Wonder Bread

I am the bread of life. Your ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died. This is the bread that comes down from heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die. (John 6.48-50)

More than “Bigger, Stronger”

It’s funny what sticks with us as we age. I grew up during the golden age of advertising, when copywriters worked overtime to condense a product’s appeal into an indelible tagline. If memory were a canister, I could unscrew its lid and dozens of product slogans would pour out. The tagline for Wonder Bread—“Helps build strong bodies 12 ways”—ranks among the most memorable. Yet I didn’t fully appreciate how ingenious it was until researching its origins.

With sly cunning, Wonder Bread deployed a two-pronged strategy. It spent most of its ad dollars on children’s TV, securing brand loyalty among young consumers who never bought a loaf of bread in their lives, yet nonetheless influenced their parents’ buying decisions. As kids, we were constantly told to eat our vegetables, take our vitamins, and get plenty of sleep and exercise so we would “grow up to be big and strong.” The ad’s claim made Wonder Bread an easy purchase for us. But the campaign's real genius rested in its resonance with adults. What made this bread so wonderful to them was its being unlike any bread they’d ever known. It was packed with nutrients—12 in all—that staved off a raft of vitamin-deficiency diseases prevalent in their youth. What’s more, Wonder Bread was more durable than old-fashioned bread. Its preservatives allowed it to be pre-sliced without going stale. So while we heard, “Wonder Bread makes you big and strong,” our parents heard, “Wonder Bread keeps your family healthy and saves you needless expense on bread that doesn’t last.”

“I am the bread of life,” Jesus tells us in Sunday’s Gospel (John 6.35,41-51) Though everything within me resists comparing that glorious declaration to an advertising slogan, I can’t escape its parallels with Wonder Bread’s claims. Jesus is speaking to traditional Jews who’ve taken umbrage at His claim that He’s “bread that came down from heaven.” (v41) He’s calling Himself living manna—a bold move any way one slices it—and appealing to His listeners’ inherent desire to grow bigger and stronger. Remember, this is a crushed people subsisting on deficient hopes and stale ideas. They’re longing for a decisive deliverer to end their spiritual famine, not something so ordinary as heaven-sent bread to fortify their souls. They’re looking for a messiah to champion their cause, not a Prophet Who echoes Psalm 34.8’s challenge: “Taste and see that the Lord is good; happy are those who take refuge in God.” Yet the more astute of Jesus’s listeners—and we, if we’re equally astute—hear much more than “bigger, stronger” in His message. We hear, “I, the Bread of Life, will keep you healthy and save you needless expense on bread that doesn’t last.”

A Supernatural Phenomenon

While Wonder Bread quietly hinted at the inferiority of older brands, Jesus’s comparison is baldly overt: “Your ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died.” (v49) It turns out the manna miracle recorded in Exodus 16 probably wasn’t the supernatural manifestation many envision. It’s more probable the foodstuff from heaven was a honey-like secretion of plant lice common to the Sinai. (To this day, it’s gathered and sold as a Middle Eastern delicacy.) The arid conditions caused it to dry into resinous flakes that could be baked into sweet cakes rich in carbohydrates, with protein provided by quails flocking to snatch up what was left at day's end. But there were also drawbacks. First, manna alone didn’t make for a healthy diet. The saturated carbs boosted the Israelites’ energy; without protein, however, their stamina would fail. Second, it decayed rapidly and attracted flies that laid eggs in its resin. This made stockpiling manna impossible and discouraged the Israelites from settling for a high-carb diet that put them at high risk of diabetes, hypertension, and heart disease—the worst imaginable health crisis to befall a nomadic nation. Consequently, manna was the natural phenomenon by which God sustained Israel during its wilderness journey. That is a miracle of provision all by itself.

Manna kept Israel healthy because it didn’t last. In its place, Jesus offers something infinitely superior, a supernatural phenomenon that transcends physical hunger and survival. He answers those who deride His self-proclamation as living bread with an even more outrageous claim: He has come “down from heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die.” (v50) This bread is unlike any the world has ever known. It goes beyond sustaining life; it gives birth to new life that defeats death and the myriad fears associated with it. As long as we feast on Christ’s living bread, we will continue to grow bigger and stronger, because this bread is life-giving, life-changing, and life-affirming bread. By its supernatural power over death and fear, it endows us with unparalleled health that outlasts life as we know it.

Made to Last

This bread is wonder bread. It is eternal life lived in a realm impervious to time and space. It is life that can only come from God and only be experienced as God’s expressed presence moving and shaping our lives. It builds our strength more ways than we can count. It helps us grow into bigger, sturdier people than we could possibly become on any other diet, no matter how phenomenal it may look or sound. It keeps us healthy and alive, even when physical health fails and mortality calls. And it’s replete with sound promises that replace hollow hopes, vibrant principles that replace stale ideas. It is bread made to last. In verse 51, Jesus stresses what differentiates Him from soft-focused spirituality and faddish philosophies and other flaky, sweet-tasting—yet ultimately perishable—treats that appear to fall from the sky. “I am the living bread that came down from heaven,” He says. “Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.” Unlike manna, the Bread of Life falls from heaven to be twice-raised, first on a criminal's cross, then from the bowels of a borrowed tomb. And out of its brokenness flows the nectar of triumphant life.

We are right to wonder at this living bread capable of supplying everything we need to experience healthy, eternal life. If you’ve not yet discovered it—or if you’ve yet to make it the mainstay of your soul’s diet—I invite you to join billions who, for nearly two millennia, have attested to its life-giving, life-changing, and life-affirming power.

Taste and see that the Lord is good.

The Bread of Life supplies everything we need to experience healthy, eternal life.

Delayed Reaction

“Which is easier, to say to the paralytic, 'Your sins are forgiven,' or to say, 'Stand up and take your mat and walk'? But so that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins"—He said to the paralytic—"I say to you, stand up, take your mat and go to your home." (Mark 2.9-11)

Through the Roof

Mark’s Gospel tells a great story about a paralyzed man whose friends are so bent on helping him they destroy a house to do it. Many of us first heard this tale during childhood, when climbing on roofs and tearing stuff up sounds really exciting. When we return to the scene as adults, however, we’re not so sure.

Here’s what happens. Jesus returns to Capernaum from a ministry trip and when word leaks that He’s there, people rush the house and spill into the yard. Friends of a paralytic bring the man to Jesus, but they can’t reach the Lord because of the crowd. They get the bright idea to tear open the roof and lower the sick man into the house so Jesus can cure him. Maybe it would be okay if the house belonged to one of the friends. But we assume it doesn’t, since Mark doesn’t comment on who owns the place. So they’re taking a huge risk—and probably breaking the law—when they tear apart a neighbor’s roof. In fact, the whole thing is risky. Ancient Palestinian roofs are flimsy affairs, comprised of reed mats thrown over crossbeams, with a thin layer of mortar applied to protect against rain. That’s why the friends can take the roof apart quickly. But they also risk falling through, hurting themselves and/or Jesus in the process. What’s more, raising their friend to roof-level will require looking to others for help, which most of us would be hesitant to provide, given the liabilities we’d assume by pitching in. But, apparently, people do come to their assistance, because the disabled man makes it from ground level to the roof, and from the roof to Jesus.

Once Jesus Lifts the Stigma

Let’s go into the house for a minute. Jesus is talking and stops when He hears a lot of commotion outside. It sounds like it’s coming from the roof. Big chunks of ceiling start to fall. Everyone scrambles for cover. No doubt a disciple or close friend tries to pull Jesus out of danger. But Jesus sits tight and watches as the paralytic is lowered into the room. He looks up to see the friends who have taken great risks to make this happen and Mark 2.5 says, “When Jesus saw their faith, He said to the paralytic, “Son, your sins are forgiven.”

A bit of comedy ensues—one reminiscent to Monty Python’s send-up of the Sermon on the Mount in Life of Brian. Everyone settles down and someone asks, “What did He say?” Another replies, “’Your sins are forgiven.’” A nearby group of legalists hisses, “Who does He think He is? Only God can forgive sins!” Jesus senses their alarm and replies, “Which is easier, to say to the paralytic, 'Your sins are forgiven,' or to say, 'Stand up and take your mat and walk'? But so that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins"—He said to the paralytic—"I say to you, stand up, take your mat and go to your home." (v9-11) The man steps into the yard to show everyone he’s been cured. Onlookers praise God and say, “We’ve never seen anything like this!” (v12)

Mark ends the story there, as if to say, “The rest you know.” So let’s play with that for a moment. What happens next? In all likelihood the man’s friends gather around. There’s a lot of joyful laughter, pats on the back, possibly even a happy jig from the healed man. Realizing they’ve just disassembled someone’s roof and interrupted Christ’s conversation, they may scoot off to celebrate out of earshot, saying, “We’ll come back and clean up later.” And as they walk off, the healed man stops, taking a moment to absorb everything that’s happened. “Wait a second!” he says. “I’m forgiven! Do you know what that means?”

Of course, they know. In their world, disability is linked to sinfulness. Living in a climate that dreads God’s wrath, it’s automatically assumed anyone felled by disease has angered God. So Jesus not only cures the man’s condition. He frees the man from shame. More than that, He refutes the notion that physical anomalies signify God’s displeasure. If that were the case, Jesus would tell the man what He tells others who subscribe to harmful thoughts and behaviors: “Go and sin no more.” But Jesus doesn’t say that. In two quick steps, He frees the man—from stigma and then disease. And since He addresses the sin question before the curing the illness, He leaves no doubt that erasing condemnation is His first priority. Healing comes once Jesus lifts the stigma.

Everything We Need

I imagine a lot of you, like me, have heard this story plenty of times, preached and taught in many ways. It’s a spectacular example of faith in action, a noble instance of high-risk compassion, and a telling portrayal of how easily we succumb to religious dogma and common myths that impede faith. But for those of us wending our way down Lent’s road there may be something more here that we can reach for.

Whether we come to Jesus on our own—as so many in the Gospels do—or, like the paralytic man, loved ones are instrumental in bringing us to Him, what we experience on arrival is multilayered and complex. What draws us to Him may actually be secondary to a deeper need. It’s unlikely the man or his friends ever consider that, without forgiveness, the healing is incomplete. Yet Jesus recognizes that and He takes care of first things first. In our little post-healing scenario—a midrash based on the story of the cured leper who returns to thank Jesus—the man’s acknowledgement of what’s happened is typical of delayed responses we often have. Repeatedly, awareness that Christ makes us whole sneaks up on us. We have to stop and exclaim, “I’m forgiven! Do you know what that means?” It means the stigmas that paralyze and make us sick have been removed. Misguided opinions of why we are as we are have been dispelled. Not only obvious limitations that cripple us—but also the unspoken ones that bore deep into our psyches—no longer confine us. We are free.

As we travel Lent’s desert, I pray we walk humbly, yet confidently, with songs of praise interrupting our prayers of repentance. May we see our journey to the cross as a return to the source of all that is good in us—the place where our forgiveness, healing, and most of all our freedom from shame and stigma are revealed in a Savior Who understands and provides us with everything we need.

However we come to Christ—whether on our knees or on a stretcher lowered through a torn-up roof—we leave the experience in astonishment that Jesus sees to our every need.

Postscript: Question 8

Can you share an example of delayed reaction in your own faith, when you realized there was more to what you received from Christ than you initially thought?

Casualties

Then he said to his slaves, “The wedding is ready, but those invited were not worthy. Go therefore into the main streets, and invite everyone you find.” (Matthew 22.8-9)

Courting Danger

A couple years after Nintendo launched its game system, I bought one for Walt, thinking it the perfect birthday gift for him and a fun diversion for us. When I asked the clerk to recommend a few games, he handed me one based on The Lord of the Rings and something called “Grand Theft Auto”. I wasn’t so sure about his second choice. But he promised we’d love it, saying it was the season’s bestseller. We didn’t. The complicated controls made us feel old and inept, and we were unnerved by the graphic violence. Worst of all, the winning strategy directly opposed what we’d grown up with. Instead of avoiding danger—steering Pac-Man clear of Blue Meanies or watching for snakes that might kill Frogger—the game aggressively courted danger. Reaching the next level required players to wreak mayhem on whomever their avatars encountered. Appearances were deceiving and the rules seemed to shift with the developers’ whims. After giving it our best shot, we lost interest. Lack of dexterity, intuition, and ability to stomach the violence made the experience too unenjoyable.

Revisiting Jesus’s wedding feast story in Sunday’s Gospel (Matthew 22.1-14) may affect us in the same way. It’s very complicated, particularly if we’re accustomed to navigating the parables with ease. It’s not at all intuitive; the rules appear to change on a whim, as though Jesus makes them up as His story develops. And (in Matthew’s version, that is) it’s extremely—one might even say, gratuitously—violent. The tale is three-tiered, with each level introducing new characters, all courting danger to various extents, some to the degree we’re temporarily shut out of the story. We can’t conceive what provokes their rash behavior, and it's hard to rationalize the violence it causes. So wrestling with this parable is neither pleasant nor easy. Yet giving up on it too quickly will end with us missing one of the Gospels’ most fascinating, illuminating experiences.

An Open-Door Party

Here’s the story. Level One: A king invites the crème de la crème to his son’s wedding feast. Once everything’s set, he dispatches messengers to gather the guests. But they don’t come. So he sends a different group of servants, instructing them to tell the guests, “It’s time to show up.” Neither the momentous occasion (a royal wedding) nor the king’s trouble and expense—not even the honor of being invited—fazes the guests. Some offer piddling excuses: can’t get off work, can’t leave the farm, etc. Others attack and murder the messengers, inciting the king to order his troops to kill the killers and torch their city.

Level Two: With the feast on the back burner, the king tells his servants, “The wedding is ready, but those invited were not worthy. Go therefore into the main streets, and invite everyone you find.” (v8-9) They fan out across town and invite randomly chosen strangers—“good and bad,” verse 10 says—to celebrate the prince’s marriage with the king. Since Jesus scoots through this part of the story rather swiftly, never describing the guests’ response to the invitation, let’s fill in the blank with how we’d react. Our first thoughts would turn to why we shouldn’t attend. We’re not dressed for it. We don’t fit in that crowd. We won’t know how to act. We haven’t time or means to buy a suitable gift. Some of us, the “bad” folks Jesus mentions, might suspect we’re being duped; it could be a sting operation to lure us into a police trap. Having heard of the king’s temper, we probably worry about offending him once we’re there. So accepting the invitation is, in itself, courting danger. Do we dare? Absolutely. It’s an offer too grand and glorious to refuse.

Level Three: Either the king gives the impromptu guests time to dash home and change into customary wedding attire, or he outfits them once they arrive. In any case, everyone’s dressed to the nines and having a good time when he spots one guest in casual clothes. He confronts the man, asking, “Friend”—Jesus uses a sarcastic term more like, “Hey, buddy”—“how did you get in here without a wedding robe?” (v12) The man doesn’t reply. It’s tempting to imagine he shrugs, as if to say, “I heard you were giving an open-door party and thought I’d check it out.” More likely, he’s dumbstruck because he’s caught enjoying the king’s kindness without honoring his wishes. The king sentences him to a fate worse than death, binding him over to “outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth” (v13)

Choosing

After taking us through this gnarly, harrowing scenario, Jesus sums it up with a daunting moral: “For many are called, but few are chosen.” (v14) In light of whom He’s talking to (the disciples and Pharisees) and when He’s speaking (a few days before he’s arrested and executed), the parable breaks down easily. The king is God; the son is Jesus; and the invited guests are Israel’s religious establishment, which preaches exclusive right to divine favor but has a history of persecuting prophets sent to corral their behavior. The servants who take to the streets are apostles ordained to invite outsiders—estranged Jews and pagan Gentiles—to God’s table. They’re heralds of inclusion. And what of the imposter? We can see him one of two ways. Perhaps he’s a presumptive guest, possibly one who initially turned down the invitation, whose inflated sense of self as the king’s “friend” misguides him to believe he’s above honoring his host’s wishes. Or maybe he’s just a fool who abuses the king’s hospitality by refusing to change in a manner befitting the occasion. Either way, confusing the king’s grace with license to ill spells his doom. Like the no-show corpses buried in their city’s cinders, all the imposter can say is, “I was called.” His disregard for the king’s stature and standards deprives him of any right to number among “the chosen.”

Now comes the hard part, when we ask how Jesus’s story speaks to us. And make no mistake, it delivers an extremely profitable, potent, and pressing message. As with nearly all His parables, Jesus prefaces this one by saying, “The kingdom of heaven is like…” Thus, the story reveals how many who hear God’s call become casualties of self-imposed arrogance and ignorance. Some let obsessions with security and success keep them from the feast. Some give way to intellectual pride that rouses hostility to God’s invitation. Some presume insider status that exempts them from God’s expectations. Some exploit God’s grace by foolishly ignoring what’s asked of them.

And where do we fit in all of this? It comes down to choice. Do we join untold masses who are called but don’t show up? Worse yet, do we delude ourselves to think we’re doing God a big favor by showing up? Or do we override hesitations and feelings of inferiority to accept the open invitation to sit with other chosen guests—good and bad—at God’s table? When we put it like that, the stunning “Aha!” that ends Jesus’s story is inescapable. God does the calling. Choosing, however, is left entirely to us.

Dear God, we couldn’t more thrilled and delighted that You’ve invited us to Your feast. Nothing in this world could keep us from being there. All we ask is that You show us how to please You and be worthy of Your calling. Amen.

God calls everyone to the feast. Being numbered among the chosen is up to us.

Father Knows Best

As a father has compassion for his children, so the LORD has compassion for those who fear Him. For He knows how we were made; He remembers that we are dust. (Psalm 103.13-14)

Creative Surrogates

If there were an ancient equivalent of the Time-Life greatest-hits CDs, Psalm 103 (Sunday’s morning psalm, attributed to David) would be a shoo-in for “Favorite Psalms of All Time.” Even those who’ve never read it probably know big chunks of it, as Psalm 103 regularly turns up in hymns, liturgies, devotions, and sermons, much like golden oldies are sampled in freshly minted pop tunes. The opening stanza easily stands alone as a timeless classic:

Bless the LORD, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless His holy name. Bless the LORD, O my soul, and do not forget all His benefits—Who forgives all your iniquity, Who heals all your diseases, Who redeems your life from the Pit, Who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy, Who satisfies you with good as long as you live so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.

Forgiveness, healing, redemption, love, mercy, goodness, renewal: these are unforgettable benefits the Creator bestows on us so our creativity will flow and thrive. We’re created to serve God’s will as creative surrogates. And it’s essential we embrace our creativity as a defining trait common to all children of God.

What we receive from God definitely benefits us. Yet God also gives us these wondrous gifts to benefit others. Knowing God’s forgiveness teaches us to forgive. Experiencing God’s healing enables us to transmit wholeness to others. And so on. We learn to accept all of God’s benefits by faith. We're redeemed by faith—believing love and mercy revealed in Christ’s sacrifice empower us to reclaim virtues lost to harmful influences and wasted in disobedience. Faith in God’s goodness restores life’s meaning and our power of renewal. At the same time, faith that claims God’s benefits without replicating them is faith half-spent. Ephesians 2.8-10 tells us, “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.”

Faith is creativity’s catalyst. Part and parcel with internalizing God’s benefits by faith is exercising faith to impart them to others. This is the creative drive that mimics our Creator’s compulsion to fashion magnificence out of mundane materials and beginnings. Just as we originated from dust, good works we create start with very little. So when David says, “all that is within me,” he insists we hold nothing back. Unfortunately, too often we focus on hurdles to receptive faith, i.e., doubts and fears disabling our ability to claim God’s benefits, when the same hurdles also thwart creative faith that drives us to good works God prepared for us in advance.

Our Work Endures

In verses 10-12, David stresses God’s benefits are gifts we don’t deserve, not rewards we earn:

He does not deal with us according to our sins, nor repay us according to our iniquities. For as the heavens are high above the earth, so great is His steadfast love toward those who fear Him; as far as the east is from the west, so far He removes our transgressions from us.

Coming across statements like this in the Psalms, we generalize them as ebullient poetry extolling God’s lavish grace despite our poor behavior. But, like any great artist, David carefully selects imagery to embellish his meaning. Comparing God’s love to the cosmos galvanizes Psalm 103 with wonder at its awesome singularity. Removing our sins “as far as the east is from the west” evokes time. As surely as eastern sunrise delivers each new day and western sunset seals it in the past, grace brings forgiveness and leaves failure behind. The planetary metaphors frame love and grace as divine forces that inspire wonder at our awesome singularity as God’s creative surrogates.

While we’re ever mindful that mortality subjects us to transience and limits us to human scale, good works we create ultimately reflect our Creator’s constant love and immeasurable grace. In verses 15-17, David urges us to remember God’s time is eternal and ours is fleeting: “As for mortals, their days are like grass; they flourish like a flower of the field; for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more. But the steadfast love of the LORD is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear Him and His righteousness to children’s children.” Though we eventually fade from the scene, our work endures.

Continuity

Opportunity to express God’s love and grace lasts only so long. The time we have obtains eternal value by sustaining God’s reflection on a human, rather than cosmic, scale. This explains David’s parallel “family” metaphor. We ensure continuity of God’s love and grace by transmitting them to current and future generations—“children’s children”—instilling confidence in their awesome singularity, teaching them by example to employ God-given talents that reflect their Maker. Verses 13-14 establish the continuity theme: “As a father has compassion for his children, so the LORD has compassion for those who fear Him. For He knows how we were made; He remembers that we are dust.”

We inherit God’s drive to create good works that start with little and acquire lasting value. Humbly offering forgiveness, healing, love, etc., by faith is our family business. Like a compassionate father knows best how to love and nurture his children, God knows best how to love and nurture us, refining our gifts to ensure continuity for generations to come. The purpose for our making, shape of our existence, talents we’re given, and creativity to convey them require no justification or apology. Each of us is made as we are, to become who we are, because God, our Creator and Parent, knows best what we should be and how best we can serve God's plan. Since God knows best, we give our best, blessing the Lord with all that is within us, remembering all of God’s benefits. By relying on creativity we inherit to express every gift God wills to us, good works we create on a human scale make God’s magnificence known.

Just as our creation in God’s image began in dust, good works we create start with mundane material and beginnings that lead to magnificence.

Let It Pour!

Then afterward I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh; your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, and your young men shall see visions. Even on the male and female slaves, in those days, I will pour out my Spirit. (Joel 4.28-29)

Witnesses to Prophecy

Many of us heard this passage in last Sunday’s Pentecost reading of Acts 2, where Peter quotes Joel’s prophecy to explain what’s happened. And an explanation definitely is in order. While Jerusalem overflows with Jews from far and wide coming to celebrate Pentecost—the “Festival of Weeks” that ends the 50-day grain harvest and commemorates the Giving of the Torah at Sinai—120 disciples of Jesus remain secluded in an attic. They’ve sat there for 10 days, praying and waiting for the Holy Spirit, Whom Christ promised before returning to Heaven. They don’t know what to expect. If It’s like everything else they’ve experienced since Jesus’s resurrection, it won’t be like anything they imagine. Evidently, the Holy Spirit’s supposed to help them. Having no idea what the Holy Spirit actually is, however, offers no clue how that will work.

It’s early morning on feast day. The street below rests for the moment—a welcome change from the raucous holiday traffic. Without warning, a violent windstorm shatters the silence. The disciples rush to the windows, but outside all is still. The howling gales come from their room. A fire breaks out and dances over their heads. Yelling to one another over the roar only adds to the chaos, as they’re all speaking languages they’ve never spoken or understood. Meanwhile, the explosion bolts neighbors and visiting foreigners out of bed. They’re flummoxed to hear provincial Galileans declaring God’s marvels in their native tongues. Some question what it means. Others laugh it off, accusing the disciples of jumpstarting their holiday. Peter’s Aramaic dialect is restored. He announces, “These people are not drunk, as you suppose. It’s only nine in the morning! No, this is what was spoken by the prophet Joel.” (Acts 2.15-16) As he recites Joel 4.28-32, one envisions those with him nodding their heads and trading glances, as if to say, “Of course our heads are spinning. We’re witnesses to prophecy!”

After the Swarm

Some Old Testament scholars are swift to argue Peter gets Joel’s words right, but mangles their meaning. In the strictest sense, one supposes, they’re correct. Joel’s prophecy is remarkably self-contained, absent of any details by which to date its composition or situate its message in historical context. The prophecy comes in the wake of a locust plague that decimates the region’s crops. Speaking to Judah after the swarm, Joel views the catastrophe as proof of God’s anger and calls the nation to repentance. The total loss plunges them into famine and depletes the Temple’s grain reserves, forcing Judah to turn back to God. Word from the prophet demands more than lip service and ritualized penitence: “Yet even now, says the LORD, return to Me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing.” (Joel 4.12)

That God requires a famished nation to fast indicates the severity of Judah’s disobedience, and Joel won’t guarantee that will suffice. “Who knows whether He will not turn and relent, and leave a blessing behind Him,” he says. (v14) He’s of a mind that ridicule Judah endures when other countries observe the extent of its humility and contrition will move God to replenish its storehouses. God agrees, saying, “You shall eat in plenty and be satisfied, and praise the name of the LORD your God, Who has dealt wondrously with you. And My people shall never again be put to shame.” (v26) Once its strength is restored and faith renewed, the prophecy Peter cites will come to pass: “Then afterward I will pour out My Spirit on all flesh; your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, and your young men shall see visions. Even on the male and female slaves, in those days, I will pour out My Spirit.” (v28-29) The prophecy’s specific nature and immediacy support opinion the promised spiritual outpouring starts and stops with Judah, long before the Holy Spirit is manifested at Pentecost. Yet limiting Peter to the narrows of Joel’s time-bound message silences the broader, timeless one he delivers by drawing on Joel for his very first sermon, which gains major significance as the Church’s inaugural address.

Expanding Horizons, Ignoring Boundaries

If legitimizing the Upper Room miracle with Scripture is Peter’s sole concern, he has any number of prophecies at his disposal. “See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43.19) works, as does Ezekiel 37.14: “I will put my Spirit in you and you will live.” Indubitably inspired by the Holy Spirit, Peter does something radically new. Beyond interpreting Joel’s prophecy in light of the morning’s events (per rabbinical tradition), he uses it to declare a greater prophecy, expanding its horizons by ignoring its boundaries. Near the end of his sermon he proclaims, “The promise is for you and your children and for all who are far off—for all whom the Lord our God will call.” (Acts 2.39) Joel’s one-time, one-nation prophecy is transformed into Pentecost’s eternal, universal vision statement. The Holy Spirit is poured out on everyone: sons and daughters, young and old, prophets and dreamers, masters and servants, those present and those to come.

The mighty wind of Pentecost blows religious exclusion away. Its flames make cinders of small-minded ideas about God’s grace and acceptance. Its cacophony of tongues verifies the Holy Spirit’s desire to speak to us in language we recognize and relate to. The Spirit not only comes as a promised answer to prayer. It gives birth to a radically new promise of inclusive diversity, boundless faith, and profoundly personal callings. Whether the Church, its denominations, or other believers abide by the vision statement issued 2000 years ago to 120 disciples crammed in an attic doesn’t impact our capability to accept it and build lives of faith on it. The promise is for us. Swarms that devoured all we held dear and left us starving are gone. Our broken and contrite hearts ensure God will replenish what we lost. It’s time to welcome Pentecost’s new day as witnesses to its prophecy: “I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh.” Here is the moment we’ve prayed and waited for. Let it pour!

The outpouring of the Spirit is for us—sons and daughters, young and old, prophets and dreamers, masters and servants, those present and those to come.

Postscript: Acts 2

In lieu of reading the text, our church’s associate pastor, Larissa Kwong Abazia, showed this striking treatment of Acts 2 prior to her sermon, “Upended.” The video does what many have tried without much success, rendering the story in a uniquely vivid, credible manner. Check it out.

Esteeming Grace

For I am the least of the apostles and do not even deserve to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God. But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect. (1 Corinthians 15.9-10)

Significant Costs

Our church’s Lenten Bible study rounded a major corner this week, as the 40-Day Journey with Dietrich Bonhoeffer turned our thoughts from the disciplines of discipleship set forth in The Beatitudes to properly evaluating God’s grace. Although Bonhoeffer’s terminology has become common among theologians and seminarians, it was new—and somewhat unsettling—to us. He writes, “Cheap grace is the mortal enemy of our church. Our struggle today is for costly grace.” (p52) Cheap grace? Costly grace? Affixing financial modifiers to grace seems inappropriate, since it’s a priceless gift. That’s the paradox of grace: while it’s too great to be earned by good deeds or moral virtue, it’s offered to all. And, ironically, its being beyond our means is what causes us to undervalue it. We cheapen grace by treating it like carte blanche to persist in harmful habits because we know God’s grace will always be abundantly available. Yet grace is anything but a license to ill. Its primary purpose is enabling correction.

Grace clears our slates so we can replace unhealthy attitudes and behaviors with those that please and reflect our Maker. Thus, it’s given freely, without favor; yet in accepting God’s gift of grace, we assume significant costs: self-honesty by confession of sin; repentance that renounces wrongdoing; constant discipline and awareness to follow Christ faithfully; and active obedience that transcends lip-service to Christ’s principles and commands. In the final analysis, grace may be free, but it sure ain’t cheap. Its demands are costly and entail many sacrifices.

Nothing and Everything; Everything and Nothing

God’s gift of grace is the crux of Jesus’s message, and it’s impossible for us to comprehend how absurd the concept strikes those who first hear of it. Like all ancient worshipers, they pay for wrongs via specific animal sacrifices mandated for two classes of guilt: moral trespasses and physical impurity. Trespass offerings require a sacrificial ram—symbolizing one’s social and financial stability—to make restitution for losses inflicted on others. Sin offerings secure forgiveness and purification on a sliding scale; prices range from a young bull for high priests to one-tenth a bushel of fine flour for very poor people. Both trespasses and sins are assumed to be unintentional errors. Intentional crimes are adjudicated per a labyrinthine penal code that exacts extremely brutal punishments. Thus, when Jesus talks about God’s unconditional love and grace—a God Who gives rather than demands—He unravels the fabric of Jewish worship and society. That’s why we often hear disciples and listeners question how this works. Freely given forgiveness and mercy sound improbable to them. There must be a price. And there is, which is why Jesus repeatedly emphasizes how costly grace is. Because nothing about us can possibly earn God’s love and forgiveness, grace costs us everything. Or, as Jesus puts it in one of many similar statements, “Whoever finds their life will lose it, and whoever loses their life for my sake will find it.” (Matthew 10.39)

When Jesus introduces the concept of grace—which He teaches relentlessly and ultimately ensures by sacrificing His life—it’s so revolutionary it has no name. Although Luke 2.40 says from childhood Jesus “was filled wisdom, and the grace of God was on him,” and John 1.14 declares Him “full of grace,” none of the Gospels cites any instance when the actual term passes His lips. It’s only after Early Church leaders consolidate Jesus’s words, life, death, and resurrection into a unified doctrine that “grace” enters Christian usage. No surprise, Paul rallies as its greatest champion. (Of the 124 times the Bible mentions grace, 80 are credited to him.) Virtually every statement he utters in the Book of Acts and every sentence he pens circle back to God’s grace and our responsibilities as its recipients. His confidence and enthusiasm know no bounds because he, above all Apostles, knows from experience that God’s grace is boundless. As he confesses in 1 Corinthians 15.9-10, “For I am the least of the apostles and do not even deserve to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God. But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect.” From the moment Christ halts him on the Damascus road to his dying breath, God’s grace flabbergasts Paul. He owes everything to grace and nothing it costs is too much to pay.

The Riches of God’s Grace

Esteeming grace becomes Paul’s lifelong theme, while inspiring all believers to do likewise becomes his life’s mission. One marvels at the passion in passages like Ephesians 2.4-8: “Because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive in Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved. And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus.” Love, mercy, life, acceptance, honor, kindness—the riches of God’s grace are not to be cheapened by underestimating them. Nearly as often as he extols grace’s inexhaustible wealth, Paul insists there’s no excuse for abusing it; knowing God’s love and forgiveness know no bounds isn’t our ticket to do as we please. After five chapters of reveling in God’s grace, he begins Romans 6 by posing and answering a hypothetical question: “What shall we say, then? Shall we go on sinning so that grace may increase? By no means! We are those who have died to sin; how can we live in it any longer?” In other word's God's grace doesn't free us to sin. It frees us from sin.

Lent is traditionally regarded as a season of penitence, when the desert’s harsh solitude sets our failures and frailties in sharp relief and we confess them to God. This is an invaluable pursuit that every believer should practice every day of the year, not merely 40 of 365. The self-honesty predicating sincere penitence unlocks grace’s treasures. “If we confess our sins,” 1 John 1.9 tells us, God “is faithful and just and will forgive our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” At the same time, it accounts for costs we incur as recipients of grace: conscious repentance that renounces sorry attitudes and behaviors, fervent obedience to Christ’s commands to love God and our neighbors, and the disciplines of true discipleship. Esteeming grace always, never underestimating its riches, keeps us mindful it sure ain’t cheap. Yet how could we possibly believe it’s not worth the price? We owe everything to grace and nothing it costs is too much to pay.

God’s grace is a paradox. While it’s freely offered to all, those who accept it incur significant costs.

Big Little Things

You will joyously draw water from the springs of salvation. And in that day you will say, “Give thanks to the LORD, call on His name. Make known His deeds among the peoples; make them remember that His name is exalted.” (Isaiah 12.3-4)

What the Desert Does

Gratefully, I’ve never been stranded in the wild. Yet reading survivor accounts and seeing movies based on them always impress me with how rapidly little things one takes for granted become monumental blessings that inspire unfettered gratitude. In 127 Hours, Aron Ralston—the hiker who severed his right arm after a boulder pinned it to a canyon wall—dives face-first into a foul puddle to quench his desperate thirst following the ordeal. The water’s taste and purity are inconsequential. It’s a life-saving gift for which he’s forever thankful, no different than the bottled water he gulps down when passing hikers eventually come to his aid.

That’s what the desert does. It reminds us there are no little things in life. Every gift God gives is big. Every blessing merits gratitude. Nothing we have can ever be discounted as automatically given. From the infinitesimal effort required to open our eyes each morning to our last conscious breath as we slip into slumber, our days are overrun with goodness we should take note of and be thankful for. Sure, we recognize this. But we get busy, preoccupied, and often gratitude for “little things” gets supplanted by equally worthy thankfulness for “big things”—specific answers to prayer, for example, or unexpected instances of God’s mercy and protection. Meanwhile, big little things continue to happen. Daily blessings continue to flow. And we continue to count on them. Not until we enter a desert where they’re not assured—yet where they’re most vital—do realize how miraculous they truly are. That’s what the desert does. And that’s one of the main reasons we’re called into the desert, where absence of distractions and heightened awareness alerts us to how lavishly we’re blessed.

What the Desert Teaches

But there’s a deeper lesson the desert teaches. Many things we’d dismiss as unfit or inconvenient in greener surroundings turn into precious gifts. Muddy puddles we’d walk around without a second thought become founts of survival. Strangers we’d ignore on a city street become saviors to whom we’re indebted for life. Boulders that inexplicably trap us and threaten us with certain death occasion discovery of strength and determination unlike any we’ve known. The desert validates the cliché “Nothing is what it seems” by proving how often what we presume to be troublesome, negligible, and hopeless can be God’s means of providing us healthier, richer, and freer life. Israel learns this lesson in Isaiah.

If we were to gauge Israel’s relationship with God by the first few chapters of Isaiah, we’d surmise God’s pretty much had it with them. They’ve exchanged faith and trust for religion and pride. They’ve tumbled into the pits of ingratitude, giving no thought to how faithfully God sustains and blesses them. Instead of honoring God’s commands to vigilantly care for widows, orphans, and strangers, they try to buy God’s favor with elaborate rituals and fasts. God wants none of it, and pleas to mend their ways voiced by the prophet go unattended. Instead of banishing Israel to the desert, God brings the desert to Israel. Its enemies lay siege to their cities and blessings they took for granted instantly dry up.

So, yes, God's had it with Israel. But God’s not done with them. The desert that descends on them is sent to teach them to see blessings in struggle and misfortune. In the end, they will be grateful—not only for big little things they undervalued, but also for the experience they underwent to renew their gratitude. Isaiah 12.1 proclaims, “Then you will say on that day, ‘I will give thanks to You, O LORD. For although You were angry with me, Your anger is turned away, and you comfort me.” What we learn in the desert doesn’t die when we leave it. Its lessons are meant to change how we value the greener world once we return to it. I’m sure if we asked Aron Ralston, he’d confirm every sip of water he’s taken since his ordeal tastes indescribably sweeter and more refreshing than any he had before it. “You will joyously draw water from the springs of salvation,” Isaiah says. “And in that day you will say, ‘Give thanks to the LORD, call on His name. Make known His deeds among the peoples; make them remember that His name is exalted.’” (v3-4) The heightened gratitude we take from the desert inspires us to rekindle our gratitude for a God Whose name is exalted. In our thankfulness for little things we renew our appreciation for the bigness of our God.

The Desert Around Us

As we traverse Lent's desert of self-denial, we become increasingly aware we also live in a desert of its own kind. The desert around us is one of rampant selfishness, competition, and ignorance that foster a culture hostile to gratitude for big little things. When others hear us express thanks for the “givens”—waking up each morning, the activity of our limbs, food to eat, shelter overhead, and so on—they minimize our gratitude as naïve and overstated. We cannot allow their narrow perspective to infect our vision, however. Nothing we’ve received, from the least to the greatest, comes by our merit. Everything we possess and experience, from the worst to best, is a gift from God. For that reason alone, God is worthy of praise and thanks.

A life of gratitude and praise for big little things engenders attitudes and habits that earn God’s trust in us for greater gratitude and praise. In Luke 12.48, Jesus says, “From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked.” When we practice gratitude for big little things, we open the door to bigger, more unusual blessings because we can be trusted to thank God for all we receive.

The most powerful moment in 127 Hours comes when Ralston—thinking he’s recording a video to be found with his corpse—says, “This rock has been waiting for me my entire life—its entire life, ever since it was a bit of meteorite a million, billion years ago in space. It’s been waiting to come here. Right, right here. I’ve been moving towards it my entire life. The minute I was born, every breath that I’ve taken, every action has been leading me to this crack on the earth’s surface.” Destiny finds us in the desert. It changes us forever, teaching us nothing is by chance, nothing is what it seems, and everything is God’s gift. May thankfulness mark our journey and open our eyes to the majesty existent in all of the big little things we receive.

The desert teaches us to be grateful for things we’d overlook in a greener world.

Postscript: “For All You’ve Done”

I’m smitten by this simple song that encompasses a life lived in gratitude for everything, big and small. “For All You’ve Done,” by Don Moen.

Back to Nature

So do not worry, saying, “What shall we eat?” or “What shall we drink?” or “What shall we wear?” Your heavenly Father knows that you need them. (Matthew 6.31-32)

Fascinating Lesson

For the moment, let’s set afterlife theology aside for an ersatz reincarnation scenario in which we choose our next lives. I can say without hesitation I’d return as a pet—not any pet, but my pet or your pet. (Having heard many of your stories, life in your care would be a swell thing indeed.) The bond between master and pet is unique because the terms of the relationship are clearly defined up front. When we adopt animals, we realize they’ll totally depend on us for everything they need: food, shelter, health, discipline, companionship, love, and so on. We commit to cleaning up their messes, forgiving their sins, tolerating their stubbornness, and accepting their quirks. We assume these duties voluntarily and soberly. In exchange, they repay us in loyalty, affection, and endless surprise. Who wouldn’t want to be our pets?

It’s said pets teach us a great deal about life. I believe that. We learn one fascinating lesson in how quickly and unabashedly they trust us. Once they grasp our roles in their lives, they have no reticence about expecting us to perform them. We feed our cats, Cody and Maxwell, every morning at six a.m. Whether we got to bed late, want to sleep in, or could use more rest, they expect to be fed at six. “Not today” means nothing. Nor do “I did it yesterday” or “I’ll do it tomorrow.” Yesterday was yesterday. Tomorrow will be tomorrow. This is today. Confident we won’t let them go hungry, they’re waiting bedside to escort us to the kitchen when the alarm goes off. If there’s no alarm, they wake us. Of course we get up. Because we love them, we’re true to them. And since Max and Cody trust us to stay true, they don’t worry. We all know how it works. Why should today be different? It’s a terrific way to live. And in Matthew 6 we hear Jesus insist it's precisely how we should live.

Stealing from Ourselves

Today’s Gospel stands pretty tall among the most beloved of Jesus’s teachings. Few of His statements compare to its poetry and simplicity. But Jesus has more serious reasons than eloquence for framing this message as He does. He uses imagery and accessible comparisons so His audience can see what He’s talking about and internalize what it means. The central theme is “Don’t worry. God will take care of you.” That sounds straightforward. And it is. Yet difficulty accepting it at face value today helps us relate to how much tougher it must be for His original listeners. Our worst nightmares—irrevocable loss, catastrophic disease, financial ruin, legal disasters, family crises, and so on—are identical to theirs with one exception. Those gathered for Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount live in a nexus of uncertainty. Regimes topple overnight. Common people are crushed. Healthcare is a luxury. Property is often a greater liability than asset; if people want what you’ve got, there’s little to prevent them from taking it. Life can be glorious one day and wretched the next. These people have a lot to worry about. Merely assuring them God will see to their needs won’t ease their anxiety. Jesus presses them to see we don’t work the same as God works. With no convincing example of this in human affairs, He goes back to nature.

Jesus urges them to “look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?” (Matthew 6.26-27) He asks why they worry about clothes. “See how the flowers of the field grow,” He says. “They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.” (v28-29) Does Jesus really mean we should trust God much like pets rely on us? That we should grasp God’s’ role in our lives, expect God to perform it, and not panic if we can’t predict how things will turn out? That’s exactly what He means. Anxiety is contrary to nature, He says. It’s counterproductive to life. The clock starts ticking the moment we allow anxiety to overtake us. Every second we worry we’re stealing from ourselves. The only thing that worry changes is us, and not once has it done us any favors. Jesus wonders, “Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” Of course we can’t. And since we can’t, perhaps the only concern worth worrying about is wasting time on worry.

Now is All We’ve Got

So, we ask, what’s the alternative to worry? Well, let’s consider what worries us. Either we fret over something we did or may have to do, what’s lost or may be lost, what happened or may happen. Even if we find satisfying reasons for past mistakes and miseries, we can’t rewrite the record. Lessons learned remain timely; tests don’t. What if tomorrow unfolds as we worry it will? Tying ourselves in knots about inevitabilities won’t alter them. Anxiety about the future is like hiding in a cellar on a gorgeous day because a storm’s due to hit the next morning. What we’ve been given now is all we’ve got. Worry destroys that and promises nothing better.

How do our pets understand time better than we? Watching Cody and Max move through their day is a wonder. When it’s time to eat, they look to us to feed them. When it’s time to play, they drop their toys at our feet. When it’s time to exercise, they expect full run of the house. When it’s time to sleep, we let them sleep. Every day follows the same pattern. Every day we provide what they need when they need it. And when new needs arise—if one of them is sick or wants extra attention or stumbles onto mischief—we’re there. Does Cody stress about not eating? Does Max dread the possibility we won’t play with him? Perhaps, but not likely. Our natural impulse is to care for them, just as God cares for us. So what are we so worked up about? Why can’t we understand how it works?

“Stop worrying,” Jesus says in verse 31. “God knows what you need.” Then, in verse 33, He says, “Seek God’s kingdom and righteousness first, and all these things will be given to you as well.” That’s how we discover God is present now. God meets our needs now. God gives answers we need now. Now comes when tomorrow turns into today, and not a minute sooner. “Therefore don’t worry about tomorrow,” Jesus tells us. “Tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” (v34) That’s the nature of things. And all the worry in the world won’t change it.

Cody (l) and Max (r)—without a worry in the world. If they get it, why don’t we?

Why Exclusion Won't Work

Everything God created is good, and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving, because it is consecrated by the word of God and prayer. (1 Timothy 4.4-5)

Soul Food

Being one with Southern roots who’s also an incurable Francophile, I’m always amused by the similarity between dishes I grew up with and offerings on French menus. The cooks who fed me as a child may not have exhibited the flair and nuance Parisians are famous for. But without hesitation any of them could trade places with a three-star French chef and each would feel completely at home in the other’s kitchen. Southern food—soul food—shares one fundamental with French food: disdain for waste. If it’s edible, it’s credible. With a bit of ingenuity and a lot of patience, the lowliest parts of any beast or plant can be transformed into delicacies when cooked with the right seasonings at the right temperature. Southern cooks and French chefs create culinary triumphs from foodstuff less imaginative cooks toss aside by viewing all food as inherently good and useful. How it’s treated makes the difference. And they take it upon themselves to treat it with love and respect that brings its goodness to light.

Cracklings are a good example. They’re pigskin sheared from fatback (just what it sounds like). You rub rock salt, cayenne, and black pepper on the skin, cut it in strips, and bake them on a rack. Heat causes them to puff up and the residual fat mingled with spices saturates them with flavor. Cracklings make for a fine snack. But they’re best with white beans slowly simmered in the juices of a ham hock, roast beef drippings, and other leftover meats. In France, they call the bean portion cassoulet and pigskin bits grattons. Grattons are less spicy than cracklings, but cassoulet tastes the same as our bean stew. We call it “country cooking;” they call it “cuisine.” Either way, it’s soul food, because it reflects reverence and appreciation of goodness in everything God makes.

Wasteful Cooks

The soul-food philosophy is identical to the one behind Paul’s statement to Timothy: “Everything God created is good, and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving, because it is consecrated by the word of God and prayer.” (1 Timothy 4.4-5) On its own, it sounds like a sunny proverb. (A Web search turned up eight posters—all happy and pretty—with its inscription.) Yet when we read down from verse 1, we discover it’s a cautionary reminder. Paul warns his young charge to be wary of believers who “abandon the faith and follow deceiving spirits.” (v1) They’re seduced by “teachings [that] come from hypocritical liars, whose consciences have been seared as with a hot iron.” (v2) Paul cites two erroneous doctrines that exemplify the sort of foolishness Timothy should guard against: “They forbid people to marry and order them to abstain from certain foods, which God created to be received with thanksgiving by those who believe and know the truth.” (v3) Then, lest Timothy succumb to similarly baseless notions, Paul restates the truth: “Everything God created is good, and nothing is to be rejected.”

If you’ll indulge one last tug on the soul-food metaphor, Paul’s saying, “Stay clear of wasteful cooks. If they throw out perfectly good food because they think it’s nasty—or too hard to swallow—or it violates religious taboos—or they have neither talent nor patience to bring out its flavor—or ingratitude blinds them to its goodness—don’t hang out in their kitchens and eat at their tables. They’re incompetent.” Returning to Paul’s original context, his message makes sense. People who doubt the inherent goodness of God’s creation, who feel no compunction about rejecting anyone or anything God made have no business messing with God’s business. Beliefs that alienate aren’t to be believed. Religious groups that throw lives away instead of gratefully seasoning and preparing them for service aren’t faith communities. Christians who dismiss people on sight have yet to see Christ. And taboo-driven traditions that teach exclusion have abandoned Christ’s way to follow hypocritical liars with seared consciences; they’re neither credible nor competent in the faith.

Received with Thanksgiving

The Church and the Body of Christ it represents are ordained for one purpose and only one: to nurture faith. The last recorded conversation we have between Jesus and Peter, whom Jesus charged with founding the Church, confirms this. In John 21, Jesus asks whether Peter loves Him. “Lord, you know I love you,” the disciple protests, to which Jesus replies, “Feed my sheep.” He takes Peter over this three times to leave no room to doubt the Church’s mission is feeding souls. Policies and practices, doctrines and dogmas that hedge this command by questioning the inherent goodness in God’s creation and rejecting anyone for any reason evidence no love for Christ. That’s why exclusion won’t work for those in committed relationship with Christ. Out of love for Christ, they turn no one away. They receive everyone with thanksgiving, knowing what each life can become once it’s seasoned with God’s word and prayer.

Genuine Christians know exclusion won’t work, because they know how God works. God isn’t in the trash business. God doesn’t throw us away. God saves us. Open any page in the Gospels. Every word Jesus says, every story He tells, every trait He exemplifies, and everything He does points directly toward redemption. “All that the Father gives me will come to me,” He says in John 6.37, “and whoever comes to me I will never drive away.”

So where did this noxious idea that one must become righteous to be part of the Church originate? It makes no sense. Being part of the Church is how we become righteous. That’s why exclusion won’t work. And that’s what anyone struggling with religious exclusion has to realize. The landscape is dotted with churches deceived by doctrines of exclusion and ingratitude for God’s creation. Without knowing it, they’ve abandoned the Church Christ ordained. When they say you’re not good enough to belong, they speak for no one but them. God created you. Know that. There is goodness in you. Know that. You deserve to be received with thanksgiving by believers committed to bringing your goodness to light. Exclusion only works if we allow it. Love for Christ won’t permit that. That’s why exclusion won’t work.

Exclusion won’t work for those in committed relationship with Christ. They find goodness in all of God’s creation and receive everyone with thanksgiving.

Take a Seat

Shake off your dust; rise up, sit enthroned, Jerusalem. Free yourself from the chains on your neck, Daughter Zion, now a captive. For this is what the LORD says: “You were sold for nothing, and without money you will be redeemed.” (Isaiah 52.2-3)

Come On Up

When our friend Mark called to invite Walt and me to Macy Gray’s sold-out concert at the House of Blues, we leapt at the chance. Then came one of those “uh-oh” moments that often follow a too-good-to-be-true surprise. We said yes without knowing how much it would cost. If the tickets were brokered, they’d set us back a bit—more than we could comfortably afford. Walt finessed the issue by asking how soon we needed to give him money for tickets. “Money?” he laughed. “Don’t be silly. I’m producing this gig. Just give your name at the door.” After he hung up, it was our turn to laugh. Walt said, “My mind was racing, trying to figure out how we’d dodge that bullet and there was no bullet to dodge!”

Off we went, overjoyed about waltzing through the door for free. An usher wrapped bracelets around our wrists and told us we had “full access.” That sounded nice, but we thought it best not to push our luck. We filed into the hall’s main floor, grabbed two general admission seats, and searched for Mark. Since it was hard to see anyone in the crowd, we decided to look for him during intermission. Then someone tapped my shoulder during the first band’s set and nodded toward the aisle, where Mark motioned for us to come with him. “What are you doing down here?” he shouted over the music. “We’re up there.” He pointed to a box overlooking the stage. “Come on up,” he said. “You’re gonna love it. It’s fabulous.” We did. And it was.

We were simply glad to get into the concert (for free, no less). But that wasn’t good enough for Mark. When he invited us he had something much better in mind than floor seats. Later, it occurred to me we’d done what my former pastor calls “living beneath our inheritance.” Too often, he says, we underestimate what God has in mind for us. We marvel that God would offer us a life of abundance we thought—and may have been told—wasn’t possible for us. We’re stunned that God’s grace and acceptance are free. We’re delighted to find worries about dodging bullets have no basis because there are no bullets to dodge. We’re amazed that all it takes to enter God’s goodness is walking through the door. Once inside, we’re granted full access to everything God wants us to experience. Simply being glad to get in, however, we decide its best not to push our luck. We never consider what seems good enough for us isn’t good enough for God. While we’re content on the ground floor, God points to something better, saying, “Come on up. Have a seat.” This is Isaiah 52’s message to the Jewish people, and to us.

Free Yourself

If ancient musical tastes included an equivalent to modern-day blues, one of the biggest hits of Isaiah’s era probably resembled The Doors’ “Been Down So Long (It Looks Like Up to Me)”. These people have been through the ringer. They’re trapped in a regional conflict that’s kept them under siege. They have no allies to speak of. Their immediate and long-term security hangs in a bizarre balance of royal quirks. How well their puppet king gets on with their occupiers’ monarch determines how well they get along. Nothing is assured, except every day brings more of the same. Jerusalem is in tatters. Its citizens, many living in shambles of wrecked homes, scrape by on subsistence rations. Years of relentless hardship have weakened their hearts and siphoned their imaginations. They’d be glad simply getting their country back. And through it all there’s Isaiah, speaking God’s promises of deliverance and tapping their shoulder, saying, “Shake off your dust; rise up, sit enthroned, Jerusalem. Free yourself from the chains on your neck, Daughter Zion, now a captive. For this is what the LORD says: ‘You were sold for nothing, and without money you will be redeemed.’”

Isaiah preaches this for 60-plus years. Four kings come and go, but his message stays the same. Page after page of his prophecy tenders God’s invitation. Verse after verse promises too-good-to-be-true surprises. So what’s the hold-up? Well, for starters, the Jews aren’t sure they can afford it. Brokering their liberty is beyond their means. God says, “This isn’t about money. I’m the Producer. Just show up and everything will be taken care of.” Although the people long to experience what God offers them, they’ve adopted a slave mentality that’s alienated them from God’s ways. They’ve lost touch with Who God is and what God can do. They’ve sat in the dust so long they’ve got to shake its mindset before they can comprehend God’s offer. Chains of oppression that once confined them now define them. Until they lose those chains, the invitation is a pipe dream. They’ll never picture themselves where God wants them to be. And it’s essential to note God doesn’t offer to rid them of their dusty defeatism and shackled self-image. That’s their job. God points to something better than they expect—not merely a chair on the ground floor, but an exalted throne—and tells them, “Free yourself and come on up. Have a seat.”

Everything to Gain

One of my all-time favorite lyrics comes from the Janis Joplin hit, “Me and Bobby McGee”: Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose. “Nothing left to lose” is just another way of saying, “Everything to gain.” The extent to which we experience the fullness of God’s invitation depends on our determination (dare I say willingness?) to free ourselves from defeatist attitudes and oppressive definitions. That starts by remembering we have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Accepting God’s invitation costs us nothing. Like the besieged people of Isaiah’s day, we were sold for nothing and without money God will redeem us. In other words, we are not slaves to harmful habits and hateful ideas. Behaviors and thoughts that alienate us from God hold us hostage. We owe them nothing because they invest nothing to captivate us. That gives us every right to shake off their dust and break their chains. There’s no price for freeing ourselves—nothing to lose. That’s also why God’s grace—and everything we gain from it—comes without charge. Once we’re free to accept God’s invitation and enter God’s goodness, we receive total access to all God wants to give us. We don’t settle for what seems good enough. As fine as that might be, God always has something better in mind, a higher perspective, a fresh renewal, a deeper understanding, a richer opportunity, a fuller experience. The message never changes: “Come on up. Have a seat.”

Once we free ourselves to enter God’s goodness, we don’t settle for what seems good enough. There’s always something better. (This photo was taken from the House of Blues box Walt and I sat in at the Macy Gray concert.)