Earlier this week I was asked if I’ve ever successfully completed a cartwheel, to which I had to answer ‘No’ – unless that is you consider the placing of one’s hands on the ground whilst simultaneously lifting both feet into the air, however briefly, sufficient to be deemed a success. Which, in my book, it doesn’t.
All of which prompted me to ponder why I am so physically inept. Is it, perhaps, the consequence of my genetic makeup, such as is the case for those who are afflicted with the inability to roll their tongue? Because if it is, might it not also explain my inability to run a sub 4-minute mile, change a tap, or contribute meaningfully to a round-table discussion on the vagaries of quantum theory.
Either way, of course, there are some things that, not being adept at, make life altogether more problematic. Which brings me to the book I finished reading this week: ‘A Normal Family – Everyday Adventures With Our Autistic Son.’
Written by Henry Normal and his wife Angela Pell, it’s an honest account of their ordinary experiences bringing up Johnny, who at the time of writing, was a 19-year-old with a diagnosis of severe autism.
The book is a hugely helpful and worthwhile read, one that is funny and uplifting in places, yet desperately sad in others. I don’t mind admitting that some of the passages I attempted to read out loud to my wife I wasn’t able to, not because of some genetic inability, but because the words were just too tear-inducing.
Despite the authors’ occasional doubts about writing the book, I’m glad they did. And, should you read it, I think you will be too – if only to be reminded that for some the spontaneous sharing of a potato snack really is an achievement to be celebrated every bit as much as achieving a top grade in a GCSE. And not just because it might actually be more important.
Whether autistic traits are genetically determined, the result of other factors, or as perhaps seems likely, a combination of the two is not fully understood. Indeed, the origins of the condition remain as mysterious as the world can seem for those who live with the realities of autism, and as uncertain as the future is for both them and their parents – those who carry the very real concern of who will continue to look after their grown-up children when they themselves inevitably get older and, because of frailty or death, are no longer able to care for them as they would wish.
But what isn’t in doubt, as this book so beautifully demonstrates, is both the inherent value of autistic individuals – no matter how severe the difficulties their differences cause – and the love that they deserve to be shown.
Her name was Fiona – the bride that is, who it was suggested should now throw her bouquet to see who among the single ladies attending her wedding might next be married. Not that we were at the evening reception you understand – it was simply that as we walked along the sand at Perranporth, we couldn’t help but hear both the excessively loud music and the protestations of the DJ coming from the hotel that overlooked the beach.
It was, if I’m honest, a little intrusive – not that I’d begrudge the happy, and in all probability now severely deaf, couple their evening of celebration. Besides, the noise it generated was unable to draw my attention away from the impressive waves that continued to pound the shore unhindered. Furthermore, whilst the next morning the party, if not the honeymoon, was over, the waves remained – a constant to be relied upon in a world that can never stand still.
But here’s the thing – the brash and out of place music was both tame and temporary compared to the wildness of the never-ending waves. Which is something that could also be said about much of what seeks to distract us each day – the words of the supposedly powerful that are shouted today but forgotten tomorrow, the news events that generate headlines that are soon replaced by those heralding something still more cataclysmic, and the trivialities that those of us foolish enough to engage in social media waste countless hours scrolling through – the thoughts they generate as transient as the sandcastles that are washed away with each successive tide.
And even the genuinely significant and oftentimes very painful circumstances that, as C.S. Lewis suggested, act as God’s megaphone to wake a sleeping world, are light and momentary when compared with the weighty and eternal matters of God.
For he is from everlasting to everlasting, his steadfast love never ceases, and his mercy never comes to an end. His never-changing word endures, his purposes stand forever, and, as we remember particularly today, Jesus’ ascension was not just to heaven, but to a throne from which he continues to reign, and so his kingdom is one that will never fall.
Even so, as C.S. Lewis also observed, God, while good, is not safe. And just like the sea at Perranporth is dangerous — as I discovered some fifty years ago when its infamously treacherous tides dragged me out of my depth and I had to be rescued by the RNLI — so too is the living God.
For the One whose love can buoy us up and bring immense delight is also infinitely holy. And so, conscious of our wrongdoing and subject to his justice, we ought to tremble before him and respect him as surely as we should the perilous sea.
Which is where Jesus comes in. For just as the RNLI rescues those who disregard the advice given as to where it’s safe to swim, so Jesus, lovingly sent by his Father, saves those who have paid scant regard to God’s law and done whatever seemed good in their own eyes. Only more so. For not only has Jesus atoned for our sin, enabling us to be justly forgiven, he has also provided us with the perfect righteousness that we need to stand guilt-free before the one who wholly accepts and wonderfully welcomes us into his family as his much-loved children.
And this salvation, as well as being complete, is permanent. Because those who, quite apart from their own efforts, find themselves reconciled to God – through the life, death and resurrection of the one who is the same yesterday, today, and forever – will never be lost again.
And the celebrations marking their homecoming, and the discovery of the stability they’ve longed for, will be more joyful still than those of even the most exuberant wedding party.
Related posts:
To read ‘The Day that Never Ends: An Easter Reflection’, click here
To read ‘Good Friday – Good for those who know they’re not’, click here
To read ‘A Warm Welcome Awaited: From Hosanna to Hallelujah’, click here
To read ‘Visions of Blue: Echoes of Grace’, click here
I wonder if I might make a recommendation: ‘Sam and Ade Go Birding’. I have thoroughly enjoyed the Channel 5 series which is clearly hoping to piggyback on the success of the BBC’s ‘Gone Fishing’ but instead of Paul Whitehouse and Bob Mortimer messing about on riverbanks we have here Sam West and Ade Edmondson being friends whilst hiding away in Cornwall, North Norfolk and, best of all, the Somerset Levels.
Personally speaking, my interest in birds is only marginally more than it is for fish and, like Ade Edmondson, I can no more tell apart a lesser spotted woodpecker from those that I imagine are forever on all of the nation’s bird tables. But as with Gone Fishing, it’s not the hobby that’s being engaged in that matters, but the warmth of the evident friendship that the shared interest provides a setting in which it can be enjoyed.
But as well as enjoying eavesdropping on their sometimes deeply personal conversations and being genuinely impressed by Sam West’s knowledge of all things ornithological, what struck me most was Ade Edmondson’s obvious delight in robins – how he would be content to take pleasure in this common, but nonetheless always welcome, garden visitor whilst his companion went anxiously and often disappointingly in pursuit of more elusive avian encounters.
Which reflects, I think, a tendency of too many of us to no longer be content with the commonplace – those of us who, having believed what we were all too often told, that everything is awesome and we ourselves are special, can no longer delight in the ordinary, now that the every day everyday always disappoints.
And it’s a problem that’s becoming ever more pervasive. Recently I’ve become aware of an educational establishment whose tagline boasts that ‘Excellence is only the beginning.’ Which, whilst sounding aspirational, is in fact one more instance of the toxic positivity that only succeeds in placing excessive demands on those who, it would seem, can no longer be content to even excel – but must remain in the relentless rat race until, presumably, they eventually collapse having still failed to achieve the potential imposed on them by somebody other than themselves.
And that, as well as being unrealistic and unfair, is unhelpful. More than that, it’s cruel. Because to be extraordinary is by definition unusual, to be exceptional is to be an outlier, and to be excellent is to exceed what’s generally expected.
Having undue pressure put on people is, of course, nothing new. What might be, however, is how we go about coping with it. Because whereas once we would, if we were wise, recognise the foolishness of what was being asked of us or, if we weren’t, become bitter and burnt out, now we are encouraged to lie. Or as it’s framed these days, curate reality and hold to the alternative truth that we create by writing a better story than the one that we’re actually living.
Because it’s not just the exaggerated narratives that we are sold by politicians and media outlets that we can no longer believe – we can no longer trust the stories that we now tell each other. Furthermore, so discontent have we become with how things actually are for us, we now willingly suspend disbelief and wholeheartedly accept the misinformation we tell ourselves – or allow our so-called artificially intelligent companions to.
And so, cocooned within our own private world, defined by our own personal truth, we become ever more alone. And as well as feeling lonely, we feel sad – because the stories we tell ourselves, no matter how idealised we make them, are false and, lacking any substance, cannot provide the one thing we all desire most.
And that’s a happy ending.
No wonder then that so many of us feel disconnected. No wonder we hanker after authenticity. And no wonder programmes that are principally about friendship are as popular as they are.
And no wonder too that ancient wisdom tells us that ‘godliness with contentment is great gain.’ [1 Timothy 6:6]
So then, rather than our ever more frantic attempts to create a world that doesn’t exist, one that, not being real, can never fully satisfy, perhaps we should open our eyes and step out into the world that is already out there, waiting for us to discover. The world described in the greatest story ever told, which, though not ours, were we to accept our invitation and become a part of it, would guarantee us the future we long for – one that’s both genuinely happy and never ending.
And with that, I’m off to say ‘Hello’ to the friendly little robin that daily frequents my back garden.
Yesterday Somerset CCC announced that Brian the club cat has not been seen for some considerable time. Hopefully suggestions of his no longer being with us will have been greatly exaggerated, but were he not to enjoy lazy days at the county ground again, here, with apologies to W.H. Auden, is my tribute to everyone’s favourite feline friend.
********
Stop the howzats, turn down the appeals, Prevent them from announcing, those half price pasty deals, Silence the supporters in Lord Ian Botham’s stand, Mark him in the scorebook as retired hurt, unplanned.
Now have those on the livestream turn their microphones to mute, And players too, their cricket skills, no longer execute, Let David Garmston of Points West, on his life reminiscing, Break to the grieving faithful that their ginger friend is missing.
He was our River and Pavilion End, he was our boundary rope, Our Friday night T20 blast, our Championship hope Our early morning coin toss, our lunch and tea time break, We thought Brian would never leave – that was our great mistake.
The floodlights, they’re not needed for there’s nothing more to see, The scoreboards hold no interest now for neither you nor me Take down the temporary stands, leave your retirement flat. For we will never see again the county’s favourite cat.
Let me ask you a question. What’s the first thing you do each day? Clean your teeth, check your phone, or offer up a simple prayer.
But if you asked me that question, I’d say something rather different. Because the first thing I do each day…is go to bed.
In Genesis 1, after recording what God made on the first day of creation, we read that ‘there was evening and there was morning the first day’. [Genesis 1:5] And a similar statement is made at the end of each of the following five days of creation. This, together with the fact that the Jewish sabbath began at sunset – not sunrise – suggests that, in God’s ordering of things, the day begins with the night, not with the morning.
But what has all this got to do with Easter?
Well, simply this. If in God’s economy, day follows night, might not life follow death – meaning that, far from being surprising, the resurrection of Jesus that we celebrate this morning was only to be expected?
Which in one sense, of course, it was.
Because, as Peter proclaimed in his sermon at Pentecost, it was not possible for Jesus to stay dead. [Acts 2:24] On the contrary, as the sinless Son of God and everlasting Lord of life, the truly remarkable thing was that He died in the first place.
And so, sinless as He was, and with death therefore having no rightful claim on Him, He died for the sin of others.
Which is, perhaps, why, even in crucifixion, He did not simply succumb to death, but willingly yielded up His spirit and committed it into His Father’s hands. [Matthew 27:50]
But be that as it may, it’s not just the ordering of the day that hints at deeper realities. The whole of creation does too.
And so, just as winter gives way to spring, and the seemingly lifeless rhubarb plant in my garden is now pushing its way back up through the soil, so too did Jesus rise from the dead.
No wonder then that new life is so prevalent at Easter time.
That said, the resurrection to eternal life is not automatic. Whilst freely offered to all, salvation is only for those who gladly accept it as something they know they need, those who, seeing things as God does, recognise their wrongdoing, repent of their sin and put their faith in Jesus.
But having done so, with our sin fully atoned for, we can know, with absolute certainty, that we’ve been fully forgiven too. And so, with death no longer having any hold over us, we can anticipate a resurrection just like that of Jesus Christ himself.
For His being raised assures us that the sacrifice was sufficient.
For if it hadn’t been, Jesus would still be dead.
Jesus’ resurrection is then the receipt that proves the price was fully paid. It is our cast-iron guarantee that God’s just anger at our sin has been fully satisfied, that we have been completely reconciled to Him, and that we can now look forward to an eternity with Him as our Father, and we as His much-loved adopted children.
And just as the pattern of night followed by day speaks of rest before work, so too does the gospel reverse our natural inclinations.
Unlike all other religions, which put the onus on us to work our way towards heaven, the gospel of Jesus Christ invites us first to rest in His completed work. Only then, confident of our eternal future, do we go about the often painful process of sanctification, of becoming more and more like Jesus – a task that God, by His Holy Spirit, has promised to one day complete.
Similarly, no matter how difficult our lives might currently be, we can be confident of better days ahead. Because whilst weeping may tarry for the nighttime, joy really will come with the morning – just as it did on that first Easter Sunday.
How long, though, will this repeated cycle of night and day continue? How long will even our most joy-filled days keep coming to an end? How long can we expect sadness to keep on raising its perpetually unwelcome head?
Well, only for as long as night follows day.
Because here’s the thing: one day it won’t.
Back in Genesis 2, the seventh day was the day that God rested after the work of creation. Unlike the other six days there is no concluding statement that says, ‘and there was evening and there was morning – the seventh day.’ In one sense then, the seventh day never ended – pointing to the fact that those who find their rest in God will do so eternally.
And so we can look forward to the day when Christ returns, a day when a new heaven and a new earth will be established, and God, having restored His people to sinlessness, will once again be with them in the way that He was in the Garden of Eden.
And it will be a day of rest – of everlasting rest – on which night never falls. A day when God, whose glory then will light the skies, will wipe away our every tear and death will be no more.
That’s what the resurrection of Jesus Christ guarantees. That’s what gives us cause for hope. And that is why we celebrate Easter.
Related posts:
To read ‘Good Friday – Good for those who know they’re not’, click here
To read ‘A Warm Welcome Awaited: From Hosanna to Hallelujah’, click here
To read ‘Visions of Blue: Echoes of Grace’, click here
Today is Good Friday – a day of profound paradoxes.
Even its name sticks in the throat, for what can be even remotely good about a day on which something so appallingly bad took place.
But Good Friday was good for those who know they’re not – and are prepared to admit it.
Some people say that Jesus’ death on the cross shows us how much He loves us. And they’re right. Because it does.
But it doesn’t show us how lovely we are.
Because the price paid is not so much a measure of our inherent worth but, given how incalculably high it was, a measure of how much has gone wrong in us – and in the world.
To think otherwise would be like a gangster imagining that the reward for his capture was an indication of how much he’d contributed to society, rather than a reflection of just how appalling his crimes were.
That said, the cross does speak of how highly God values us. Not because of how lovely we are, but because of the immense honour He has bestowed on us by creating us in His own image – horribly marred though that image has become as a consequence of the Fall.
Which is why, despite the severity of our sin, He sent His beloved Son Jesus to bear the punishment that we deserved.
And what a sacrifice it was – involving nails being driven through His hands and feet, a spear being thrust into His side, and the fearful realisation that, though completely sinless, He had been forsaken even by His own Father. [Matthew 27:46]
And all so that we need never be.
God loves us. Not because we’re lovely – but because He is loving.
So loving, in fact, that He was prepared to suffer for us, despite our sinfulness, so that, rather than suffering God’s wrath, we might be adopted into His family as His fully forgiven and much loved children.
But here’s the thing.
It is only by recognising the depths of our depravity that we can comprehend just how undeserving we are.
It is only when we appreciate the seriousness of our sin that we grasp how perilous our condition really is.
It is only when we acknowledge our guilt that we begin to marvel at the magnitude of His grace.
And it is only when we see the lengths to which He was willing to go that we understand how unconditional His love for us is, and, knowing how much we have been forgiven, can begin at last to love Him in return. [Luke 7:47]
How grateful we should be then for the cross and all that was achieved there.
Last year I heard a Romanian pastor speaking of his uncle who, back in the days of communism, was imprisoned because of his faith.
Every day of his detention his two daughters prayed for his captivity to end until eventually, after several years, he was released and allowed to return home.
And so his daughters’ prayers inevitably turned to ones of gratitude to God.
But to the increasing irritation of one, the other continued to thank God daily for longer than the first felt necessary.
So much so that, after some months, she expressed her annoyance and insisted that her sister, having thanked God enough, should instead start praying about other matters.
To which the father said, ‘Don’t tell your sister to stop thanking God for my freedom – because you don’t know what it is that I’ve been freed from’.
And something similar could be said for us.
I know what it is to be forgiven by patients for mistakes I made whilst practising medicine – some of which had serious consequences. I know how their gracious acceptance of my apology helped lift a burden that I had previously struggled to carry.
How much more, then, should we be grateful for the salvation secured for us by Jesus, which frees us from the consequences of our sin – the righteous wrath of God – that would otherwise have justly been ours to bear.
For God so loved the world that He gave His Son so that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have eternal life. [John 3:16]
Good Friday, then, is not good because of what took place that day – it’s good because of what those events achieved.
All of which means that today, Good Friday can be wonderfully good for each and every one of us.
I hope it will be for you.
Related posts:
To read ‘A Warm Welcome Awaited: From Hosanna to Hallelujah’, click here
To read ‘Visions of Blue: Echoes of Grace’, click here
Having been away for a while, it’s always good to be welcomed home. I for one enjoy being greeted enthusiastically – even if it is by a four-legged furry fiend who tends to make a lot of noise as he does so.
But then I guess he’s just excited to have his master home, no doubt anticipating how I will provide him with everything he wants – which, thankfully, is rarely anything more than a daily walk, never-ending attention, and something to fill his empty stomach – such as it is after devouring most of the plant life in our back garden.
Today, though, his actions remind me how Jesus was welcomed by those who made a good deal of noise when He entered Jerusalem on Palm Sunday.
In ancient times, when a homecoming King approached a city, the people would go out to meet him. And they would celebrate his arrival while escorting him along the final stretch of his journey.
So then, as the people waved palm branches and shouted their joyful hosannas, they too were welcoming the one they saw as the long-promised King – the Messiah they hoped would provide them with everything they wanted – specifically their liberation from the Romans who at that time occupied their land. [Matthew 21:1-11]
But what followed was not what the people anticipated. Because much like He sometimes still does with us, God often works in unexpected ways – and not infrequently in a manner that is not, initially at least, to our liking.
Which is why Jesus, a King like no other, rode into Jerusalem, not on a warhorse, but on a donkey. And why He made his way alongside the great many Passover lambs that would also have been entering the city that day.
For He too would be a sacrificial lamb – one that by His death would accomplish the liberation the people most needed – not from the Romans, but from sin and death instead.
And that’s why, five days later, those who had once cried out to Him for salvation would cry out for Him to be crucified. [Mark 15:13] A clamour to which, had we been there, we might well have added our voice.
But by submitting to what they thought they wanted, Jesus gave them – and us – what we did not even know we needed.
Because by allowing Himself to be nailed to a cross, by suffering and dying there in our place, He bore the full punishment that our sin deserves – in order that death would no longer have the final word.
For that final word belongs to Jesus.
As was proved on the third day, when God once again subverted all our expectations by raising Him back to life. [Acts 13:30]
And then, just a few weeks later, Jesus ascended, not just to heaven but to a throne. One from which He has continued to reign ever since – and will continue to do so for evermore.
For Jesus Christ is King – and God’s chosen King at that.
All of which means that when, as the Bible promises, He returns, He will come, not only as the Lord of lords, but the King of kings as well.
And, we are told, those who are His will meet Him ‘in the air’ [1 Thessalonians 4:17], not to be whisked away to some distant place, leaving the earth empty of believers, but to warmly welcome Him, and then, as with conquering kings of old, to escort Him to the place where His kingdom will be fully established – not in some small corner of the globe, but throughout the whole of the created order.
When we will all sing again – not Hosanna, but Hallelujah. Because the salvation once longed for will at last have been secured.
As the Lord our God, the Almighty, reigns. [Revelation 19:6]
Related posts:
To read ‘Visions of Blue: Echoes of Grace’, click here
Today I did something pointless. And all the more so perhaps, given how cold it was, and with the grey skies overhead constantly threatening rain.
But whilst the match at the County Ground in Taunton, being a pre-season friendly, had no points resting on it, my spending a couple of hours watching wasn’t in the least bit senseless.
Because I, and the other couple of hundred who were there, experienced a shared reality – as we watched the game, quite literally, play out in real time. We saw what really happened – and not some version of events presented to us by someone with a particular story to sell.
Which these days, it seems to me, is increasingly rare.
I can’t trust everything that I see in the news because, no matter how truthful the reporter, whatever they say can only ever be a portion of the truth. And I can’t trust certain public figures who have a relationship with the truth that is, at best, flexible. But I can trust what my own eyes saw: that Lewis Gregory struck a cracking boundary from the 20th delivery he faced, only to be caught, just three balls later, by Norton off the bowling of Gorvin.
And in a world where far too much is fake, it’s good to experience something real once in a while.
And then there was the opportunity to see Jack Leach and Craig Overton batting – neither of whom, as far as I could tell, threatened to ‘unleash hell’ on the opposition or become their ‘worst nightmare’ if they weren’t offered up gentle full tosses.
Instead they just played cricket, putting on 93 together, whilst I watched. And we all forgot, for an hour or two at least, about the absolutely senseless things that continue elsewhere in the world. And remembered that some good things remain.
Which, on reflection, didn’t seem pointless at all.
Other cricket related posts:
Cricketing blogs from 2025:
To read ‘The Untold Story of Finals’ Day’, click here
So having already bared my soul in regard to previous encounters with the police, I thought I’d continue in confessional fashion and tell the tale of another occasion when I fell foul of local law enforcement agencies – not this time as a result of their eagerness to take a photo of me as I, quite literally, sped by, but one during which I came face to face with one of their number.
The incident took place one Father’s Day as I was travelling, along with the family, to visit my Dad. And it was as I was driving along the North Devon Relief Road, happily minding my own business that I suddenly noticed a police car following along behind me.
‘So what?’ you might ask. Well, the thing is, not only was it following along behind me, it also saw fit to flash its lights at me. You know the ones – those rather striking blue ones!
And so, I thought to myself, I’d better stop – and see if the policeman wants any help with his enquiries.
And do you know what? He did. In fact, so keen was he to have me lend my assistance, that he invited me to step out of my car, and join him in his.
Now I should point out that I had absolutely no idea what it was he wanted to talk to me about. Miraculously, I hadn’t been speeding, the car was taxed and Insured, and, as far as I was aware, it was in an entirely roadworthy condition.
And so, I thought to myself, perhaps it was simply because, proud of his own car, he wanted to show me just how much better it was than mine!
Once I was seated comfortably in his admittedly impressive vehicle, the police officer began. He started by asking me some rather easy warm-up questions: my name, where had I come from, and where was I heading. All of which I answered without any great difficulty.
And then he told me two things:
The first thing that he told me was the law – and how I was guilty of breaking it. He told me that I had been driving too close to the car in front of me and that I had been doing so for all of the previous four miles. He told me that ‘only a fool, breaks the two second rule’ and, in so doing – though I hadn’t realised it at the time – I now appreciate that he was implying that a fool was exactly what I was!
And then he went on to tell me that my crime of ‘driving without due care and attention’ was worthy of a court appearance and six points on my licence.
Gulp!
Now the law is the law, and recognising I’d broken it, I acknowledged that it was the proverbial fair cop. Besides, there was no point my trying to argue otherwise since my actions had been recorded and were now preserved on film. His rather fancy car, you see, really was better than mine – it even had a built-in camera!
And so the truth could not be denied: I was guilty.
I was, of course, sorry for what I’d done – but being sorry, didn’t change the fact that he had me, as they say, bang to rights.
And so I found myself hoping that he’d show me leniency, that he’d spare me the punishment the law required, and treat me instead as one who’d been driving perfectly safely.
That is to say, I hoped that he’d be gracious, that he’d show me mercy, and not treat me in the way the law demanded.
Or, for that matter, in the way that I deserved.
But before I had the chance to beg…or cry…he went on. And my soon-to-be new best friend told me the second thing.
He told me the news – the very good news – that he’d decided to let me off!
I don’t know why he chose not to punish me that day – only that it was most assuredly not because of anything I had done.
It wasn’t because there were other drivers who were driving even more dangerously than me, it wasn’t a result of a promise on my part to never do it again, and it wasn’t even because I’d expressed sufficient remorse.
It was simply because, though I was guilty, he had chosen to be forgiving.
And so it was that, as a result of the policeman’s kindness, I kept a clean driving licence that day. Not because I wasn’t guilty of a driving offence but because I wasn’t counted as having committed one.
And no record was therefore kept!
Which is, it seems to me, a pretty good illustration of the difference between the Law and the Gospel.
Within the pages of the Bible, there are many laws, the most famous of which are the Ten Commandments that can be summarised by saying that we should love God with all our heart, soul, strength, and mind – and our neighbour as ourselves.
However, like the Highway Code that I have also failed to keep, these are commands that I have similarly broken. And so, just as I was that Sunday afternoon, I am conscious of my need for God’s mercy too.
But, like that announced to me by the police officer, God also has some good news for me to hear.
Namely the gospel – that announces to me that I am similarly acquitted – and again, not because of any good in me.
It’s not because there may be those who have done worse things than I have, not because I’ve promised to do better in the future, not even because I’ve been sufficiently contrite.
Rather I am forgiven simply because, despite my guilt, God has chosen to be gracious to me.
Because that’s what God is like. He’s gracious – and treats us infinitely better than we could ever deserve. Rather than punishing us as the law demands, He chooses, by way of Jesus’ bearing on the cross the penalty that we deserved, to pay our debt on our behalf.
But more than just choosing to treat us as those who’ve never done anything wrong – God also chooses to treat us as if we were those who’ve always done everything right. That is to say, He counts us righteous – as righteous even as His own beloved son – before adopting us into His family as His fully forgiven and much loved children.
The law then tells us how we would need to behave if we wanted to earn God’s acceptance. And crushes us with its unmanageable demands.
Whilst the gospel tells us what God has done to make us acceptable to Him. And fills us with joy by lifting the law’s heavy burden.
Which is not to suggest that the law isn’t good – on the contrary, everything about it is right. But just as the excellent rule that tells us we shouldn’t drive too close to the car in front of us is one that, however much I may agree with it, can’t, in and of itself, stop me from breaking it – so too the even more excellent command to ‘Love God’ doesn’t, in and of itself enable us to do so either.
But here’s the funny thing. Since that encounter with the policeman my driving has improved a little. And though, admittedly, it still isn’t as good as it ought to be, I nonetheless, find myself wanting to drive better. Not because of the law – but because of the policeman’s kindness.
And so it is with the gospel. God’s law does not have the power to change us, but the kindness of God, revealed to us in the gospel, can.
And so I’ll finish with a lovely little rhyme, said by some to be written by John Bunyan, that makes the distinction between law and gospel clear.
‘Run and work the law commands But gives us neither feet nor hands Far better news the gospel brings It bids us fly and gives us wings’
Last weekend I travelled to London and, of all the lively places in the capital that I could have visited, I opted for a tour of Highgate Cemetery – an undertaking that might have had grave consequences, given I was with my wife and the following day was Mothering Sunday.
But the atmosphere among those who gathered at the entrance of the cemetery, one of seven built in the 1830s to solve the problem of London’s overcrowded churchyards, was far from funereal. And as the stories of those in the tombs – to whom we were, in a sense, introduced – were brought vividly to life by our very able guide, my interest in death was instantly resurrected.
Among the more famous long-term inhabitants of Highgate was Douglas Adams, whose grave was marked by pens stuck into the ground by those wishing to say ‘so long’ and ‘thanks for all the finished novels’ he’d written. The gravestone of Michael Faraday, the ‘Father of Electricity,’ was a simple affair – a distinct contrast to that of Karl Marx, which included a larger-than-life representation of the long dead author of ‘Das Kapital’. And one of the most visited graves is that of the singer and philanthropist George Michael who lies alongside his mother and sister in a secluded area of the cemetery known as ‘Comfort Corner,’ and still commands such respect from local people that they won’t hear a bad word said against him.
And then there is Alexander Litvinenko, the former Russian spy who was assassinated in London in 2006 when polonium-210 was slipped into his cup of tea. The memorial that marks his grave contains a deliberately broken stone column that is meant to symbolise his untimely death – one that Litvinenko had long expected. Indeed, when he realised what had happened to him, he phoned the police and said he wanted to report a murder – his own – three full weeks before the poison took its inevitable effect.
Later we had pointed out to us the coffin of a once-eminent surgeon who, concerned about becoming the target of the grave robbers he might once have owed a debt to, had chosen to be laid to rest on the top shelf of the vault we were allowed to enter.
But, to me at least, the most intriguing of all was the final resting place of one who lay in a vault marked only by his name – one familiar to me, as it was the same as that of my uncle. This John Aird must have been wealthy, since his grave was in one of the most select parts of the cemetery. But of him I could discover nothing more – despite my extensive digging around in the hope of discovering more about his life. Not literally, you understand, as doing so, as well as being prohibited by law, drew unaccountably disapproving looks from our guide the moment I made even the most cursory attempt to unearth something of interest.
So while I learned about a once-famous bare-knuckle boxer and his devoted dog, a horse slaughterer who once boasted that he served by appointment to the royal family, and the desecration of tombs carried out by a mob following the imagined sighting of the Highgate Vampire in the 1970s, I failed even to discover the years in which my perhaps well-to-do ancestor lived.
Perhaps, I thought, as I wandered amidst the ivy-clad memorials, his reluctance to reveal the secrets of his past suggested an unholy preference for the darkness – one that hinted that, as that fearsome creature of the night, he might be, and evermore remain, undead!
And so, resigned to the fact that I’d never have a stake in his estate, when our time eventually came to an end, we made our exit through the cemetery gates, shuffled off to Hampstead Heath, and finally came to rest over a piece of cake in a bijou – or, dare I say it, fey – coffee shop just off Perrin Street.
And there, where the prices were mortifying, we drew down the curtain on what had been a dead good day.
So far this Lent, we’ve faced the grim reality of our indwelling sin, the weight of our guilt, and the gap between who we are now and who we were meant to be.
But the Bible tells us that the person we are meant to be is the very person we will one day become. And understanding how that transformation comes about helps us live with the disparity we experience today.
Take Gideon, for example. His story begins in Chapter 6 of the Book of Judges where we find him hiding from the marauding Midianites – cowering in a winepress no less – when the Angel of the Lord appears and greets him as ‘a mighty man of valour’. [Judges 6:12]
Which is a great comfort to me as one who, like Gideon, knows just how weak I am. Because if God could see Gideon as someone who is strong, perhaps he can see me that way too – despite all the evidence to the contrary.
But here’s the thing: God’s word is powerful — so powerful that he creates simply by speaking. And because God cannot lie, whatever he says is true — of us as well as of Gideon — irrespective of appearances.
Which means that when God speaks reality must change.
Think about it. By a word of command, God created the universe. And by a word of command he spoke Lazarus back from the dead.
When God said ‘Let there be light’, there was light. And when Jesus said ‘Lazarus, come out’, Lazarus walked out of the tomb he’d been laid in having died four days previously.
God’s word is so powerful that all his promises are guaranteed to come about. Which means that in a real sense God’s promises belong to the present, even before they are fully realised.
Or, put another way, they are both ‘already’…and ‘not yet’ fulfilled.
This is a pattern that is repeatedly seen in scripture. After God declares something to be so, there follows a process by which what is true by God’s decree becomes true in actuality.
So for example, God declared Gideon to be a mighty warrior.
And if God says you are a mighty warrior, then a mighty warrior is what you are – even if, at the time, you are quivering in a wine press.
But there then followed a process by which Gideon became just what God had told him he was at the outset – so that, by Judges 7, he is leading an unlikely band of just 300 men whom God then used to defeat the Midianites.
At the time of God’s decree, Gideon was both ‘already’ and ‘not yet’ a mighty warrior. And in time he became what he already was.
Similarly God renamed Abram as Abraham saying ‘I have made you the father of a multitude of nations.’ The only problem being that when God said it, Abraham had no children at all.
But once again there followed a process by which Abraham became what God had already declared him to be.
Abraham too became what he already was. And the same is true for us.
God declares us to be a chosen race, a royal priesthood, and a holy nation. And so we are. The only problem being that, as we’ve been confessing throughout this Lenten series, we all continue to sin.
If, like me, then, all too aware of your indwelling sin, you sometimes find yourself asking, ‘Can I really be a Christian?’, you too can take heart.
Because, whilst not for one minute encouraging complacency, we need to remember that we too are ‘not yet’ what we ‘already’ are!
God has declared us to be right with him. We are ‘justified’ solely because of what Jesus has done for us. And if God says we are ‘Not guilty,’ then ‘Not guilty’ is most certainly what we are in Christ. Having already been counted righteous, we are now in the process of becoming what God has declared us to be.
That is, we are being sanctified as, by his Spirit and through his word, he makes us more like Jesus – the mighty warrior we have always needed.
So make no mistake, every single one of us will die as a sinner – still imperfect, still the author of our sin, and still in need of forgiveness.
But if our faith is not in ourselves but in Christ who has defeated sin and death on the cross, we will die as justified sinners – those who, though we still sin, have nonetheless begun the long and sometimes painful process of sanctification by which we become more and more like Jesus.
And, what’s more, God will complete the good work he has begun in us because that is what he has promised to do. And one day, on the day of Jesus Christ, we will rise again – perfectly righteous in our new resurrection body.
Then, and only then, we will become in actuality what today we are already declared to be.
The gap we currently experience – between what we are and what we should be – will finally be gone.
And I for one can’t wait!
So then, ‘there is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ.’ [Romans 8:1]
‘Beloved, we are God’s children now and what we will be has not yet appeared. But we know that when he appears we will be like him because we shall see him as he is. And everyone who thus hopes in him purifies himself as he is pure’ [1 John 3:2-3]
Which is very good news indeed!
Related posts:
To read ‘And not just because baked beans get in the way’, click here
To read ‘The Kindness We Don’t Needand the Truth We Do’, click here
As a young boy it was drummed into me that you’ll never go to heaven in a baked bean tin – for the very simple reason that a baked bean tin has baked beans in. And, to the delight of my fellow cub scouts who gleefully sang of the fact on the way to summer camp, neither will we get to our celestial home in a Playtex bra – for, it seems, this branded item of feminine attire lacks the requisite elasticity necessary to propel an individual all the way to what is surely everyone’s preferred eternal home.
Now, whilst neither of these assertions will come as any surprise to many, what may be less well known to some is that we will never get to heaven by giving up chocolate for Lent. Or anything else for that matter – irrespective of whether our determined abstinence involves social media, mobile phone usage, or the pandering to black Labradors who, when indulged, are liable to leave fur all over the settee.
But leaving all that to one side for a moment, for those who have opted to give something up during these weeks preceding Easter, how’s it going?
Are you remaining resolute despite that Yorkie bar in the top drawer of your desk, or have you caved in and found yourself now relying on the same excuses you made on January 2nd when your plan to run this year’s London Marathon ended in tatters, having failed to keep up with the couch-to-5k app’s suggested schedule?
Of course there is nothing wrong in abstaining from less than helpful habits in Lent. Such endeavours can be helpful. But we shouldn’t pretend they have any spiritual value unless they free up more time for us to ponder the things of God. For many, however, the decision to give something up is less about drawing near to God and more about feeling better about ourselves. And even then the self-sacrifice is only ever intended to be temporary as, come Easter, all our hard work is undone when we consume more confectionery in one day than we would normally eat in the six weeks we have gone without.
But even if we are successful in continuing to go without, our better behaviour will prove no more effective in getting us to heaven than vessels containing pre-cooked, nutrient-dense seeds derived from plants in the Fabaceae family. Because being good has as much to do with the state of our hearts as the actions they generate.
For while I may succeed in cutting down on the number of people I murder, Jesus tells me that I must not harbour hatred toward anyone – or indeed be inappropriately angry or even speak unkindly about them. And whilst we may resist the temptation of falling into an adulterous relationship, Jesus says that to even look at another with lustful thoughts is, in effect, to climb into bed with that person. [Matthew 5:21-28]
Though it has been many years since I attended one regularly, I was brought up in the Church of England. So something else that I learnt as a boy, far more useful than the childish songs we sang on coaches, was the prayer of General Confession that I would say each Sunday morning whilst kneeling in front of a hard wooden pew. It goes like this:
‘Almighty God, our Heavenly Father, we have sinned against you… in thought and word and deed, through ignorance, through weakness, and through our own deliberate fault. We are truly sorry and repent of all our sins. For the sake of your Son Jesus Christ.’
I still use these words today as they helpfully dismantle every imagined get-out clause that I’m tempted to employ in the hope of somehow justifying my own wrongdoing. That is to say, they stop me pretending that I’m not a sinner.
Which is the only thing we really need to be giving up during Lent. That and our foolish pride that tells us that we’re not in need of forgiveness.
As has been rightly said, ‘the only thing we contribute to our salvation is the sin that made it necessary’. And so our journey begins by recognising our need of rescue, and crying out to God for help.
The help he is only too willing to give.
Because if we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. But if we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. [1 John 1:8-9]
And so the question becomes, not what we are giving up this Lent, but whether we’re prepared to confess who we truly are – and then throw ourselves on the mercy of the God who is ready to wash us clean.
For if we are, we’ll find that we’re warmly welcomed – into heaven, which, not to stretch a point, is never so full that room can’t be found for just one more.
Related posts:
To read ‘The Kindness We Don’t Needand the Truth We Do’, click here
As we move deeper into Lent, I want to consider another way that we sometimes try to absolve ourselves of our very real guilt – by normalising our faults and claiming that the wrong we do is, in fact, absolutely right.
Recently I read of someone who spoke with regret of how he, like some of us perhaps, had consistently acted selfishly towards those he said he loved. Until, that is, he came across an article about a condition he came to think he was born with. Believing it explained everything he ever did wrong, he diagnosed himself with the condition and thus absolved himself of all responsibility for his behaviour.
Furthermore, by claiming that God had made him the way he was, he reevaluated his behaviour as not only ‘not wrong’, but rather ‘beautifully right’.
Now don’t hear me wrong here – I am not saying that such conditions aren’t real, nor that they can’t profoundly affect an individual’s behaviour.
But even when they do, explanation is not the same as exoneration. While the line between what is and isn’t avoidable may be fine, what may well be a factor must not be used as an excuse.
And nor is the growing tendency to describe every difficulty as a gift, and every limitation a superpower, helpful.
Which isn’t to say that some conditions – typically those causing less severe problems – don’t come with certain limited benefits.
But I can’t help but notice that the parents of those with more severe developmental difficulties don’t romanticise their condition in this way. Which is not to say that they don’t enjoy being with their children – for how could they not when they love them so much. But their difficulties are a cause of great sadness too – for exactly the same reasons. And knowing how horribly hard life can be for those suffering with such disabilities – and for those who care so wonderfully for them – they don’t need the additional burden of being told they should be happy about the situation that they find themselves in.
Which is why framing real difficulties as benefits, whilst sometimes sounding kind, is in fact, often cruel.
That said, those born with such conditions are no less precious, no less loved by God, and no less His image-bearers as a result. Our value does not depend on what we can or cannot do, on what we have or should not have done, but on the worth bestowed on us by the one who created us. And since He is unchanging, it remains the same – irrespective of whether the care we need comes from novice parents, advanced palliative care experts, or those supporting individuals with the severest special needs.
Or, indeed, since nobody is beyond redemption, prison wardens in high-security detention centres.
Because the truth is that we are all born into a world that is not as it should be – and we all bear the marks of that brokenness at birth – at the very least the moral ones, and not infrequently the physical and psychological ones as well. And we make a mistake if we pretend that the faults we are all born with are, in and of themselves, part of God’s original design.
So then, we must not think that being born with a sinful disposition makes that disposition beautiful – any more than we would call beautiful a genetic condition that promises nothing more than a tragically short life marked only by pain and sadness.
Because if we do, not only will we risk romanticising disability, which, as Jesus himself made plain, has no bearing on our moral status [John 9:1-3], we will risk romanticising our sin, which does.
And seeing sin as beautiful will leave us blind to our need of repentance and, as a result, prevent us from experiencing the salvation we will no longer recognise we need.
Accepting then that we are all broken, we honour those with life-long difficulties most by loving them – and not by pretending that the disability causing them such heartache is in fact something that they are fortunate to possess.
For not all that God sovereignly permits is necessarily good – even if He can, and does, bring good out of it. Because not being part of God’s original design doesn’t mean that what we providentially experience today is somehow outside of His loving purpose.
And neither should those who are able to overcome significant hardship, often in remarkable and inspirational ways, be used to shame those who cannot.
Life isn’t that simple. God often works in ways that we cannot comfortably comprehend, and things are frequently very different from how they may appear.
Like, for example the crucifixion of Jesus Christ – that looked like ugly defeat but was, in fact, glorious victory.
So then, during Lent, we don’t need to be told we’re perfectly okay – because we’re not. And whether our faults are carefully concealed or on display for all the world to see, we are all sick and need to be offered a cure.
Because our sin and our guilt are real – we are all in need of a Saviour – one that is as real as the rescue He secures.
And his name is Jesus – the innocent Son of God who, suffering in the place of the guilty, provides the perfect sacrifice required to fully guarantee both our future physical and emotional wholeness, and atone for all our sin.
Mine as well as yours.
Even so, there’s nothing pleasant about crucifixion, nothing beautiful about being nailed to a cross, and nothing romantic about substitutionary death – it was simply the remedy that was necessary.
If, that is, we are not to remain horribly broken forever.
In a world where we’re constantly urged to shout about how awesome we are, the Lenten tradition of sober introspection seems strangely anachronistic. After all, if we’re all so amazing, why would we look inside and discover something far less flattering?
Some years ago, a patient consulted with me having been sacked. But despite their dismissal being wholly justified, given their criminal misconduct in the workplace, they nonetheless felt that they had been unfairly treated.
And so I spoke to them about two types of guilt. Firstly the self-pitying guilt of those who are only concerned by how their wrongdoing has adversely affected themselves. And secondly, the healthy ‘gutsy guilt’ that admits one’s wrongdoing, accepts the responsibility for it, and seeks, where possible, to make amends. The guilt felt by those who say ‘sorry’ without adding a clause to their apology beginning with either an ‘if’ or a ‘but’ so as to either excuse the behaviour or suggest it was never really wrong in the first place.
I urged them to adopt the latter approach, but I’m not sure my advice was accepted, given that I subsequently had a complaint made against me for not being affirming enough of my patient’s behaviour.
And therein lies a problem.
Because whilst it is of course possible to feel guilty for things that aren’t our fault, it remains the case that sometimes our guilt is real. And when it is, our rehabilitation has to begin with an acceptance that we are to blame. Because only then is there a chance of genuine repentance – and with that the chance of genuine forgiveness.
That said, the one who inappropriately feels guilty for everything needs to be taken gently to one side to have it explained that their insistence that they are responsible for every evil in the world is, in fact, a form of arrogance. Because to believe that one is to blame for everything is to imply, albeit unknowingly, that one has god-like sovereignty over the universe such that there needs to be confession of pride and repentance of imagined superior significance.
But to return to genuine guilt, let’s now consider how gutsy guilt can prove beneficial, firstly by considering another story from my days as a doctor.
One Sunday morning, I visited a patient at home. He was significantly unwell and undoubtedly warranted hospital admission. But thinking a blue light ambulance wasn’t required, I requested one within the hour.
Unfortunately the paramedics arrived about an hour and a half later and, to cut a long story short, the patient died en route to hospital. Inevitably I felt bad about the decision I had made and the following day I discussed the case with my colleagues.
Most of them kindly reassured me that I’d acted appropriately, that the late arrival of the ambulance was to blame, or that the outcome would have been the same even if I had called for a more urgent response.
But the response that helped most was from my senior partner who shared of a mistake he had once made which had tragic consequences and spoke of how hard it is to live with our mistakes.
But here’s the thing – it’s always better to apologise for our mistakes rather than pretend they didn’t happen. I’ve messed up and had to say sorry to patients. And I was always glad when I did – such was the gracious forgiveness I received.
I am reminded of the day a Jehovah’s Witness came knocking at my door.
After engaging me in conversation they asked me if I wanted to go to heaven. I said I did and was told that all I needed to do was to become a Jehovah’s Witness and live a good life as defined by their own set of rules. And so I asked them what difference it would make if I was a bad person. To which they replied by trying to reassure me that I wasn’t bad.
That was all they had to offer me – denial – urging me not to accept what I know is true.
What a contrast that is to the gospel – that offers full salvation to the one who confesses their sins, repents of their wrongdoing, and asks God for forgiveness.
Only Christianity offers a solution to the problem that we cannot deny – that we are guilty. Because on the cross, Jesus paid the penalty for all our sin – He took our place, bearing the punishment that our wrongdoing deserved.
And so we are forgiven – with no ifs or buts.
Because, ‘if we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. If we say we have not sinned, we make him a liar, and his word is not in us.’ [1 John 1:9-10]
Related posts:
To read ‘Hope in the Ashes: Why Sin Remains But Does Not Reign’, click here
Today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent – a season traditionally set aside for self-examination and repentance in the run-up to Easter.
Whether you would label it that way or not, I think we can all agree that we live in what I would call a sin-sick world. We only have to hear the news of mass shootings, knife crime, and sex trafficking to realise that there is something deeply wrong going on.
That said, it’s not just those nasty people over there who spoil it for everyone else – it’s all of us as well, both inside and outside religious organisations. Because together we contribute, albeit perhaps in less obvious ways, to the pervasive nature of the world’s collective wrongdoing.
But since I’m a Christian myself, it is of the ongoing sinfulness of those within the church that I want to consider here. And, evil though they no doubt are, I don’t mean those who infiltrate faith communities with the express purpose of taking advantage of the vulnerable that they find there. Rather, I want to speak of genuine believers who, like me, continue to be troubled by their indwelling sin – even if it goes unnoticed by those they sit alongside each Sunday morning, as well as those who write the headlines in either the local or national newspapers.
Because, sad to say, we’re all still sinners – despite our perhaps largely successful attempts to maintain a clean-cut image.
And not wishing to pretend otherwise raises some pretty important questions. Or at least it does me, as I continue to be deeply disappointed by the way I think, speak and act – not least as a result of my inherent pride that all too often causes me to think far too highly of myself, believe I deserve far more than I already have, even to the point of looking to benefit from the suffering of others.
So what are those questions that I – and perhaps you – need to ask this Lent? Well here are just a few.
Why, if we’re Christians, do we still not love the Lord our God with all our heart, soul, strength, and mind – or indeed our neighbour as ourselves? [Luke 10:27]
Why do we not consider others more highly than ourselves? [Philippians 2:3]
And why do we continue to do things that we don’t want to, whilst failing to do the things that we ought? [Romans 7:19]
Which brings me to the Apostle Paul, to the author of half of the New Testament, who described himself as the chief of sinners – not because of who he once was, but because of who he continued to be. [1 Timothy 1:15] For whilst it doesn’t for one minute excuse my ongoing sin, the fact that such a ‘great’ Christian as Paul struggled in ways not dissimilar to myself would suggest that my problem, far from being an aberration, is part of what makes up, for some at least, the normal Christian life.
But while this is indeed comforting to know, it doesn’t answer my earlier question: why do Christians still sin? And why doesn’t God press fast-forward on the process of sanctification and make me more like Jesus far more quickly than He currently seems willing to?
The answer may not, of course, be fully ours to know, but there may at least be a clue in another of Paul’s letters.
In 2 Corinthians 12:7-9, Paul writes of a ‘thorn in the flesh’ – ‘a messenger of Satan’ – given to keep him from becoming conceited. He also says how, despite pleading for the Lord to take the thing that ‘harassed’ him away, the Lord declined to do so – the only explanation given by God being His rather enigmatic words, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’
Paul did not give details of what exactly the nature of the thorn was, and great has been the resulting speculation. But whereas some have suggested a physical ailment – perhaps poor eyesight – and others have suggested a persistent opponent of his ministry, some, myself included, have wondered if Paul might have struggled with some persistent sin, the inevitable consequence of the sinful nature we all inherit from the fall.
But while that last suggestion is believed by few and therefore probably wrong, it’s true that my own indwelling sin produces in me something of what Paul experienced through his thorn. For what humbles us more than our perpetual wrongdoing? What better highlights the wonder of grace than a fresh awareness of our need for it? And what acts more readily as a messenger of Satan than that voice that whispers of our guilt and unworthiness?
So here, irrespective of what Paul’s thorn might have been, is the thing – without sin there would be no need for forgiveness, and without forgiveness there would be no need for the cross. And without the cross, the glory of which shines all the more brightly against the backdrop of sin, we could not begin to recognise the magnitude of God’s power, the marvel of His mercy, and the depth of His love. And so we would be left unable to enjoy God as deeply as we do once we have grasped the glory of His grace.
Even so, we must be careful, because God does not need sin to be glorious. Not at all – His glory is part of who He is and not dependent on anything else. We should not think that when we sin it’s okay because in so doing we magnify God’s grace. Paul himself warned against such foolishness. [Romans 6:1] And nor should we imagine that by not preventing us from behaving badly, God is Himself responsible for our sin.
Far from it. For God is holy even as He rules over a world whose wickedness is all too apparent. And our sin, which in no way is necessary for our salvation, is used by God in ways that we cannot possibly understand.
Just as was the case when Jesus, delivered up according to the definite plan and foreknowledge of God, was crucified and killed by the hands of lawless men. [Acts 2:23]
There is then a paradox at the heart of the Christian faith, one that we must learn to live with: that what man means for evil, God can work for both His glory and our good. [Genesis 50:20]
Which is why I, for one, will not pretend that I am not still a sinner. On the contrary, like Paul, I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses – not because I delight in them but because they drive me back to Jesus, bearing witness to my ongoing spiritual life.
And because His grace continues to be sufficient even for me, I find fresh cause for hope: one day I will become what I am both ‘not yet’ and ‘already’ declared to be in Christ.
Sin then remains – but because of the cross, it doesn’t reign.
And just as Lent gives way to Easter Day, so too will we who die in dishonour be raised in glory as we who have borne the image of the man of dust will one day bear the image of the man of heaven. [1 Corinthians 15:43,49]
One day we will be what we are not.
Perfect.
But in the meantime, we must work out our salvation with fear and trembling – for it is God who works in us, to will and to work for His good pleasure. And He who has begun a good work in us will bring it to completion on the day of Christ. [Philippians 1:6; 2:12-13]
It means that no conditions need to be met before the love is expressed.
It means that it doesn’t matter what condition you are in – you can be a physical wreck, an emotional wreck, a moral wreck, or a spiritual wreck and still the love is there for you.
And it means that irrespective of your prevailing conditions, whether they be comfortable or characterised by overwhelming difficulty, the love remains the same.
But what does unconditional love look like?
It looks like a man hanging on a cross and bearing there the punishment for everything that we have done that would otherwise have prevented us from knowing the never-ending love of God.
Because what does it feel like to be unconditionally loved?
It feels like being home with a loving Heavenly Father who has adopted us into his family as his much-loved children. And finding oneself wanting to take on the family likeness.
‘See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are.’ [1 John 3:1a]
Related posts:
To read ‘Valentine’s Day in the light of the cross’, click here
To read ‘A good heart these days is hard to find’, click here
Recently, after three incidents that occurred within the space of a few days, I’ve been thinking about how the world encourages us to believe that the unpredictable can be adequately anticipated, the average is in fact awesome, and each and every one of us is strong enough to overcome our own inherent weakness.
The first incident took place when I took my car in for a service. I had previously arranged to be supplied with a courtesy vehicle, but before I was able to take possession of it, the young woman who was dealing with the paperwork asked me if I was a professional entertainer.
But given the pitying look she gave me when I assured her that she wasn’t the first to mistake me for Brad Pitt, this wasn’t even remotely the reason for her questioning my occupation. Instead, it seems, when it comes to driving, professional entertainers are considered a greater risk to those wishing to insure them. This is something I find somewhat hard to believe – unless of course we’re talking about circus clowns who, as we all know, rarely check for square wheels or inadequately secured doors before taking to the roads.
Secondly, there was the shop that I’d visited with the sole purpose of purchasing some dried bananas – a singularly unremarkable endeavour, I’m sure you will agree. But as I paid for the aforementioned desiccated fruity comestible, I noticed a sign asking me whether my in-store experience had been out of this world and urging me to follow a QR code where I would be able to leave a favourable review.
I politely declined, however, because my experience had been no more remarkable than I’d anticipated. I’d found the once elongated botanical berries, now reduced to short, shrivelled shells of their former selves, exactly where I’d expected to: on a shelf, alongside a label noting the not unreasonable sum I would be required to part with in order to buy them.
And thirdly, there was the book I spent a few minutes glancing through in Waterstones whilst looking for something to read. It contained 365 daily readings, each one sharing the thoughts of a Stoic philosopher which, it was claimed, would provide me with a pathway leading to inner peace.
But the advice offered – to worry only about what can be controlled whilst accepting the rest – seemed somewhat unrealistic. Because not everyone is together enough to be that together. Not when they’re falling apart just as much as their lives are disintegrating around them.
And it’s rest that the heavy-laden need, not demands to work ever harder at being somebody they’re not.
And finally there was one more incident – the exception, perhaps, that proved the rule. I was in a coffee shop, waiting to be served, when I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation that was taking place between the barista and the woman behind me in the queue. The customer was asking what the honeycomb iced matcha was like – to which the reply given was ‘Pretty disgusting if you ask me.’
I found her honesty to be wonderfully refreshing – even if, by all accounts, the cold caffeinated drink on sale was anything but.
So here’s what I’m getting at – the thing I think we all need to grasp together.
Life is frequently unpredictable, our day to day lives are often mundane, and pain and suffering are very much a part of what it is to be human. And we, like the barista’s less than rave review of the coffee, are sometimes sadly lacking.
We need to stop pretending otherwise. Because only then will we cease relying on the self-help that we simply aren’t able to provide, and turn instead to the one who can – the one who is absolutely in control, genuinely praiseworthy, and strong enough to carry us – no matter how heavy the burdens we have to bear.
And honestly…that would do us all a world of good.
Some say that the only thing a narcissist can be sure of is their absolute love for themselves. And that the problem such people have is that the more they promote themselves, the more those they hope to impress tend to turn away.
But before we pour too much disdain on those who act in such a manner, perhaps we should look at ourselves – and at a world that constantly encourages us to be proud of who we are, insisting as it does that we’re all awesome.
Until of course we’re not.
Because unless we recognise the trap we’re being lured into, we’re all going to get caught – snared by our own supposed self-importance and thus confined to a lifetime of unhappiness.
There are, I think, at least three ways in which this inherent longing to be someone of significance can manifest itself.
The first is to drive ourselves into the ground trying to be good enough. Day after day we strive ever harder to meet the expectations of others whilst never being prepared to tell the truth – that, today at least, what’s being asked of us is more than we can provide. Instead we struggle on, momentarily enjoying the appreciation of others when, on occasions perhaps, we have managed to measure up, before crashing back down again only to be left with our ongoing self-doubt and self-loathing.
And when we finally crack, when we can’t go on any longer and the sympathy finally arrives from those who seem surprised that the one who seemed so nice, so reliable, wasn’t quite what they thought, it’s all too late. Because the damage has already been done.
And then there are those who despite their striving, have never once known the approval of others. As those who don’t seem to fit in, they are simply ignored – if that is, they were ever noticed in the first place. And so, having learnt that they’ll never be loved for who they are, they stop bothering to try – and begin to hate others. And as they do they resort to behaviour that is sometimes antisocial, sometimes inhumane, and always self-destructive.
Finally, there are the narcissists who are caught between the other two expressions of what is at heart the same fear – that of being ordinary. And so, unloved by others and with nobody offering them the praise they crave, they try to love themselves – by proclaiming their greatness to any who will listen and, by shouting ever louder, to those who don’t want to hear as well.
But in the end it’s only themselves who take note of what they say. And to counter their own growing doubts, about what they only ever tried to believe about who they were, they end up screaming at themselves.
But haven’t we all, on occasions, fallen into each of these three patterns of behaviour?
Haven’t we all sometimes pretended we were somebody we’re not in order to please someone else – gone the extra mile, not because we wanted to help, but because we wanted to be admired?
Haven’t we all said ‘stuff it’ – and indulged in unhelpful behaviour, be that one too many chocolates or an uncharitable comment made about someone we like to think we’re better than, so as to feel less uneasy about ourselves?
And haven’t we all promoted ourselves in the hope of being noticed favourably by others?
I know I have, and not only by writing this opinion piece – that I’ve now shared on social media platforms in the hope that it’d be liked.
So then because none of us can be universally loved by pleasing everyone all of the time, because we dare not descend into hatred and self-loathing, and because narcissists don’t love themselves but only ever endeavour to do so, we’re all in need of a solution.
And so the question becomes: what is it? What do we need to know or, perhaps be reminded of, that might make a real difference? What might enable us to love as we ought – not for what we can get, but for what we can give?
Well perhaps it is simply this: to be loved in such a way ourselves.
Because there is, I think, something wrong with all of us – something that curves us in on ourselves so that we seek satisfaction within rather than without. As a result of which we become blind to the glory that really is out there – most specifically in the one who, as well as being awesome enough to be worthy of our admiration, loves us in the way we have always longed to be – not because of what we do, but because of who we are.
Not because we’re lovely – but because He is loving.
Yesterday I went to see ‘H is for Hawk’ – the recently released film starring the excellent Claire Foy. Whether I enjoyed it is perhaps questionable, but I am without doubt very glad I sat through it.
The film is based on real life and charts the grief of Helen MacDonald following the death of her photographer father, whom she at one point described as the only person who ever really understood her.
It comes across as an honest portrayal of the inevitable sadness experienced by those who love somebody that loved them every bit as much as they were loved. I for one appreciated the way the film didn’t manipulate the audience’s emotions so that, when the tears eventually came, they felt genuine rather than manufactured.
Two scenes in particular stood out for me.
The first is when Helen MacDonald gave a talk about the hawk that, having taken up falconry, has become the centre of her life. A member of the audience expressed disapproval that it is allowed to kill rabbits. She responded that to watch the hawk in action is to have an honest encounter with death – something that, all too aware of how impossible it has been for her to deny her own father’s passing, she maintains, is too often hidden from view.
When criticised further, that she is introducing death into the environment, she rightly points out that death was already there: that the rabbit has to die, just as the hawk will one day – and indeed each and every one of us as well.
Because death is not the exception – it is the inevitable rule.
As she said these words, I was reminded of the genealogy found in Genesis 5 that lists the descendants of Adam, through the line of Seth, all of whom, despite their very long lives, ultimately died.
Eight times the monotonous refrain is repeated: ‘… and he died … and he died … and he died.’
It’s a terrifying passage, reinforcing as it does how the story of all our lives will one day end. And not all follow what could even remotely be considered a good innings.
As a doctor I had patients who lost children during childbirth, in the first six months of their life as a result of cot death, and when only a little older, due to the congenital condition that they were born with. I have had patients lose both their parents before they were out of their teens. I have been first at a road traffic accident and seen a young person bleed to death in front of me. I have had to confirm the death of a child who’d taken their own life.
And then, of course, there were all the so-called ‘normal’ deaths as well – those less unexpected perhaps, but no less tragic for that.
Death then, is an everyday occurrence, and rather than imagining that, when unseen, it somehow no longer exists, we should recognise it as such – no matter how sad it may make us feel.
Which brings me to the second scene in the film that stood out for me. It was when MacDonald is seen consulting with her GP and is asked a series of questions supposedly designed to help diagnose depression. She is asked how often she struggles to concentrate, how often she fails to find anything enjoyable, and how often she fails to feel anything but a failure – and every time she gives the same sad answer: more than half of the days.
And so, despite her very valid suggestion that how she is feeling might just be a normal response to the difficulties she’s facing, she’s diagnosed as depressed – and thereby told that there is something wrong about her feeling the way she does.
And so it seems that, having first been encouraged to deny death, we are now being urged to deny the emotions that appropriately come with it. The sadness that is every bit as real as it is unwelcome.
So then, with death being universal, we shouldn’t be surprised that what happens to more than half of us will, in time, happen to us all — or that the sadness it brings is present on more than half of our days.
And though we may not enjoy the experience, perhaps we should be glad to sit through it with those who have no choice but to feel such sorrow.
Just as one day we may be glad to have someone sit through it with us.
Recently I had cause to recall a study day I attended a few years ago. Suitably interactive, involving a variety of teaching styles, and fully addressing a personally relevant learning need, it was the best educational event that I’ve ever attended.
But not one that I claimed any CPD points for.
And the reason for my seemingly schoolboy error? Well, simply this – it was a speed-awareness course.
The day began with the leader asking who amongst those present had told friends and family that they were attending the course.
Most hands went up – as did the corners of many people’s mouths, their smiles suggesting that few, if any, were particularly ashamed of the reason that had prompted their attendance.
Next the leader pointed out that breaking the speed limit was no less likely to cause a road traffic accident than driving whilst over the legal blood alcohol limit. And then asked how many people would have told others they were on the course had it been run for those who had committed a drink driving offence.
You’ll not be surprised to learn that no hands went up.
Later in the day, we were asked to suggest reasons why we might, on occasions, drive faster than the law permitted. A comprehensive list was generated – after which a short recording was played of a man describing how his child had been killed by a speeding motorist.
The leader then commented how our list, made up of what we had previously felt were potentially justifiable reasons for speeding, now seemed like nothing but a collection of weak excuses.
It was a highly effective learning experience.
And it prompted me to think about how we respond when we fail in other ways.
By which I mean, how we respond when we sin.
Because having experienced uncomfortable feelings myself, as a consequence of doing something wrong, I know how easy it is for me to try and relativise my misdemeanours by claiming they aren’t as bad as something somebody else may have done or, alternatively, try to justify my actions by insisting that what I did was understandable given the prevailing conditions.
But as the speed awareness taught me with regard to traffic offences, such attempts to cover my shame are as futile and foolish as those employed by Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.
You remember how they approached the problem.
They tried to cover their nakedness with fig leaves – which clearly proved woefully inadequate, given how they then attempted to hide from God by concealing themselves among the trees.
So having fallen, what might be a better strategy when an infinitely holy God, who cannot look on sin without hating what He sees, graciously comes to look for us?
For He will find us – as surely as His omnipresence means that He’s already present wherever we try to hide.
Well it would surely be to follow the example of the tax collector who, despite being so conscious of his sinfulness that he could not lift his eyes to heaven, cried out to God for mercy. [Luke 18:9-14]
We should then confess our sin – to the God who knows all about it as surely as His omniscience means that He already knows everything that we ever did. [John 4:39]
Because if we do, God will do all that is necessary to forgive us, as surely as His omnipotence means that He can do anything He wants to.
Including declaring us righteous, as He did the tax collector – and covering our shame, as He did both Adam and Eve.
Not with the fur of an animal – but with the righteousness of Christ.
Because unlike the UK’s Speed Enforcement Units, whose grace, apparently, is limited to 10% of the existing speed limit plus an additional 2 miles per hour, God’s grace is sufficient for even the foremost of sinners. [2Corinthians 12:9, 1 Timothy 1:15]
And so, because of Christ’s substitutionary death on the cross, if we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. [1 John 1:9-10]
Now I could stop there but to do so would, I think, be to leave everything a little too tidy.
Because sin matters and has serious consequences.
Furthermore, life is messy, sin is messy, and we are messy too. And few, if any, are left spotless after just the one encounter with the one who seeks to make us clean.
Like an eight-year-old boy who’s told he needs a bath, we all sometimes resist the efforts that are made to wash us – with tears often accompanying the struggle that ensues.
Many of us know what it is to mourn over our indwelling sin, even as we rejoice in the complete justification that was ours the moment we first believed. Because the normal Christian life is not straightforward, with the road to sanctification frequently a long and winding one.
As is painfully apparent from the all too frequent real life experiences recorded for us in Scripture.
So in closing let me highlight just a few verses that help me at least when I’m conscious of my own sin.
Firstly, and perhaps most predictably, there’s Psalm 51 which contains the words of King David after he was confronted about his having committed adultery with Bathsheba.
Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin!
For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight, so that you may be justified in your words and blameless in your judgement. Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me. Behold, you delight in truth in the inward being, and you teach me wisdom in the secret heart.
Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Let me hear joy and gladness; let the bones that you have broken rejoice. Hide your face from my sins, and blot out all my iniquities. Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me. [Psalm 51:1-10]
David’s response is an example of gutsy guilt. He knows he has no excuse, and so acknowledges his behaviour for what it is – sinful – without for one moment trying to rationalise his behaviour.
And his grief is godly too.
His sadness isn’t because he’s been caught – but because of what he’s done. Which is, after all, what being sorry is – feeling genuine sorrow for the wrong that was done. And in response it prompts genuine repentance – the earnest desire to be different to how you are.
But even as David expresses that wish, far more than the determination to change, he knows that he needs the clean heart and right spirit that only God can bring about.
And the same is true for us.
Because more than good intentions, we too need God to change us. More than self-help advice, we need His intervention.
Secondly, there’s Psalm 32, whose first five verses confirm that confession really is good for the soul.
Blessed is the one whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered. Blessed is the man against whom the LORD counts no iniquity, and in whose spirit there is no deceit.
For when I kept silent, my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long. For day and night your hand was heavy upon me; my strength was dried up as by the heat of summer.
I acknowledged my sin to you, and I did not cover my iniquity; I said, “I will confess my transgressions to the LORD,” and you forgave the iniquity of my sin. [Psalm 32:1-5]
To deny our sin then is not only stupid, it’s also unhealthy – both physically and psychologically. When we keep quiet about it, we sicken ourselves and are left emotionally wasted.
All of which is a far cry from the peace we derive when, having admitted our transgressions, we receive the Lord’s forgiveness.
And finally there are verses, written by the prophet Micah, that I at least find particularly helpful when feelings of guilt sometimes continue to linger.
Rejoice not over me, O my enemy; when I fall, I shall rise; when I sit in darkness, the LORD will be a light to me. I will bear the indignation of the LORD because I have sinned against him, until he pleads my cause and executes judgement for me. He will bring me out to the light; I shall look upon his vindication. [Micah 7:8-9]
These then are precious words. Words that can comfort us when we know we’ve fallen, when we find ourselves sitting in darkness, and when it is us that the beast who’s prowling around, is looking to devour. [1Peter 5:8]
Because whilst the deceiver gloats over our failure, and delights to see us bearing the painful indignation that the Lord sometimes requires us to carry, our hope nonetheless remains in the promise that, despite our guilt, the Lord will plead our cause.
This is good news indeed. That the sinless Son of God is on our side. That He is our advocate in heaven – our defence attorney – who presents His own precious blood, shed for us on the cross, as the cast-iron proof of our innocence. And that, as a result, God will execute judgement – not against us, but for us.
Though never condemned for our sin, Christians are, however, sometimes disciplined for it. Which is not infrequently painful. [Hebrews 12:5-6]
But the fact that our Father loves us enough to do so is ultimately good news – because it is the gospel that sustains us in this sinful and often very sad world in which we live.
For knowing that it’s sin that causes us sorrow, and knowing that sin has been fully dealt with, we can now look forward with absolute assurance to the day that is undoubtedly drawing closer – when every tear will be wiped away and death will be no more. [Revelation 21:4]
So then, let’s not deny our sin, or our culpability. Let’s not try to explain it all away. And let’s not keep silent about it either.
Instead let’s confess to our loving Heavenly Father. And so know His forgiveness.
And yes, I will be attending another speed-awareness course in the not too far distant future. And not because there’s been a grave miscarriage of justice, not because it was stupid to place a speed camera where 36mph is perfectly reasonable on a Sunday morning when the roads are quiet, and not because I was momentarily distracted by concerns far more pressing than the presence or otherwise of a speed limit sign.
But because I’m still not as good a driver as I ought to be – or as good as the one that God will eventually make me. [Philippians 1:6]
As you probably realise by now, I’m not a great fan of Donald Trump. Because as I hope I’ve made obvious enough to risk a U.S. travel ban, I think he’s dangerous, that what he’s doing is dangerous, and that the consequences of what he’s doing are likely to be dangerous too.
But leaving aside how he’s altering the geopolitical landscape, there are, I think, at least four other aspects of Donald Trump’s presidency that are, perhaps, even more dangerous.
Here’s what I think they are.
Firstly there is the rise of so-called Christian nationalism, and with it the danger that people will be fooled into thinking that making America so-called great again is the same as making the U.S. a Christian country.
Which it categorically isn’t.
Which isn’t to say that Christians shouldn’t be engaged in politics. On the contrary – it’s absolutely right for believers to try to make the world a better place. But as Jesus himself said, His Kingdom is not of this world. And so it follows that whatever it is that Trump is building, it’s got precious little to do with Christianity.
The Kingdom of God is sometimes described as being wherever God’s people are under God’s rule. Which means that, until Christ returns as King and his Kingdom is fully established worldwide, it is physically located in the church, and not in the mind of an individual – irrespective of how powerful that individual might be.
Secondly there is the danger that those of us who like to think that Trump’s public failures are many and varied, begin to think that our failures don’t matter as much as his do.
But that’s simply not true.
So let’s first make a distinction here – between what we do in our public lives and what we do in private.
As the President of the United States of America, Donald Trump holds a very high-profile public position. And in exactly the same way that when I had a public role as a doctor, I was subject to public scrutiny, so too should he. And just as when I failed in my public role, I could rightly expect to be exposed to public criticism, so too, when he fails in his role as President, must he. That’s what it means to hold someone accountable.
But when we criticise a person in the public square we ought, I think, limit our comments to that individual’s public role. Which is something that many, including myself, have failed to do. And I for one am sorry for that.
Because the truth is that being a bad president doesn’t necessarily make Trump a bad person, any more than me being a bad doctor made me a bad person. And whilst I think his failings in his public role do relate to some personal failings, so did some of my failings as a doctor too.
Sadly they weren’t always down to just my ignorance. Sometimes they were down to laziness on my part, or a lack of concern for others, a consequence of my own selfishness and my desiring to do only what was best for me
And whilst I like to think that, to some extent at least, I curtailed my own inherent weakness, I can’t pretend I was wholly successful. Because I never am. And neither must I, by imagining that Trump’s failures might conceivably be greater than my own, come to the conclusion that I am therefore okay.
Because the truth is that, irrespective how guilty Trump may or may not prove to have been in his private life, I have to acknowledge that, living with it as I do, I know far more about my own shortcomings than his – making me a far greater sinner than him.
And so you see the danger of demonising Trump. It can all too easily make us think that we are acceptable to God because there is at least somebody out there that we consider to be worse than we are. And we end up putting our confidence in that, rather than the one thing that we should put our hope in – that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, that we are saved by his life of perfect righteousness being credited to us, and that his death on the cross paid the penalty for all the wrong things we have ever done.
To forget this would be very dangerous indeed – and not just in these troubled times. For it would threaten our eternal safety too.
The third danger with our obsession with Donald Trump is that it leads us to spend more time thinking about Trump than we do about God. Constantly scrolling through social media platforms, or overdosing on the daily news, we end up worrying about what he will do next and forget who it is who is ultimately in control.
We need to remember that it is God who has the final authority – not world leaders.
And he will use them all, no matter which country they represent, as a means of grace, or a means of judgment, as He, and He alone, sees fit.
And what he sees fit to do is always the best.
Forget this and we risk constant anxiety. We end up fearfully watching as history unfolds having lost sight of who holds the whole of history in His hands.
And lastly, and perhaps most concerning of all, our constant calling out what we think Trump is doing wrong, risks making us judgemental rather than gracious, proud rather than humble, and driven by outrage rather than love.
They said there’d be snow this Christmas. They said there’d be peace on earth.
But I’m not seeing it.
Not when the good guys – who aren’t the good guys anymore – can’t be trusted any more than you can throw their crumbling credibility. Because like the tinsel on last years tree, there’s none of it left.
Some of course have had snow on snow on snow. But for others it was the authorities that they received – standing hard as iron. But that’s what’s to be expected with ICE that’s never welcome, always slippy, and not infrequently lethal.
Maybe war is over – if you want it. But not everyone does. Because there are those who seemingly prefer to let it linger on, endeavouring as they do so, to initiate new ones of their own – perhaps even in their own country.
So that was Christmas – only it wasn’t. Well not entirely. Because there was somebody else, unnoticed by many, who was also involved.
And I believe in that Israelite.
Not the one indicted for war crimes in the Middle East, but the one found guilty of something far more shocking – a love that’s strong enough to die and powerful enough to give us a Christmas better than any of us deserve.
The world seems to be a dangerous place just now. Those with the greatest power are positioning themselves, taking counsel together, and preparing their plans. And all with the same end in mind – to acquire more. Not for those they represent, but for themselves.
It’s only ever for themselves.
But ancient wisdom suggests that we should ask ourselves a question. And that question is ‘Why?’
Not because we can’t understand their evil intentions, for they are surely all too obvious. Not least because, if we’re honest enough to admit it, we harbour similar desires in the darkest recesses of our own hearts too. And it is only because we lack the opportunity to express them in the way that some are able to, that we manage to persuade others – and perhaps ourselves – that we are better on the inside than we really are.
No – the real reason we should be asking why the nations are scheming is simply this: it’s pointless for them to do so, because they plot in vain.
And the reason I am so confident of this is that ancient wisdom tells me it is so. This is not to suggest that the situation we appear to be heading towards isn’t frightening. Not at all – but as those with influence throw their not inconsiderable weight around we need only to look to heaven for all the reassurance we need. For if we do, the one who we will see there isn’t anxiously pacing around the room wondering what to do. On the contrary He is seated on a throne, high and lifted up; and the train of His robe, a symbol of His supreme authority, fills the temple [Isaiah 6:1] And, what’s more, He is laughing – holding those who ultimately are opposing Him in derision.
But He won’t be laughing for ever.
Because He is angry at their posturing and will speak to them in His wrath. And tell them what is beyond any doubt. That Jesus, His son, is King – to whom He has given all authority, both in heaven and on the earth [Matthew 28:18] And He will have the final word as the sovereign Lord of the Universe.
But whilst those who are currently making all the noise should indeed be terrified of the risen Lord Jesus they oppose – whose wrath is justly kindled by their global arrogance – those who gladly take refuge in Him are blessed, and will find that He will never break a bruised reed or quench a faintly burning wick. More than that they will watch as He establishes justice on the earth. [Isaiah 42:3]
So have no regard for those who scoff and speak with malice, those who loftily threaten oppression [Psalm 73:8] and those, in whose nostrils, is only breath – for of what account are they? [Isaiah 2:22] Look instead to the Lord who reigns – for He is robed in majesty, He has put on strength as His belt, and His everlasting throne is firmly established [Psalm 93:1-2].
And when He eventually comes in His glory, and all the angels with Him, He will sit on His glorious throne forever [Matthew 25:31].
And so, last night, while the leader of the so-called free world boasted of the military assault that he had commanded, I chose to watch a little television. And the programme that drew my attention away from what can be seen as a massive throwing of his toys out of his pram – as a result of not being awarded the Nobel Peace prize that he presumably no longer harbours any desire for – was the Christmas special of ‘Gone Fishing.’
Because watching two friends messing about on the water, drinking tea on the riverbank, and talking good-natured nonsense seemed to me infinitely more worthwhile than listening to somebody justify actions that implicitly support Russia’s invasion of Ukraine and make his claim to have ended eight wars even more laughable than it already was.
And though my saying so may in the future prevent me from visiting the country he says he wants to make great again, one that I increasingly want nothing whatsoever to do with, it made me remember that there are still reasons to smile in this all too often vale of tears – none of which have anything to do with greed, hypocrisy, or the glorification of violence.
Furthermore, Bob’s humorously self-determined winning this year’s ‘Employee of the Year’ award clearly trumps the far less significant honour bestowed by an international football association.
All of which speaks of a slower and simpler way to be – and one that is, as a result, more sensible and civilised too.
Some musings 