Little Things

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As a mom, you’ve probably spent a significant portion of your life cheering your children on. Maybe you knelt on the floor, arms outstretched, as your child took her first steps toward you, urging her to “Come to Mommy, sweetheart!” Or you might have braved cold and rain as you sat huddled on cold metal bleachers to watch him play football. If you’re like me, you might have had to refrain from doing a full-on happy dance as you said, “Yay! You peed in the big potty!”

We cheer our children on when they do things that are big for them, even if those things aren’t big in comparison to what others can do, or if they seem tiny in the grand scheme of things. That’s because when it comes to our children, we know that little things are really big things.

Why don’t we offer ourselves as much grace as we offer our children?

Our preschooler brings us a drawing of somebody who consists of a round head; huge, sort-of round eyes and a wobbly smile; long, stick-legs sticking directly out of the head; arms sticking out of the legs; and some number of fingers on each hand (never 5), and we say, “Good job!”

Our third-grader proudly shows us a paper she wrote at school. In only one paragraph, three words are spelled wrong, and one sentence is missing a capital letter at the beginning. We see her beaming smile, and we say, “I’m proud of you!”

But somewhere between drawing legs sticking out of a head and becoming responsible for earning the money to pay the electric bill, we decide that doing little things well is no longer good enough. If we want to celebrate, we have to do big, important things. Flashy things.

Sounds good, except that Scripture tells us we’re wrong.

Jesus told the story of a master who was going on a long journey. He left his servants in charge of varying degrees of his resources. When he returned, he was equally pleased with the servants who had done everything they could with what he had given them, no matter how much they started out with.

Because the master in the parable represents Jesus Himself, we know that Jesus was telling us that His pleasure in our actions has nothing to do with the grandeur of our results. It has everything to do with doing our best. To Him, that’s not a little thing; it’s a big thing.

And if it’s big to Him, it should be big to us, as well.

Matthew 25:23—“His master replied, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master’s happiness.’” (NIV)

Priceless

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It was 7:55 a.m. My students had begun to arrive in the classroom and hang up their jackets and backpacks. I sat at my desk, completing some last-minute paperwork before the start of the school day.

“Señora Breedlove?” a voice asked.

I looked up to see a student standing next to my desk, holding something hidden in his hands. “Yes, Michael?” I asked. (Note: Michael is not his real name.)

“I brought you something,” he said, unclasping his hands to reveal a folded-up dollar bill. I stood up to receive it. “I know you don’t get paid very much,” Michael said quietly, “so here.”

Wordlessly, I held out my hand, and he placed the dollar in it. “It’s not much,” he said, “but it’s something.”

Rarely am I at a loss for words. This was one of those times.

I teach at an inner-city school. My students aren’t rich. But Michael, probably because he’s heard adults in his life talk about how “teachers don’t get paid much,” wanted to do something about that. So he gave me what he had.

What do you think I said to him? Did I say, “Michael, this is only a dollar. This isn’t worth anything to me”?

Of course not. I thanked him from the bottom of my heart. I don’t remember exactly what I said; I only remember that my words seemed inadequate. Michael may have thought “it’s not much,” but he was wrong.

It was priceless.

That’s what I want you to remember when you feel discouraged because what you have to offer God “isn’t much.” Your gift—no matter the monetary value or the way society perceives it—is worth far more than you may think it is.

It’s priceless, too.

A missionary who devotes her life to serving the people of a foreign land gives no more to God than does a stay-at-home mom who spends her days fixing meals toddlers will eat, driving the carpool, and folding laundry.

God places no more value on the service of a speaker who brings the Word of God to thousands of people than He does on the labor of a mom who works to earn a paycheck so that her children will have what they need.

That’s because what God wants from us has little to do with the particulars of our gift, but everything to do with the heart behind it. With whether we’re doing the best we can and giving Him everything we have.

At the end of the year, many students give their teacher gifts. It’s possible, therefore, that I may receive gifts that cost more than $1.

But I will never receive one that’s worth more.

Mark 12:44—“They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on.” (NIV)

Why God’s Healing Is More Amazing Than You May Have Realized

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If someone gave you a million dollars, what would you do with it?

I posed this question to several friends and family members, and their answers included things like “pay off all my bills” (actually, this one was the one most often mentioned), donate to worthy organizations, buy a new car, take a vacation, and set aside money for kids’ college expenses.

Some of those options sound pretty great to me. I bet you’d be thrilled to be able to choose some of them, too.

Now keep all this in mind as you imagine yourself in another scenario: You’re in deep financial debt. You struggle to make the monthly payments on your debt at the same time as you worry about whether the electric company’s going to cut you off. You’ve become a master at knowing which bills must be covered and which can go unpaid, at least for this month. There’s certainly no money for extras like eating out; in fact, sometimes there isn’t enough money to buy groceries. Seeing a doctor when you’re sick is now a luxury because you can’t afford the co-payment. Your husband tells you that his company is considering layoffs in his division, and your day-care provider (the only affordable one you could find) decides to get out of the day-care business and go back to school. And then your car breaks down and the mechanic tells you it’ll cost $1,200 to fix it.

How much stress would you be under?

How desperate would you be for relief?

Pretty desperate, I imagine. Anyone in that situation would probably spend a lot of time crying out to God. God, do something! God, I’m drowning!

God, help!

Now let me ask you a question: What kind of relief would we be crying out to God for? Or maybe a better question would be, how much relief would we ask for?

Most of us probably wouldn’t raise our eyes much beyond the present circumstances. We’d beg God for financial assistance, but even then, we probably wouldn’t be expecting much. A couple thousand dollars would make us tearfully grateful. If God were to completely lift our financial burden by giving us the money to pay off all our debts and restore ourselves to $0, we’d be ecstatic beyond words. And if He gave us a million dollars to enjoy on top of that? Riches beyond our comprehension.

Realistically speaking, however, God is probably not going to give you or me a million dollars, free and clear (wouldn’t that be nice?).

But that’s okay. Because what He does intend to do is far better.

We moms suffer in many different ways. We suffer as a result of guilt, difficult relationships, or heartbreaking losses. And when we suffer, we cry out to God. We plead for Him to take away our pain, or at least lessen it so that we’re not drowning emotionally.

Now let me share with you one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever realized: God intends not only to heal our pain (as if that weren’t amazing enough), but to bring us to a place where we can experience His riches in ways we’ve only dreamed about.

In other words, He has more in mind for us than pain relief.

Much more.

God’s healing grace not only lessens our pain, but also grants us the ability to enjoy the warmth of a gentle sun on our face or delight in the sights, sounds, and smells of a major-league baseball game. He heals us not merely so that we can be free from distress, but so that we can be free to exult in the pleasures of His creation.

His healing not only relieves our suffering, but also grants us the ability to let offenses go when we know they don’t really matter, or to be at peace even when someone mistreats us. We become not only free from pain, but free to be who we were made to be.

His healing does far more than mitigate tragedy; it enables us to receive blessings we’ve never experienced, or that we never thought we’d experience again.

God’s healing is way more amazing than most of us have ever realized.

So yes, when your soul is in agony, cry out to God to heal your pain. Yes, keep on beseeching Him until relief comes, and then, when it does, rejoice in His deliverance. But don’t forget to look for the blessings He has prepared for you.

They’re worth far more to your soul than a million bucks.

Psalm 103:2-5—Praise the LORD, my soul, and forget not all his benefits—who forgives you all your sins and heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion, who satisfies your desires with good things so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s. (NIV)

Leaving It All on the Field

LincolnN / Pixabay
LincolnN / Pixabay

By now, if you live in North America, you’ve probably heard that the Chicago Cubs won the 2016 World Series. If you read last week’s devotion, you know how happy this makes me. What you may not know is how I reacted to their win (after screaming with joy in a way that went beyond words).

Why would you care how I reacted to their win? Well, maybe you don’t, at least as far as baseball is concerned. But hang in there with me, because the surprising way I found myself reacting applies to my whole life, not just this one event. Maybe it applies to yours, too.

I spent the evening with a longtime friend from college. She invited us over and prepared “baseball food” for us (hot dogs, chips, etc.); we all watched the game on her large-screen TV.

I say “all,” but by the eighth inning, when things really started to get interesting, only my two youngest daughters and I were still there. Throughout the eighth and ninth innings, our hopes rose and fell with every swing of the bat. My heart seemed to stop and start far too many times; I alternately cheered and closed my eyes (and reminded myself to breathe).

Then, the game went into extra innings. Then, there was a seventeen-minute rain delay. We waited there in my friend’s living room, not knowing whether we were awaiting victory or defeat.

Of course, you know the rest. When the tenth inning started, the Cubs started to score. The Cleveland Indians couldn’t match them, and with the final ball to first baseman Anthony Rizzo, the game was over. The Cubs had won!

We screamed (repeatedly). We raised both fists high into the air (again, repeatedly). We rejoiced.

Finally, at some point, I stopped screaming. I stopped cheering. I fell quiet. Instead of crying, as I openly did when the Cubs won the League Championship Series (and, thus, advanced to the World Series), or continuing to cheer along with the rejoicing I saw onscreen, I simply sat and watched as the win soaked in.

“I have nothing left,” I said to my friend.

I’ve been a lifelong Cubs fan, and my desire to see them win has gone largely unsatisfied. I’d followed them through the Division Series and the League Championship Series. I’d watched every single game of the World Series, and I’d loved them and supported them with all my heart and all my emotion.

That’s why I had nothing left. I had given everything I had. Just like my beloved Cubbies, I’d left it all on the field.

Jesus knows all about loving people until the very end—and no, I’m not talking about what He did for us on the cross. I’m talking about what He did for the disciples prior to that.

I’m sure you know about the part of the Last Supper where Jesus washed the disciples’ feet. But do you know what John says right before that?

John reminded his readers that it was just before the Passover Festival. He then pointed out that Jesus knew what was about to happen. Then—and don’t miss this part—he talks about how Jesus had loved the disciples and continued to love them until the end. And he gives the example of Jesus’ washing their feet as an example of how He continued to love them.

Despite the fact that Judas was about to betray Him, and He knew it, Jesus washed their feet. He illustrated for them in visual fashion what He was trying to teach them with His words, despite the tremendous mental and emotional strain He must have been under, knowing what would happen to Him in just a few short hours.

He washed their feet, and later He died for them, and when He did, He had given everything He had—not just His life (as if that weren’t enough), but all the love He had for them as their God, Creator, and Friend.

He had nothing left.

To slightly paraphrase Erma Bombeck, “When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of [loving] left, and could say, ‘I used everything you gave me.’ ”

Because even more than I love the Cubs, I love my family. When someday Jesus calls me home and I leave my loved ones behind, I want them to be able to say, “She loved us as fully as it was possible for a human being to love. She gave us everything she had.”

May I so live now that they can say those words then.

May you do the same for your loved ones.

Leave it all on the field.

John 13:1—It was just before the Passover Festival. Jesus knew that the hour had come for him to leave this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. (NIV)

This Could Be the Year!

OpenClipart-Vectors / Pixabay

Most people pick spring, summer, fall, or winter as their favorite season. When asked, I usually say fall is mine.

But my true favorite season? The one I love even more than fall? The one whose coming I anticipate more than I look forward to the relief from roasting-hot temperatures that fall brings?

Baseball season.

Every March, a beautiful, magical thing happens. Baseball diamonds all over North America come alive with the sights, sounds, and excitement of Major League Baseball games. The bat makes contact with the ball right in the sweet spot, and, crack! A 99-mile-an-hour fastball thwacks into the catcher’s leather glove. The constant, rumbling crowd noise roars to ear-splitting decibels in the space of a heartbeat.

The umpire half-crouches into the action at the plate, then flings his arms to the sides, palms down, signaling “safe.” Forty thousand fans rise to their feet as one to watch a ball soar over the wall.

Baseball season.

For almost eight months, baseball fans glory in the excitement and the triumphs. They cringe or fume at defeats and unfair calls. No matter which team they’re fans of, they hope anew that this year, their team will win the World Series in October.

Especially if they’re Cubs fans, like me.

That’s because while the vast majority of teams make at least periodic appearances in the World Series (baseball’s ultimate contest), we (I say “we,” because with Cubs fans, everything is very personal) haven’t made it to the Fall Classic since 1945. We haven’t won it since—ahem—1908. Yet every year, we flock back to the stadiums to watch our beloved Cubbies try, try, try again. In the words of Winston Churchill, we “never, never, never give up.” Past failures don’t matter. This could be the year!

Why do we do it? Why do otherwise logical, reasonable men and women continue to support a team that has such a dismal record in some respects? Why do we remain so fiercely loyal? Why have we come to exemplify the word “longsuffering” in a world where instant gratification is the highest value?

In a word: Love. We love our Cubbies. And because our love is authentic and unconditional (has to be, for Cubs fans), it sticks around. Loss after loss. Disappointment after disappointment. Year after year.

It’s extraordinary. It’s noteworthy. It’s…kind of biblical.

I admit, maybe the Bible doesn’t exactly mandate loving the Cubbies (though I’m sure I could bend some verse out of context), but it does describe how real love works. Real love is longsuffering (that means really, really patient); it always believes; it always hopes; it always endures. In other words, this is the kind of love Cubs fans need.

It’s also the kind of love we need if we want to love not just a baseball team, but our fellow human beings.

Yes…them. The ones who have provoked you. Disappointed you. Failed you so many times in the past and come up so short that you feel like you know better than to think anything’s ever going to change.

How can we do that?

By loving them like many people love the Cubbies. Not by denying their past record of failures, but by believing that the goal they’re striving for is within their reach, even if it takes a really long time. Not by abandoning them when the failures outnumber the successes, but encouraging them to keep going. Not by believing, “If it hasn’t happened by now, it’ll never happen,” but by choosing to believe, “This could be the year!”

Please understand that I’m not suggesting we tolerate sinful or abusive behavior from our loved ones and fail to protect ourselves. What I’m saying is that when someone is trying, day in and day out, even if he or she has only imperfect success…when that person exerts every effort, maybe not perfectly, but pretty doggone consistently…

Well, we have two choices. We can choose to stop loving, abandoning our loved one if not physically, then emotionally.

Or we can make the harder choice. We can choose to continue loving with the real kind of love. We can purpose to love someone not because of his or her performance, but despite it.

If our love falters when our loved one fails, it wasn’t real love in the first place. It was based on whether or not we got something out of the deal. It was “I’ll love you as long as you please me.”

Genuine, authentic love isn’t like that. It makes the choice to continue loving, no matter what the loved one does or fails to do. It encourages for the future instead of condemning because of the past; it endures pain and disappointment (though not necessarily certain behaviors) for the sake of continuing to love and remain in relationship; and it chooses to look forward toward the success that is possible instead of looking backward toward a history of failure.

Our love may not be able to cause our team to win (if it could, the Cubs would defeat the Indians in the World Series in four games). Neither can it cause others to change (only God, through the power of the Holy Spirit, can do that). But when we make a deliberate decision of our will to love others in the absence of their perfection, we’re loving them the way God wants us to. Which, by the way, is the way He—blessedly, wonderfully, and undeservedly—loves us.

Maybe, just maybe, this will really be the year.

1 Corinthians 13:4-7—Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. (NKJV)

You Are Enough

Two quartersIf I could, I’d invite each of you to come over and have a cup of coffee with me (or tea, or water, or whatever you prefer). We would sit down on my comfy couch, turned toward each other, our drinks forgotten on the coffee table, excited that we had at least this limited time together. And we would talk.

What would we talk about? Anything we wanted to. As we sat facing each other and enjoying each other’s company, we might decide to discuss things that didn’t really matter, but were fun to talk about. Or we might choose to share what was on our heart right then—the things that really do matter.

I don’t know what you might share; I wish I could meet you in person to find out. But I do know what I would share. Since I can’t share it with you in person, you’ll have to imagine me sitting before you, looking directly at you and speaking from my heart. Because that’s what I’m doing right now as I write, even if you can’t see me.

And what I’m saying is this: You. Are. Enough.

You, with all your imperfections and memories of failure and your trying-hard-and-not-being-good-enough (and I, with those same things). You are enough for your children.

Will you let me prove it to you?

To start with, look at the picture at the top. It’s a picture of two quarters lying on my coffee table. Two ordinary quarters…except that if you look closely enough, you’ll see that they’re really not ordinary at all.

That’s because they were given to me by my eight-year-old daughter, Jessica. One sunny day not long ago, she told me she had a present for me. As I sat on the couch cross-stitching and enjoying a blessed moment of peace in the midst of a busy day, I could hear her humming quietly and cheerfully to herself as she carefully and diligently wrapped my present at the kitchen table.

A few minutes later, she came to offer it to me, and I put my stitching aside. I slowly unwrapped the abundant layers of brightly-colored wrapping paper to find…nothing. “It’s in there,” she assured me.

In the bottom of the wrapping, I saw a quarter. I withdrew it and thanked her. “There’s another one in there somewhere,” she said. So I turned the wrapping upside down and shook it. Another quarter dropped out. “Thank you, sweetie,” I said, smiling.

Then came the words that make those two quarters the most special quarters on the face of the earth: “They’re not much,” she said, her face quietly alight with love, “but it’s all the money I had.”

What does that precious story have to do with your being enough? Simply this: Jessica’s gift was more than enough for me not because it was fifty cents, which really isn’t all that big a deal in the grand scheme of things. Her gift touched me so deeply I will never forget it, and my heart will never fail to be warmed by it, because she gave all she had.

So do you. Every second of every day, you pour out your heart, your love, and even your very life for your children. Your gift to them is enough, not because of what you’re giving them, but because you’re giving all you have.

As you sit on my couch facing me and tears perhaps begin to fill your eyes, I reach forward and lay my hand over yours. And I tell you again, “You. Are. Enough.”

Yes, I know you’re not perfect. Yes, I know you’ve made mistakes and even sinned against your children. But being enough is based not upon your level of performance or the degree of perfection (what even is perfection, anyway?) that you achieve. It’s based on the fact that Jesus says you are enough.

Really? you ask, and I answer, Yes. Really. Let me tell you another story.

It’s the story of a woman who was beyond poor. Way, way beyond poor. In fact, all she had left to live on was a couple of coins. One day, she came to offer it all to God. And Jesus, who was looking on with His disciples, commended her to them. “Everybody else gave money out of their abundance,” He said. I paraphrased that part slightly. But listen to the next part of what He said, which I’m not paraphrasing at all: “But she, from her utter neediness, gave all the resources she had.”

Do you hear what He’s saying? That her sacrifice was precious to Him not because she gave much, but because she gave all she had?

Precious mom, you aren’t failing every day to do enough or be enough. You are giving yourself, and you are all you have.

Every day, you give enough.

Every day, you are enough.

Enough for your children…and enough for Jesus.

Mark 12:44—“For everyone cast (money) in out of their abundance, but she, from her utter neediness, cast in as much as she had—all her resources.” (MBT)

So Much More Than

kenny-smile-head-tiltThis is my second child, and first son, Kenny. He turned 12 this past week. He is sweet, caring, and funny. He likes Pokemon, Legos, and video games. He’s wonderful at playing with babies (they all seem to love him; even my 19-month-old godson gets more excited at seeing Kenny than he does at seeing me); he’s quick to sense that he might have hurt someone’s feelings, and to try to make it right; and he’s insanely creative. He loves to draw, play with his friends, and explore new things.

He also has Asperger’s Syndrome (the mildest form of autism).

But as you have read in the first paragraph, there’s so much more to Kenny than his syndrome. In fact, his syndrome is only one of a number of characteristics that make up the wonderful boy I love—and it’s not even the chief characteristic. It’s no better or worse than any other characteristic.

It just…is.

Kenny’s Asperger’s doesn’t sum him up any more than does the fact that he has big, brown eyes. It doesn’t tell you any more about him than does his build (he’s of medium height and weight), or the fact that he likes Angry Birds, or the story about when he gave me all his money upon my return home from the hospital after having Timmy, as a welcome-home present.

It tells you that he has more difficulties understanding and relating to people than neurotypical people (that’s you and I) do. It doesn’t tell you about the time when he accidentally grabbed a hot pan of brownies from the oven without potholders, and got badly burned on both palms and most of his fingers because he carefully set the hot pan down rather than drop it on the floor and ruin the brownies I’d made (thereby wasting my time).

Some people think that Kenny’s syndrome tells you more about him than most of his other qualities. In reality, it tells you far less than most of them, because it doesn’t tell you about either his character or his God-given uniqueness that has nothing to do with having a syndrome and everything to do with being a 12-year-old boy made in God’s image.

Why am I telling you all this? Because, my friend, I want you to realize that none of your characteristics that others (or even you) might consider undesirable defines you, either.

Do you fail to conform to our culture’s idea of what constitutes a beautiful physical appearance? Are you struggling with your finances? Are you not one of the “in crowd”?

Doesn’t. Matter.

Jesus wasn’t much to look at—it spells that out pretty plainly in Scripture (see Isaiah 53:2). As for His finances, He was homeless and had to be financially supported by women (a shameful thing in that day and time). Was He popular? Not with the “in crowd.” They hated Him and kept trying to kill Him. Are those things the most important things about Him? Hardly.

Have you sinned, maybe even in a big way? So did the Apostle Peter and the Apostle Paul, and King David, among many others. But their sin didn’t define them, and yours doesn’t define you.

Yes, Kenny has Asperger’s Syndrome. But by telling you that, I’m only telling you one thing about him. I’m not telling you who he is.

Don’t buy into Satan’s lie that any characteristic, or set thereof, says anything much about who you are, either.

Your identity is what God says it is—and He says you are His creation.

You’re not a sin or a deficiency or a fault.

You’re a divinely-created masterpiece—because God makes nothing less.

Genesis 1:27—So God created man in his own image. In the image of God created he him; male and female created he them. (KJV)

Like a Little Child

PeteLinforth / Pixabay

You know how it goes. You’ve left your child in childcare somewhere (your church, your homeschool co-op, your MOPS group), and walked away despite the tears and cries and outstretched arms calling you back.

Then, halfway through your event, the unthinkable happens: Circumstances conspire to require you to walk past the room your child is in.

Oh, no. Please, not that.

But it can’t be avoided. So you do one of two things: either you run past that door like you’re Usain Bolt, or you drop to the ground before you can be seen by anybody inside, crawl past the room—way past—then stand up, flatten yourself against the wall, and edge a few feet farther away before you resume walking normally down the middle of the hall.

Because you know what would happen if you didn’t. If your child saw you, it would all be over. The wailing would begin, and this time, it wouldn’t stop. And you’d have to pick up your child and leave early.

You don’t even want to speak above a whisper if you’re anywhere close to the door, because if your child can hear you but can’t see you, that’s even worse.

Or, to put it less traumatically, let’s say you arrive at the room to pick up your child, and your child is busy playing and doesn’t see you right away. “So how’d it go?” you ask the caregiver, and all of a sudden, your child’s head whips around toward you. He registers the fact that Hallelujah! It’s Mommy!, and makes a mad rush toward you.

You could have been standing there for five minutes watching him, with other mothers talking all around you, while your child remained deeply absorbed in his play. But the minute he hears your voice—your voice, as opposed to any other mommy’s voice—he homes in on you and runs into your arms.

I think this kind of response is exactly what Jesus was referring to when He talked about sheep not following a shepherd whose voice they didn’t recognize. He knew the sheep would hear the voice of other shepherds. But they would reserve their best response for the shepherd whose voice they know.

God wants no less from us. He wants to be so special to us that His voice is the one we attend to, even in the midst of other (perhaps very necessary) pursuits. He expects us to hear those other voices—our children, our husband, our family and friends, our boss, our society—but His desire is that the minute we hear His voice, all those other voices become secondary. He wants to capture our focus merely by speaking, to know that we are so constantly attuned to His voice that we will hear Him even above all the other voices clamoring for our attention, and that we’ll respond.

May His voice become more known, more beloved to us, than any other. May we never focus so completely on earthly voices that we have no attention left for the Voice we most need to hear. And when that Voice speaks, may we respond like a little child:

Hallelujah! Daddy’s here!

John 10:3-5—“The sheep listen to [the shepherd’s] voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes on ahead of them, and his sheep follow him because they know his voice. But they will never follow a stranger…because they do not recognize a stranger’s voice.” (NIV)

What Jesus Did for You at Calvary That You May Never Have Realized

CrossI’m 45 years old. Easter 2016 has been my 46th Easter. I’ve heard the Easter story hundreds of times. I’ve known for many years that “Jesus died on the cross to save me from my sins.”

But there’s something about what Jesus did on Calvary that I never realized until this year.

And it’s something I’ve wanted all my life. I just never knew I had it. Until this morning during the sermon.

Before I tell you what I realized, I need to tell you something else: My childhood and growing-up years were very difficult in some ways. By no means was every moment horrible, but suffice it to say that those years were tough. I only mention it here for two reasons: First, it’s necessary to do so in order to explain why what Christ purchased for me with His blood means so very much to me; and second, perhaps some of you have endured similar suffering and long to have what I only recently realized that I had all along (it’s what you had all along, too).

I grew up believing that I was never right unless I conformed to certain standards. That I was never acceptable or accepted unless I acted a certain way. That I must constantly try to please people who would never fully love me unless I could do and be and say exactly what they wanted.

I grew up believing that I was somehow never fully “right.” That any temporary reprieve from the anxiety of having to live up to impossible standards (because I just couldn’t be the “right” person) was just that—temporary.

I’m sure you can see why what I have wanted more than anything else my entire life was to know that I’m “right” enough. That I’m “good” enough. Not that I’m sinless, but just that I’m not constantly wrong.

Today, I got what I’ve always wanted. And in case you’ve always wanted it too, I want to share with you what I learned about Easter that I never realized before, because it’s all connected.

You and I both know that when Jesus died on the cross, He took the punishment that we deserved because of our sinfulness. We also both know that God the Father considers Jesus’ righteousness now to be ours as well. We can be counted legally sinless before God because Jesus’ perfect record stands in for us. Even though we continue to sin, we are not guilty.

Jesus was judged guilty. Jesus was sentenced. Jesus paid the full penalty.

Do you realize what that means?

It means that you and I are not always wrong. It means—get this—that in terms of our standing before God, we’re always right.

Because Jesus lived a sinless life and then died on Calvary, you and I get to have what we always wanted. We get to be fully acceptable to someone no matter what we do or fail to do. We get to be fully loved completely apart from the level of our performance.

In fact—and this is where it gets truly mind-blowing—our efforts to “get it right” add nothing to our being right. Nothing, nothing, NOTHING! Because we’re already right!

We are right because of Jesus, not because of ourselves (remember how His perfect record stands in for us?). And because Jesus is incapable of anything less than perfection, we are always right.

Again, “right” does not means we’re not factually sinless. We do sin, and God knows it. Being “right” means that we’re always in right standing with God because of Jesus. Despite the fact that we continue to sin, we will never be out of right standing with God. True, He will not like our sinful actions. He will not be pleased with them. But—and this is an incredible thought for anyone who didn’t grow up this way—He won’t count them against us. He won’t distance Himself from us because we’ve suddenly become unacceptable (because He doesn’t consider us unacceptable, no matter what). He won’t stop loving us because we didn’t do or be or say the right thing.

Let me say it as plainly as I can: Jesus not only lifted our punishment from us, He also lifted from us the burden of always being wrong. Of always not measuring up.

And He made us always right, and accepted, and loved.

He did for me what I always wanted, and I never “got it” until today. But today, I got what I’ve always had.

I hope you did, too.

1 Peter 2:24—“He himself bore our sins” in his body on the cross, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; “by his wounds you have been healed.” (NIV)

Why I’m Longing for Easter Right Now

Easter TombSometimes, you know something, but you don’t really know it.

Maybe you know it for years, and then all of a sudden, one day, the topic comes up in a fresh way, and you have this epiphany that causes you to see things in a whole new light. And you wonder, Why didn’t I think of that before???

I’ve known for years that Jesus lived in unspeakable glory in heaven with the Father and the Holy Spirit. Likewise, I’ve known that Jesus came to earth, which wasn’t really glorious at all in comparison, and that while He was on earth, He suffered all kinds of indignities and mistreatments (the biggest one being, of course, His murder).

But God reached down to my heart and mind through the words of this week’s sermon and helped me “get it” in a way I never got it before.

Lately, I’ve been struggling with, well, lots of things. Lots of pressure, stress, discouragement, and grief. I’ve been asking some raw questions. Why do I have to suffer so much? Haven’t I had far more than my fair share of suffering in this life? Is life going to be like this forever?

But, Lent.

For those of you who don’t know, or who never really thought about it (as I didn’t until becoming a member of the Anglican church), Lent is basically the 40 days preceding Easter. On Mardi Gras, or “Fat Tuesday” (which I know you’ve heard of), people have a party. The idea is that the next day, Ash Wednesday, they begin to engage in the spiritual disciplines of denial.

One reason for this denial to remember Christ’s suffering here on earth—not just His suffering on the cross, but His suffering in even having to be here at all.

Even Jesus suffered on earth, which led to my first realization: Why shouldn’t I suffer? Do I really think that I deserve to escape that which even Christ had to go through? If only I could remain on the Mount of Transfiguration, basking in the glow. But I can’t. Even Jesus had to come down off the mountaintop, and so do I. That spiritual glow that I feel sometimes when I’m feeling particularly close to God and all is right with the world is only a step on the way to the Garden and to Golgotha.

I can’t remain on the mountaintop forever.

Lent is basically a microcosm of life. We start out grandly and gloriously on Mardi Gras (as Jesus started out grandly and gloriously in heaven). Then, we enter into suffering, just as Jesus did. Some people who observe Lent also observe a “break”, where they do not have to observe the denial they’ve been observing through the rest of the season. That’s kind of like how it is in life. We get breaks sometimes. The fact that we suffer doesn’t mean there are never any good days.

But after the break, it’s back to suffering. Until…Easter! Just as Jesus suffered until, well, Easter, when He again returned to His former glory and no longer suffers.

Friend, hear me: Easter is coming for us, too. For you and for me. And praise God that it is! Our suffering won’t last forever. It might seem like it’s eternal, but it isn’t. Easter (or, in our case, heaven!) is coming.

It’s coming as surely as seasons pass, and days, weeks, months and years. Each moment of suffering that we endure is only getting us closer to our Easter, the time when everything will once again be made glorious.

It isn’t quite Lent, yet. Maybe that corresponds to the fact that life is pretty good for you right now. It’s even pretty good for me. When I step back and look at the things that are weighing heavily upon me, I have to realize that I still have a pretty good life. But suffering will come. In some form or fashion, it will come.

But it won’t stay, at least not forever.

Easter is on the way.

Revelation 7:17—The Lamb in the midst of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of living water, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes. (ESV)