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11 For his unfailing love toward those who fear him is as great as the height of the heavens above the earth. 12 He has removed our sins as far from us as the east is from the west. 13 Te LORD is like a father to his children, ten- der and compassionate to those who fear him. Psalm 103:11-13 New Living Translation (NLT)
The Good News
The Gospel of Second Chances By Max Lucado
It’s not every day that you get a second
chance. Most of the time you’re glad to get a first one. “Get this to me by 3 p.m. or you’re fired!” “I’m sorry, but your grades aren’t high enough to admit you to the program.” “I don’t love you any more.” The fact is, we all fail. We do things we re-
gret. We say things we deplore. And we hurt people we love. But we’re not alone in this. Even the Apostle Paul was no stranger to failure. I do not understand the things I do. I do not do what I want to do, and I
do the things I hate. (Romans 7:15) He goes on: I want to do the things that are good, but I do not do them. I do not do the things I want to do, but I do the bad things I do not want to do. Have you been there? Have you shared Paul’s frustration? If you have, then listen as he shows us the way out of our despair: Who will save me from this body that brings death? I thank God for saving
me through Jesus Christ our Lord! So now, those who are in Christ Jesus are not judged guilty (Romans 7:24-8:1) If I had been Paul, I might have put a “Hallelujah!” on the end of that para- graph. What an incredible statement. What an awesome reality! Need a second chance? You’ve come to the right place. Second chances are the specialty of our Savior!
Forgiven Forever Ninety feet tall. One thousand three hundred twenty tons of reinforced
Brazilian tile. Positioned on a mountain a mile and one-half above sea level. It’s the famous Christ the Redeemer statue that overlooks the city of Rio de Ja- neiro, Brazil. No tourist comes to Rio without snaking up Corcovado Mountain to see this looming monument. The head alone is nine feet tall. The wingspan from fingertip to fingertip — sixty-three feet. While living in Rio, I saw the statue dozens of times. But no one time was as impressive as the first. I was a college student spending a summer in Brazil. Except for scampers
across the Mexican border, this was my first trip outside the continental U.S. I had known this monument only through National Geographic magazine. I was to learn that no magazine can truly capture the splendor of Christo Redentor. Below me was Rio. Seven Million people swarming on the lush green
mountains that crash into the bright blue Atlantic. Behind me was the Christ the Redeemer statue. As I looked at the towering edifice through my telephoto lens, two ironies caught my attention. I couldn’t help but notice the blind eyes. Now, I know what you are thinking
— all statues have blind eyes. You are right, they do. But it’s as if the sculptor of this statue intended that the eyes be blind. There are no circles to suggest sight. There are only Little Orphan Annie opening. I lowered y camera to my waist. What kind of redeemer is this? Blind?
Eyes fixated on the horizon, refusing to see the mass of people at its feet? I saw the second irony as I again raised my camera. I followed features down- ward, past the strong nose, past the prominent chin, past the neck. My focus came to rest on the cloak of the statue. On the outside of the cloak there is a heart. A Valentine’s heart. A simple heart.
A stone heart. The unintended symbolism staggered me. What kind of redeemer is this?
Heart made of stone? Held together, not with passion and love, but by concrete and mortar. What kind of redeemer is this? Blind eyes and a stony heart? I’ve since learned the answer to my own question: What kind of a redeem- er is this? Exactly the kind of redeemer most people have.
Oh, most people would not admit to having a blind redeemer with a stone
heart. But take a closer look. For some, Jesus is a good luck charm. The “Rab- bit’s Foot Redeemer.” Pocket-sized. Handy. Easily packaged. Easily under- stood. Easily diagramed. You can put his picture on your wall or you can stick it in your wallet as insurance. You can frame him. Dangle him from your rear view mirror or glue him to your dashboard. His specialty? Getting you out of a jam. Need a parking place? Rub the
redeemer. Need help on a quiz? Pull out the rabbit’s foot. No need to have a relationship with him. No need to love him. Just keep him in your pocket next to you four-leaf clover. For many he’s an “Aladdin’s Lamp Redeemer.” New jobs, Pink Cadillacs,
New and improved spouses. Your wish is his command. And what’s more, he conveniently reenters the lamp when you don’t want him around. For others, Jesus is a “Monty Hall Redeemer.” “All right, Jesus, let’s make
a deal. For fifty-two Sundays a year, I’ll put on a costume — coat and tie, hat and hose — and I’ll endure any sermon you throw at me. In exchange, you give me the grace behind pearly gate number three.” The Rabbit’s Foot Redeemer. The Aladdin’s Lamp Redeemer. The Monty
Hall Redeemer. Few demands, no challenges. No need for sacrifice. No need for commitment. Sightless and heartless redeemers. Redeemers without pow- er. That’s not the Redeemer of the New Testament. Compare the blind Christ I saw in Rio to the compassionate one seen by a
frightened woman early one morning in Jerusalem. It’s dawn. The early morn- ing sun stretches a golden blanket across the streets of the city. A cat stretches as it awakens. The noises are scattered.
A rooster crows his early morning recital. A dog barks to welcome the day. A peddler shuffles down the street, his wares on his back. And a young carpenter speaks in the courtyard.
Jesus sits surrounded by a horseshoe of listeners. Some nod their heads
in agreement and open their hearts in obedience. They have accepted the Teacher as their teacher and are learning to accept him as their Lord. Others are curious, wanting to believe, yet wary of this one whose claims
so stretch the boundaries of belief. Whether cautious or convinced, they lis- tened keenly. They arose early. There was something about his words that was more comforting than sleep. We don’t know his topic that morning. Prayer, perhaps. Or maybe kind-
ness or anxiety. But whatever it was, it was soon interrupted when people burst into the courtyard. Determined, they erupt out of a narrow street and stomp toward Jesus. The listeners scramble to get out of the way. The mob is made up of religious leaders, the elders and deacons of their day. Respected and important men. And struggling to keep her balance on the crest of this angry wave is a scantily clad woman. Only moments before she had
been in bed with a man who was not her husband. Was this how she made her living? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe her husband was gone, her heart was lonely, the stranger’s touch was warm, and before she knew it, she had done it. We don’t know. But we do know that a door was
jerked open and she was yanked from her bed. She barely had time to cover her body before she was dragged into the street by two men the age of her father. What thoughts raced through her mind as she scrambled to keep her feet?
Curious neighbors stuck heads through open windows. Sleepy dogs yelped at the ruckus. And now, with holy strides, the mob storms toward
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MARCH 2012
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