Ruminations

Through Jairus' Eyes by Dawn Morrow

I pen these words to you today, beloved, hoping that you will read them, and know that without Him, there would be no you. I can hear you outside singing now, as you play. Who would have guessed, after seeing you so sick earlier that you would be so lively now?  But I get ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning.

We celebrated your twelfth birthday just a few weeks ago. You were so excited! And your mother and I are seeing our only little girl grow up before our eyes. Next year you will be a woman! It will not be long until I give you in marriage. But this year, you are still a girl, and you played like one on your birthday, giggling and playing with your friends. The next day you came to us and said you didn't feel well. We thought that all of the excitement had tired you out, and we put you to bed, expecting you to wake up animated again. But you didn’t. Your mother was worried, and we called in the doctor, but he said there was nothing he could do. We could only watch as your fever worsened, and your delirium increased. I prayed and fasted, and called in more doctors, but still, you got worse. There was nothing I could do, and I felt so helpless. I cried out to the Lord for a miracle, but there was only silence. They said you were dying. Beloved, I was not ready for you to leave this life. There is so much you have not experienced, and so much I want you to see.

This morning, when I had almost given up hope, I heard about a man. He has been gaining fame in the region, known for his miracles, and for his authoritative teaching on the scriptures. I had heard the stories of how he healed a paralytic. And just a few weeks ago we heard tell of how he had spoken just a word and healed the servant of a well-known Roman. He did not even enter the house! Maybe... maybe he could also heal you. I heard that he was crossing the lake that very day. In fact, his boat had been spotted and a crowd was already gathering to welcome him. So I left to go seek out this man, this Jesus, and ask him to help you. I arrived at the shore to find a crowd pushing forward to see him. I stood on my toes, but I could see nothing. I paced around the perimeter of the crowd, trying to get to him.,but there were too many people. I was growing more frantic by the moment. Just when I was ready to give up, the crowd shifted, and I saw him. Only a glimpse, but enough to renew my hope. He didn't look like a miracle man, but I had heard the stories, and I knew that the one who stood before me was my only hope. I pushed through the crowd and threw myself at his feet crying. "Please! Please! My little girl is only 12 - just turned 12 - and she is dying. The doctors can do nothing, and I have heard that you can heal. Please come to her. If you will not, there is no hope." My sorrow and fear overwhelmed me and I lay at his feet weeping. Jesus reached down and took my hand and gently helped me to my feet. I could see the compassion in his eyes as he said, "I will come." Never before have such simple words filled me with such hope! Surely, if he came, you would be healed! But time was short, and we had to hurry, for you were worsening, and even as I left the house the mourners were beginning to gather.

I set off toward the house at a rapid pace, but we had only gone a few steps when Jesus stopped. "Who touched me?" he asked. All around him people denied it.

"Who touched you?" I thought. "There are hundreds of people pressing all around us and you want to know who touched you? There is no time for this, my daughter is dying! If we don't get back soon it will be too late." I had barely finished my silent thoughts when Peter, one of Jesus' friends, spoke them aloud. "Master, the crowds surround you and press in on you."

"Yes!” I thought. “Now Jesus will see how foolish this is and we can continue on." But that was not his response.

"Someone touched me; for I noticed that power had gone out from me." Jesus continued to scan the faces of those in the crowd looking for the one who had touched him. And suddenly a murmur passed through the crowd and I saw a woman move timidly forward. She fell at his feet, tears streaming from her eyes, and began to tell her story.

"For twelve years," she sobbed, "I have been bleeding. I have not been able to do many of the things I used to do. So many times I have wanted to be in the temple to worship, and I couldn’t, because I was unclean. I have spent all I have on doctors, but not one has been able to help me. Then I heard about you. People said that you were able to heal."

Her story was much like mine. She, too, was at the end of hope, and she, too, had heard of the healer. But today I had no patience for her story. Time was passing and soon it would be too late. I glanced up at the sky to see how much the sun had moved since I had left the house. How much longer did I have? Not much longer. I shifted from foot to foot, and cleared my throat hoping to get Jesus' attention and remind him that he was supposed to be coming with me.

But Jesus was focused on this woman listening intently to her story, his eyes never straying from her. "I knew that you would be coming today-- I saw you in the boat." she continued. "I had to try. I had to try to reach you. But... but I am - I was - unclean. I am - I was - not allowed to be in a crowd for fear that I would defile those around me. There were people surrounding you everywhere so I stood back and watched you get out of your boat. I thought if I could only touch you... even just your robe... I might be healed. So I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled through the crowd.  Then I reached out for you. My fingertips only brushed against edge of your robe, and immediately I knew the bleeding had stopped. I only touched the tassel of your robe, and the thing that had plagued me for twelve years, the thing that no doctor could cure, was stopped in an instant. I tried to crawl back out of the crowd when I heard you calling for the one who had touched you, and I knew it had to be me."  She bowed her head as her voice trailed off.

I again glanced nervously at the sun, noting its progress. "Can't this woman speak faster?" I thought. I cleared my throat again and tried to motion to Peter to encourage the teacher to move on. Peter did not respond. I subtly tugged on the sleeve of Jesus' robe to remind him that I was still here, but he did not seem to notice. Instead, he kneeled in front of the woman and raised her head so that he could look into her eyes. He said to her, "Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace."

"Daughter! Jesus! What about my daughter?" I opened my mouth to speak these words when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see my friend, Joseph, with tears coursing down his face. Immediately my heart twisted.

"Your daughter is dead; do not trouble the teacher any longer."

The sound of my heart breaking became audible as I fell to my knees wailing. "Why?" I sobbed. "He said he would heal her. He said he was coming. Why did we have to stop? We could have made it in time."

Jesus, who had heard Joseph's words, turned to me and said, "Do not fear. Only believe, and she will be saved." His words sparked hope in the depths of my soul. Could it be that this man was capable of overcoming death? Could it be that he could not only heal the sick, but also raise the dead? I had known the stories of the prophets from the time I was young: how Elijah had raised the widow's son, and Elisha the Shunammite's son. But those were prophets of long ago. Could Jesus be as powerful as Elijah was?

I rose slowly to my feet and followed Jesus toward the house. We could hear the keening of the mourners before they ever came into view. When we arrived, we found people surrounding the house, weeping and crying out, and again tears flowed from my eyes. "Do not fear..." His words echoed in my mind as we entered the house. Only three of his followers, Peter, James, and John, and your mother and I were allowed to go with him. At the door he turned and called to the people mourning outside, "Do not weep; for she is not dead but sleeping." I heard the laughter through the walls. What a ridiculous thing to say! They knew the difference between dead and sleeping.

We entered the room where they had laid your body, and I approached your side and touched your cool, feverless cheek, grieving that I had not been there when you died. Jesus came up beside me and took your hand. "Child, get up!" My mouth, I am sure, dropped open as you immediately got up. Jesus presented you to us saying, "Give her something to eat. And tell no one what happened." In the confusion that followed, Jesus left before I could thank him. I've heard that he is on his way to Jerusalem. I hope he will pass through again on his return trip, and we can see him again. I would like to thank him properly for giving you back to me.

So, my daughter, this is the story of how Jesus gave you a new life. When it was hopeless, he brought us hope. And every time I look at you I remember how he did more than what I asked - I asked for healing and he brought resurrection. I remember also the woman he healed in the crowd, and that her encounter was life-changing and I got to witness it. I suppose that I will see her in the temple courts now, and when I do, I will be reminded that his timing was perfect, even when I thought we needed to move faster. I pray that you will someday meet Jesus, and that meeting will once again change your life, even as it has changed mine today.

Shalom,

Papa

The theology of "Last Kiss"

The lyrics of "Last Kiss" (J. Frank Wilson & the Cavaliers, 1964 release) have been knocking around in my head the last 24 hours.  Not sure why.  The chorus goes like this:

"Oh where oh where can my baby be
The Lord took her away from me
She's gone to heaven so I got to be good
So I can see my baby when I leave this world"

It ain't good theology, but it did have a beat.  And a sad narrative.  Kid on a date...daddy's car...they didn't get very far...rainy night...squealing tires...You get the drift.  One final goodbye kiss, then the call to be good for the next 70 years, so "...I can see my baby when I leave this world."

When we're honest, we know it's impossible to be good for seven hours, never mind 70 years.  Good as in "good enough."  Good enough to be acceptable to a perfect God.  But we still want to believe it, don't we?

I do.  When I was a child, I liked "Last Kiss."  I'm supposed to have put aside childish things many years ago, yet there are still times when I live by the beat and lyrics of that 1964 vinyl.  To just be good enough.  To get the ball of my salvation across the celestial goal line.  To contribute to God's grace by toting up some good deeds as an input to my redemption.

There's a popular misconception about Christ, and what his atonement really means.  And it plays exactly to what the human head wants to believe, the theology of Last Kiss.  It goes like this:  "Christ did a lot."  Christ did a lot.  Sounds like gospel, but it ain't.  "Christ did a lot" means just that--He did a lot, but not quite enough.  There's still space remaining for my own dollop of performance to get me square with God.  Sounds appealing...perfectly suited to what we want to hear, to believe...but a lie all the same. 

As Randy Pope reminds us in The Answer, Christ did it all.  Not just a lot.  Our role is simple...accept that truth.  Accept Him.  And then live out of that truth.

When I am moving to my Last Kiss rhythm, I can see the angels looking down.  "Give it a break, man.  Stop trying to rewrite the gospel, for heaven's sake.  Just accept the good news, and rest in Him."  Imagine all the space, energy and ego that would free up in my head--and my heart--if I actually did just rest in Him.  My savior.  My King.   

And put aside those childish things.

Chris Joyce

Witnessing supernovae

Astronomers are excited.  One of their own captured the death of a star.  A star that died 88 million years ago.  There's an explanation of this discovery on PBS's website, as reported in The News Hour with Jim Lehrer (May 21, 2008).

For the Christian, there's a macro story here.  About God's creativity, His power, and His timelessness.  The majesty of His creative act demonstrated once again for all to see.  The three-part narrative of creation, destruction and redemption.

There's also a micro story.  I don't think it's too big a stretch to see the parallel between the creative destruction of a star and the creative destruction of an individual.  A person created in the image of his maker.

Think about the parallels with your own life.  Your own little supernova.  The creative act that you represent.  The reality that this creative act of God, although visible to you and all those around you for only a few generations, was in His mind's eye more than 88 million years ago.

Think about the energy we each have expended—the fuel we have consumed—pursuing our own particular appetites.  The bright flame of our own desires.  The supernova is a resource hog, consuming itself in its nuclear furnace.  Everything is fuel to its insatiable appetite.  That rings a bell for many of us, regarding our original earthly condition.

Another interesting thing about supernovae.  Iron.  If there's iron in the core, the star is poised for disaster.  Just a question of time.  It cannot get any more energy out of iron.  No more nuclear fusion.  Eventually the star collapses within, then explodes.  With a big bang. 

Think about the iron in our own heart, before we inhaled the gospel.  Recall how dense that old heart was?  Remember the weight of it?  The sensation of being about to explode? 

That weight, that burden of a heavy, hard, iron heart, is only removed by the cross.  It can only be broken down...melted...and then removed by the work of the Holy Spirit.  Otherwise, that iron—besides the slow poisoning that occurs daily—will eventually implode, and we will explode.  Also with a big bang.      

Final point.  Just like the invisible x-rays that precede the visible event, our own gracious quickening by the Holy Spirit is invisible at first.  It takes time for us (and others) to see the impact of His hand.  The visible evidence lags the gracious event.

But ultimately, it is visible.  For all to see.

Chris Joyce

 

The parallax problem

Sunday night.  Sonship.  Week 14. Lifestyle forgiveness is the topic.  Among our group of thirty.  Discussing the parable of the wicked servant in Matthew 18.  Zeroing in on verses 32-34:   

"Then the master called the servant in. 'You wicked servant,' he said, 'I canceled all that debt of yours because you begged me to.  Shouldn't you have had mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?'  In anger his master turned him over to the jailers to be tortured, until he should pay back all he owed."

True confessions.  I've read those verses many times, but that was the first time I saw myself as the wicked servant.  And the first time I heard the master, the king of creation, addressing me as "you wicked servant..."

It was a signal truth event.  You know what I mean.  One of those times when the pin comes out of the gospel grenade, which then explodes...right in your face.  "He's talking to me," I realize.  Me.  Not that guy over there.  Not one of the people on my sanctified hit list, perpetrators of hurt against my favorite person in the world.  No.  It's me.  I'm the wicked servant, with my grip on the other fellow's neck.  Choking him.

How do we read over those passages that drip such meaning, yet miss the point?  It's a perspective problem.  Parallax.  We position ourselves with the author—God in this case—and join Him in looking askance at the shabby performance of His creatures.  As if we're seated in a celestial skybox, watching the game being played below.  Through His all seeing eyes, instead of our own myopia.   

Sin is the object that the text demands us to laser in on.  Our sin. My sin.  Especially my failure to forgive others.  If I can't do that, what does it say about my appreciation of the forgiveness I have personally received?  Before we can claim the redemptive power of the cross, we need to first claim our absolute need of a savior.  From ourselves.  So we can cling ever tighter to the cross.  Empty handed.  Begging for mercy.  Thankful for the scapegoated Christ.

Instead, we too often imagine ourselves seated next to the Father, looking down on the wickedness of the other.  Keeping score.  Settling accounts.  Demanding justice.

Exactly where I found myself last Sunday night.  Reminded once again how much I have been forgiven.  As the gospel explodes.  The truth shrapnel goes deep.  But, thank you Lord, while it's a serious wound, it isn't terminal.  Your grace transfusion again revives me.    

Chris Joyce

Energy dependence

"In every encounter we either give life or we drain it.  There is no neutral exchange.  We enhance human dignity, or we diminish it.  The success or failure of a given day is measured by the quality of our interest and compassion toward those around us..." (Sonship, page 165)

True confessions.  I suffer from measurement righteousness.  Having spent three decades in the business arena designing measurement and incentive systems, I am a measurement freak.  Balanced scorecards, key metrics, the voice of the customer, KSIs, whatever—Joyce is the name and measuring performance was the game.  And I enjoyed it.  No.  I loved it.  A wonderful intellectual challenge, that attempt to reduce all those millions of transactions—calls, complaints, payments, losses, minutes—and distill them into a limited, meaningful set of measures.

Next, enter the Christian.  I came to faith later in life, and my measurement affinity came with me.  And here I stand, taking Sonship again.  And I come across the quote cited above.  And it stimulates my measuring glands.  Here we have a crisp, actionable, measurable statement about the Christian experience on a day-to-day basis.  One transaction at a time.

And of course, I immediately ask myself the question: "OK, Chris.  Here you have a world-class opportunity.  Are you giving or draining life in your day-to-day interaction with the kingdom of God that surrounds you?  Are your individual transactions with your fellow beings (all created in God's image, BTW) giving or taking energy?  At the end of the day, if we toted up the thousand or so transactions that you've had with your wife, children, workmates, neighbors, and the broader mass of society that you swim in, what would your life giving quotient be?  Would it be positive?  Neutral?  Could it be negative?"

As a Christian, I believe that the life-giving energy plant within me is fueled by the Holy Spirit.  I'm not energy independent, and I never will be.  It's not my own energy, my own spiritual caloric intake that feeds that power plant.  No, it's a direct feed from the Creator of the universe.  Supplied by a very efficient transmission system.  There are no long transmission lines between heaven and me, no need for energy repeaters across that infinite distance.  This is a direct feed, infused one-on-one by the Spirit of God.  Right into my heart.

It's that energy plant that allows me—no, requires me—to "give life" to others.  So it's very reasonable to expect that my CEQ...my Christian Energy Quotient... should be greater than 1.0 on a regular basis.  Said another way, if we look at all of my interactions with others across a reasonable timeframe, I should be giving out more energy than I am taking in from those interactions.

One way to measure this would be to ask those around us "How am I doing?"  Your friends and family and workmates and fellow worshipers, and cabdrivers and check out clerks and service station attendants and babysitters... do they, on average, experience each of us Christians as a person that is giving life?

An interesting measurement opportunity.

Chris Joyce

Three

"Three" has a particular resonance.  Something in the human brain, I suspect.  Three. 

Three legs to the stool.  Three acts in the play.  Three points to the sermon. 

Three.  It's all around us.  In history.  Caesar's words to the Roman Senate ("I came, I saw, I...looked for an exit;" In business.  "We listen.  We learn.  We lead."  At church:  "We connect.  We grow.  We serve."   

Three. 

Take the story of mankind.  A three act play: Creation.  Fall.  Redemption.

Let's rifle that in a bit.  Take your own story.  If you had to write an autobiography of up to three chapters, starting with creation, would you be able to start Chapter Three, "I am redeemed"?

Or would your pen stop in Chapter Two, "My Fall"? 

Everybody has at least two chapters in their biography.  We have all been created, and we all have fallen. 

Some people could write Chapter Three in the first person.  They believe they are redeemed, and they live out that belief.  One day at a time.  With joy, despite toil and trouble.  In hope, knowing they are redeemed.  Confident that they know the plot...and the ending.   

Some folks would start Chapter Three, but quickly suffer writer's block.  They don't have the first person experience of living out of that redemptive belief.  They understand it intellectually, not experientially.  Chapter Three doesn't get beyond good theology.

How about you?  What about me?  What Chapter are we living in?  What Chapter are we writing?  Is our narrative stuck in Chapter Two, our experience of the Fall?  Is our prose crisp and first person when we describe the hope, the promise we live in?

Go ahead...call the question.  Of yourself.  A question of real consequence. 

"What Chapter am I living?" 

If you discover you're living Chapter Two, cheer up.  There's an exit strategy...a bridging statement to move into Chapter Three, "My Road Home."

Try "I believe...cure me of my unbelief." (Mark 9:24)

Chris Joyce

         

If you're not a visitor, you're a greeter

"For I was a stranger and you invited me in..."  (Matthew 25:35). 

Do you recall ever being a stranger?  The new kid on that first day of school?  That first day on a new job?  The new family on the block?

Remember how awkward it felt?  We've all been there.  That hesitancy before we make that first approach.  The sense of being on the outside, looking in.  Everyone else is connected, yet there we stand, untethered from the dynamic relationships that swirl around us. 

If you're introverted like me, it feels doubly awkward.  Down right uncomfortable.  My "flight" genes get active, pushing me towards the exit.

Believe it or not, this also happens at church.  That's right—even within the community of faith, we can feel like the stranger.  Think back to when you first crossed the threshold at 2405 Russell Road.  Maybe that was ten years ago, or maybe ten weeks.  Those initial visits felt awkward.

APC strives to be a welcoming community.  But let's face it...that's been more challenging lately.  God's blessed us with many visitors, thank you Lord!  But with that crop of new people comes a challenge for each of us. 

To make those visitors welcome.  To make them believe that they may be new, but they are not strangers.  And that we may be friendly with each other, but those circles of conversation that they see in the Fellowship Hall are not exclusive.

Next time you're in the Fellowship Hall, take a look around.  Look for a new face, a detached individual or couple who appear to be new.  I say "appear" because you may be surprised at how long they have been attending.  Break out of your typical orbit, cross the room and greet them.

If you're looking for clues on where to look, start at the coffee table.  That guy over-stirring his coffee.  The woman looking around, establishing her exit path.  No luck?  Then glide over to the missionary map on the north wall.  See that couple overly-absorbed in studying the map?  It's a good bet they're not regulars.  Give them a live, local missionary to interact with. 

Feeling less than confident in your own relationship prowess?  Not to worry.  Look to the role model we have.  God closed the relational distance between his people and himself by sending His Son across an infinite distance. 

That should give us all the confidence we need to cross the room.

Chris Joyce

Plausiblilty construct

"I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you."  (John13:15)

Ever wonder what your life stands for?  If you got hit by that speeding beer truck as you cross the street tomorrow, what narrative would result from those years spent walking this earth? 

In my case, I hope to be remembered as a follower of Jesus Christ.  Not only in name.  Also in deed.

Indeed.

We all want to be remembered fondly, desiring family, friends and workmates to recall us with favor.  Skeptics suggest that explains our good deeds.  They're simply an attempt to curry favor with others, ultimately to secure our self-interest.  Like making sure no one says nasty things at our wake, or knocks over the tombstone.

But for any good deeds resulting from my life, I want them to be remembered as outcomes, not as inputs.  The outcome of a grateful heart.  Not inputs to secure my reputation, adoration, or my salvation.

I want there to be visible proof of the gospel's impact on my life.  That I was a man created in the image of God.  That I was a fallen man, fraught with what we label "issues" in polite company and "sin" when we are honest.  Finally, I want others to see God's redemptive impact on my heart.  The manifestation of that divine hand should be apparent, according to what I believe.

My life story should be an obvious three-part narrative of creation, fall and redemption.  The product of that redemptive grace must be visible.  A changed focus, away from self.  A changed heart, one that is grateful for all that it has been gifted.  A changed life, which represents a "demonstration project" for the Master of the universe.  So that He gets the credit.

My father once told me a joke about a farmer.  He was bragging to the local pastor about all that he (the farmer, that is) had accomplished with a particular patch of land.  Finally, the frustrated Reverend interrupts him, asking "Didn't God have anything to do with it?"

"Sure, but you should have seen the place when God was running it."

Those who know me well also know how well my life was functioning when I thought I was in charge.  If you notice any positive change over time, I'm glad, because that's evidence of a loving God putting His hand on me.

Chris Joyce

 

The realization principle

Accountants have principles that guide their actions.  One of the most important is "realization," which addresses how we recognize completion of a particular transaction.  Failure to follow this realization principle is at the root of many of the Technicolor corporate collapses of the last decade, including Enron, WorldCom and a host of others.  Simply stated, those companies recognized profits prematurely...long before they were "realized."  It's like looking at the car in your driveway and claiming it's all yours, and forgetting about the amount you still owe the credit union.  Or looking at next month's paycheck, and claiming it as income today.  You won't earn next month's pay until you work for it next month, so treating it as income today is just kidding yourself.  And yes, those companies did kid themselves—and others—on a multimillion dollar scale.  No kidding.

Let's switch from the balance sheet of dollars and cents to a review of our spiritual balance sheet.  And the realization principle.  Let's apply it to our relationship with God.  Put on that spiritual eyeshade, sharpen that mystical pencil and roll up those sleeves.  It's time for a meeting with your CSA—your Certified Spiritual Accountant. 

Let's start with an example.  Take a look at Philippians 3:4-6. In three verses, Paul lays out his own spiritual balance sheet prior to his experience on the Damascus Road.  And what a balance sheet he reports—a Hebrew of Hebrews, a Pharisee, faultless in his application of the Mosaic law, a zealot in his persecution of the early church.  In fact, Paul ticks off six major spiritual assets he thought he'd built up in his pre-Christian days.  He was the exemplar of the high performance Hebrew.  A perfect resume.  A rich balance sheet in his own eyes and, no doubt, in the eyes of those around him.

Funny thing about accounting.  Every transaction requires at least two entries.  That's why it's called double-entry.  Debits and credits.  And they have to be in balance.  Let's consider Paul's pre-Christ balance sheet.  He listed the assets above.  Suffice it to say he was "asset rich" by his own accounting.  Let's recognize Paul's self reported spiritual assets by a big, fat debit of 1 million spiritual merits. 

That completes half of our journal entry.  Now we have a decision:  where do we book the credit?  There are two alternatives.  As CSA, we turn around and ask Paul the key question, the one that determines where that 1 million credit entry will go.  "Paul, about that 1 million...do you have to do anything more to earn it?  Or is it yours for good?"

If Paul says it's a done deal, then we put an entry of 1 million spiritual merits against Paul's equity.  "Congratulations, Paul.  You are spiritually rich."  He need do nothing more.  They're all his.

If, however, Paul tells us he still has to perform to keep those spiritual merits, we should put the offsetting entry as a liability.  When we look at Paul's pre-Christian life, I believe that's where he would've put the entry.  The liability account might have been labeled "Continued performance that I owe God."  Paul wasn't at the point (before the Damascus Road) where he was going to rest on his merit, or anyone else's.  He was in performance mode.  Any spiritual merit he thought he'd accrued was conditional on future performance. 

Let's fast-forward to Paul as author of Philippians.  Chapter 3:7-9.  Here's what Paul says about the entries to his spiritual balance sheet after he encountered the risen Christ:

"But whatever was to my profit I now consider loss for the sake of Christ.  What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things.  I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having the righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ—the righteousness that comes from God and is by faith."

If I was Paul's CSA, and he showed up at the bazaar to talk to me about his new faith, here are the entries I would've made on his spiritual balance sheet:

First, write off his 1 million in spiritual merit.  Why?  Because he's told me they're worthless.  All those good works that he had built up as a Hebrew of Hebrews were "rubbish."  That's pretty clear.  So Paul's balance sheet at that moment has a big fat zero in assets.  He is spiritually insolvent.  Bankrupt. 

But that's not the end of the story.  Paul tells us in verse nine that there's a new asset on his balance sheet.  He's labeled it "the righteousness that comes from God and is by faith."  In fact, he goes one better, and identifies the author of that righteousness—Jesus Christ.  So, as CSA, I create a new asset category, called "The righteousness of Christ."  And I debit Paul with Christ's earned righteousness.  There's a lot of zeros attached to that virtual entry, since what Paul is telling us is that the righteousness of God's Son has been imputed to him.  He's a spiritual billionaire.

Remember.  Every transaction has at least two entries.  So Paul gets this big asset on his balance sheet through the work of his Savior.  Now where do we book the credit entry? 

The only way to answer that question is for us to ask Paul if that righteousness is conditional.  If it is—if he has to perform flawlessly to keep it—then there's an equal and offsetting liability, called "future performance."  Said another way, as long Paul keeps God happy, Paul keeps the asset.  Once he displeases God, God starts writing down the asset.  His righteousness is still to be realized--not realized as of now.  An economist might say that Paul has an "option" on salvation, but that option has not yet matured.

Alternatively, if that righteousness that has been imputed to Paul because of Christ's work is permanent, then there is no remaining liability.  Paul has assurance that the asset that has been gifted to him is, in fact, his.  He has all legal right to it.  There are no future claims that can be made against it.  He can present his spiritual balance sheet to God the Father as his own.  He is no longer bankrupt.  In fact, he is a wealthy man—the wealthiest man in the universe.  Because his balance sheet, his spiritual credit rating, is the same as Jesus Christ's, the God-Man, the second person of the Trinity, the Lamb of God.

Think about your own spiritual balance sheet.  Too often even Christians are going through an accounting that is not of God.  We take the good deeds of the day and we mentally book them as assets on our own spiritual balance sheet.  We take our sin and we credit it to our liabilities.  And at the end of the day, we try to figure out if our spiritual balance sheet has increased or decreased.  We go through the emotions that come with that focus on performance, and earning our own righteousness before God.  We're like Paul before he was saved, doing it all in a vain attempt to get right with God.

The gospel says, as Paul reminds us above, that once we have accepted Jesus Christ as our Savior and as our Lord, once we have committed our life to him, our spiritual balance sheet is immediately transformed.  We receive the biggest asset infusion that the universe has ever seen.  Everything before—our sin, our self-righteousness, our feeble attempts to make ourselves right with God—is wiped out. 

Then Jesus infuses our balance sheet with his own righteousness.  No liability.  No optionality.  It's not a future promise.  It's today's reality.  The now condition.  It's a wealth that we can then live out of, in gratitude to our Lord.

The realization principle.  Christ's work has been accomplished.  Redemption has been both accomplished and applied.  For me.  For you.  If we believe.  If we repent.  If we pick up our cross and follow.

Chris Joyce

Sonship and the journey home

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.  Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"  Emma Lazarus, 1883

My New York cousin is the family historian.  In his spare time, he researches the lives and times of our grandparents and great uncles, who came to this country from southern Europe at the turn of the 20th century.  We visited him recently and went to Ellis Island.

Ms. Lazarus poem is spot on in so many ways.  If you've read about the abject poverty faced by the peasants of places such as Calabria, Sicily, Naples and Abruzzo in the late 19th century, you know that many of these people were truly, in the world's eyes, "wretched refuse."  Learning about their terribly squalid lives, their oppression at the hands of land barons, and their disenfranchisement in a lawless rural society gives to pejorative epithet "dirt farmer" new meaning.

Many of them literally had no home in Europe.

But America beckoned.  A place where the slate, at least in some ways, could be wiped clean.  A chance to become citizens of a new country where anything, at least it seemed, was possible.

We stood in the Great Hall of the processing building at Ellis Island, where my ancestors waited in line for hours.  I saw it again -- a photo I've seen before in different books that I've read over the years.  A southern Italian family just off one of those steamships, now waiting in the Great Hall to see whether the doctors who would examine them would send them back to Europe because of poor health, or would allow them to stay.  It wasn't a slam dunk.

There in the photo is mom and dad, and four children ranging from toddler to young teen.  One of the little boys wears a sailor cap.  There is a chest or two that contains all of the family's worldly possessions.  And there is this raw, wide-eyed expression that they all wear.  Are they terrified?  Bewildered?  Excited?  I must confess I don't really know what is in their eyes.  All I know is that it is a haunting photograph.

I wonder, when God and his angels look at us now, whether we look to them like this family looks in that powerful photo.  We too have been rescued from hopeless poverty and our walking in a newness of life.  And just as the Great Hall represented for these immigrants a place of the "already" and the "not quite yet," so too does our status as trusters in Christ Jesus represent a temporary stage of our existence.  We were dead in our trespasses and sins; now we are alive in Christ Jesus.  But we're not fully at home in our new country, not just yet.  Sometimes we're even bewildered of what our eternal King and his kingdom require of us.

The wide-eyed family in that photo must still learn so much before they will be living fully as Americans: a new language, new privileges and responsibilities, new occupations and skills, and so much more.  Even after the docs examine them, their names are recorded and they are permitted to leave Ellis Island, it may be a lifetime -- even a generation -- before the family is fully at home.

Here's where a APC's Sonship discipleship program comes in.  It reminds me that I have some important things in common with my great grandparents and their children.  Isn't there so much I'm still learning as I strive to comprehend who I really and eternally am?  My father has prepared a place for me in a country that will be forever mine.  He tells me clearly that in his kingdom, I must live differently.  I must live selflessly, for him and for others, instead of for myself.  I must use my energy and gifts to glorify him and sing his praises, instead of to glorify and protect myself.  Getting ready for glory; practicing glorious living.  That's what Sonship means to me.

My grandparents, and their parents, had to put away their dirt former tools and they acquired new skills, learned a new language, and prospered beyond their wildest dreams in America.  Shouldn't we, who did not have to stand in line for inspection in order to gain admission to God's kingdom, learn and practice our new kingdom skills as we wait for Christ to return and usher in a new age of limitless blessing?

Do you have trouble seeing yourself as the wide-eyed, naïve, unprepared, poor-as-anything immigrant kid on an exciting journey to a place of endless possibility?  Maybe Sonship is for you.  Sonship can make you aware of how dead you really were before Christ.  Sonship can help you discover new reasons for thankfulness, and for entering more deeply into your own preparations for glorious living.

I think I've been through Sonship six times now, but honestly I've lost count.  This winter starting in January, I'm going to go through it again.  I hope many of you will join me.  Kingdom living awaits.  The kind of life you'll lead when you're truly home!

Dave Todaro