Abba, Part 3: Justified

Hey, Cobblestone,

    Receive the following lyrics, and let them begin to speak to you.

How deep the Father’s love for us,

how vast beyond all measure,

that he would give his only Son

to make a wretch his treasure.

(“How Deep the Father’s Love for Us,” Stuart Townend, 1995)

    Treasure – when was the last time you thought of yourself as treasure? Our Father in heaven thinks of all his adopted daughters and sons as treasure – his own inheritance – all the time. Did you know you were adopted, Christian? Sure you were, and here’s how it happened: justification.

    Think on the word “justified.” I distinctly remember a time, in conversation with some friends, when I mistakenly used the word “justify” in place of “rationalize.” It was one of those times when everybody understood the definitions but me, and the misuse made my misunderstanding evident. Bottom line, I’m very deliberate with those two words ever since. There may be some lingering misunderstanding among us, so let’s bring them into view.

    To rationalize is to make excuses for. The characteristic remarks are “Well, I have my reasons” or “What else was I supposed to do?” or maybe “You couldn’t have done any better.” Fifty bad things happened, but it’s okay because this one sorta good thing happened kinda because of them. Rationalizing is bad relational math. There are no solutions, only endless unsolved equations.

    To justify is to make right. The characteristic remarks are, “Ooh, that was messed up, but not anymore” and “Yeah, that’s how it was always supposed to be.” As good things go, justification is the first of many, the necessary foundation.

    In salvation terms, we could think about justification along these lines: Imagine walking into a courtroom knowing you’re guilty as charged of terrible crimes. You look at the judge and instantly see that he knows your guilt as a fact. And he knows that you know he knows. Nobody’s questioning your guilt, least of all you and the judge. How silly would it be to speak “Not guilty” over someone so obviously culpable? Not only silly but also a lie – in a word, rationalizing. Now imagine the judge saying, “I know you’re guilty, but I choose to treat you as if you never committed the crimes, because it’s the only righteous way to deal with your guilt.” The best judges I’ve ever known – and I’ve known some good ones – couldn’t pull that off. That takes a Father.

    What’s known as “The Great Exchange” has its best scriptural handle in 2Corinthians 5:21…

    God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.

    Notice that the verse quite literally begins and ends with “God,” the Father. God the Father made God the Son sin for us, and imputed the Son’s righteousness to us – the Son’s record in exchange for ours. He made “justified” possible. He paved the only way for adoption. The word he speaks over his children is “Mine.”

    The greatest heartache to be had is in not hearing that wonderful word, not believing it was spoken, thinking it could be taken back. We want to earn it, right? We want it to depend on us, even as our souls convince us it can’t be done. 

    Relax…

    There is indeed one, and only one, who righteously made a claim to righteousness:

…when Christ came into the world, he said,

“Sacrifices and offerings you have not desired,

    but a body have you prepared for me;

in burnt offerings and sin offerings

    you have taken no pleasure.

Then I said, ‘Behold, I have come to do your will, O God,

    as it is written of me in the scroll of the book.’” (Hebrews 10:5-7)

    And his is the righteousness imputed, given, to us. Not by accident. Not by happenstance or luck of the draw. And certainly not by holding the ocean of sin back with a broom. By the Father’s good pleasure and perfect will: “Mine,” the same as he speaks over his Beloved and Only Begotten. 

    I’m okay, mostly, with rationalizing a second scoop of ice cream. But when it comes to understanding where we are with the Father, may I please recommend the Yes-and-Amen we actually have, far over the kinda-sorta of our fretful imaginings. There’s no substitute for “Justified” – it has the Boom of authenticity. 

    The opening line of Stuart Townend’s modern hymn is a declaration. In strict grammatical terms, it would end with an exclamation point. But if it should appear in your mind with a pesky question mark – How deep is the Father’s love for us? – I would gladly and heartily say…

    Jump in. Have fun finding out.

Grace and Peace (unfathomable),

John

 

Abba, Part 2

 

Hey, Cobblestone,

     Think about your father’s name. Write it on a nearby napkin or imagine it as a hologram in the middle distance. Take out the vowels. Now try to say it. Weird, huh? Yeah, it’s weird for me too: my father’s name was Ed. Try it again, this time reading from right to left. Hmm, no better.

     Before the Word became flesh and dwelt among us (John 1:14), the word for God was a mash-up of other words, minus the vowels. Jesus had a better idea.

     Jesus blew the lid off the tetragam YHWH, the four-letter, vowel-deficient name assigned to our God. God the Son invited us, his adopted brothers and sisters, out of the chill and into the warmth of “Abba.” Or, if Aramaic is a no-go for you, simply “Father.” While his countrymen whispered a breathless label, Jesus spoke heartily of the rich and wonderful closeness of father and child. His critics were stunned.

     Jesus was delivered into a culture that would not speak “The Name” out loud. God was far away and long ago, yet near enough in time and space to throw a lightning bolt your way. Whether from fear, respect, or lack of familiarity, The Name was not spoken. And here comes Jesus, who, even while his earthly dad was nearby, talked about being in his Father’s house (Luke 2:49), meaning the great temple in Jerusalem. What a radical idea.

     To quote a recently departed brother, one J.I. Packer: “’Father’ is the New Testament name for God.” You can thank Jesus for that. No, really, go right ahead. If not for the Son bringing the image of the invisible God to earth (Colossians 1:15) and the exact imprint of his nature into view (Hebrews 1:3), we might still be stuck with a stone-cold tetragram. Brrr.

     How far away is the Father? How close? When’s the last time you checked?

     Some country music singer made a lot of money saying, “I saw God today,” in the sight of a small flower growing up through the crack of a city sidewalk. Given a small flower’s odds of survival there, I’d sure like to have a more reliable manifestation of Abba’s presence and care. What could that manifestation be?

     Let me describe the trick I play on myself at times, and see if it strikes a note of recognition in you. I get to thinking: Maybe Abba is distant or distracted, like my dad sometimes was, or as I’ve been with my own children. Maybe today is a discipline day, and I’d rather try to hide behind petty accomplishments. Maybe I’ll strain and make a sincere effort, but still not pick up what the Father is putting down. Any number of disappointments could befall me, so I don’t seek him out at all.

     “Thank you, Father – the trick doesn’t work on me every day, or even most days. Most days, you un-trick me.”

     Reluctant to go back to Egypt and deliver his kin, Moses said to God, “If I come to the people of Israel and say to them, ‘The God of your fathers has sent me to you,’ and they ask me, ‘What is his name?’ what shall I say to them?” (Exodus 3:13). God’s reply was the beginning of understanding for his people. Eventually, the tetragram would be built from what God said back to Moses: “I am who I am.” And he said, “Say this to the people of Israel: ‘I am has sent me to you.’” (verse 14).  

     Let’s do this: I’ll take the reluctance I feel going into this day, and you take yours, and we’ll plug it all into a four-word prayer. “Are you close, Father?”

 “I am.”

     Break out, sister. Overcome, brother. Abba is closer than you imagine. Jesus made a way. Feel free to walk there, all day every day.

 Grace and Peace (no tricks involved),

 

John

 

Abba, Part 1: Cry Out

 

Hey, Cobblestone,

     Not long ago, Andrew asked me, “If you could snatch the whole church’s attention for one minute, what would you tell them?” Easiest question I’d had all day. Answer: “Y’all have forgotten who your Daddy is.”

     May I snatch your attention for a minute or two?

     In every conversation I have with Christian brothers and sisters, I sense some level of disconnect from the Father. In conversations ranging from casual to heavy-duty counseling, there is evidence of a distance that my brother or sister considers unbridgeable: “Abba is not with me.” My heart groans.

     There’s a certain category of thoughts we think that don’t quite make it to consciousness. They exist as a submarine exists at periscope depth, seeing but not seen, yet they have a profound effect on conscious thought. If I were to ask, “When was the last time you thought, ‘The Father has abandoned me’,” you might say you’ve never thought such a thing. But if you and I ask each other how often we’ve come to the end of our resources without praying, the occasions would be recent and many. The underlying thoughts guide the actions.

     Matthew tells of the temptation of Jesus in the fourth chapter of his Gospel. An odd thing happens in the account: Satan talks about the Father as if he isn’t there, as if Jesus is separated and left to face the tempter alone. Jesus makes it clear that the devil is self-deceived; in each of his three responses he puts the Father front and center. Even in the wilderness, led there by the Spirit for the purpose of being tempted, Jesus was holding a lifeline anchored in heaven, a hotline without disconnect. But that was Jesus, right?

     What remedy can I give for the disconnect we so often feel? On my own, I have no remedy at all. And the world is no help, deconstructing fatherhood in every aspect. I can only tell you what is true in Scripture, and has been true in all times: But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God… (John 1:12). Your life is hidden with Christ in God, Colossians 3:3 assures us – his life is our life.

     You and I, we’re up against some awful afflictions, not the least of which is a world gone completely off its rocker. It would seem we are orphaned on this planet, in this wilderness. Insidiously, the tempter will keep on talking as if the Father is too far away and too busy to be concerned with any of us. Hold fast and remember: the only thing the tempter fathers is lies.

     For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, “Abba! Father!” The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs—heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him (Romans 8:15-17).

    The only way I’ve ever found to make this work is to believe that it does. Evidence follows belief.

     I’m convinced that at the root of every problem we face is a perceived disconnect from our Father. I’m equally convinced that resolution to any problem is attained by bridging the gap, and bridging it with the faith our Father implants in us. To that end, I won’t let this subject go until he releases me. The tempter is eating our lunch, and he must be stopped.

     Meanwhile, a word of hope and benediction:

Now may our Lord Jesus Christ himself, and God our Father, who loved us and gave us eternal comfort and good hope through grace, comfort your hearts and establish them in every good work and word (2Thessalonians 2:16-17). Amen.

 Grace and Peace (and faith to cry out),

John

Immensity

 

Hey, Cobblestone,

     It never ceases to amaze me, the rhythm and pace of Holy Week. Each year, I read through the Gospel accounts of Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday and I’m astonished: how could those morons in Jerusalem be so fickle? They went from “Hosanna!” to “crucify him!” in less than six days. They missed Messiah. He was there and gone before most of them could decide who he was.

     I like to picture myself as one of the “insiders,” maybe even one of the few who stayed with Jesus at the cross. As the scoffers scoffed, I would have put them in their place. Maybe Jesus would have sent his mother home with me, since I resemble the other John so much in character.

     And then comes the other thing that amazes me with each trip through Holy Week: had I been there for the original, I would’ve been as fickle and clueless as anyone else, maybe more. Why? Because my head, like all humans heads, isn’t nearly big enough to get itself around what Jesus was doing at the time. And even with twenty centuries of hindsight (which the eyewitnesses didn’t have), I have to take the facts a few at a time, lest my fragile noggin explode.

     Immensity. It’s the word we use for something that has more size than can be taken in. You can’t see it all from any one angle. It is its own horizon, and all that lies beyond. If it’s bigger than big, huger than huge, it must be immense. I get a weird feeling whenever I’m close to a large ocean-going vessel: “This thing moves?! Holy smokes, you’ve got to be kidding. It’s too big to move – oh, but if it does, and it moves my way, there’s not a thing I can do to stop it. Whatever is immense is also unstoppable… right?” I know: the logic doesn’t hold up. But immensity has that effect on me. Paddle your kayak up to a supertanker and see if the same thing happens to you.

     What Jesus did from Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday put immensity on a whole new scale. If you’re expecting me to categorize and quantify every detail from the triumphal entry to the resurrection – well, I cannot. Jesus blew the lid off time, and made eternity circle back on itself. What he did had its roots before the earth was formed, and will never stop. He rode into Jerusalem on a silly little donkey, and all the prophets’ jaws hit the ground. Angels were caught unawares – what chance do we stand of taking it all in? At this point, maybe the best thing I can do for you and me, Church, is call us to an awed reverence of our Savior.  

     Today is Good Friday. But as the old preacher said, “Sunday’s comin’.” Sunday came, and can never be stopped. There was a resurrection. The first person to be raised from the dead, never to die again, walked healthy and whole out of a hole in the ground. The devil stopped mid-dance, and knew in an instant he was thoroughly and irreversibly doomed. Mary was called by name, setting the pattern for all who would come to know the risen Savior. Jesus was not found among the dead. To all who receive him, who believe in his name, he gives the right to be children of God – forever.

     Good luck describing all that, along with the billions of chain reactions going off in all directions. We’ll have better success counting the grains of shifting sand on the seashore. Up against immensity, generalities are the linguistic crutch we lean on. Let’s just go with the awe for now.

     If, however, I could be so privileged as to travel back in time and be a player in any one Holy Week scene – hmm, which would it be? Many good choices, but the most appropriate would have to be when Cleopas and his fellow traveler returned to Jerusalem to tell the gathered disciples about being with Jesus on the road to Emmaus:

    As they were talking about these things, Jesus himself stood among them, and said to them, “Peace to you!” But they were startled and frightened and thought they saw a spirit (Luke 24:36-37).  

    Why would that be my natural role? Because the astonishment would be altogether genuine. In a more lenient translation of Luke’s gospel, I would be the unnamed disciple whose only recorded word was “A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ugh!”

     So there. I’m over my cocky attitude toward the eyewitnesses of the original Holy Week. Until next year.  Which frees up life and breath to simply praise Jesus, who is King now and King forever, coming again soon.

 Join me?

 Grace and Peace (and no little astonishment),

 

John