Forsaken by the Father

A brother of mine pointed to this article, where the author challenges that idea that the Father turned his face away from the son on the cross. To state my opinion up front, I disagree with this guy (and the five other blog posts I read that made almost an identical point). Frankly, I feel like he dismantles something that he doesn’t manage to really put back together. He admits he might just nit-picking the term, but I think in nit-picking it he’s unintentionally undermining the theology contained in the whole”Father’s face” short-hand. For instance, I don’t think the statement “the weight of sin caused Him to experience God-forsakenness, yet…the Father’s face wasn’t turned away” makes any sense. What is God-forsakenness if not the absence of the Father’s countenance?

But I’m getting ahead of myself…

Anyhoos, here’s my point by point rebuttal–which honestly, I’m writing pretty quickly and I may find that I’ve made some glaring errors in my critique. So, I’m quite open to being challenged here.

  1. Ben’s first point is that “Jesus never addressed His Father as ‘God’ in all His years of ministry.” First, that’s a pretty narrow way to put that. Both John 20:17 and Rev 3:2,12 contradict the statement at the outset. I daresay that pretty much dismantles the point. But second, I’m unconvinced that using the exact language of Psalm 22 marks this as a different intention of how Jesus addresses the Father. Perhaps he just wants to make the allusion clearer. But does that really mean that “Jesus wanted it to be heard specifically differently from the way He usually spoke about Father”? Nah…
  2. His second point relates to some of the things Jesus says after the “Eloi, Eloi” statement are addressed to the Father and would negate the idea that God’s face was turned away from Jesus. As for his use of the term “Father”, I’ve already addressed that above. As to how it these words negate the forsakenness Jesus is experiencing, it doesn’t further his point at all because it doesn’t solve anything for him either. In his own argument, the forsakenness that Jesus supposedly went through is still a problem because in his own view, Jesus isn’t really forsaken because God still hears him. I would rather suggest that just as Jesus existing as fully God and fully man is a mysterious duality, Jesus existing as God in direct fellowship with, well, himself in the Godhead while also completely forsaken isn’t really any different. It’s a duality that occurs because of who Jesus is and what he did. I mean, seriously–one God in three persons? This kind of paradox is a persistent idea in Scripture.
  3. Ben’s third point is that the “Father went with Jesus all the way to and through the cross”, again refuting that the Father withdrew from Jesus. He uses John 16:32 as his proof, where even after the disciples desert Jesus, the Father will still be with him. To which I say: I agree. That’s exactly what happened. The disciples deserted Jesus, but the Father was still with Jesus. But all the way “to and through the cross”? Again, the verse doesn’t prove that. It allows it as a possibility, but doesn’t definitively prove either his side or mine. Putting that text aside, my second point above, I think, still addresses that tension between Jesus being “one with the Father” but also fully forsaken, too.
  4. The fourth assertion is that 2 Cor 5:19 contradicts the Father deserting Jesus because “God was in Christ reconciling the world to Himself”, meaning that there “was a wholesale involvement with Christ in the middle”. I read this on a couple of other blogs, too, and really don’t even get how this furthers their point. Of course God was reconciling the world to himself by forsaking his very Son, whom he loved. That’s the core of the gospel. Acts 2:23a says, “This man was handed over to you by God’s deliberate plan and foreknowledge.” It was absolutely the Father accomplishing reconciliation in Jesus–or perhaps it could be said it was through Jesus. I mean, just look two verses later in 2 Cor 5: “God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” God wasn’t making himself sin, but the Son. Jesus was the (one and only) agent through which the Father accomplished this reconciliation. Not by being in Jesus when it occurred, but by making it occur in Jesus. Unless I’m just missing the point he’s trying to make…
  5. Here, Ben is appealing to the OT passages that prophesy about Jesus and how in the midst of them God is still with the author in the midst of the desolation described. Ben’s sixth point is similar, so let me address this here in one way and then wrap it up in the next bullet. Let me just make a broad statement about how the NT uses the OT: they totally jack up context left and right. Here’s an easy example. Matt 2:15 says that Jesus and his parents going to Egypt was to fulfill “what the Lord had said through the prophet: “Out of Egypt I called my son.”” That’s a quotation from Hosea 11. Go check it out. That passage, in context, is about how God delivered his people from slavery in Egypt but then they turned from him to follow idols. So, if we’re going to follow Ben’s approach, that prophecy shows that Jesus was sent to Egypt because he’d been a slave there and he would later chase idols. Say what!?!? Of course not! My point is that the NT regularly ignores the grammatical-historical context of the OT passages–and it’s Spirit-inspired, so we can’t say they got it wrong. This is where typology is a more helpful way to understand it, but even that doesn’t solve all the issues. That’s just to say that appealing to the OT context doesn’t solve anything. And that being the case, the suffering servant passages Ben brings up neither further nor hinder his point. And the same for me.
  6. Now, I think Ben has built up to this as his most important point, so let me also let this be mine as well. Ben’s point is that in Psalm 22, the source of, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” the psalmist also says, “He has not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; nor has He hidden His face from him; but when he cried to Him for help, He heard.” And thus he claims that the same must be true for Jesus. Again, I reiterate my fifth point that just because it’s in the context of the OT passage, that doesn’t mean it transfers to the NT context. Regardless, let’s ignore that and ask the question, “Why didn’t God turn his face away from David?” It’s not answered in the psalm, but we know it’s because of the mercy of God. We know from Habakkuk that “your eyes are too pure to look on evil; you cannot tolerate wrongdoing” and from Isaiah that “your eyes are too pure to look on evil; you cannot tolerate wrongdoing.” Is it that David was righteous and that’s why God would listen to him? Check Psalm 51. No way that’s it. So why? Because of the mercy of God. And how could God apply his mercy to David? Because of Jesus.

Let me jump out of the bullets to make this final point: God didn’t turn his face away from David because he did turn his face away from the better David. There was no reason for God to show mercy to David except through his faith in God as redeemer. And who did that redeeming? Jesus did, generations later. Do you see? Psalm 22 shows that David received grace, a gift he didn’t earn. And so the Father didn’t turn his face away as he should have, but regarded David with favor because of the One who did endure God’s wrath and displeasure. Hear it again: “God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” That’s the great exchange. That’s the reason that God did, in fact, turn his face away: so that all the saints–past, present, and future–could become the righteousness of God, not through their merits, but because the Redeemer Jesus had paid the price for their sins. And what was that price? The punishment due for sin, which is “everlasting destruction and [being] shut out from the presence of the Lord and from the glory of his might.” (2 Thess 1:9) That has been paid, by Jesus, the one who endured being shut out from the presence of the Lord and the glory of his might. And all so we could instead share in the glory of King Jesus.

Lest anyone accuse me of just following the typical evangelical line on this, well, just trust me that I find great joy in rocking the boat. But only when I see it. And despite how much I challenge, I will hold gladly and firmly to those doctrines that root the Gospel for us, those who have been chosen by grace, apart from our works. This issue is core to the gospel, not because I particularly care if you much like the phrase “the Father turns his face away”, but because the truth of that statement is core. And that truth is that Jesus was rejected so we’d be accepted, cast out so we could be brought in, and ultimately forsaken for the sins he never committed to that we could be approved for the perfect record we never held.

That is the gospel, through and through.

Chronological Illogic

In western culture, we place a high emphasis on placing events in chronological order. But sometimes, the way things are revealed or a pivotal point in a story change the way we read the whole thing. Sometimes following the chronology ruins the story.

For instance, despite the fact that most newer editions of C.S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia put them in chronological order, I always encourage friends to read them in publication order. (Here’s a longer reasoning for why.) If you start with The Magician’s Nephew, seeing a lion singing in a strange world makes no sense and the reason behind following the story of Diggory Kirke seems to make little sense. But if read the five books published before, you know that Diggory is the old Professor of the other books and you say immediately on the sighting of the lion, “That must be Aslan!”

Similarly, I feel the same way about the Star Wars movies. Since the prequels were released, there’s a temptation to watch the movies Episodes I-VI. Makes sense, right? Except when you do that, the big reveal to Luke that Darth Vader is really Anakin is just like, “Duh.” But if a new viewer were to watch them with Episodes IV and V first, the revelation takes on a whole new meaning and leads you to ask, “How in the world did that happen?”, which you then get the backstory by watching the prequels. (Though I’m a big advocate for the Machete order.)

The same is true, I think, for how we understand God’s story and how he relates to us. How should one read the Bible? Cover to cover, right? Genesis to Revelation? Or maybe with one of those incredibly complicated chronological Bibles? No, instead we start with Jesus, a concept I learned years ago from Brian Vickers and an excellent book by Graeme Goldsworthy. We don’t read the Bible like we’re slowly working up to Jesus. Instead, we come to it understanding that “all the promises of God find their Yes in King Jesus,” the one who is both author and perfecter of our faith. And trying to read the Bible “from start to finish” ends up ignoring that the life, death, and resurrection change the beginning, middle, and end of God’s whole story. (It was honestly there the whole time, just a mystery till now.)

Sometimes a chronological approach is the most illogical way to understand the most important things.

From a Book: Bent Creatures Are Full of Fears

I’ve recently been re-reading C.S. Lewis’s Space Trilogy and just finished the first book Out of the Silent Planet. In the book, the word used to describe sin to the inhabitants of Malacandra is “bent”, a word aptly describing how we take the good that God has given and bend it to something other than it’s use. Thus we on Earth (Thulcandra in the book) are all bent. One of the creatures was observing with bemusement how the human visitors had acted so incredibly strangely, full of fear and paranoia. The main character Ransom responded to the creatures who couldn’t understand the fears of their human visitors by saying:

Bent creatures are full of fears.

There’s so much I could say here. So much of my life that is filled with fear. The fear of looking the fool. The fear of getting hurt. The fear of being laughed at. The fear of the future. The fear of my failures. The fear of my successes. The fear of being wrong. The fear of being misunderstood. The fear of being unloved. The fear of my own passions. And on and on and on.

There seems to be a proportional link between our “bentedness” and our fears. Or conversely, the greater our faith, the greater our fearlessness in the hands of a good and wise king. My bentedness is far worse than I lie to myself it is. And the same lies that hide it are also the ones I use to rename my fears as logic and wisdom and reason. But as circumstances have shown lately, I am “laden with guilt and full of fear”, but I hesitate to “fly to thee, my Lord.” Then the blacksmith would have to place me on the anvil and begin to hammer the bends out to straighten me into the image he created me for.

But that would hurt. And I’m afraid of pain.

Feeling Conventional

In an odd turn of events, I registered for the 2017 Gospel Coalition national conference, which is conveniently coming to my own town, Indy. Despite the mundanity of such an action, it’s a ridiculously big deal for me. Somewhere along the line (so long ago that it’s fuzzy now), my identity got wrapped up in making sure to do the opposite of everyone else: a rebel–but a rebel in Reformed Christian circles (which is kinda silly when I say it that way). And I’ve found a tremendous joy in constantly not doing what my peers are doing.

House churches? Check. Unpaid pastor? Check. Living in the city? Check. Disagreeing in some slight-to-serious way with every Reformed author out there? Check. Avoiding conferences because every good pastor is supposed to attend conferences? Check.

So here I am, spending money to go to a conference I don’t have to and, at some level, don’t want to attend. And my wife had to talk me down out of my pretentious, self-righteous judgmentalism to even consider it in the first place. Similar things have been happening lately. When I get all cantankerous and unwilling to put up with anything that didn’t originate from my brain, my wife just rolls her eyes and says, “Old man…”

It’s been an easy path from “blazing my own trail” to “not blazing their trail.” As I read in a Dan Doriani book years ago, when you try to do the opposite of anything you’re still being controlled by the thing you’re rebelling against. And that’s probably the turning point when I stopped feeling original and started feeling like a tool. What’s sad is that I started to pull away in the first place because I felt like a tool.

I’m amazed at how lame I can be.

So, I’m going to a conference. Why? Because I want to. Because I want to hear Keller and Carson and Piper. Because I want to hear more about my commonalities with the reformers who couldn’t find unity. Because I want to learn more about the radical reformation Anabaptists, always pushing and pushing and pushing to be more and more faithful to the Word. Because I want to be reminded that I’m part of the Church, not just indyEkklesia and I can celebrate our differences, differences which orbit around the cross and empty tomb. Because it’d be cool.

Just another step in the humiliation of Bill Bell…

(And as an awesome side note, I get to go with my rockin’ awesome wife. We haven’t been able to attend something that was intended to feed our souls and reinvigorate our tired lives since some incredibly generous friends sent us to a conference ten years ago. God our Dad is very kind!)

An Angry Jesus

In preparing to teach my church from Mark 1:40-45, I stumbled in trying to understand the variant reading (used by the NIV) that said Jesus was angry when the leper came to him for healing. It’s certainly much easier to read that Jesus was “filled with compassion” instead of “pissed off” (my colloquial translation).

After reading a whole bunch of articles, I found Bart Ehrman (who I would never recommend as a resource) to take the most responsible approach to understanding Jesus’ anger. Because Ehrman doesn’t believe in Jesus as the only Son of God, he’s far more comfortable letting the text say uncomfortable things. This is something we believers can sometimes do very poorly. Regardless, he roots Jesus’ anger in confronting the unbelief of those who come to him (cf. Mark 3:5; 9:17-23; 10:14). Not that Jesus doesn’t have compassion as well, but that’s not the only emotion he displays.

This ought not disturb us, but help some incongruities we tend to intuit even if we never actually say them. Don’t we all think the OT God is much meaner than the NT Jesus? Don’t we all have this picture of Jesus as meek and mild? And how does that compare with the conquering King Jesus of John’s Revelation? Maybe the divide isn’t that big. Maybe we try too hard to gloss over the accounts of Jesus that make us squirm so that we have the Santa Clause Jesus, always jolly and ready to give out some nice gifts.

Since Jesus was and is truly God, his nature is no different to how God revealed himself in the Old Testament. If that’s true, are we really that disturbed to see that Jesus was angry sometimes, too? And especially to see that anger directed at unbelief? Suddenly the NT Jesus and OT God don’t seem that far apart…

It also helps to explain how we can exhorted to be angry while not sinning (Eph 4:26). We tend to think that Jesus was allergic to anger. But he wasn’t allergic to it nor was he mastered by it. He saw sin for what it was and was justly pissed about it. There’s a way for us as his people to do the same, even if we usually screw it up by tainting our anger with our own selfishness or self-righteousness.

Finally, I find hope in the anger of Jesus because he let that anger come full circle. He was rightly angry at unbelief. He was angry at our inability to truly have faith in the boundless power of God. But instead of pouring that wrath out on us (as would have been right to do), he submitted to have the wrath poured out on himself instead. Instead of raging at unbelief, he became unbelief so that in him we might become the righteousness of God (2 Cor 5:21). Even while we were dead in our trespasses and sins, he took upon himself our very shame and guilt so that we could be cleansed.

And as in Mark 1 when the leper comes to Jesus, through the simple touch of Jesus we become clean. We become whole. We become white as snow. Through contact with perfection, we find perfection. And through the anger of Jesus comes the only vindication possible: the judgment of God, poured out not on us, but on the only one who never deserved it.

The Story of Stories: Middle Earth

matamata_signIn our final class, we hit the quintessential epic of our time: The Lord of the Rings (along with the Hobbit). As you’ll hear, I recently read the full book and found it to be a beautiful reflection of so many Gospel truths. And the class ends with my hopes for anyone who has been following along, which where we fit into the Story of Stories. Here’s the audio.

Retreating Reflections

As I near the end of my personal retreat, I struggle to put into words what came from it. On the one hand, it almost feels like trying to quantify the retreat cheapens it somehow. But I think that’s really because it seems that retreats are supposed to be mountaintop experiences and those types of experiences can’t be limited by mere words.

Eh, something like that.

The fact is, every time I’ve had a retreat, I’ve always gone in with some huge set of expectations. Sometimes it’s been to plan my family’s life, sometimes to map out the future, sometimes to draw nearer to God, sometimes just to have “me” time. But every time, regardless of the goal, it’s been a letdown. The problem with expectations, especially “spiritual” ones, seem to be the very real possibility of not meeting them.

With this retreat, leading up to it, I really just wanted it because I was beat, rundown, exhausted, spent. My only goal was escape, pure and simple and straight up selfish.

But the Father, in his kindness, saw my heart. And he knew what I didn’t–that all of my exhaustion and weariness was from chasing idols and setting up the kingdom of Bill. He knew it and he prepared my heart for it. Events and conversations leading up to the retreat were outpourings of his kindness to rebuke me gently and call me to repentance. He knew what I wanted for myself was so much smaller and cheaper than what he wanted for me.

So how do I leave my retreat this time? First, grateful. Because my original “plans” were crap and I’m glad my Dad has better plans for me than I have for myself.

Second, a little lower. While I’ve been blinded by the deceitfulness of sin to think that all my “hard work” lately had been for others, it had all been for me. I was actively and passively working to bring glory and praise to the name of Bill Bell. And I find myself lower now, not because my repentance and humility are so great, but because God has revealed himself to me as greater and more glorious.

Third, refreshed. And that, in a number of ways. Refreshed from trying to seek my own glory. Refreshed to rediscover quiet and moving slowly. Refreshed to want to hear the Good News over and over again, where it had felt like Old and Boring News before.

Fourth, open. You see, I’ve felt so increasingly isolated in my biblical convictions for so long that I’ve stopped listening to the Spirit speaking through other men. I haven’t listened to or read other godly men in ages, because I simply didn’t care what they had to say. Why would I? I knew I’d disagree with something, if not most or all of what they said. Malarkey. That same pride of building my kingdom was also closing me off to the larger family available to me in Jesus, a family I need so that I hear and see and taste God’s goodness afresh.

Fifth, ready. Ready to see my wife and hold her close. Ready to smile and laugh with my kids. Ready to see God’s goodness on display. Ready to stop chasing after wind and find my satisfaction rooted in the love of Jesus, who died and rose again. Ready to live by dying and die by living.

Was it a “successful” retreat? Well, I came out smaller and God came out bigger than when I began. I don’t know any better kind of success to look for.

Blind to My Own Idolatry

This morning, I took some time while running/walking to listen to some sermons with the hope of hearing God’s Word afresh. I am so highly cynical and self-sufficient that I almost never listen to anyone else teaching these days. Because I believe I’m that wise.

Ugh.

Anyway, I started with this Tim Keller sermon. He begins by talking about how sin can have spiritual mastery over us, especially by something other than God being our ultimate goal. He gives some indicators: anger, fear, and sadness. When we’re chasing after empty idols and they fail to deliver–as they always do–it leads to anger (because things aren’t going the way we want and so we rage about it), overwhelming anxiety (because if things might not turn out right, we’ve got no hope or confidence at all), and sadness (because how can we have joy when we can’t have the thing we want most).

Here’s me lately: I’ve been incredibly short-tempered and judgmental, sometimes mentally only and, especially with my kiddos, sometimes actually. Everything they do that has been even remotely annoying or disobedient or disrespectful or just not what I wanted at the time has been met by my sinful snippiness and anger. I’ve had to repent over and over again for reacting too harshly. Check one for anger.

For the last several nights, I’ve not been able to sleep well. I thought at first it was caffeinated drinks. Cut those out, still no change. I thought it might be from the Claritin D I was taking before bed. Cut those out, still no change. In retrospect, the fact that I keep waking up from dreams feeling like there’s some urgent matter I need to fix right then or else leads me to believe I’m clearly very anxious. And even though my somewhat stoic persona doesn’t display it as clearly as others, I’m anxious all the time that I’ll fail at work or fail Court or fail the kids or fail as a pastor-elder. Check two for fear.

I’ve also found it much harder lately to be light-hearted and easy-going. I, of course, don’t see this in myself but my wife has pointed it out more than once. Like I’m “carrying a constant burden on my shoulders and can’t shake it” or something along those lines. The fact is, joy feels elusive right now, a whole lot like chasing after the wind or looking for a snipe in the backyard. Check three for sadness.

And so, I find myself diagnosed: sin is ruling over me and I’m chasing after everything but the one good Giver.

I also listened to this John Piper sermon about assessing what our ultimate joy is found in (it would almost seem coincidental that both sermons had such common themes if, ya know, I believed in coincidences). He does this nice job of taking an example of something that makes us happy, then asking “Why?” over and over till we hit “the bottom” or, to say it differently, till we reach the foundation of our joy. If it’s anything other than God himself, we’re missing it.

As my old friend Tom Binkowski could painfully recollect from our many meetings for mutual encouragement, I am awfully horribly terribly tremendously bad at assessing my own motives or the foundation of my motives. (I’m not sure I stated that strongly enough…) But as I think over the things that are making me angry (Why am I so angry?), scared (What am I so worried about?), and sad (What’s making me so unhappy?), every chain of questions leads me to one response: I’m not getting the honor and recognition I think I deserve. Or perhaps I’m afraid I won’t get the honor and recognition I deserve.

So, today I’m grateful to the God and Father of King Jesus for Keller and Piper. Through their words, another layer of my inscrutable onion-y soul has been peeled back. And another layer of idolatry unearthed.

Though I still wonder if I’m just shedding the outer layer of my dragon skin and still too scared to feel the painful, gentle claws tear the whole thing off. God, grant me the mercy to get there…

My Quiet Defeat at the Hands of the Dishwasher

For some time, the pressures of life have been building, filling up my mind and time and attention. The biggest and easiest culprit has been work, where I’ve been tasked with a new project and a new process, taking more time and attention than I’ve had to expend in a very long time. But it’s really been so much more than that. The cares and troubles of this world, whether that be work stuff or disobedient kids or broken-down cars or whatever, have slowly but surely been choking the life out of me.

The last few weeks have been the culmination of it all. I put in a whole lot of extra hours at work, even several over a weekend–something I normally refuse to do as a matter of principle, that my job doesn’t own my every waking moment. But I had “good reason” to break my own rules. I did that literally up to the second when we left for a family vacation. And even though our bodies left the house (and my laptop!), my mind kept churning and thinking. All of this manifested itself in a number of ways. I’ve been broadly distracted constantly. I’ve been very short-tempered with my children. I’ve been disengaged at home. I’ve been falling more and more behind at work.

Even in my teaching, a gift given by the Spirit, I have been misstepping and faltering. This past week, I taught three times: one for my church, one for the high schoolers in our co-op, and one for some biblical training with some close friends. In all three, I just sucked. I was trying to teach and share the insight God has given me, but I was drawing from a dry well. I sinfully attacked a sister’s story, I was woefully unprepared to bring anything good to the high schoolers, and my dear friends all had to tell me that I was breaking the very interpretive rules I’d just given them

All of this has resulted in two things simultaneously. On the one hand, I’ve been feeling the weight of my failure increasing and building and growing and overtaking. On the other hand, I’ve been trying more and more furiously to make up for my insufficiency, working longer and trying really hard not to be so angry and trying to segment my life and get it all figured out.

You can probably see where this is headed. Because it’s not been working in the slightest. Instead of getting better, it’s all getting worse. On our date last night, my lovely wife was trying to gently point out to me that the path I was on was unsustainable and that it was my pride that was fueling my grasping at the air of fixing my own problems.

And so after our date, I noticed our dishwasher wasn’t getting the dishes clean. This morning  (not really digesting my wife’s words at all), I thought I’d unhook it, pull it out, and see if I could fix it. (Note: I have a bachelor’s degree in music, part of a seminary degree, and a job as an information analyst–handyman I am not!) As usual with such efforts, I couldn’t figure out the problem and made a huge watery mess in the kitchen from unhooking the water lines.

The hardest part was telling my wife we should call an appliance repairman. Because, you see, I think I could fix it with more time. I think I could figure out the problem and save us money. But what I don’t want to own up to is the fact that I already don’t have time for all the commitments I’ve made for myself. Nor that I might spend hours taking the darn thing apart and searching online repair forums and still not find the problem. My modus operandi is to never admit defeat: I can do this!

Except I can’t. Less because I’m not able–I have a pretty strong track record of accomplishing most things I decide to accomplish–but more because I’m a fool who can’t see that he’s choosing to neglect what’s been entrusted to me to save a few bucks that for once in my life I can actually afford to spend. Is it better to save money or to humble myself by getting help and getting back to my true responsibilities?

And I don’t think I’m explaining this very well anyhow. I feel like I’m advocating for some advanced time management tools or a life coach to help me prioritize. Which is about as Jesus-less as all my efforts have been lately. I’m sure time management or life coaching could help in some manner.

My problem, though, is a heart problem. My defeat came from the dishwasher because my Dad was kind enough to see me building my tower up to the heavens and came down to confuse my work and scatter me before I trudged full force into self-worshiping idolatry.

I’m glad I lost. I needed to. My own imaginary kingdom was bloated and moldy and cracked and rotting, but beautiful in my mind. But my Dad, who sees me refusing his good food to instead eat from the trash can, has used the sharp sting of discipline–and just the right discipline–to show me the feast he’s laid out for me.

My feast? The feast of a Savior who was already perfect so I would stop trying to be. The feast of limits, the feast of understanding that I’m not an island and not everything is my job, the feast of fellowship with my God through the Spirit who dwells within me, the lowly estate of a beaten and rejected Savior where I would rather bypass the gutters and jump to the glory.

So I’m grateful. A first step has been taken. My attention has been turned to the feast, but my heart is slow and cold and incredibly stupid. God grant me the grace to repent beyond even what I’ve seen so far.