Tag: Redemption

better than fine: an advent meditation

[937 words, 5 minutes]

There’s a popular meme of a cartoon dog sitting glaze-eyed in a burning room with a mug of coffee within reach. He seems to be disassociatively resigned to his fate as the caption reads, “This is fine.”

As bad as the world gets, we don’t have to check out and pretend it’s not as horrible as they say. It’s bad. It’s really bad, granted. But Bethlehem would like a word. That little town long, long ago was mourning in lonely exile when something brilliant was taking place under its nose. Captive Israel (and the world) needed ransoming, and O Little Town of Bethlehem seemed as good of a place as any to get it started.

The beauty of Christmas is that it knows nothing of defeat. Mourning, yes. Disappointment, of course. But never defeat. As we find ourselves in the season of Advent, let this guiding promise illuminate our approach: Christmas reminds us that God is operating smack dab in the middle of the unholiest of messes and redeeming from it a much better story.

The Christmas story really begins in a garden full of trees. One might say Christmas was being scripted from the very beginning: a perfect world illuminated by God’s presence, resounding with angelic worship.1 And somewhere in the middle of it all, a couple and a tree that would change everything.2

The devil slithers into the narrative and messes it all up. The angels are caught in mid-song. The stars stop dancing. Darkness as black as death falls across Eden. Demons are given free rein to hunt and prowl the earth. Plagues of violence, lust, murder, and hate spread until they torch the outer boundaries of the once-flourishing world.

David, a key player in the Christmas saga, wrestled with the same kind of stuff we do today. What do we do when the room is burning down around us?

When the foundations are destroyed,
what can the righteous do?

Psa 11:3

What, David, what? What can the righteous do? Shrug our shoulders? Acquiesce? Sulk? Fret? Surrender to our fate? No, David says. We shift our gaze from the burning room to the throne in Heaven.

The LORD is in his holy temple;
the LORD—his throne is in heaven.
His eyes watch…The Lord examines the righteous…The upright will see His face.

Psalm 11:4-7

Martin Luther caught a bit of the drama in his famous hymn:3

And though this world, with devils filled, should threaten to undo us…

But he quickly pivoted to the Hope of humanity in our fallen world:

Did we in our own strength confide,
our striving would be losing,
were not the right Man on our side,
the Man of God’s own choosing…

The first gospel verse in scripture (Genesis 3:15) shines into the dark void, declaring One who will “crush the head” of the serpent and destroy his dominion over the earth. At the news I’m sure the hearkening angels, in full voice, heralded once again and the stars resumed their dance with unrestrained delight.

It won’t be an easy path for humanity, not by a long shot. “There will always be conflict between the ancient serpent and the offspring of Adam and Eve, until the day the Right Man comes — Jesus — and “destroys the works of the devil.” And the Right Man did come, and He did what He came to do.

Even when it looks like all is lost, everything’s fine. All is well.

In his book, Let Earth Receive Her King, Alistair Begg elaborates on the Advent promise:

Because God is in control, nothing could prevent the birth of that promised head-crusher of the serpent, Jesus of Nazareth. Because God is in control, nothing could prevent the perfect life that He lived. Because God is in control, nothing could prevent His triumph on the cross, when He bruised the serpent’s head. And because God is in control, nothing can prevent the coming age when the serpent is totally defeated and God’s great reversal is complete.

The baby in the manger at Christmas is the “he” of Genesis 3:15. We can rest in the reality that Jesus was, is, and always will be in control. We can remember that He will one day gather all who are His own and usher us into a new Eden. We can enjoy looking forward to the day when He will give to each of His people the privilege of enjoying eternal life with no sin, no sorrow, no sickness, no bitterness, no family divisions, no political wrangling – just never-ending beauty as we enjoy perfect communion with our Creator4.

Isn’t God kind to give away the end of the Story in the very beginning of the Story? Otherwise we would think Twitter is real life; that our grieving and groaning will remain unrequited; that we are stuck in a George Bailey horror show forever; that evil will always have the upper hand; that there is no change, no resolution, no getting out alive.

Imagine sitting in a burning room bravely pretending to be okay with it all, yet knowing in our hearts it will never, ever be fine. In truth, everything may not be fine right now, but all is well nonetheless (if you know what I mean). Advent hope doesn’t anesthetize present pain but rather gives it context and company—God entered the mess rather than explaining it away from a distance.

Christmas spares us from the dog in the meme’s delusional “This is fine” take, and transforms it into the best Christmas message of all: “All is well.”

Selah, beloved.

  1. Job 38:7 ↩︎
  2. Genesis 3:1-7 ↩︎
  3. Luther, Martin, A Mighty Fortress Is Our God ↩︎
  4. Begg, Alistair, Let Earth Receive Her King, p. 24 ↩︎

all the way home

[5 minutes]

Thirty six years ago a baby boy was born in the same city where I first spotted the girl I would marry and who would later be his mommy. That baby was born to someone else, but that someone already gave him up to Jesus so that we could have the rapturous joy of bringing him home. That was then.

He was the answer to his mama’s many prayers and the happy surprise of his disabled daddy. He’s perfect, we said. All his fingers and toes and not a flaw to be seen. He actually favored me. I had only wanted daughters, not a son, but he changed all that with my first look. That was then.

Graham learned how to walk by steadying a pudgy hand on my wheelchair tire, trailing trustingly along as I s l o w l y rolled across the living room floor, him putting one foot gingerly in front of the other. His favorite way to travel was to perch himself between my legs and ride on my footrests, giggling and bouncing at the world in front of him. We were Thunderbolt and Lightfoot. Speed Racer and Chim-Chim. My favorite way for him to ride was when Gra-Gra climbed on my lap, pulled himself upright, facing me. When he grabbed a fistful of my shirt and pumped his legs up and down, that was my signal. Off we went, doing wheelies and spinning and carving donuts in the carpet. That was then.

We could take him anywhere. He smiled at everybody he saw and they usually smiled back. Our little guy loved to sing Jesus songs and was never off-pitch. He made friends easily. He told other little boys on the McDonald’s playground about Jesus. He loved church, he loved his cousins, and he loved Christmas and Halloween and birthdays and pretty much any other day of the year. That was then.

The boy could pick up any instrument and learn how to play it by ear. Like his mama, music was inside him and moved him. He wasn’t a great student, didn’t have the handwriting skills of his mother, but he was the spark of life in every classroom. From kindergarten through elementary school, he was rewarded as the student with the most personality, aka class clown. That was then.

The angels God assigned to our Graham had their hands full. Rambunctious, daring, and always scoping out the next epic adventure, we never knew for sure if we had a tight enough hold on him. He was so adaptable, which is a good thing on the one hand, but not always on the other. Don’t get me wrong; Graham wasn’t a troublemaker, but trouble often found him anyway. That was then.

He gave his heart to Jesus before he became a teenager. I may have mentioned it earlier, but our son didn’t shy away from telling people about Jesus. He went on mission trips, laid hands on people and prayed for their healing, traveled hut to hut with the gospel, and left his only pair of shoes in Honduras for another who had no shoes. That was then.

Prodigals aren’t as rare as you’d think. Especially not the ones who grew up in pastor’s homes. Like many of us, Graham had high hopes but he got mad at a God whom he accused of ruining his dreams. He didn’t know what to do with that, where to take all that anger. It molested him, throttled him, imprisoned him. He became addicted to it, wore it all on both sleeves, and it became the death of him. That was then.

The thing about God’s mercy is that it keeps following us and hounding us and nipping at our heels. All the way home, the psalm says. All. The. Way. Home. God’s lovingkindness never lets up. I shared with another parent of a prodigal just this week the same words that encouraged Sandy and me when our beautiful son died: the power and strength and determined will of God’s hold on us is eternally stronger than our will to walk away from him.

The other thing about prodigals is that some of them, perhaps more than we think, come home. Graham sure did.

God’s merciful love did that. It followed him all the way home, praise Jesus.

Graham would be 36 today. Sandy is in Georgia this week to celebrate still being his mom. She has many things on her docket, but none more important than sitting by Graham’s graveside and reminiscing about all the “that was then” moments. It’s been almost twelve years now, but still we grieve — and that’s okay. Some years are harder than others to celebrate his birthday while mourning his passing. This is one of those years. Sigh.

Were it not for the rich mercies of Christ Jesus, we might just stay by his cemetery plot and never leave, chained to unremedied sorrow. But a hope greater than our grieving is beating in our chests and beckoning us on. We can drive away from that plot of ground, assured and at peace, because there’s a new now, not then, past the veil and scrim of this side of eternity, where Graham is waiting for us to get Home too.

Selah, beloved.

a savior who has time

When the wine ran out, Jesus’s mother told him, “They don’t have any wine.”
“What has this concern of yours to do with me, woman? ” Jesus asked. “My hour has not yet come.”

John 2:3,4

[5 minutes]

For Jesus, His “Hour” was the thing He held most sacred. It could not be trifled with; it couldn’t be waved off or pushed aside; he refused to be distracted from it. It was most expedient. His Hour was the work of His Heavenly Father through him to accomplish God’s will from the beginning. His Hour was His appointment with the Cross for the redemption of lost humanity.

At the wedding celebration in Cana Jesus wasn’t caught in a moment of fleshly irritation. No. There was no sin in his response to his mother no matter how much we try to run cover for Him. “Well, Jesus wasn’t really being disrespectful, there’s technical nuance in the original language that we don’t see in ours, etc.” While true, Jesus showed no ambiguity in exposing his inner motivation to His mom. For our Savior, the Hour of His death was everything. No surrender; no capitulation.

I was honored to share at my dad’s funeral seven years ago. Sharing from John 12:23 (And Jesus answered them, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified.”), I remembered something my dad said a day before he died. He had been rushed to the hospital with a heart episode and we thought his hour had come. But no. Dad rallied and recovered quickly and, only a few hours later, was resting comfortably in his hospital bed. Crisis averted.

“You had us all scared Dad,” I said. He flashed his signature boyish smile at me. All of 88 years old, he still looked like a much younger man.

“Did you feel ready if, you know, it was your time?” I asked haltingly, yet knowing the answer.

His soft blue eyes were shiny. “Every day I look up at the sky and spot a cloud. I wonder if my Savior will step out on that cloud and come for me. And I always tell him, I’m ready, Lord.”

A few hours later, Jesus stepped out on a cloud and said, “Let’s go, Tom.”

That last conversation with my dad means everything to me. Knowing my dad could have died before I got to him, yet given those extra hours with him, is a precious gift I hold dear.

Death comes for us all. We all have an Hour. That Hour is sacred, binding. There’s no avoiding it. For the believer in Jesus, we leave it in God’s hands and celebrate the days we have until then.

Jesus may have been at a wedding party, but he saw the Cross standing ominously in the background. Still, He was present and merciful and gracious and cared enough to keep a good party going. Isn’t He wonderful?

Tim Keller thoughtfully addressed the inner tension Christ must have felt in that moment:

When Jesus makes his enigmatic statement it’s as if he were looking far away, past his mother and past the bride and groom, and past the whole wedding scene. He’s seeing something else. He’s thinking, ‘Yes, I can bring festival joy to this world; I can cleanse humankind from its guilt and shame. I have come into the world to bring joy, but, oh, Mother. I’m going to have to die to do it.’

– Tim Keller, Encounters With Jesus

Even so, Jesus performs the miracle. How amazing! Yes, he faces a Cross, but he’s also in the company of people who are sad, worried, and frantic. The Gospel of Mark tells of a time Jesus healed a paralyzed man. When he encountered the pitiful man, he dealt with the worst problem in his life: his sin. “Your sins are forgiven you,” Jesus told the man. And then, because of the man’s physical condition, he showed compassion and said, “Rise from your mat and walk!”

In the upper room, following his resurrection, Jesus encountered Thomas. Thomas needed to feel the wounds in Jesus in order to see that he was really alive and not just some ghost or figment or hallucination. When Jesus entered the room, he knew immediately. This is really Jesus, my Savior, my Master! Even still, Jesus invited Thomas to touch him.

Jesus has time for us.

He takes time for us.

He makes time for us.

Jesus sat amidst all the joy of the wedding feast sipping the coming sorrow so that today you and I who believe in him can sit amidst all this world’s sorrow sipping the coming joy.

– Dr. Edmund Clowney

Don’t miss it. The “Hour” Jesus spoke of was His biggest assignment. Bigger than our life events or schedules or plans. And yet he kept the party going.

Master, carest Thou not that we perish? He stills the waves because of course He does. Not because we demand He do it, but because He wills it for us.

How can I pay my bills, Lord? He points out the birds of the air and the flowers of the field. Don’t you see, Child? You think I don’t have time for you, too?

Put yourself in the Savior’s sandals. Facing a Cross of execution as the Substitute for all humanity for all time, bearing all sin and its curse, and then someone — his mother! — tugs at His sleeve and says “We need more wine.”

And Jesus is liable to say, “You see those stone water jars? Bring them to Me.”

Selah, beloved.