Shepherd Candle Café by Wil Triggs

Jesus said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.” (John 8:12)
 
Advent means “coming.” We light these candles as we prepare for the full coming of God’s kingdom.  
 
People who know me know that I love coffee.
 
It started in high school with my purchase of a Toddy coffeemaker, a precursor to the cold brew systems of today. It produced low acid coffee and tasted the way coffee smells.
 
Then I graduated to a stovetop espresso pot. Good in a different way. I’ve gone on to roast my own beans and made coffee in a variety of ways—Keurig, Nespresso, Neapolitan style, French press, the stove-top siphon, Cometeer pods.
 
As I drank my morning coffee a few days ago, a coffeehouse came to mind from my past. It was so long ago, that the memory was like a dream, almost surreal. 
 
The coffeehouse was in the capital city of a country that no longer exists. It was located just down the street from the dictator’s palace. I remember the oversized propaganda publicity on the sides of buildings. Giant faces, repeated of the same man. Giant political symbols overwhelmed the buildings they were on, especially dwarfing the people walking by them on the street.
 
Dictators don’t tend to like Jesus. He doesn’t listen to them the way they want. No, not very cooperative this Jesus—bigger than the propaganda and small enough at the same time to walk alongside the common people on the street. By his very existence he shows that their power is fleeting; Jesus is eternal and caring.
 
This coffeehouse was a place of refuge for searching people. These people grew up being taught that the reality of the material world was all there was. The leader of their country was their ultimate truth, a sort of savior. Except it became obvious to them that he was no savior. And so here was this little café where they could go and discover the truths of Jesus.
 
Before I got there, I imagined it to be a certain way. But it was shockingly not that.
 
Where was the cappuccino machine, the espresso pot, the oversized brewer like we have in the church kitchen? Or even just a home kitchen size Mr. Coffee brewer.
 
There was none of that. I have to tell you that the coffee they served was honestly not that great. In fact, it was instant coffee, out of a jar.
 
But people weren’t going there for the coffee. They wanted to say anything, ask anything. And open the Bible in that place. There is no keeping the Word silent.
 
They weren't really a part of their city or country. They were outsiders, like those other shepherds from long ago, watching their sheep at night. Out in the fields, the angels came, the heavenly sky, radiant with songs that you could see and light you could hear. Glory to God.
 
A sanctuary hidden in plain sight, where the forbidden things could be spoken, considered, believed.
 
Could it be true? Dare it to be true?
 
These coffeehouse shepherds weren't actually tending sheep, but they were being sought by the Lamb, and when they dared to believe, the Lamb became their Shepherd. In their country where almost nothing was true, they discovered ultimate truth.
 
This café was not a dream, but there is another one I visit in my dreams.
 
I step into that café and it’s bigger than it looks; busy and full, with room for more. Every time I dream it, different people are there in varying combinations.
 
Tyler, my friend from Five and Hoek Coffee brews coffee and espresso and the counter is staffed by Leonita, the cheese lady from Caputo’s that Lorraine and I pray for. Joe Bayly is there with a man who looks like he doesn’t belong. Ken Taylor is talking with William Tyndale and the Apostle John. Marr Miller is sitting with the videographer friend that Lorraine and I know from Singapore. My publishing friend from Nigeria is laughing and talking with Jonathan from Tenofthose and Brother Andrew.
 
My sister Barbara is having cake with Marge and Deby, somehow, they seem to know my friend Wambura, from Kenya, who joins them to round out the table for four. Bonnie and Ramon are there enjoying café au laits with Pavel and Barnabas and Norm and Sue.
 
Peter and Anita are at a corner table cooking up something with Mary, Martha and Lazarus.
 
My friend Jim, who never liked coffee, is pouring himself a cup of tea at a table with three empty seats, one for his wife, one for Lorraine and one for me. My mom is enjoying coffee with Lorraine’s mom and Vera, who translated for us in Russia and helps kids learn about God.
 
Tim is ordering Vietnamese coffees for Jack and Ed, Erik and Asaph.
 
At a table near the back, I recognize my only son at a table seated with a man who I only see from behind. Pip smiles at me. I draw near them and see the man he’s sitting with from the side and then the front. He’s younger than I ever knew him and yet, somehow, I realize that this man is my dad. And Lorraine’s dad is there with them, an open Bible before him.
 
I glance into the party room, where the hot chocolate freely flows. Our Kindergarten teachers are in there—Becky, Jennie, Claire, Kevin, AJ, Tom and Barb, Linda, Greg, Megan and Grant—and all those other adults who somehow look like our kids, with Kevin leading them all in singing “I’m Gonna Sing, I’m Gonna Shout, Praise the Lord.”
 
Then my dog licks my face. I wake up and it’s all gone.

Time for a walk and Bible readings and a cup of coffee to start the day.

Christmas Mismatches by Lorraine Triggs

A few Facebook years ago, the top Christmas morning posts were happy families in matching pajamas of red, green, candy cane stripes, evergreens and holly or red and black plaid.

That year, the non-conformist in me sniffed, “I would never wear matching Christmas pajamas.”

My inner child whispered, “Oh, but you did. Remember all those Christmas Eve pajamas you and your sisters donned?”

The realist replied, “Yeah, all before FB so it doesn’t count.”

Though not intentional, my husband and I now own matching Christmas pajamas. “We have matching jammies too,” I gloated, even though we purchased our pajamas months apart and they weren’t a family set, butthey matched. (No one will ever see us in our jammies on social media, and you can thank us later.)

Who knew that all it would take to belong to the world of happy Christmas morning families was pajamas, and the sting of an unfair job severance or the fear of a pathology report or the pain of bullying or rejection would simply disappear. Wait a minute. What? The realist in us knows better when we celebrate a mis-match Christmas, even while longing for matching pajama perfection.

The birth narrative in the gospels reveal more Christmas mismatches than our sought-after superficial Christmas perfection.

There’s the mismatch of Joseph’s resolve not to shame Mary and divorce her quietly and the angel of the Lord’s instruction not to fear and take Mary as his wife. Joseph chose the mismatch and called his name Jesus.

There’s the mismatch pairings of wisdom and foolishness, of life and death. The mismatch of wise men who, sight unseen, came to worship “he who has been born king of the Jews” and a foolish Herod who became furious enough to kill all the male children in Bethlehem and the region who were two years old or under. This mismatch pair of life and death would follow Jesus throughout his life.

Then there’s the most incredible mismatch of all: the Incarnation. In his bookLove Came Down at Christmas, Sinclair Ferguson wrote, “Here is a neat little summary of what happened at that first Christmas from the early fathers of the Christian church: ‘Christ became what he was not in order that we might become what we were not.’”

Let’s celebrate the mismatch of the Creator becoming part of his creation; of wounds that heal; of punishment that brings peace; of death that brings life; of the Father who “made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” (2 Corinthians 5:21)

Let’s celebrate mismatch Christmases, because one day we will wear something far better than matching pajamas to a matchless celebration where we will be clothed “with fine linen, bright and pure—for the fine linen is the righteous deeds of the saints.” (Revelation 19:8)

Worth the Wait - Just as I am by Wil Triggs

I like Advent. Maybe it’s just the simplicity of lighting a candle or two and not imparting some power to it that it does not have that I like. It’s not an incantation, but it is a physical act that I do with Scripture and prayer and other people.

So, we have the wreath on our table and we light the candles, both at home and at church and even in Kindergarten Bible school, but with battery-operated candles.

As we approach the season, I sometimes get Advent all mixed up. What does the first candle represent? Yesterday I asked my wife, “What is the first candle again?” It’s a purple candle, I know, not the pink one.

Waiting, she said. Looking back. The prophets.

Oh yeah. Looking back at those who looked ahead. AD looking at BC. Before O Holy Night, the weary world is, well, weary. Weary and waiting. Before Jesus called the disciples, they fished or doctored or collected taxes or did what Pharisees do. Simeon at the temple almost all of his life doing what he needed to do but waiting.

Ordinary life waiting for extraordinary.

Advent is about waiting. You know how I said I liked Advent. Well, maybe when it comes to waiting, not so much.

Last week in Kindergarten, I read the children the first half of a story about a heroic Christian. I stopped. Can’t we keep going? they asked. No, we’ll have to wait for the rest of the story next Sunday. We don’t love the wait. We want the story to advance. Waiting is not always easy.

It should be said that as an American, I do not do waiting so well. Waiting in lines are the most obvious examples.

I remember being in Soviet Moscow and asking someone at the end of a line what they were waiting in line to buy. We don’t know, they said, but with this many people in line, we figure we don’t have it and must need it.

One spring break in England, we went to a castle. It was a bank holiday, and the castle was filled with adults, children and students. We stood in the orderly line with the others to go up the highest tower. We dutifully walked in a slow line up the dark spiral stairs. When we reached the top, we discovered the only thing to do was join the line of people at the top queuing up to go back down. The line snaked its way round the tower, so we did see the 360-degree-view from the top, but, only from the queue.

Somehow, I don’t imagine the same line scenarios going so well here.

Trying to guess the shortest, fastest gas line in the Costco two-pump lines. Which grocery store line will be the fastest—the shortest is not always the fastest. I won’t even dwell on the security lines at O’Hare and Midway.

Prophets spoke to the people of their day, but so much of what they said predicted Jesus, waiting, longing, their words promising.

My human heart waits for the love that is stronger than death. It waits, but it does not always wait well.

Jesus, we don’t come to you though the longing is undeniable. Instead, we become impatient and go on our way. We don’t want to wait for you. But out of the silence as we turned our eyes to other things, big and small, you came. You come. When we were far away, when we are far away, you came, you come.

Just as I am—without one plea,
Find rest in love prophets promised me,
They spoke of the one they could not see.
O Lamb of God, you came, you come.

Just as I am—and waiting not
Impatient with sin and my own rot
You love the whole deplorable lot—
O Lamb of God, you came, you come.

Just as I am—though tossed about
Your enemy me, I curse and shout
On my own I’m not clean within, without—
O Lamb of God, you came, you come.

Just as I am—poor, wretched, blind;
Seeking riches, fame, the enlightened mind,
In catacombs of self you redeem, you find—
O Lamb of God, you came, you come.

Just as you are—Incarnate divine,
Both God and man, bread and wine.
The fish-filled nets, in the dark you shine
O Lamb of God, you came, you come.

Just as you are—the demons flee
The storm is stilled, the blind can see;
To you alone all glory be—
O Lamb of God, you came, you come.

Just as you are—of that free love
The breadth, length, depth, and height above,
Here for a season, then above—
O Lamb of God, you came, you come!

Prelude to Joy, Joy, Joy by Lorraine Triggs

My beloved alma mater, Moody Bible Institute, introduced me to Flannery O’Connor (I remain forever indebted to Dr. Rosalie de Rosset for the introduction), but it didn’t offer college-level courses on William Shakespeare. I had to wait till I transferred to Wayne State University (Detroit, MI) for that.

Though hardly a Shakesperean scholar, I did wow the professor with my grasp of the playwright's English, no matter how archaic it was to the other students. After one class, my professor, who knew I was a transfer student, asked if I had studied the Bard at my other school.

Me: No.

Professor: Then why do you understand so much of his language?

Me: Uh, I read the Bible?

The version of the Bible I read at the time was the Kings James Version with its beautiful archaic language that expanded my vocabulary as it taught me the truths of Scripture, even with its thee-thou-thine language and canst and mayest.

With Advent beginning next Sunday, I canst overlook the begats of Matthew 1.

I used to wonder why Matthew used up seventeen verses with begats, and just didn’t start his gospel with the birth of Jesus. Patrick Schreiner posted on The Gospel Coalition site a few years back five reasons why Matthew begins with a genealogy: it summarizes the story of the Bible; it reminds us that this is a true story; it highlights Jesus’ inclusive family; it shows us God is faithful; and it displays Jesus as our only hope.

I would like to add a sixth reason to Schreiner's list. These seventeen verses are a prelude to the angel's "glad tidings of great joy" (per the KJV version of Luke's gospel). The genealogy clearly aligns Jesus precisely where he should be, but it also reminds everyone of generation after generation of faithful lives that fall short, people who are less than Messianic. In Matthew's prelude, Christmas joy has notes of severe testing, of fear and loneliness, of abuse and pain, and grief and loss . . . foreshadowing crucifixion and sealed tombs.

In his letter to scattered, homeless believers, James pushes all of us forward to glad tidings of great joy when he writes to “count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness.”

He surely also speaks to the people today who are in flight from birth country to another place of refuge or to people in lands of grief and sorrow looking for the strength to keep going. The darkness and silence between the testaments, yearning and groaning, the pain of childbirth in the place where animals find shelter and rest. Our brothers and sisters around the world facing terrible evils, yet Jesus is present in every sorrow, all hardships, Incarnation's understanding and presence, the Spirit bringing  hope where humanly there may not be any.

Joy and trials. Steadfastness and suffering, a mind-boggling prelude to the second Advent that will come as sure as the first one did with pure joy, joy, joy.

Salts of the Earth by Wil Triggs

The Lord Jesus said it. We are the salt of the earth.

And then he warned that we do not lose our saltiness and become good for nothing—left to be thrown out with the bread that’s gone moldy or the empty cans of diced tomatoes, dog food and tuna fish.
 
Salt of the earth serves as a preservative, to help stave off rot and keep the world from going bad, to help us keep the world if not fresh, at least unspoiled for a while. Maybe we are even called to be a sort of irritant, astringent, to be the salt that stings a wound but helps it heal. Ouch. That hurt, but it’s going to be good for me in the long run. These Christians can annoy but they help balance out the rest of heathen humanity and slow our slide toward hell on earth, not to mention the more eternal version.
 
Like the varied types, colors and grains of salt, so are the people of God. So indulge me and let's go some different directions.
 
Table salt is the salt we’ve all grown up with—the one in the round blue box and the umbrella holding girl. It’s always there in the cupboard, waiting to be noticed.
 
One man I know feels most comfortable with the down and out, with the mentally ill. He has the ability to understand and care for them. He relates to them without discomfort or alarm after many years of being with them. He points them to Jesus when he can. He sees God’s Creator hand on them. Salt goes to the common places.
 
Kosher salt is what I use when I want to turn cucumbers into pickles.
 
Another man I know is starting to visit men in jails and hopes to tell them about Jesus and how he can turn shattered hearts into new creations.
 
Pink Himalayan salt is pink. It is saltier than regular table salt. We have a lamp made from it. I think you can pay money to sit in a room where the walls are lined with it, not sure what that's supposed to do but this kind of salt is a thing.
 
Another friend had hip replacement surgery. The day afterwards, she climbed up the stairs of her home. She did not pass out. That was all she could do that day. The next day, she brought art to show in our upcoming art gallery. I won't name her, but if you come to the new show, she's the one with the photograph of all the deer in the snow and no, it's not PhotoShopped.
 
Grey salt, or celtic sea salt is thought to help with blood pressure. I’m not sure if I believe it.
 
One of our STARS writes out a book of the Bible by hand. A whole book. If he makes a mistake, he stars over from the beginning of the book. Imagine the sense of accomplishment when he reaches the end. What a refreshing interaction with God’s Word.
 
Flake salt is big and crunchy, an especially welcome addition to a salad or a sweet where a pinch of salt and texture might add another element.
 
One missionary friend of mine wrote this week to say that some of his colleagues are fleeing or trapped in areas with active airstrikes from fighter jets and regular artillery shelling. One city is seeing particularly heavy fighting, but the situation around the country is changing daily. Northern Shan State, where this recent wave of battles began, has also seen widespread fighting. There seems to be a higher level of active fighting in all of the ethnic minority areas.
 
I don’t know what to say about fleur de sel (flower of the salt). It is somehow harvested from the ocean. It might be called the ultimate flake salt. For most of us, salt is salt, but this one is a finishing salt. When sprinkled on a cookie or a cooked egg, it brings its own flavor to the food. At least that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve never tried it. Too expensive and hard to find, I've never experienced this one.

So many salts, such a big world. May God bless us and use us today.
 
Present at creation, Jesus knows his salt. He’s made every kind of salt there is, from the common to the expensive. As his salt of the earth, he wants to shake us out to flavor the world with grace and truth.  

Bulk Buying by Lorraine Triggs

You never know what you’ll discover at Costco. One week it’s fall bulbs packaged in bags of 50; the next week, 425 Clorox wipes. And who knew that you needed 4.6 pounds of Walker’s shortbread if it were not for Costco. Such a service-oriented company.

My latest Costco discovery wasn’t in-store or online, but in print in its membership magazine. My discovery? World Kindness Week begins on Monday. Apparently, World Kindness Week came about when several humanitarian organizations came together on November 13, 1997, to promote “kindness in society.” The Random Acts of Kindness Foundation (yes, it’s a real thing) has its own ideas of promoting kindness—uplifting texts, buying coffee for a stranger or even yourself or letting the other driver merge into traffic with a friendly wave.

It’s a sad commentary on society that we need to promote kindness.

It’s an even sadder commentary on society that we seem to promote meanness instead, be it in posts, protests or in person. Too bad I can’t just make a Costco run and buy kindness in bulk, or hand it out like a free sample. I’d even make one of the bright yellow demo arrows: “Sampling today—kindness.”

Last Sunday, kindness didn’t come in bulk to me. It came by way of five-year-old Annabelle.

During large group time, I typically sit in a grown-up chair that provides an excellent view of wiggles and wayward feet pushing the person’s chair in front of them. This past Sunday, my grown-up chair and I were the only ones in my row.

Enter Annabelle. “Mrs. Triggs, can I sit with you?”

I took a quick glance at the girls she was leaving, but, no, everyone was fine. “Why of course, Annabelle, just bring your chair over.”

Annabelle settled in next to me, and we happily sang together and then listened to the Bible story teaching. I was no longer the only one in my row.

When Annabelle’s mother picked her up, I told her about Annabelle’s kindness and how fun it was to sit with her, but this sweet little story goes deeper than that. The next day, Annabelle’s father told me that she thought Mrs. Triggs looked lonely so she decided to sit with me.

World Kindness Week has nothing on tenderhearted Annabelle—and less than nothing on the kindness and tenderness of Jesus. Kindness, according to the prophet Isaiah, that would not break a bruised reed or quench a faintly burning wick (see Isaiah 42:20). Both bruised reed and faintly burning wick are barely holding on, barely noticeable . . . except by Jesus.

It makes gospel sense that Matthew is the one who recorded that Jesus fulfilled this prophecy of Isaiah’s (see Matthew 12). Matthew who lived life on the outside, and probably wasn’t the recipient of much kindness from God’s people. Then Jesus noticed him, maybe Matthew looked lonely.

Matthew took up Jesus’ invitation to follow him back to his house with other tax collectors and sinners. He took up Jesus' offer to follow him to the cross, the grave, the skies, because Jesus’ kindness—his mercy—transformed Matthew forever.

Gospel kindness will do that to a heart, making it tender to bruised reeds and flickering lights, outsiders and the lonely. And instead of offering a once-a-year sampling of kindness, it offers an invitation to a feast, an invitation to taste and see that the Lord is good.

Empty Jars by Wil Triggs

Our church has its share of widows and widowers. You might not realize it because some of them have remarried, and others are such vibrant servers of Jesus and College Church that widowhood gets forgotten. But a loss that deep is never forgotten—no matter how well adjusted to this new life or even a new spouse. Some of the people I most admire in our church are people in such a circumstance.
 
It’s not only our church, but the Bible itself that has a good number of people who have lost spouses. Think Ruth, Abigail, Tamar, the widow at Zarapheth, Anna, the widow who dropped all her coins in the offering box.
 
When my mother became a widow, she moved out of our house into an apartment that didn’t remind her of my dad. There were things ahead for my mom, but she felt she had to move out.
 
Think of the nameless widow of 2 Kings 4. Her husband, a prophet, died leaving her with two children and a mountain of debt she could not pay. She told Elisha. They talked. She explained to him that she had only one jar of oil in her home. So, Elisha gave her something to do. He said to her:
 
“Go outside, borrow vessels from all your neighbors, empty vessels and not too few. Then go in and shut the door behind yourself and your sons and pour into all these vessels. And when one is full, set it aside.” (vv. 3b-4)
 
This became a family project. She and her sons collecting empty jars from their community. What did the people think she was up to? Let’s go ahead and give her the empty jars. Some surely acted from pity. That crazy old widow. Just give her the jars. The debt collectors will soon be at her door, so let’s give her what she wants and be done with it.
 
And the widow? She was doing what Elisha had instructed her to do. And when she and her boys had exhausted all their neighborhood resources and gathered them all, they closed the doors of their home and got to work.
 
It was then that the oil flowed. I imagine a little assembly line—a son brings an empty jar, she fills it, he or his brother brings another empty jar, she fills it, he brings another. Until every last jar was filled. Somehow, she filled every one of the jars with oil, but it wasn’t her. It was God.
 
What next?
 
“Go, sell the oil and pay your debts, and you and your sons can live on the rest,” Elisha directed her.
 
God saw her, and he sees each one of us. We think our jars are full, but really without him, they are empty and dry, and we don’t have enough of them to do any good anyway. Or maybe because of circumstances, we see emptiness. Sometimes, even with him, our jars can be empty. Losing someone opens our eyes to the emptiness we sometimes face.
 
Only God fills emptiness with oil or water with wine or a lunch multiplied to feed thousands. I think of all the friends who live with great loss. I stand with them. I see God’s hand caring for and sustaining them and using me and others in the church to stand with them.
 
James reminds us that "religion that is pure and undefiled before God the Father is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world." (James 1:27) And then this comes across my desk from Voice of the Martyrs about a Christian woman in Laos.
 
Widowed Christian Threatened with Loss of Home
La and her husband became Christians while seeking a cure for his illness. Though he died three months later, they remained faithful due to the love and care they received from their brothers and sisters in Christ. In 2020, her daughter married a nonbeliever, and her son-in-law moved into her house. He practices animism, making offerings to spirits and trying to force his mother-in-law to do the same. He threw away La’s Bible and tries to keep her from practicing her Christian faith. In June, La’s son-in-law and daughter told her they would kick her out of the house if she continued to follow Christ. La continues to listen to Christian radio and receives encouragement from the church.

She asks for prayer for her current situation. “No matter what will happen to me . . .I will not leave God. I have hope that one day I could meet my husband again in the kingdom of God, and I will meet my God, too.”
 
Let our prayers be the empty jars we give to our sister La. Every day with Jesus is a miracle. She knows that and will not turn away. May our faith be like hers. Comfort comes from the God of all comfort. Rescue or not. We are the family of La.
 
Search for all the empty jars, all that you can gather and find. And then, you, Lord, fill them with stone-pressed oil that we might live and know. Fill the jars with water so fine, you will turn it into the finest wine.
 
Sing the triumph of the empty jars
borrowed from neighbors next door.
Filled to the top with precious oil
to feed, to soothe and calm,
oil fashioned into anointing balm,
oil to cook, some to infuse,
somehow there is no dross.
We marvel at this heavenly sauce;
we marvel at your created cross,
sweet mingling of love and loss.
From your shadow we will not hide,
ever always you do not forget;
you always see,
always provide,
always cover every debt.

Sin and Sensibility by Lorraine Triggs

As we cleaned out our mother’s house, my two sisters and I were delighted to discover that our mom kept our kindergarten artwork, in triplicate because we had the same teacher, Mrs. Compton.

My oldest sib’s drawing of the circus tent was probably an exact copy of Mrs. Compton—that oldest sibling thing and all. At the bottom of her drawing, my sister printed neatly, “The circus.”

My middle sister’s drawing of the circus tent reflected the future nurse in her: evenly spaced stripes and precise colors. Her caption: “The circus.” No mistaking it for anything else.

Then there was me. If our mother squinted hard enough, she could make out “The cirgus” her creative and future editor daughter drew and captioned. We also admired the two “The Christmas Angel” drawings, and the one “Christmas Angle.”  No need to give credit where credit is due.

Such are the true confessions of an editor—I am not a good speller. I don’t trust myself or even spellcheck. I do have, however, a sense of when a word doesn’t look right to me, and I turn to the experts and their online dictionaries.

There are times I wish had a better sense of my sins or, more accurately, enough sense not to attribute sin to a mistake or burnout or a lapse in judgment.

It’s too late for Anaias and Sapphira to wish they had a better sense of their sin such as “Stop. What are we thinking? Don’t bury the proceeds. Don't lie about it to look better than you are."” Instead, Ananias and Sapphira stand in stark contrast to Barnabas’ generosity. Act 4 closes with Barnabas who sold “a field that belonged to him and laid it at the apostles’ feet,” and Acts 5 opens with a deadly property transaction.

It’s astonishing and sobering how quickly we can become de-sensitized to sin, and while it still doesn’t look right, it also doesn’t lookthatwrong. I go on my merry way, gossiping, grumbling, excluding, or excusing any number of okay sins. In a weird way, I am like Ananias and Sapphira, in that I bury some of my sins rather than unearth them and lay them at Jesus’ feet.

When I do consult the expert’s Word, I am overwhelmed (as always) with the beautiful paradox of God’s grace and my sins. It’s this paradox the psalmist sings about in Psalm 130, “If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand? But with you there is forgiveness, that you may be feared. . . O Israel, hope in the Lord! For with the Lord there is steadfast love, and with him is plentiful redemption.” (verses 3, 7)

It’s when I have the good sense not to bury my sin, but dump it all—good, bad and indifferent—at Jesus’ feet, that I am forgiven. After all, it was Christ who died, was buried and rose again, holding nothing back to redeem a lost world, a lost me.