Grace is Amazing (Really)

“I’m afraid I’m not good enough to get into heaven.” The teenage girl twirled a pencil in her hand as she expressed her concern to the entire youth group. Other students nodded, relating to her fear.

The youth pastor cleared his throat. “Oh well, just remember that Jesus loves you.”

That’s it? I was shocked. This girl was afraid she’s going to Hell because she isn’t good enough to earn Heaven, and all she was told was that Jesus loves her? There’s so much more to say!

You should say it, Hannah.

Excuses were ample: “Me? But that’s not in my script. What will I say? I’m here to speak to the youth group, yes, not to give a Gospel presentation...”

Yet what did I have to lose? My voice felt small. “I think it’s important to remember that repentance is hating our sin and turning away from it...and that salvation is placing our faith in Christ...and that we can never be good enough to earn heaven.” I prayed my long, run-on sentence made sense.

The youth pastor stared at me, his eyes glazed over and annoyed. “Uh, thanks."

A week has passed since this conversation and it hasn't yet left my mind. Here’s an interesting observation of my own heart from that youth meeting: I don’t focus on the Gospel. Yes, I try sometimes; but not to the level that I should. I felt perfectly content to give a hip, pre-planned announcement to the teens about something unrelated to the state of their eternal destination. I wasn’t excited about sharing the Gospel.

As the most crucial of all messages, the message of "Christ dying for lost sinners" ought to be shouted from every pew and streetcorner. But here's the problem: how can I expect to shout the Gospel from a streetcorner if I don’t give it a corner of my mind? If I forget what a sinner I am myself, how can I witness to a teen girl at a youth group? This calls for another re-visiting of the Cross.

A Wretch Like Who?

Dad likes to tell the story of the time he stood at a grocery store checkout, toting me in the shopping cart. When a woman passed by, I suddenly pointed my finger and began to call out to her: "Sinner! Sinner!"

I was two years old.

Growing up as a daughter of Christian parents and the granddaughter of Christian missionaries, it's easy to forget how much my sin weighed. Compared to some of the people around me, I've always been the goody-two-shoes type. Still, my attempts at goodness are tainted by my sin nature, and if you scratch more than the surface, you'll see I'm just as guilty as the rest.

Kris Lundgaard had it right when he wrote:

Every night Tom Brokaw tells us about shady politics and business scams. People finding loopholes in the law to use their sweat-earned money to build stately pleasure domes in Zanadu. But the sleaziest back-room Mafia deal can’t equal the deceitfulness in your heart. The heart is 'deceitful above all things.'

Think about it. Do you remember a single moment in which you did something truly good--not motivated by a desire for recognition? Do you remember "serving God" without paying the slightest attention to whether you served as much as the next guy? Do you remember a single time in personal Bible study that your mind has centered totally on Christ, with zero distractions? Yes, there might've been the time you really longed to praise God, but did you? Did you praise Him with completely pure abandon?

Me neither. That alone should draw me to my knees, in awe of God's redeeming love for a wretch like me; only when I remember my sin can I begin to appreciate the amazingness of Christ's grace.

When You’ve Been There Ten Thousand Years, Will You Remember Why?

I love, love, love the declaration of Hebrews 2:14-15: "Since therefore the children share in flesh and blood, He Himself likewise partook of the same things, that through death He might destroy the one who has the power of death, that is, the devil, and deliver all those who through fear of death were subject to lifelong slavery."

What's the moral of the story? That we have no morals, but Christ crammed His beatific Self into a weak body complete with muscle cramps and hunger pangs and every bit of human frailty in order that through dying in our skin, He might destroy the one who has power over us, and free sin-infested people who were enslaved to that worrisome question:"What will happen when I die?"

Now that's something worth singing about, and worth telling lost teenage girls in equally confused youth groups. Only by realizing our sinfulness can she, and I, ever comprehend an inch of this glorious, glorious Gospel.

Flipping through my CD collection, I notice that my most beloved albums are the ones that draw me to the Cross. I’ve found that it helps me stay focused when the soundtrack of my day is centered on the Word. But the temptation here is to lean too much on the experience the music can bring, and replace real joy in the Gospel with a foot-tappin’ enjoyment of the song. This isn’t true appreciation of the Cross.

It’s not that I believe emotions are wrong. The Bible is filled with God’s commands for us to be emotional: “Rejoice,” “take heart,” and “hope.” Nevertheless, soaring ecstasy is not necessarily a sign of devoutness. In fact, I’m learning that the more comfortable I feel, the less I’m probably focused on Christ. Real adoration starts with me feeling uncomfortable.

Try to envision the scene with me:

They were large, strong hands. In infanthood they had been complete with tiny, exquisite fingernails; now they were grown, calloused and wrinkled by work. A carpenter’s hands.

Another hand, a fist, came down harshly upon the carpenter’s face. Another set of hands grabbed the carpenter’s wrists, jerking them behind his back, binding them with ropes that scratched and tore at his skin. Then all was a mixture of blood and sweat as the beating began.

After only minutes under the torture of the Roman guards, the carpenter began to lose all sign of humanity. Was this really a man who once stood to teach thousands of people for hours on end? Those arms that now hung limp, had they really once carried little children? Could that nose possibly have been part of a face at one time?

Staggering forward, his hands grasped a plank of wood. He did not need a cue. The carpenter knew exactly what he was to do; but the soldier prodded him with a whip anyway. Onward he stumbled, blinded by the blood running down his face.

The carpenter was forced onto the ground. He did not fight back. His wrists were grabbed by a Roman guard and pressed firmly against the plank. (I wonder if the soldier paid attention, could he have noticed something in this prisoner was different? Did he not realize those hands were familiar? That before the soldier was a soldier, even before he was a man, those same strong hands had formed his own? That the wrist he now held with an iron grip was the wrist of his Creator? How could he not recognize God’s Son?) The guard positioned a spike. Mallet in hand, he swung hard.

Every ounce of the carpenter’s being pulled upon those spikes. His cells were a frenzy of suffering and pain. As Joni Eareckson Tada tried to describe the scene, “God was on display in His underwear, and He could scarcely breathe.”

Sometimes when we draw near enough to the Cross, our words are depleted. Our wells of vocabulary run dry as we approach the end of human comprehension.

It’s not comfortable. It’s not always pleasant. For me, the revisiting usually ends with conviction, sorrow, and immense guilt. Those were my beatings, my nails, my bruises that He felt instead. I’m enabled by this reminder to truly worship—to realize God’s justice and grace and mercy and really, honestly adore Him. From there, I can start rejoicing in His love, which is He wanted for me in the first place.

Happy Good Friday, everyone.

Never Moving On

There's a small, orange book in my closet that I've read at least four times now over the years. And it still wakes me up, every single time. In The Cross-Centered Life: Keeping the Gospel the Main Thing, C. J. Mahaney's message is a plea to remember what happened at Calvary... and then to live in it, every day.

No matter how familiar with the gospel we become, it should never cease to kindle a fresh wonder and joy in us. If we are to have any spiritual growth, the gospel must always be "the main thing" in our lives. It's a reminder that I need constantly. It's all too easy to forget the most important thing.

"I want to remind you of the gospel I preached to you," Paul wrote. "For what I received I passed on to you as of first importance: that Christ died for our sins." (1 Corinthians 15:1, 3)

"One transcendent truth should define our lives. One simple truth should motivate our work and affect every part of who we are.

Christ died for our sins.

If there's anything in life that we should be passionate about, it's the gospel. And I don't mean passionate only about sharing it with others. I mean passionate in thinking about it, dwelling on it, rejoicing in it, allowing it to color the way we look at the world. Only one thing can be of first importance to each of us. And only the gospel ought to be." (Page 21)

"You may forget this book and its author, but never let the message of the cross slide into second or third place in your life. Never lay it aside. Never move on." (Page 75)

Mahaney's words ring so true. When I'm lacking joy, passion, and intimacy with Christ, the root cause is always because I haven't been dwelling on the truth of the gospel. And when I do make the decision to deliberately saturate my mind with the gospel, the difference it produces is astounding.

Jesus Is Just Alright With Me

"Umm...it's alright." Those words have the power to drive me nearly insane. To hear them spoken of a cherished book or a beautiful dress is almost unbearable. In Sense and Sensibility, Marianne cries out in similar frustration to her mother, “To hear those beautiful lines, which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness—such dreadful indifference!” Marianne strikes upon something I think we have all felt. When a thing we love is not treated with the whole-hearted, passionate adoration we believe it deserves, something within us rebels. We are indignant when a praiseworthy object is left unpraised. Adore it or loathe it, but do not simply tolerate it!

And yet, how often do I apply this very same principle to my personal relationship with God? Realistically, it is of no consequence if someone fails to produce what I deem is the "proper response" to one of my earthly affections. What should I care if my friend gives a favorite movie only three stars? It’s small beans. On the other hand, my opinion of God is an unbendable issue. He’s the only One worthy of total devotion. But with a nod of acknowledgement, I am saying, “Umm…God, You’re alright”; as if He were a choice dessert or hit song. I wade in apathy where I should rightly dance with zeal.

Unlike me, missionary-martyr Jim Elliot cried to God for passion:

“God, I pray Thee, light these idle sticks of my life and may I burn for Thee. Consume my life, my God, for it is Thine. God, deliver me from the dread asbestos of 'other things.' Saturate me with the oil of the Spirit that I may be aflame. Make me thy fuel, Flame of God.”

Nothing lukewarm there. Can I really say that my love is such a consuming fervor that nothing else matters? That I attribute to Him the adoration and praise He so greatly deserves?Sam Storms put it well, when he wrote in his book One Thing: Developing a Passion for the Beauty of God,

“Apathy is impossible in the presence of the Son of God. Ineffable beauty compels a response: either passionate devotion or hatred. Middle-of-the-road,straddle-the-fence, you-do-your-thing-and-I’ll-do-mine indifference dies when Jesus draws near. Love Him or despise Him, but abandon the myth that He can be tolerated. Sing for joy or spit in His face. Apathy simply isn’t an option.”

Dwell on those words. Passionate devotion—or hatred. There is no room for a response less than the extreme. Christ wants all of ourselves: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength.” (Mark 12:30) Not part of the time. Not mildly or insipidly. Just as Christ gave us His everything, our everything is demanded in return. It’s radical, fanatic, obsessive, and unreserved. It’s a love that shouts from rooftops, to the God who is never merely “alright.”

Confessions of a Teenage Hypocrite

This past week brought word of a friend’s fall. The run toward abstinence was too much for her feet to bear alone, but after spurning her God-given authority, her own feet were all she had.

It began in the little things—miniature mutinies only the heart knows. But then her family noticed the difference: a few sharp words, an occasional discontent remark. Sin starts small, but it grows like a pathogen on steroids. Heartbreaking and yet-oh-so-typical for the human race; the fall of this conservative, homeschooled Christian girl is only one of the latest in a long series since the beginning.

“You will not surely die,” the serpent said to Eve, a sweet yet naïve, God-worshiping girl. He offered her a piece of the juicy, luscious--forbidden--fruit. With a hiss of his forked tongue, the serpent sowed suspicion: "For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil." (Genesis 3:4-5 NIV) With a little movement, Eve stepped nearer the tree. In a few short moments, she rationalized the situation. What could a little taste hurt? Certainly the end (becoming like God) would justify the means, and if she ended up regretting it, God would surely overlook such a miniscule mistake. Without another thought, she took a tiny bite.

Eve’s decision is the kind I make flippantly each day, yet her fall remains one of the most pivotal actions of all history. Her dirty little secret led to the Holocaust, mass murder in Darfur, the shootings at Virginia Tech and…my quick temper yesterday.

Choices—even seemingly insignificant thoughts concealed deep in the heart--can have a more profound affect than we realize. James wrote that sin starts small as a dormant desire, then grows. “Then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death.” (James 1:15) My soul, take note: “Insignificant” desires can grow to big sin. Little choices matter.

In spite of this truth, after hearing of my friend’s fall, the serpent’s same old story was repackaged for my consumption: “You will not surely die by merely patting yourself on the back,” the serpent said. “Be proud that you did not choose her path.” Oops. That lie sounds familiar. A white lie here and there, a little curse word when I stub my toe, and just a dab of self-righteousness as icing on the cake; although my stray arrogant thoughts seem small compared to my friend’s fall, they’re of the same significance as biting forbidden fruit. Look at the cost of Eve’s mouthful.

Examining my friend’s situation, the temptation for self-righteousness was replaced by a throbbing sense of shame as the realization hit: I am equally guilty. “All our righteous acts are like filthy rags,” Isaiah said, “….and like the wind our sins sweep us away.” (Isaiah 64:6) Although she may have leaped off the cliff, haven’t I equally flirted with the edge? Although she’s embraced sin, haven’t I given it a sly wink more than once?

There is no compensation I could possibly offer for my crimes. If Eve’s fruit was all it took to bring death into the world, I’m certain my numerous “little sins” are enough to purchase my own execution. Yet the whispering resumes: “You will not surely die,” the serpent said. “Surely you can redeem yourself. Try following Mosaic Law, donating to a charity, volunteering in the community or attending church to assuage your guilt.” But I’ve attempted to connive my way into God’s favor enough to know it’s impossible, and these whispers are yet another lie.

C.S. Lewis painted a telling picture of my own attempts to “earn grace.” In Till We Have Faces, Istra, a beautiful, patient and loving girl, is ordered to be executed. As the best the land has to offer, Istra must die as a human sacrifice on behalf of her people. Her sister, Orual, of course, cannot bear the thought of Istra’s death, and implores the King to intervene. In desperation, Orual pleads: “You are right. It is fit that one should die for the people. Give me…instead of Istra.” The King then grabs poor Orual by the wrist and drags her until they both stand before a massive mirror. There, Orual sees the full extent of her own ugliness. The offering called for “the best in the land,” the King says, “And you’d give her that.”

Now, reality sets in. I’m an Orual. My righteousness (which is actually “filthy rags”) is not a worthy offering for a Holy God. Who am I, to dare to even attempt to settle up my actions with Him? When Job demanded God speak, His voice arose from a storm with words that knocked Job to his knees. Job, humbled and awed, replied, “I am unworthy—how can I reply to You? I put my hand over my mouth. I spoke once, but I have no answer—twice, but I will say no more.” (Job 40:4-5) If Job could barely speak to Him, how do I expect to negotiate my pardon?

As Orual found, the cost for redemption is the death of the Perfect One. My sin stands, along with my friend’s fornication and all other evil acts throughout history as a debt I am powerless to pay. Yet in this sorrow, I find the deepest joy. Jesus’ words ring true, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.” (Mark 2:17) It was the sin of the fruit-eaters, fornicators, liars, thieves and hypocrites that gave need for the Cross, and to us broken sinners the Cross was given.

This is the Gospel, that the One we owed paid our debt. At the foot of the Cross I have no excuses to offer. My sins, big and small, have condemned me. I can only echo the words of John Bradford, who, when witnessing a criminal’s execution uttered, “There but for the grace of God go I.”

With my sin in perspective, my friend and I are equally debtors. Any anger at her sin must eventually melt into prayer on her behalf; a request for her to see her own evil and embrace the God whose blood was tangible grace for us.