Why did Christ have to suffer and die? These and other questions come at 9:00 AM Sunday School, and really make you think.
OK, put that brain in gear, I know this one. Well, God is a God of justice. Sin demands a penalty, and if Christ didn’t die, then how could our sins be forgiven? Sure, the Jews could have accepted Christ as their Messiah, crowned him King, skipped several thousand years of history, and human kind would be all set right? But what about our sin? Would God just magically wipe it away? No, Christ’s suffering and death on the cross were necessary in order to pay for that sin. Anyway, if you claim that it wasn’t God’s plan for Christ to die on the cross, then you’re saying that his death was God’s backup plan. What does that say about your God?
Do you ever feel lost and helpless? Like your actions have no bearing on the rest of history? History belongs to the intercessors. Prayer is a powerful tool that we often underestimate. Just because things are ‘going that way’ doesn’t mean they have to keep going that way. Prayer can be an act of spiritual defiance against the downward momentum. We may say, “I am inadequate.” But Christ responds, “Will not what I have done inspire you to do your best?”
He would have been 21 today. Life comes and goes. Another depressing sentiment from a college student pushed to the edge with homework, studies and life in general? Not really. He would have been 21. A kid I didn’t know and never met. He left behind friends and family asking why. Fists shake in the night, crying out to God for an answer. But in the darkness, do they realize that God knows their pain? The sky turned black as God turned his back on his Son, unable to look down on the sin of the world that Christ bore on his back. God’s own Son died. He knows your pain, more intimately than you. You look to the sky, wondering why, wishing someone would understood. And someone does understand. He created the vast galaxies, and God feels your pain. He would have been 21 today, and when the grief hits you like a tidal wave, know that the Creator himself has experienced those dark, desolate days.
“What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ,” Philippians 3:8 NIV
“rubbish” in Greek, basically means crap. (probably a stronger word, but that’s close enough).
Do I consider everything in my life crap in comparison to Jesus Christ? Then why do I spend so much time playing with crap?
What future are you living for? I don’t know, I skipped the service when the question was asked for an apple muffin and a conversation. Sometimes I have to wonder what it all means and what it’s all for and who’s in control. Is God in control? Then why am I so adrift? Am I in control? Then how do I get anywhere at all? Sometimes I wish God would just appear, show up right here, sitting in my chair. He’d set me straight. He’d help me clean the mess atop my desk. He’d end my procrastinating and send me out to buy new shoes. He’d convince me to get that much needed haircut. He’d help me finish my homework and show me where to find the information for that report. But somehow I don’t think he cares about any of that. If he showed up right here, sitting in my recliner, I think he’d want to talk to me. I think he’d want me to spend some time with him. The piles on my desk can wait. The stack of books I have to read can wait. My worn out shoes and mop-top hair can wait. God is here.
Who am I that you are mindful of me? My mind reaches to the heavens and my dreams soar on the wings of my potential. I get so far ahead of myself I forget the reason I’m reaching for the stars. My head gets so big I can’t see anything else.
Yet when I come to you, and humble myself before you. When I forget my ego, my dreams, my anything, and grovel before you, stuttering like a dehydrated vagabond–what amazes me, what absolutely floors me–is that you stoop down and pick me up. You brush off the ego, the inflated dreams, and the sin. You let it all fall away with the wind, and you see me as I am. As who you created me to be. And you hold me tight. I stammer like a four-year-old, and you listen intently as if I were a theologian.
Where are you, Lord? I shout so loud and I look so hard that I can’t find you in the quietness. I hardly stop to take a momentary pause and look to you. But why do I even ask the question? I know where you are. You’re right here, with me, where you’ve always been. You have never forsaken me. I’m the one who doesn’t take the time to let you into my life. But everyday is a new day, and you prod me to forget about the past. Let’s make today a new day then, Lord. Forgive my selfishness.
You don’t even know. You don’t know the pain you’ve caused, the lives you’ve damaged, the eternities you’ve cursed. All because of your child-like bickering. You had to have your politics, you had to have your way. And the whole time the world was watching. They were watching you prove their very arguments against you. You’ve become their best evidence. You’ve solved their burden of proof dilemma. And for what? An ego trip? To tighten your reigns of power? You make me sick. You filthy hypocrites. How dare you preach the love and compassion of the Son of God on Sunday and practice the deceit and lust of the Angel of Light on Monday. Surely no one is perfect, we all make mistakes. I concede that. But look what you’ve done. All I can do is throw my hands up in the air, hang my head in shame, and cry out, “God forgive us.”
It all happens so suddenly. Life as we know it fades away without warning and the shimmering glimpse of the life to come floods in, overwhelming our senses and overloading our minds. Shock, surprise, fear and joy all mix together at once as your body soars through the air. Like dropping on a rollercoaster your stomach falls behind and you can feel yourself soar into the air. The life that you knew doesn’t matter anymore. The responsibilities, the headaches, the mistakes, the sorrows. It’s all falling far below as you sail into this new world. Is this it? Is this really it? Is this really the end of the old life? Is this really the beginning of eternity? Your soul ascends to the light and you can’t help but wonder–but suddenly the light fades, your stomach returns, and you roll over. It’s 7:22 and the alarm will blare in eight minutes. The second time I’ve dreamed the return of Christ.
A work-at-home dad wrestles with faith, social justice & story.