Living in the city, it’s a tension I experience daily. I pull up my car to a stoplight, and there stands a person, sign in hand, seeking money. Faces become familiar as people have corners they frequent.

But today was different. I saw Isaac.

Just hours before, Isaac showed up at our church. I greeted him at the door, and he and I had a long conversation about where he was in life and his church background. He joined our worship service, met a number of people, and talked with one of our elders afterward.

This happens to us—people who live nearby walk to our church and share their stories. They seek a handout at the end of it all. It’s hard not to become calloused. We know they truly have needs, but we also know their practiced stories aren’t always completely true. We strive to be “shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves” (Matthew 10:16). The policy of our church is to give some money once and take down the person’s information, seeking to hold them accountable and begin a relationship.

When I saw Isaac at the corner, my heart dropped. Earlier he’d walked up our church’s two flights of stairs to get to the sanctuary; here at the corner he leaned deceptively on crutches with his homemade sign. Just when I’d hoped this time the story I’d been told was sincere, reality struck.

I’m sad because this experience fuels my skepticism. While my heart longs to be empathetic, I find myself becoming numb and doubtful.

When I hear the call to enact justice, provide mercy, and fight for the dignity of all people, I have to realize that means Isaac as well. Just because he deceived me doesn’t mean his physical and spiritual needs are any less important to God.

It doesn’t make me better than him.

My experience highlights how blessed I am with what I have and who I have in my life. I am blessed to know I am valued by a Savior. 

Out of the abundance of mercy God has shown me, I am called to show it to others.

Photo by Edwin Andrade on Unsplash

It’s time. But we’ve arrived embarrassingly late to the grand event, skittering to a halt before the guest of honor. Our garments are tattered and spattered with mud. We are a sight to behold.

We are the impetuous children, having frolicked and spurned guidance, fully ensconced in our own whimsies, play, and merriment without another care in the world.

And so we look down in shame, cheeks flushed, unsteadily rocking back and forth, twisting our fingers behind our backs in anticipation of the reprimand to come. We have strayed beyond the given boundaries. It is evidenced in our appearance.

But in a twist of fate we hear not the harsh scorn of threat and demise but rather a welcoming demeanor. “At last—you’ve made it! Come in, my children, come in. I have been waiting for you. Look what I have in store.”

Presented before us is a feast with place settings for any and all who would come in. As we enter the grand dining room, a gift is offered to each of our outstretched hands.

It is Resurrection Sunday. Today we dwell upon Jesus’ ultimate gift to us—grace. That’s what the resurrection is. It’s a gift undeserved, fully offered to our humbled souls.

This is what it means to each of us—a chance to be whole, to be clean, to be new. A chance to be looked upon not as we are but as we could be.

Our future is bright. Our potential is full before us. We have been given a chance to start the day anew. We are looked at through eyes of pure love by a Father who gave everything to invite us in to dwell with him.

Think about the last big goal you set for yourself. You had a date of accomplishment looming somewhere in the future. To get to that point, there were steps along the way you had to first traverse. But at last you arrived at the moment of completion.

How does it feel now that you’ve met your goal? Is there triumph? relief? even a possible letdown, wondering what’s next now that this is finished?

Think about this week in the life of Jesus, from Palm Sunday to Good Friday. His entire earthly dwelling, 33 years, had been leading up to this point. He faced the ultimate goal—salvation of all humankind. No pressure, right?

Though he was God, here he was fully human. There was nothing preventing Jesus from feeling the full amount of agony, shame, and abandonment—all the physical and mental anguish that could be experienced during the torturous capital punishment known as crucifixion.

Truly this was his goal. Yet what a strange culmination to his mission. Look how he acted during the days leading up to this certain, painful death. He paraded into town. He kept teaching. He reached out to his disciples with the humble act of cleansing their feet. He prayed earnestly for all of us.

Jesus lived out his final week just as he had been doing in the previous years. He fully kept on with his ministry until his dying breath. He lived out his mission until the final minutes. And then he reset the clock and gave a curtain call.

This was what his three decades of life had been all about. This is why a tiny, innocent baby was born in Bethlehem and lived out a childhood, an adolescence, and matured into an adult. This one weekend—a Friday death, a Sunday resurrection—made the difference between death and life to every human soul.

Jesus’ goal was met. It is finished. He created the salvation offered to even us. Now what will we do with it?