The Beloved

“This is real love—not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as a sacrifice to take away our sins.” (1 John 4:10)

All that matters is to accepted by the Father as a child radically beloved by Him.

In His presence, we find out who we truly are. He sees into the cracks and crevices of our heart; His light shines into every dark corner of our mind. He is the one who searches us, who knows us intimately, discerning our thoughts from afar (Psalm 139:1). He knows every terrible secret that we so carefully lock away far beneath, always fearing that we will finally be sniffed out for what we truly are.

And yet, He embraces us in our totality.

At the end of ourselves, fearful and alone behind the mask we put on before the world, He whispers these words into our hearts: you are precious in my eyes, and honoured, and I love you (Isaiah 43:4).

Before we spoke a word, He was singing this song of love over us. He takes great delight in us and rejoices over us (Zephaniah 3:17). He saved us, not because of any righteous that we have done, but because He is a Father of mercy and love (Titus 3:5).

He embraces our wounds, our vulnerability, our rebellious self, our wandering ways. He accepts us in our totality – not just those parts of us that our particularly holy or righteous or beautiful, but all of us in our ugliness, sinfulness, and pridefulness. He sees to the very core of our being – He sees what we truly are, vulnerable, broken, alone. “A bruised reed he will not break, and a smouldering wick he will not snuff out,” says Isaiah about the faithfulness of this God in the midst of our brokenness (Isaiah 42:3).

He is Abba, Father – the God who runs after alienated and estranged children to bring us home. He gives us a place at His banquet, when we barely deserve the crumbs under his table.

The core of our being is constituted by the truth that we are Abba’s delight, beloved by Him, precious in His sight. When the beauty and strength of youth fades and the illusion of our self-sufficiency and autonomy shatters, when worldly glory vanishes and the fickle approval of man fails, His love remains. When our abilities crumble and our bodies grow frail, when our minds are dimmed and our hands grow weak, we still have the love of God and yet have all.

At every moment, we owe our existence to the love of God. The very core of our being is utterly dependent on the sustaining, creating, renewing love of the Father which never fails, which never fades, which is always faithful. In Him we live and move and have our being, always loved into being by the God who is Love.

To accept this radical love – to put on our identity as the beloved – requires a total conversion of the heart.

To accept our identity as a child of God is to lay down every illusion of self-sufficiency, autonomy, and strength. There is no part of our existence that receives its being apart from the life-giving love of the Father.

To be accepted by Him in our totality shatters the facade we put up to be accepted and approved by others. To be embraced in our totality by Abba means we can lay down our striving for the glory of man, because we have been endowed with the robes of righteousness that the Father lovingly puts on the backs of His children. We can walk with new confidence, new boldness. This is perfect love that casts out fear (1 John 4:18), fear of man and fear of condemnation (Romans 8:1).

Run out of hiding. Lay down your striving. Throw down your fear. You are accepted by Abba through Christ. He embraces you not because of your righteous deeds, but in spite of them. He rejoices over you and invites you in your pain, in your rebellion, in your hiding, in your hurting.

He will not break a bruised reed, nor will He snuff out a smouldering wick. Come to Him, for His yoke is easy and His burden is light. He is gentle and kind. Let His perfect love cast out fear; let the truth that you are His beloved speak against every lie of the enemy.

We hear Heaven’s music on the horizon, and we are invited to the banquet as Abba’s children. May we have faith to accept the invitation.

Vulnerable Beauty

What do we make of the person in our midst who, according to this world’s measure of value, has little or nothing to “bring to the table”?

The boy with cerebral palsy, dependent on his caregiver for the most basic of tasks. The woman made homeless by circumstances outside of her control. The lady next door with Alzheimer’s. The man with Down Syndrome. The young person who, through no fault of her own, never had the opportunity to receive education and is unable to find paid work.

In a society where human value is commodity-value, the ability to enter into relations of exchange and reciprocity, what makes these people valuable in and of themselves? Where is their worth to be found?

Where is their place in a worldview that measures human value on the sliding scale of autonomy, freedom, self-expression, productivity, exchange?

And where will our value be when our security, health and wealth falls like a tower of cards, subjected to the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune”?

Whatever grounds the value of human life, it cannot be what Western society says it is.

It cannot be economic or exchange value, for that would exclude the unemployed and homeless.

It cannot be reason or intellectual ability, for that would exclude those with intellectual disabilities and mental illnesses.

It cannot be autonomy or freedom of expression, for that would exclude the voiceless, the forgotten-about, the oppressed, those on the fringes.

It cannot be strength, beauty, or riches, for that would exclude the weak, the vulnerable, the poor, the powerless, those who do not live up to the standards of beauty provided by fickle culture.

There must be something deeper, something more foundational, that gives worth to life. The image of God cannot be found in the functions and activities accorded value by our economically driven society.

The truth of what the human is is simply this: to be loved into existence by the God who is Love. 

Our existence is entirely gratuitous. We exist by nothing but the overflow of divine love, lovingly willed into being by the God who loves to create. The image of God dwells in us simply because we are. That which makes us valuable before God is not our ability, autonomy, economic worth, but simply that we are made by Him and stand in relation with Him.

In Him we live and move and have our being (Acts 17:28). We brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it (1 Timothy 6:7). We are dust breathed into life by the Spirit of God (Genesis 2:7). We are not responsible for our being. We did not even create ourselves; much less are we able to exercise creative autonomy over the world. We are subject to it, dependent on it.  Our existence comes from outside of us.

We are the products of sheer grace, sheer mercy, and therefore truly vulnerable before God. God has opened Himself up to us in creating us, and our lives are open before Him, truly dependent, finite, contingent on Him for our every breath and our very existence.

In the bodies and lives of those who appear in our midst as helpless and vulnerable, we are confronted most starkly with the true nature common to all of us. In this fragile, interdependent world, all of us are vulnerable, finite, limited.

If we have been blessed with “able” bodies, these will perish. If we have been blessed with wealth, this will fade away. Our minds will deteriorate, our beauty will fade. What is true of Peter is true of us all; “when you are old you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go” (John 21:18).

Whatever makes human life truly beautiful, truly valuable, it is not our perfect bodies and perfect minds. It cannot be our quality of life. It is not our supposed “rights” and freedoms which could, for whatever reason, be taken from us at any moment.

It is simply that we are beloved by the God who lovingly created us, lovingly sustains us, and lovingly entered into relationship with us, by entering into the vulnerable, weak body of a human being in Jesus Christ. 

The acceptance of our mutual vulnerability and finitude radically alters the way we do church. The church cannot – must not – mirror society’s measure of value, based on autonomy, exchange-value and success. The Church, as the Body of Christ, is a place for all, not just the beautiful, the well-off, the able-bodied. Our communion must not be a gallery of the middle- or upper-classes, but a place of welcome for all and sundry.

Because when we come together, we acknowledge that before God, we are all like grass. All is from Him, for Him, to Him. We have nothing that did not first come from Him. Beauty fades, our bodies weaken, our wealth perishes, but His eternal love for us remains, in spite of it all. 

All that matters, the only thing that defines us and grounds the value of our being, is that we are beloved by God. The image of God dwells in us simply because He is, and we are. We are loved into existence by Him, out of the gratuity and overflow of His love, by His Spirit.

The God who is Love dwells in our midst. His beckoning voice shatters our value-systems and worldview. In the Kingdom, there is no hierarchy based on productivity or use-value.

In this kingdom, the first will be last and the last will be first. Let our communion acknowledge this, showing prejudice to no-one, standing in solidarity with all, for we are all one, for we share one nature.

The Lord is like a father to his children,
    tender and compassionate to those who fear him.
For he knows how weak we are;
    he remembers we are only dust.
Our days on earth are like grass;
    like wildflowers, we bloom and die.
The wind blows, and we are gone—
    as though we had never been here.
But the love of the Lord remains forever
    with those who fear him.
His salvation extends to the children’s children
of those who are faithful to his covenant,
    of those who obey his commandments!”

Psalm 103:13-18

The Art of Receiving

“This is real love—not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as a sacrifice to take away our sins” (1 John 4:10).

The most important spiritual discipline we can practice is receiving the Father’s love for us.

Every other discipline and habit and spiritual exercise we could possibly conceive of will quickly disintegrate under the weight of crushing legalism until we have practised dwelling in the abundant love that God has for us.

And yet, when we find ourselves in a spiritual dry season, we are quick to forget the unchanging, steadfast love that the Father has for us, and turn instead to striving and doing in order to somehow place ourselves back under His favour. I think that if only I knew more about God or repented more or read more of my Bible or was more disciplined, God would break my spiritual rut and manifest more of His love to me.

The Father is not like that.

The spiritual life is not some slot machine that we put our little coins of righteous deeds into in exchange for more of His favour. The Father’s favour and love is freely received, not bought.

This does not come naturally to us. Every instinct in us tells us that God is big, distant, removed from our worries and anxieties. Our minds are quick to conceive of a detached deity in whose direction we send our doubting prayers and intercessions. Our spiritual lives become a mathematical equation in which more obedience equals more favour; if only I did more, if only I did something differently, God would manifest more of himself in my life.

Of course, repentance is crucial in our relationship with God for we are so frequently prone to wander, and good works are the vital outworking of His Spirit’s transforming power in us. However, in our spiritually dry seasons, we are often quick to put the cart before the horse. We are quick to seek solutions rather than savour and rest in the Father’s love for us.

Perhaps your spiritual rut is not a call to do more, but a call simply to be still in the Father’s presence.

“Such love has no fear, because perfect love expels all fear. If we are afraid, it is for fear of punishment, and this shows that we have not fully experienced his perfect love. We love each other because he loved us first” (1 John 4:18-19).

It is the unwavering, steadfast love of the Father alone that survives our seasons of spiritual fatigue and our darkest doubts. The truth of the Father’s love for us does not change based on our experiences or circumstances. When we are past the point of pressing on, it is His unchanging love that meets us at the end of the road.

Our relationship with God is not a theological problem to be solved but a relationship with a loving Father. His love for us is unconditional. He bestows it freely, without qualification. True rest does not come from restless striving, but simply receiving the Father’s abundant love for us. Every other habit and spiritual discipline we could practice is simply to cultivate the ground in order to receive the rain of God’s grace.

When we received the spirit of adoption, the Father did not transfer us from one economy of striving into another. The slave strives for the Father’s approval and acceptance out of fear of condemnation; the son dwells in peace and rest because he knows nothing can shake him from the Father’s embrace.

We will not experience true peace until we have dwelt in the truth that we that we have peace with God. Peace will not rule in our hearts until the truth of the Gospel reigns in our lives.

“And let the peace that comes from Christ rule in your hearts…and always be thankful” (Colossians 3:15).

The answer to your spiritual rut may not be to do more, but simply to receive.Sit with the Father. Switch off your phone, come away, be still. Dwell in His boundless love for you, that sweet, unchanging love that shed blood to ransom your soul and reconcile you to Himself.

Freedom and Forgetfulness

So Christ has truly set us free. Now make sure that you stay free, and don’t get tied up again in slavery to the law. (Galatians 5:1, NLT)

God’s purpose for our lives is freedom. 

Freedom from the tyranny of the expectations of others. Freedom from our fear of condemnation. Freedom from the fetters of addictions and sin and guilt.

He calls us to true, tangible freedom; not abstract, theoretical freedom. This is a deeply experienced freedom; freedom that radically and utterly redefines our relation to others and to God. This is no mere religious pep-talk or emotive sermonising but a life-altering, paradigm-shifting reality of living in the Spirit of God.

Freedom is God’s calling, His heart’s desire, for each and every one of us. Not just the saintly few, but every one of us who calls on the name of Jesus as Lord. Freedom is the song of the Father’s heart into which He draws each of us, the dance of liberty for which He created us from eternity’s beginning.

But many of us – myself included – have heard only whispers and tasted no more than a tantalising bite of this freedom.

We are plagued by the question, Can I truly experience such freedom? Is God that good?

With our heads we honour God as a good and loving Father, but that truth has not yet taken root in our hearts. There is an insurmountable distance between the life that we know we have been called to and the reality we presently live in.

In our sinfulness and our thwarted attempts at holiness, many of us feel disqualified from living in this freedom. We ask “How can God love me like I am? How can I escape this state I’m in?” Our backs are broken by the weight of guilt that dangles precariously between our knowledge of our own sin and our apprehension of God’s holiness.

Having been saved by grace, we have now taken sanctification into our own hands. We are left demoralised and depressed that what we know should be our experience of the Christian life is not the one we actually do experience. Having started out in grace, we become tied up in a law of our own making, as if the road to perfection is one we must now walk alone.

These feelings of unworthiness, guilt, and spiritual stagnancy are born out of lies we have believed about the character of God. I have believed that God’s love for me is no more than theoretical, abstract, distant. I have believed that yes, God loves me in some detached, forensic sense, but that doesn’t mean He actually likes me. I have believed the lie that His love is a reluctant love, not a reckless Gospel-love that leaves the ninety-nine to run after the one.

True freedom comes from the rectified understanding of God’s character and of ourselves that comes when the truth of the Gospel takes root in our hearts.

When we take the truth of God’s love, grace and goodness seriously, we are forced to stop taking ourselves so seriously. When we comprehend deeply the truth that we are loved unconditionally – yes, without any qualification – we are freed from our addiction to condemning self-inspection and self-analysis.

When we realise that we have no foundation to stand on but the Gospel, that we have no right to stand before God apart from the grace He has freely lavished on us, we can do nothing but laugh on our own pitiful attempts at righteousness.

Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. (2 Corinthians 3:17, NIV)

How can I still take myself seriously when I realise that all my best efforts fade like vapour before the Righteous One, the Holy of Holies, the God of the Universe? How can my heart do anything but skip with joy and mirth when I comprehend the price of righteousness paid on my behalf by the precious blood of Jesus?

How can I hold up my own righteous deeds with any air of importance before the One who sent His Son to die that I might live?

Every pretence, every show of makeshift morality fades away in the light of His goodness, evaporating before the heat of His furious, reckless love. I have nothing to stand on but the foundation of the Gospel. When I look on Him, how can I think so much on myself?

True freedom, then, is the freedom of self-forgetfulness of the Gospel. When I see my Great High Priest interceding on my behalf, I cannot obsess over my own life or worry about my own ability to be righteous any longer. When I look upon His perfect righteousness, I stop caring about my own pitiful attempts at goodness.

True freedom comes not from running away in fear from our sin and shame, but running to the One who alone can break their shackles. The life of the Spirit leads us not to morbid navel-gazing but to the self-forgetfulness that comes from knowing that we are radically beloved by God, and nothing can change that: not death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell (Romans 8:38).

To claim this life of freedom for ourselves, we don’t need to do more righteous deeds or strive to be more holy by our own strength. Instead, we must stop looking to ourselves altogether, and look upon the character and goodness of our Father in Heaven who loves us indescribably, with feet grounded on the Gospel of Grace. Freedom comes with the realisation that Jesus – and only Jesus – can stand in the gap between where we are and where we long to be.

Freedom comes when the deep rooted lies we have believed about God and about ourselves have been supplanted and we lay down our constant self-analysis and condemning consciences. It is all a matter of where we fix our eyes: looking upward rather than inward; into the loving eyes of the Father rather than upon ourselves.

Freedom, simply, is living in the self-forgetfulness of the Gospel. 

We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, the champion who initiates and perfects our faith. Because of the joy awaiting him, he endured the cross, disregarding its shame. Now he is seated in the place of honour beside God’s throne. (Hebrews 12:2, NLT)

 

The Productivity God

Peering back into my childhood with rose-tinted spectacles, everything seemed so much simpler than it does now.

Back then time was always at a premium. Summer days were filled with time to draw and play with my favourite toys and go cycling with dad and sit nonchalantly in boredom. “Leisure time” was frequent and regular, not the rare commodity that it is now.

These days, on the other hand, I find that I’m rarely bored, because I don’t have time to be bored. Days are for work and to-do lists, for deadlines and emails, for social engagements and time spent with others. From the moment the alarm goes off in the morning to laying down at night, every action is coordinated, where possible, into a pattern of productivity and efficiency: spontaneity happens in the brief commas between diary appointments.

In this busy blur, life swings between shades of anxiety and excitement, of good times and difficult times, times of great breakthrough and times of draining disappointment. Caffeine is fuel for the fire of this constant busyness. Moments alone in silence are few and far between in the loudness of this 21st century living.

This none-stop busyness, masked as “productivity,” is a secret sickness with a myriad of symptoms: constantly checking your phone and emails in the worry of missing something important. Incessantly fretting about how much you have to do and how little time you have to do it. A calendar blocked out with no time for solitude at either end of the day. Burning the candle at both ends; early mornings and late nights to try and fit everything in. Befriended by lethargy and apathy as you are absorbed in your own world of demands and personal commitments. Not being “fully present,” either with others or before God. Crushing anxiety and fear that time is slipping from your hands.

I say all this as a sort of self-diagnosis. This busy season of life has, in many ways, been a wake-up call about the silent menace of endless activity. The way we spend our time is the most telling measuring-line of the things we value most in this world; the minutes we spend in busyness are offerings to our self-made gods.

So often, we sacrifice those things most important to us in the name of the god of productivity.

For me, that sacrifice has so often been my prayer-life. Yes, I sacrifice prayer – that most important, necessary, life-giving communion between creature and Creator, between son and Father – the well of strength for the weak man able only to depend on God.

And yet, this is what I offer up to the god of productivity. In the brief moments snatched in prayer on my busy days, there is a mental block between God and I because my mind is filled with so many other pressing matters and anxieties. But what is more pressing than the urgency of prayer? Even more telling is that, at other times, I forego praying altogether – all in the name of being more productive.

I might be the only one who struggles in this area. But I’m afraid I’m not.

The way we spend our time is the most telling measuring-line of the things we value most in this world.

The god of productivity is a lie, a scheme to rob you of that which is most important in this world. We need to take back what he has stolen. Enjoyment of time spent in communion with the Father is the most important pursuit of the Christian who, having been clothed in Christ, now calls upon Him as “Abba,” as a child, as one beloved.

This post isn’t a treatment, but a diagnosis. It isn’t a judgement, but a self-reflection. Nor is it morbid introspection, but a confession that I hope some will resonate with. Most of all, it is a hope for what could be and a stand against what is.

All it takes is a change of perspective. The psalmist says,

“Unless the Lord builds the house, those who build it labour in vain. Unless the Lord watches over the city, the watchman stays awake in vain. It is in vain that you rise up early and go late to rest, eating the bread of anxious toil; for he gives to his beloved sleep.” (Ps. 127:1, 2, ESV).

The way we spend our time indicates what we worship. The reason we fall before the lure of productivity is because this world measures success in results, activity, products and outcomes. The economy of heaven, on the other hand, offers a radically different account of success.

In this economy, it is not what you have done that is important, but who you become. The enslaved soul becoming a son. The beggar finding a place at the king’s table. The sinner redeemed, the thief forgiven, the broken made whole, the homeless homed, and the poor man given hope.

And this gives us a totally new perspective on how we use our time. No longer are we a slave to results, but a soul postured before the Saviour, growing in Him, receiving grace after grace that overcomes all striving and incessant working. It takes surrender, but who is more worthy of surrendering all – our time included – than Him?

As Jesus famously said to Martha, “You are anxious and troubled about many things, but one thing is necessary” (Luke 10:41,42).

And what is that “one thing”?

Simply to dwell with Him

 

To Live Like it’s Your Birthday

Your birthday is perhaps the only day in your life when people celebrate you for your sheer existence.

You did nothing to bring yourself into the world; just about all the effort on that front was on the part of your mother. You had pretty much no part to play in your own birth. Your birthday, therefore, is a time of celebration and rejoicing simply because you are here; simply because you exist. 

It’s no accident, then that the language of God’s grace in the Bible is the language of birth, of new life, of new existence in the world. The apostle Paul puts the grace-wrought life of the believer like this: “if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come. All this is from God, who through Christ reconciled us to himself…” (2 Corinthians 5:17-18a, ESV)

Our reception of God’s grace, then, might be likened to the celebration of our birthday. Just as, on our birthday, we are made the recipient of rejoicing and celebration and gifts not because of any effort of our own, but simply because we exist, so it is with God’s grace. The Father has lavished His grace upon us, has given us every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places, has predestined to adopt us as His sons and daughters (Ephesians 1:3-14), not because of any merit or effort of our own, but simply because He loved us even in spite of anything we have or haven’t done. Even before we were born, He knew us, He called us and set us apart by this grace (Galatians 1:15).

This Gospel of Grace changes everything. We are truly accepted and celebrated just as we. Our Father in Heaven rejoices over us, His new creations, not because we have done anything to deserve it, but because He delighted to bestow His grace upon us and adopt us as His own.

We didn’t bring ourselves into this new life, nor did we cause ourselves to be born into His grace. But, like an eternally recurring birthday, we are constantly the recipients of spiritual blessing upon spiritual blessing, grace upon grace, life in abundance, simply because the Father’s nature is to give.

We are grace-born children. We could never earn the Father’s blessing, yet He simply pours His love upon us without measure. Our identity is secure. He delights in you simply because you are you, and you are His. 

Abundant life begins with this scandalous truth. Our identity is secured by the work of Another, and His work cannot be undone. To be great by this world’s standard is to be constantly striving, constantly seeking approval from others, constantly working and toiling for a sense of value before the watching world. It is a wearying work, and it will never satisfy, for, in the world’s economy, you can always be better, stronger, richer, more popular, more successful, more beautiful, have more friends, have a bigger house, and so on.

In the economy of heaven, however, our identity is secure in the Father’s love, by His grace that demands no merit or achievement on our part.  Like a new-born baby, we are celebrated and loved simply because the Father is Love, without qualification. And this makes us truly free, because, when we know our identity to be eternally secure, we can forget ourselves altogether.

So much worry and anxiety and trouble comes from building our identity upon the approval of another. True freedom comes from the self-forgetfulness of grace, because our identity is rooted in the Father’s grace bestowed upon us like a birthday present we didn’t do anything to earn.

It was for this life of freedom that the Father set us free. Receive the gift.

 

Move On

I have a confession to make. I’m rather good at feeling sorry for myself.

The sort of self-pitying behaviour I’m talking about swings two ways. On the one hand, when I mess up or make a mistake, I tend to wallow in self-condemnation and guilt. I’m an introspective type; sometimes a little too introspective, I’ve concluded. It means that when I do wrong, I beat myself up to no end.

On the other hand, when I feel low, I find it easy to fall into self-justification. You too might be accustomed to the type of fatalistic, self-justifying behaviour in the following scenario: you’ve had a bad day, so you think to yourself, “It doesn’t matter what I do now. Nothing I can do can make things any better or any worse.” The mind says to the will, “You’re already feeling down. The day is already a defeat. It doesn’t matter if you eat another donut, watch another episode of Suits, drink another beer, insert-unhealthy-behaviour-here to make you feel more comfortable about yourself.” Numb yourself from reality, and justify it to yourself. You deserve it. Not.

Both types of self-pity – whether it’s self-condemnation or self-justification – are destructive, numbing, and paralysing. Neither of them are God’s purpose for us. They leave us stagnant,  wallowing in a pit of self-despair. Like Elijah on the mountain, we find ourselves in a pitiful state of defeat, obsessing about our own woeful lot, without the perspective either to accept the past for what it is or press forwards into the future.

I think God sometimes says to us something to this effect: Get up. Gird yourself and move on. Get a grip and press forward. Ouch.

Of course, that sense of guilt is not, in itself, a bad thing, so long as it leads us to repentance. Paul, in his second letter to the Corinthians, talks about this healthy guilt as “godly grief that leads to salvation without regret” (2 Cor. 7:10). On the other hand, the type of self-aggrandising, self-pitying, despairing guilt, the guilt which holds on to past sins and does not let them go, is a “worldly grief [which] produces death.”

Guilt that leads to repentance is an essential part of sanctification. Repentance means that we accept our own mistakes, but then we are enabled to leave those mistakes at the foot of the Cross, knowing that “as far as the east is from the west, so far does [God] remove our transgressions from us” (Ps. 103:12, ESV). We can press on, knowing that by God’s grace coupled with our partnership and obedience to His will, we are being perfected by Him, being “renewed day by day” (2 Cor. 4:16, ESV).

Guilt that leads to self-pitying condemnation, on the other hand, leads to death. It involves, in a way, a rejection of God’s grace; we think that our sin is too powerful for His love to overcome. This type of guilt is a burden too great for the human soul to bear. Acceptance of God’s abundant grace, on the other hand, results in a type of self-forgetfulness, allowing us to forget what is behind and press on to what is ahead, “the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 3:14. ESV).

God calls us out from the cave of crippling despair, from our state of wallowing in defeat and condemnation. When the Israelites complained to Moses during the Exodus from Egypt, thinking themselves defeated what does God say to them? “Why are you crying out to me? Tell the Israelites to move on” (Ex. 14:15).

Move on. 

Today, God may be telling you to move on. The story of Easter is that death has been defeated once-for-all-time. Our sin and rejection has been left at the foot of the Cross, nailed to the tree; our condemnation is met with His acceptance. Our old self – self-pitying, self-condemning, self-justifying – has been crucified with Him on Good Friday; we are raised to a new life of freedom by His resurrection on Easter Sunday. Freedom to move on.

When Jesus raised Lazarus to life, He said, “Lazarus, come out!” To each one of us, too, He calls, “Get up, come out, leave behind your grave-clothes, and move on.