negative sense: it’s used to describe old, dead ways that stifle growth. It describes the lifeless past and is often contrasted with the new, freer ways of the present. Yet, the emphasis on present experience makes it difficult, at times, for us to understand the significance and power of past encounters with God.

Many of the questions we face today are the same as they were for Tevye. How do we respond to a changing world? How do we balance our experience of the past with a world that didn’t even exist five years ago? How do we teach our children what’s important, when so much is changing so rapidly? How do we maintain a moral and spiritual balance amid the relativism of our modern culture? How do we face an unknown future?

The crossing of the Jordan takes two chapters at the beginning of the book of Joshua to describe. The people have prepared for their entry into the land by sending out spies, and they’ve been assured by the spies (and by God) that they’ll be able to enter the land.

Normally, the Jordan was a small river that could be crossed easily. However, during spring the melting snows in the mountains turned the river into a torrent, spreading out over the flood plain and as much as a mile wide at some locations. But Joshua assured the people that God was about to do something miraculous so that they might know that He was their God and that He was with them.

Undeniably, the crossing of the Jordan River is the central event of these two chapters. But throughout the story, there’s an added dimension that catches our attention. "Rocks" are an important part of this story. The people take stones from the river and place them in a big heap. And the end of the story is not so much the crossing of the river, but the pile of stones they raise and the significance they play. Rocks? Significant? Yes.

The stones are to be a memorial of this event so that when those who come later and see the stones and ask about them, the story of God's great act for the people can be retold. And the story’s told for a specific reason. It’s not just a story about national origins or something strange to entertain the kids. No, they’re to tell the story so that later generations would know who God is and what He can do. Sometimes, even the ones who’ve witnessed God’s actions need to remember, too.

If we’re not careful, this event simply becomes a memorial to something that happened long ago and has very little meaning to us beyond saying, "Yeah, that was cool. Nice story!" And in that way, the stones simply become another cold, lifeless monument to the past. So, what was so critical about this particular pile of rocks for the Israelites? Why was it so important that the people were to retell the story, and know its meaning?

The Israelites will go on and enter the land, but it won’t be easy. As they move away from the Jordan River, things will never be the same again. Most of them were born in the desert and they’ve lived their whole life there. They know the desert. Now, they’re moving into an unknown land and an unknown future. They will face well-fortified cities. On foot, and armed only with garden tools for weapons, they will face fierce, chariot-mounted Philistines with an iron arsenal. Untrained in warfare, they will be outnumbered by skilled Canaanite warriors. And worst of all, they will encounter the religions of the Canaanites and be lured into the worship of Baal. In other words, they will forget God.

They face a rough future, for sure, but God will help them. Jericho's walls will fall; at Gibeon, the sun will stand still for Joshua; Gideon will rout a Midianite army with only clay pots and 300 men; and David will kill Goliath. God will do great things for His people. But in between the great acts of God, the people will have to live in a real world. They will have to grapple with day-to-day living. And they will get discouraged because after the great victory at Jericho will come their defeat at Ai; after the miracle at Gibeon will come the failures recorded at the opening of Judges; after Gideon defeats the Midianites, he will turn to building idols to Baal; and after David kills Goliath, he’ll have Uriah killed to hide his adultery.

There will be times when they will not be sure if God is even present among them. There’ll be times of defeat, discouragement and despair. There’ll be times of no miracles. There will be times when their world is thrown into such chaos that they will be able to see no future at all. And it’s in those times that they’ll need a reference point. When they can’t prove God's presence by their own experience, and when they don’t know how to adapt to a changing world, they’ll need to be able to look back and know from past encounters that God is … well … God. They will need an anchor point.

And this pile of stones was to be that anchor point; a point of reference for later times when the path wouldn’t be so clear. These stones were more than a pile of rocks on the bank of a river. These stones were a heritage, a tradition. These stones were the "Fiddler on the roof," so to speak, the tradition that balances the known past with an unknown future. They were to become a beacon that shined far beyond the banks of the Jordan, far beyond the time of Joshua, and tell far more than just the parting of the Jordan’s waters.

They’re a signpost from the past to the future. They’re a marker by which they can stand in their present, look to the past, and then draw a straight line into an unknown future. They’re a way to define the present, and the future, by means of the past. They can’t know where to go until they know where they are. And they can’t know where they are until they know where they’ve been.

You see, our problem is that once we get out in the middle of life we need a reference point. Although we may know, generally, where we’re going, we can’t always see how to get there.  However, we can see where we’ve been.  So, we use the reference point of the miracles of our past as a guide to the future.

See the significance? This pile of rocks was an anchor point. They told the people where they’d been. They told them who God was. And they told them what God could do. Those stones allowed them to draw a straight line from the past acts of God into their uncertain present, and beyond.

And it will be a long journey between the exodus and the crossing of the Jordan. In that gap between the great manifestations of God in history, the people will have to live in a real world. They’ll experience times when they won’t be able to see by their present experiences that God is God at all. There’ll be times when they won’t be sure if God is even present among them. So, in those times, they’ll need an anchor point. When they can’t prove God's presence by their present experience, they’ll need to be able to look back and know from past encounters that God is God.

Notice, at the close of this story, what’s said in Joshua 4:23.

"Yes, God, your God, dried up the Jordan's waters for you until you had crossed, just as God, your God, did at the Red Sea, which had dried up before us until we had crossed.

The curious thing is that the people to whom Joshua was speaking didn’t cross the Red Sea with Moses – their parents and grandparents did. So, they weren’t just remembering their heritage, they were living their heritage. They’d drawn a straight line from the exodus, through that pile of stones on the banks of the Jordan, on into an uncertain future.

So how do we face the uncertainty of a future that we can’t control, in a world not of our own making, and in the face of events we can’t bend to our will? We can’t always see God at work in miraculous ways. We know He’s there, but we don’t always know what decisions to make because we don’t know how things will go. Events change too fast. So, how do we face a future that we cannot imagine? We look back at the heritage of the Red Sea. We look back at that pile of stones on the banks of the Jordan. And we listen to those who tell us of an empty tomb.

And so, before we knew firsthand for ourselves, we saw the piles of stones and learned the lessons of heritage and tradition. Not the stale tradition of facts and ritual, but the tradition of living encounters with God, the heritage of living stones that speak to us of God and His work in the lives of His people. We can look at our piles of stones and draw a line from them to where we are so we can understand how we got here. And then we understand who we are, and what we must do.

Our task, then, is to take that line drawn through those piles of stones in the past and extend it into a future about which we are uncertain. But it is a future that we can face with confidence because we have a reference point and faith: faith that even though we can’t see the end of the journey, we know how it’s headed because we can see the piles of stones stretching behind us plotting our course.

And, perhaps, that’s what faith’s all about: to journey looking backwards into the future.

Grace,

Randy

You're Special

Runts

“God does not see the same way people see. People look at the outside of a person, but the Lord looks at the heart” (1 Sam. 16:7 ncv).

Sixth-grade. Do you remember sixth grade? I don’t. Well, not really. I don’t remember my grades, and I can’t even tell you the name of the blond-haired girl I had a crush on. But that spring evening in 1969? Like it was yesterday. I’m seated in the den because I’d asked to leave the dinner table. Mom had even made some cookies, but I passed on dessert because I wasn’t feeling very sociable tonight. I mean, who has time for sweets at a time like this?

Frankly, I’d expected the call before dinner, but it hadn’t come. I’d even listened for it during dinner. It hadn’t rung. Now, I’m staring at the phone like my dog does at his dish, hoping a Little League coach will tell me that I’ve made the All-Star team. I’m sitting on the couch with my glove at my side. I can hear my buddies playing out in the street, but I don’t care. All that matters is the phone. I want it to ring. Pleeeeeeeeeeease ring.  It doesn’t.

I help with the dishes and finish my homework in silence. Mom says some kind words like she always does, but I don’t really respond. Bedtime’s around the corner, and the phone never rings. It sits there in silence in the den. Painful silence. Now, in the great scheme of things, not making an All-Star team doesn’t matter a whole lot. But eleven-year-olds don’t always see the “grand scheme of things,” right? It was a huge deal for me, and all I could think about was what I would say when schoolmates asked if I’d been selected. Rejection. Disaster.

You know the feeling, don’t you? The phone didn’t ring for you either. Well, at least maybe in the grander scheme of things, it didn’t. Like when you applied for the job, or when you tried to make up. The call never came. And you know the pain of a no call. We all do. In fact, we’ve even coined phrases for it – he was left “holding the bag,” or she was left “standing at the altar,” or they were left “out in the cold.” Or, “he’s out taking care of the sheep.” Huh?

David’s story begins on the ancient hillsides of Israel as an equally-ancient priest trundles down a narrow trail with a heifer lumbering along behind him. Bethlehem lies ahead and anxiety brews within. Farmers in their fields notice him, and those who know his face whisper his name, and those who hear the name turn to stare at his face. Samuel.

Yep, God’s chosen priest right there in Bethlehem. Called by God. And when the sons of Eli turned sour, young Samuel stepped forward. When Israel needed spiritual focus, Samuel provided it. When Israel wanted a king, Samuel anointed one … Saul. And now the very name causes Samuel to groan. Saul. The Israelites wanted a king, so we have a king alright. They wanted a leader, and we have a maniac – or manic – for one.

Saul’s heart has grown harder, and his eyes even wilder. He isn’t the king he used to be. In fact, in God’s eyes, he isn’t even king anymore. The Lord had already said to Samuel: “How long will you continue to feel sorry for Saul? I have rejected him as king of Israel. Fill your container with olive oil and go. I am sending you to Jesse who lives in Bethlehem, because I have chosen one of his sons to be king.” (1 Sam. 16:1) And so Samuel walks the trail toward Bethlehem. His stomach churns and his thoughts race.

Frankly, it’s just a little hazardous to anoint a king when Israel already has one, especially when the king is Saul! But it’s even more hazardous to live with no leader in such explosive times. 1000 BC was a bad time for this ramshackle bunch of tribes called Israel. Although Joshua and Moses were history-class heroes, three centuries of spiritual winter had frozen people’s faith. One writer described the days between Joshua and Samuel with this terse sentence: “In those days Israel did not have a king. Everyone did what seemed right.” (Jud. 21:25) Corruption fueled disruption, and immorality gave birth to brutality. The people had demanded a king. But rather than saving the ship, Saul had nearly sunk it. Israel’s first monarch turned out to be a psychotic blunderer.

And then there were the Philistines: a warring, bloodthirsty, giant-breeding people who had cornered the market on iron and blacksmithing. The Philistines built cities, while the Jewish people huddled in tents. Philistines forged iron weapons while the Hebrews fought with crude slings and arrows. Philistines thundered in flashing chariots, while the Israelites retaliated with farm tools. In fact, in one battle, the entire Hebrew army owned only two swords — one for Saul and the other for his son, Jonathan.

Corruption from within. Danger from without. Saul was weak, and the nation was weaker. So, what did God do? He did what no one imagined. He issued a surprise invitation to a nobody from nowhere. It’s like he dispatched Samuel to Wildomar, California.

The Bethlehem of Samuel’s day was like Wildomar: a sleepy, little village that time had forgotten nestled in the foothills some six miles south of Jerusalem. Bethlehem sat two thousand feet above the Mediterranean, looking down on gentle, green hills that flattened into gaunt, rugged pastureland. Jesus would issue his first cry under Bethlehem’s sky. But a thousand years before the manger scene, Samuel enters the village pulling a cow.

His arrival turns the heads of residents because prophets simply didn’t visit Bethlehem. Has he come to preach against someone, or maybe hide somewhere? (He certainly was sideways with Saul) “Neither,” the stoop-shouldered priest assures them. He has come to sacrifice the animal to God, and invites the elders, including Jesse and his sons, to join him.

The scene had a kind of beauty pageant feel to it. Samuel examines the boys one at a time like Miss America, or Miss Argentina, more than once ready to crown the contestant, but each time God stops him. For instance, Eliab, the oldest, seems the logical choice. Envision him as the village Casanova: wavy haired, strong jawed. He wears tight jeans and has a piano-keyboard smile. This is the guy, Samuel thinks. “Wrong,” God says.

Abinadab enters as contestant number two. You’d think a GQ model had just walked in. Italian suit. Alligator-skin shoes. Jet-black, oiled-back hair. Rolex watch. Want a classy king? Abinadab has the bling. “Nope.” God’s not into classy. So, Samuel asks for brother number three, Shammah. He’s bookish. You know, the studious type. Bursting with brains but in need of a charisma transplant. He’s got a degree from Harvard and his eyes on postgraduate studies. Jesse whispers to Samuel, “Valedictorian of Bethlehem High.” Samuel’s impressed, but God isn’t. He reminds the priest, “God does not see the same way people see. People look at the outside of a person, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (1 Sam. 16:7)

Seven sons pass. Seven sons fail. And the procession comes to a halt. Samuel counts the siblings: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. “Hey, Jesse, don’t you have eight sons?” (A similar question caused Cinderella’s stepmother to become very uncomfortable. And Jesse likely did the same) “I still have the youngest son. He’s out taking care of the sheep.”

The Hebrew word used for “youngest son” implies more than just age. It also suggests rank. So, the “youngest son” was more than the youngest brother. He was the little brother. Or, to put it differently, he was the runt. And sheep watching fits runts. Put the boy where he can’t cause trouble. Leave him with woolly heads and open skies. And that’s where we find David – in the pasture with the flock. The Bible dedicates sixty-six chapters to his story, more than anyone else except Jesus. The New Testament mentions his name fifty-nine times. He will establish and rule the world’s most famous city, Jerusalem. The Son of God will be called the Son of David. The greatest psalms will flow from his pen. We’ll call him king, minstrel, even giant-killer. But today, he’s not even included in the family meeting; he’s just a forgotten kid performing a menial task in a nowhere town.

What caused God to pick him, anyway? After all, we’ve all walked in David’s pasture.  You know, the pasture of exclusion. We are weary of society’s surface-level system, of being graded according to the inches of our waist, the square footage of our house, the color of our skin, or the label of our clothes. Don’t you get tired of those games? Hard work is ignored, and devotion is left unrewarded. The boss chooses cleavage over character. The teacher picks pet students instead of prepared ones. And parents show off their favorite sons and leave their runts out in the field.

Are you sick of the enemy of exclusion? Then it’s time to quit staring at him. Who cares what they think, anyway? What matters is what your Maker thinks. “The Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (16:7) Those words were written for the runts of society. Written for the misfits and outcasts. God uses them all. For instance, Moses ran from justice, but God used him. Jonah ran from God, but God used him, too. Rahab ran a brothel, Samson ran to the wrong woman, Sarah ran out of hope, and Lot ran with the wrong crowd. But God used them all. And David? God saw a teenager serving him in a backward town and, through the voice of a brother, God said, “David! Come inside. Someone wants to see you.”

Human eyes saw a gangly teenager enter the house, smelling like sheep and needing a bath. Yet, “the Lord said, ‘Arise, anoint him; for this is the one!’” (16:12) God saw what no one else saw: a God-seeking heart. David, for all his flaws, sought after God like white on rice. He took after God’s heart, because he stayed after God’s heart. And, in the end, that’s all God wanted or needed.  And today, that’s all God wants or needs from you.

You see, others measure your waist size, or your wallet. Not God. He examines hearts. When he finds one set on him, he calls it and claims it. The story of young David assures us of this: our Father knows our hearts, and because he does, he has a place reserved just for each one of us. God doesn’t care about your waist size, the square footage of your house, the color of your skin, or the label of your clothes. God knows – and cares about – your heart. ^[1]

Hey! The phone’s ringing. Pick it up. Talk with God. He’s got great news for you.

You’re an All-Star.

Grace,

Randy

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^[1]Some excerpts are paraphrased from Lucado, Max: Facing Your Giants

Costly

Costly

Now the tax collectors and “sinners” were all gathering around to hear him. But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law muttered, “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.”

Then Jesus told them this parable: “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.

“Or suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Doesn’t she light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it? And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin.’ In the same way, I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.” (Luke 15:1-10)

Luke tells us that Jesus told not one, but actually three, separate parables to the Pharisees and the scribes, or teachers, that day who were complaining about the fact that not only did Jesus welcome “sinners,” but he ate with them, too.

The first parable is called the Parable of the Lost Sheep, and it’s the story of a man who was tending a flock of one hundred sheep when one goes wandering off. Maybe it was just a matter of sheep-inattentiveness. However, instead of simply writing the sheep off as a loss, the shepherd went searching until he found that lost sheep. And after finding it, he called everyone around to “Rejoice with me, for I have found my lost sheep.” (Verse 6)

The second parable is called the Parable of the Lost Coin. In this story, a woman has ten silver coins in her house but somehow loses one of them. Maybe it was just a matter of being a little careless. But, like the shepherd, she’s not going to write it off as a loss either. So she “lights a lamp, sweeps the whole house, and searches diligently until she finds it.” (Verse 8) And when she does, just like the shepherd, she calls her friends and neighbors over and says, “Rejoice with me, for I have found my lost coin.” (She was also happy that her house was clean, too, and just in time for the party!) The third parable’s the story we’ve been studying over the last few weeks, the Parable of the Prodigal Son.

Now, there are some obvious similarities in these three stories. For instance, in each parable something is lost, i.e., a sheep, a coin and a son. And, in each, the one who loses something gets it back, i.e., the shepherd, the woman and the father. And, finally, each of the narratives ends on a festive note, and we see people rejoicing and celebrating when the lost have been found.

But with all their similarities, there’s one glaring difference between the last parable and the first two. Did you spot it? Look a little harder, because it’s there. Yep, in the first two parables, the shepherd and the woman go out and search frantically for the lost sheep and the lost coin. Nothing gets in the way of these determined “searchers.” So, by the time we get to the last story, and we hear about the deplorable conditions in which the younger son finds himself, we kind of expect that someone will go out and search for him, too. But no one does. It’s surprising, maybe even a little disquieting, don’t you think? I believe it was intentional.

You see, by placing the three parables side-by-side-by-side, Jesus is inviting us to think, and perhaps ask ourselves, “Shouldn’t someone have gone out looking for the lost boy, just like in the first two parables?” (Probably) “But, if so, who would that be? The father? The older brother, maybe? How about a search party? Better yet, how ‘bout Columbo?” (Sorry)

Of course, Jesus knew his Word like the back of his hand, and he knew that at its very beginning (Genesis 4) it tells another story of an elder and younger brother – Cain and Abel. And in that story, God tells the resentful and proud older brother, “You are your brother’s keeper.”

The late Edmund Clowney, a one-time Escondido resident and professor at Westminster Theological Seminary, recounted in a sermon he once gave the true life story of Daniel Dawson, an Army Lieutenant, whose reconnaissance plane had been shot down over the Vietcong jungle. When his brother, Donald, heard the report, he sold everything he had, left his wife with $20, and went to Vietnam. When he arrived, he got his hands on some soldier’s gear and wandered through the guerilla-controlled jungle, looking for his brother. He carried leaflets with pictures of the plane, and offered a reward to anyone who could provide him with news of the missing pilot. He became known as Anh toi phi-cong — the brother of the pilot, or just “the brother.”

And isn’t that what the older brother in the parable should have done? I mean, this is what a true elder brother would have done, don’t you think? He would have said something like, “Look, Dad, my younger brother was a fool for demanding his inheritance and then simply disappearing. But it’s been months since we’ve heard from him, and I’m getting a little concerned – just like you. Fact is, he’s probably broke and in a gutter somewhere. So, I’m gonna go look for him and when I find him, I’ll bring him back. And if his inheritance has been wasted, as I expect, I’ll bring him back at my expense.” Wait. At the older brother’s expense? Yes, at the brother’s expense.

Because, as Jesus said, the father had divided his property between the two boys before the younger one left town. Everything had been divvied up. The younger brother had gotten his share and, we know from the story, his share was completely gone. So, when the father says to the older brother, “My son, everything I have is yours,” he’s not kidding. He’s telling the literal truth. Every penny that remained of the family estate now belonged to the older brother. Every robe, every ring, every sandal, every fattened calf was the older brother’s by right.

 

It’s tempting to believe that the restoration of the younger brother didn’t involve a cost. We get there by pointing out the fact that the younger brother wanted to make restitution, but his father wouldn’t let him. So, we conclude, his acceptance back into the family was without cost. And we use this conclusion to support the proposition that forgiveness and love should always be free and unconditional. But that’s an oversimplification, I think, and here’s why.

If someone breaks your cell phone, you could demand that they buy you a new one. Right? The alternative, of course, is to forgive them and pay for the replacement yourself, or simply go without your cell phone. (Really?) OK, but now imagine something more serious – someone has maliciously damaged your reputation. Again, like the phone scenario, you have two options. The first would be to make that person pay by going to others who know him and then ruining his name as a way of restoring your own. On the other hand, you could forgive him and take on the much more difficult task of attempting to set the record straight without vilifying him in the process. The forgiveness is free and unconditional to the perpetrator, but it’s costly to you.

Mercy and forgiveness must be free and unmerited to the wrongdoer, because if the wrongdoer has to do something to merit it, then it’s not mercy, is it? But forgiveness always comes at a cost to the one who forgives. And while the parable of the prodigal son showed us how free the father’s forgiveness was, it also gives us insight into its costliness. You see, the younger brother’s restoration was free to him, but it came at an enormous cost to the older brother because the father could not reinstate him except at the expense of his older son. There was no other way.

But Jesus doesn’t put a true elder brother in the story, does he? One who was willing to pay whatever it cost to go on a search and rescue mission looking for his derelict, younger brother. The younger son gets a Pharisee for a brother, instead. And maybe that’s why the parable leaves us hanging – we’re never told what the elder brother eventually decided. But by putting a flawed elder brother in the story, Jesus is inviting us to imagine what a true older brother would’ve done, or what he’d look like.

So, think of the kind of brother we need. We need one who doesn’t just go to the next country to find us, but one who’ll move heaven and earth to do so. We need a brother who is willing to pay not just money, but the cost of his own life to bring us into God’s family. We’ve all rebelled against God. And it doesn’t matter if you’re a “younger brother” or an “older brother,” because we all deserve rejection.

You see, one of the points of the parable is that forgiveness isn’t free. It always involves a price. Someone has to pay. Again, there was no way for the younger brother to return to the family unless the older brother paid the price, himself. And Jesus, our true “older brother,” paid for our redemption with his life – on a cross.

 

We need to soften our hearts and be moved by the sight of what it cost to bring us home. Jesus emptied himself of his glory and became a servant. (Phil. 2:5-9) He laid aside the omnipotence of his being and, at the cost of his life, paid the debt for our sin and purchased us the only place our hearts can truly find rest – in his Father’s house. And once we begin to comprehend this staggering truth, it can transform us from the inside out. I mean, why wouldn’t you want to offer yourself to someone like that?

John Newton, the author of the hymn, Amazing Grace, wrote another hymn (Olney Hymns, Hymn 3) that succinctly makes this point:

“Our pleasure and our duty,

Though opposite before;

Since we have seen his beauty,

Are joined to part no more:

It is our highest pleasure,

No less than duty’s call;

To love him beyond measure,

And serve him with our all.”

In a few short words, Newton perfectly summarizes our dilemma: we either turn from God and pursue our heart’s desire, like the younger brother, or we repress our desires and perform our moral obligations, like the older brother. But the sacrificial, costly love of Jesus on the cross changes all of that. Because when we see the beauty of what Jesus has done for us, it attracts us to him. We realize that the love we’ve been seeking in other things is really in Jesus. It also eliminates our fear, because if the Lord of the universe loves us enough to die for us, then about what do we have to be afraid?

We will never stop being younger brothers or elder brothers until we acknowledge our need for him, and then rest in faith and gaze with awe at the work of our true elder brother, Jesus Christ. Then, we won’t need religion, because we’ll have a relationship, instead.

Grace,

Randy