Sermon Extra: The Scoreboard Never Reads “Enough”

This past weekend at Zion, we kicked off a new series called “Keeping Score.”

Scorekeeping is one of those ingrained, nearly involuntary habits of modern life. We calculate the dollars in our bank accounts, the hours we spend at work, and even the steps we take using our Apple watches. Some of the math is helpful. It can help us discern where we are and decide where we want go next.

But numbers make cruel masters.

When we demand that these scores not only inform us, but define us—to tell us whether we are winning, worthy, ahead, or enough—we become slaves to the scores we keep.

Keep score in your marriage—what she said, what he forgot, how many times you swallowed your pride and apologized first—and you aren’t merely keeping a record. You’re tallying reasons for resentment. Keep score of other people’s successes—their promotions, vacations, children, homes, or happiness—and you can turn their joy into kindling for your envy.

So, what if we stopped? What if we cleared the scoreboards that keep us trapped in resentment, envy, guilt, and exhaustion? What if we kept score no more?

In my message this weekend, we met a man who did just that.

The apostle Paul grew up in a rigorously religious Jewish household. And his rigorously religious upbringing as a child blossomed into a religious obsession as an adult. And that obsession expressed itself as math. He lived his life by a religious abacus, carefully counting up every single way he had earned his spiritual pedigree:

If anyone else thinks he has reason for confidence in the flesh, I have more: circumcised on the eighth day, of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless. (Philippians 3:4–6) 

But then, Paul collided with Jesus. And he didn’t just put his religious abacus down, he threw it away:

Whatever gain I had, I counted as loss for the sake of Christ … not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God that depends on faith. (Philippians 3:7, 9)

Keeping an ever-swelling tally of your religious rigor always breeds one vexing question: When is my score high enough? A scoreboard can flash numbers, but it can never tell you your soul is safe.

Jesus can.

Paul realized that with Jesus, there is no scorekeeping. There is only gift-giving. Jesus doesn’t act as a religious coach helping you scrape together a few more points; He desires to share His perfect score of righteousness with you, completely free. We obtain it simply by trusting Him. So, Paul eagerly made the trade—swapping the ultimately fragile record of his religious rigor for the profligate and secure righteousness of Jesus.

And yet, this trade wasn’t a vaccine. It didn’t immunize Paul from the temptation to dust off his old scorecard from time to time. He admits as much:

Whatever gain I had, I counted as loss for the sake of Christ. Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. (Philippians 3:7–8)

Notice the subtle shift in Paul’s verbs. In verse 7, he talks about the past—how, when he first encountered Jesus, he counted his religious resume as a loss. But in verse 8, he snaps into the present tense: “I count everything as loss.”

He was still clearing his religious scoreboard. Even as a Christian, the old arithmetic lurked in the shadows, waiting to creep back in. Stopping scorekeeping isn’t a one-and-done decision; it’s the gritty journey of a lifetime.

So, where are you keeping score in a way you already know is hurting you and the people around you?

Maybe you’re keeping score in your relationships. Tallying another person’s offenses, slights, and failures can produce a small spark of superiority—the delicious assurance that you are right and they are wrong. But eventually, those tally marks harden into the prison bars of bitterness.

Maybe you’re keeping score in your ambitions. Someone else’s success may spur you to climb a little higher, but the ladder never ends. Every rung only reveals another above it. If your peace depends on passing everyone ahead of you, peace will remain forever out of reach.

Maybe you’re keeping score in your own mind. You replay your failures, rehearse your regrets, and stack up old guilt as though enough shame could somehow reset the clock of your past. But hoarding shame cannot atone for your past; only Jesus can do that.

So, go on the journey. Shatter the scoreboard. And tomorrow, when those glowing numbers flicker back to life in the back of your mind—and they will—clear the board again. You don’t need to chase those points anymore. You already hold a perfect score—Jesus’ score.

Sermon Extra: The Sword Balaam Saw, But Never Suffered

This past weekend at Zion, we wrestled with one of the oddest and liveliest stories in Scripture: Balaam and his talking donkey in Numbers 22.

Balak, king of Moab, is in a panic. Harrowing reports of Israel’s military victories have reached his throne, prompting him to defend his nation against an attack he assumes is imminent as Israel travels near his territory. Desperate to weaponize anything he can, including the supernatural, Balak sends for Balaam—a shady, but famous prophet-for-hire—to ambush Israel with a spiritual curse.

After two rounds of royal ambassadors knock at Balaam’s door requesting his spiritual services, Balaam saddles his donkey and begins the roughly 375-mile trek to Moab, eager for the big payday that awaits him on the other side of a couple of curt curses. But along the way, the angel of the Lord appears and stops him dead in his tracks.

Ironically, the celebrated spiritual seer is utterly blind to the divine threat standing directly in front of him—but his donkey sees it perfectly:

Balaam was riding on his donkey, and his two servants were with him. When the donkey saw the angel of the Lord standing in the road with a drawn sword in His hand, it turned off the road into a field. Balaam beat it to get it back on the road.

Then the angel of the Lord stood in a narrow path through the vineyards, with walls on both sides. When the donkey saw the angel of the Lord, it pressed close to the wall, crushing Balaam’s foot against it. So he beat the donkey again.

Then the angel of the Lord moved on ahead and stood in a narrow place where there was no room to turn, either to the right or to the left. When the donkey saw the angel of the Lord, it lay down under Balaam, and he was angry and beat it with his staff. (Numbers 22:22–27)

Then, in one of the most captivating and comedic twists in all of Scripture, the donkey speaks:

The donkey said to Balaam, “Am I not your own donkey, which you have always ridden, to this day? Have I been in the habit of doing this to you?”

“No,” he said.

Then the Lord opened Balaam’s eyes, and he saw the angel of the Lord standing in the road with His sword drawn. (Numbers 22:30–31)

Balaam’s entire stock and trade rests on his reputation as a master seer. Yet his donkey possesses sharper spiritual instincts than he does. Balaam blusters and beats the animal, completely oblivious to the fact that it is saving his life. Perhaps Balaam was not quite as spiritually sagacious as his glowing reputation suggested.

But who is this mysterious, sword-wielding figure?

Throughout the Old Testament, when the “angel of the Lord” appears, He does not merely speak on behalf of God; He speaks and acts as God. For this reason, Christians have often understood the angel of the Lord to be the preincarnate Son of God, Jesus Christ.

Irenaeus of Lyons, a second-century Christian theologian who was born in Asia Minor and later served as bishop of Lyons in Gaul, writes this about the angel who appears to Balaam:

Now the angel who appeared to Balaam was the Word Himself; and in His hand He held a sword, to indicate the power which He had from above.

Notice that Irenaeus specifically points to the sword in Jesus’ hand. It is a bald display of His divine power—and it is aimed squarely at Balaam. It is a weapon of looming judgment.

Jesus is blocking a man who is marching myopically toward a massive payout, so desperate for a king’s cash that he is determined to curse a nation God is determined to bless. He parades himself as a great spiritual seer even though he cannot see the divine figure standing directly in front of him. And so, Jesus raises His sword against Balaam in judgment.

The drawn dagger delivers a sobering reality check: Jesus takes sin seriously. He will not permit Balaam to stroll down his destructive path indefinitely or chase his greed unchecked. The sword blocks his way.

But the biblical story of the blade doesn’t end at Balaam’s blockade.

Fast-forward fourteen centuries to a hill outside Jerusalem. Immediately after Jesus dies on the cross, a Roman soldier verifies His death by piercing:

Jesus’ side with a spear, bringing a sudden flow of blood and water. (John 19:34)

The One who once brandished a blade at Balaam because of his sin is now pierced because of ours.

At Calvary, the sharp point of divine judgment reverses direction. On the road to Moab, a sword was gripped in Jesus’ hand. At the cross, a sword is driven into His side. Jesus absorbs the violent judgment Balaam earned—and the violent judgment we also deserve.

The sword is therefore both a haunting warning and an exquisite promise. It exposes the lethal gravity of our stubbornness, selfishness, and greed. Yet it also points us toward the magnificent mercy of the cross. Just as judgment is poised to pierce us, Jesus steps into the path of the blade and is pierced instead.

Balaam saw the sword aimed at him, but he also walked away unscathed. That’s grace.

And that’s grace we can still receive.

Sermon Extra: When Our Desires Defy God’s Choices

Our desires don’t always line up with God’s choices. And when there’s a mismatch, conflict—and sometimes catastrophe—is not far off.

This past weekend in worship at Zion, we looked at a story from Numbers 16 about a man named Korah. Korah is a Levite, which means he belongs to the tribe God has chosen to care for the tabernacle—the tent where God dwells among His people. This is no small calling. Korah has been chosen for holy work.

But Korah does not want the holy work God has given him. He wants the holy work God has given to somebody else.

He does not want to serve near the altar of the tabernacle. He wants to stand at the altar. He does not want to assist the priests. He wants to be a priest.

So Korah starts fuming. Then he starts recruiting. He gathers a group of fellow grumblers, and together they bellyache to Moses and Aaron: “You have gone too far! The whole community is holy, every one of them, and the LORD is with them. Why then do you set yourselves above the LORD’s assembly?” (Numbers 16:3).

Korah and his crew accuse Moses and Aaron of self-dealing, as though they have maneuvered and manipulated their way into Israel’s best and most powerful positions. But Moses and Aaron have done no such thing. They have simply received what God has given. As God says to Aaron a couple of chapters later: “I am giving you the service of the priesthood as a gift” (Numbers 18:7).

This is what Korah cannot accept. The priesthood is not a prize to be won. It is not a platform to be seized. It is a gift to be received. But Korah does not like God’s gift because Korah does not like God’s choice.

So God answers in judgment: “The earth opened its mouth and swallowed them and their households, and all those associated with Korah, together with their possessions” (Numbers 16:32).

Korah tries to climb above the place God has given him. Instead, he plunges beneath the ground.

This is what rebellion does. It reaches upward in pride, only to crash downward in death.

In Genesis 4, we read about another conflict between human desire and divine choice. Two brothers, Cain and Abel, each bring an offering to the LORD. God looks with favor on Abel and his offering, but not on Cain and his offering. Hebrews tells us why: “By faith Abel brought God a better offering than Cain did” (Hebrews 11:4). Abel comes in faith. Cain, it seems, comes without it.

Cain is furious. And instead of repenting before God, he butchers his brother.

When God confronts Cain, He describes the crime vividly: “What have you done? Listen! Your brother’s blood cries out to Me from the ground. Now you are under a curse and driven from the ground, which opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood from your hand” (Genesis 4:10–11).

In Numbers 16, the ground opens its mouth to swallow Korah in judgment. In Genesis 4, the ground opens its mouth to drink in Abel’s blood after Cain’s violence. In both stories, rebellion rattles the earth.

When our desires try to overrule God’s choices, creation itself testifies against us. The ground beneath our feet becomes a preacher. It announces that sin is never merely private, never merely personal, never merely “between me and God.” Sin wounds brothers. Sin fractures communities. Sin groans through creation. Sin digs graves.

Perhaps the earth is sometimes wiser than we are.

But then comes Jesus.

When Jesus breathes His last from the cross, the earth moves again: “The earth shook, the rocks split and the tombs broke open” (Matthew 27:51–52).

Once more, creation reacts. Once more, the ground opens. But this time, something different happens.

Matthew recounts that, when Jesus dies, “the bodies of many holy people who had died were raised to life.” And then, after Jesus’ resurrection, “they came out of the tombs and went into the holy city and appeared to many people” (Matthew 27:52–53).

The earth that once swallowed sinners begins to spit them back.

There is an old word for when our desires conflict with God’s choices: rebellion. Korah rebelled against God. Cain rebelled against God. And we rebel against God.

As we learn from the stories of Korah and Cain, our rebellion opens graves. But as we learn from Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus’ sacrifice empties tombs.

One day, unless Jesus returns first, the earth will open its mouth to receive us, too. The ground will claim what sin has broken.

But it will not keep us.

Because the same Jesus who died and rose will call us from our graves. And when He does, the earth will have to give us back. The ground that swallowed us will surrender us. Death will not get the final word.

Jesus will. 

Our rebellion will always be overruled by God’s choice. We cannot grab for ourselves what God has not given. Korah learned that the hard way.

But our rebellion is also redeemed by God’s choice. And for us, God’s choice is life.

And for life, God’s choice is us.

Sermon Extra: Grace Is Why

This past weekend in worship at Zion, we looked at Numbers 12 and the jealousy of Moses’ siblings, Miriam and Aaron.

Miriam and Aaron were key leaders among God’s people. Miriam was a prophetess. Aaron was Israel’s high priest. God had spoken through them and used them profoundly and powerfully. But, in Numbers 12, instead of rejoicing in how God had used them, they became resentful of how God was using Moses.

They grumbled, “Has the LORD spoken only through Moses? Hasn’t He also spoken through us?” (Numbers 12:2).

In response, God explained:

“When there is a prophet among you, I, the LORD, reveal Myself to them in visions, I speak to them in dreams. But this is not true of My servant Moses; he is faithful in all My house. With him I speak face to face, clearly and not in riddles; he sees the form of the LORD.” (Numbers 12:6–8)

God does not deny that He has spoken through other prophets. He has. But He makes it clear that Moses’ calling is unique.

When God speaks through other prophets, He usually does so mystically — through dreams, visions, and riddles. But with Moses, God speaks “face to face, clearly and not in riddles.” With Moses, there’s not a foggy divine impression to interpret, but a clear divine Word to proclaim.

God’s meeting with Moses on Mount Sinai is proof positive of this. In Exodus 20–31, Moses receives the very words and commands of God for the people of Israel. Moses is not just one more voice among many. He is the Lord’s chosen servant through whom God directly gives His very Word.

As God explains Moses’ unique calling, He also offers this compelling compliment: “He is faithful in all My house” (Numbers 12:7).

Miriam and Aaron may have been faithful in their respective callings within areas of God’s house, but Moses was entrusted with a responsibility that extended to all of God’s house. He was called to lead, shepherd, intercede for, and speak God’s Word to the whole Israelite community.

Some 1,500 years after God calls Moses to be a servant in all of God’s house, the preacher of Hebrews explains that, as lofty as Moses’ calling was, there is One whose calling is even greater:

“Moses was faithful as a servant in all God’s house, bearing witness to what would be spoken by God in the future. But Christ is faithful as the Son over God’s house.” (Hebrews 3:5–6)

With one preposition, the preacher draws an important distinction. Moses was faithful in God’s house. Jesus is faithful over God’s house. Moses was born into God’s house as a son of Israel. Jesus was born over God’s house as the Son of God.

And then, the preacher of Hebrews adds this prodigious promise: “And we are His house” (Hebrews 3:6).

In the book of Numbers, God’s house is centered on the children of Israel. But now, the preacher of Hebrews declares that anyone — whether or not they are a son or daughter of Israel by birth — can be part of God’s house because they have been invited not merely as a son of Israel, but by the Son of God.

Jesus has created a whole new household. He takes sinners who were far from God and brings them near. He takes people estranged from God and makes them members of His family.

Miriam and Aaron were jealous because they did not have the same role, authority, or intimacy with God that Moses had. But Moses was not jealous that, one day, another would come whose role, authority, and intimacy with God would far surpass his own.

Instead, Moses demonstrated humility. As Numbers 12 reminds us: “Now Moses was a very humble man, more humble than anyone else on the face of the earth” (Numbers 12:3).

Jealousy always leads to misery because it looks at what I do not have and complains, “Why not me?”

Humility leads to joy because it looks at what God has given and asks, “Why me?”

The question of jealousy never finds a satisfying answer. Why does someone else have that gift, that role, that opportunity, that recognition, that authority, that blessing? That is something that we simply cannot know.

But the question of humility has a clear answer.

Why has God shown me mercy? Why has Christ brought me near? Why am I part of His house?

Grace is why.

And grace gives us more than enough reason to rejoice.

Sermon Extra: When Judah Came Near

This past Sunday, we kicked off a summer-long series at Zion on the book of Numbers. The book opens with the Israelites at the foot of Mount Sinai, where they have been camped for almost a year while Moses has been meeting with God and receiving His commands, including the famed Ten Commandments. 

Now it is time for Israel to continue their trek through the Sinai wilderness. Before Israel breaks camp, however, God commands Moses to conduct a census. In Numbers 1, we get a list of tribes and clans, along with the number of men of fighting age in each tribe. In Numbers 2, we get instructions for how these tribes are to be arranged around the tabernacle—the place where God graciously promised to dwell among His people.

The picture above is my favorite depiction of the tribal arrangement from Numbers 2. To be clear, we don’t know exactly what this arrangement would have looked like. Numbers 2 does not say that the tribes were arranged in rectangles that fanned out perpendicular to the tabernacle. Still, the visual of the arrangement forming a cross is at least fascinating and fun to imagine.

What is clear from the instructions in Numbers 2 is that the tribe of Judah was stationed on the east side of the tabernacle, toward the sunrise, closest to the entrance:

“On the east, toward the sunrise, the divisions of the camp of Judah are to encamp under their standard.” (Numbers 2:3).

But between Judah and the tabernacle stood another small group: Moses, Aaron, Aaron’s sons, and other Levites. Their calling was to guard the sanctuary from unauthorized approach:

“Moses and Aaron and his sons were to camp to the east of the tabernacle, toward the sunrise, in front of the tent of meeting. They were responsible for the care of the sanctuary on behalf of the Israelites. Anyone else who approached the sanctuary was to be put to death.” (Numbers 3:38)

In other words, even though God dwelled in the midst of His people, direct access to Him was carefully—and lethally—guarded. Judah camped near the entrance, but Judah could not simply walk in.

But one day, someone from the tribe of Judah did walk in.

Jesus, a descendant of Judah, waltzed into His Father’s house like He owned the place. Even as a child, He told Mary and Joseph, “Didn’t you know I had to be in My Father’s house?” (Luke 2:49). But Jesus did more than come near to God’s house. He opened the way for us to come near to God Himself.

The preacher of Hebrews declares, “For it is clear that our Lord descended from Judah” (Hebrews 7:14). A few verses later, he says of Jesus, “He is able to save completely those who come to God through Him” (Hebrews 7:25).

Under the old covenant, unauthorized approach to God’s sanctuary meant death. But Jesus, the One from Judah, approaches God for us. And rather than barring sinners from God’s presence, He brings sinners into God’s presence. He does not put us to death when we draw near. He saves us from death when we draw near through Him.

How can Jesus do this?

Because Jesus is not merely a man from the tribe of Judah. He is also the God who dwelled in the tabernacle all along. Hebrews opens by saying, “The Son is the radiance of God’s glory and the exact representation of His being” (Hebrews 1:3). John says it this way: “The Word became flesh and made His dwelling among us” (John 1:14). The phrase “made His dwelling” is the verbal form of “tabernacle” in New Testament Greek. The Word “tabernacled” among us.

Jesus can bring us into the presence of God because He is the presence of God.

So, even if the tribes of Israel did not arrange themselves in the form of a cross some 1,500 years before the cross, their arrangement nevertheless points us toward the One who would die on the cross. The God who dwelled in the tabernacle came as a man from the tribe of Judah. And through Him, we are invited to draw near to God.

Judah could not simply walk into the tabernacle.

But Jesus, the Lion of Judah, did.

And now, we can.

Sermon Extra: When Being With Jesus Feels Agonizing

Right now at Zion, we’re in a series on the afterlife. This past weekend, I had the heavy and unenviable assignment of preaching on the Bible’s teaching—and warning—about hell.  

One of the things I did not mention in my message is that a recurring description of hell is that it is a place of “gnashing of teeth.”

Consider these passages:

  • “The subjects of the kingdom will be thrown outside, into the darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” (Matthew 8:12)
  • “They will throw them into the blazing furnace, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” (Matthew 13:42)
  • “There will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” (Matthew 13:50)
  • “Throw him outside, into the darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” (Matthew 22:13)
  • “He will cut him to pieces and assign him a place with the hypocrites, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” (Matthew 24:51)
  • “Throw that worthless servant outside, into the darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” (Matthew 25:30)
  • “There will be weeping there, and gnashing of teeth, when you see Abraham, Isaac and Jacob and all the prophets in the kingdom of God, but you yourselves thrown out.” (Luke 13:28)

The phrase “gnashing of teeth” is deeply sobering because it is not only a picture of the final judgment of God. It is also a human response when they are in present and violent rebellion against God.

The first martyr in the history of the Christian Church was named Stephen. He was stoned to death after calling out a group of religious leaders for their rejection and crucifixion of Jesus. When Stephen accused them of resisting the Holy Spirit and betraying and murdering the Righteous One Jesus, their rage boiled over:

“They were furious and gnashed their teeth at him… They all rushed at him, dragged him out of the city and began to stone him.” (Acts 7:54, 57–58)

There’s that phrase “gnashing of teeth” again.

These religious leaders were not yet in hell. But when they heard the truth about Jesus, they reacted with the response of hell.

This helps us understand something critical about hell.

Hell is not merely something God consigns someone to against their will. Hell is also the tragic, yet logical end of a will that refuses God. It is judgment upon a heart that is so opposed to Jesus that even the presence of Jesus feels like torment.

C.S. Lewis famously described hell this way: “The damned are, in one sense, successful rebels to the end. The doors of hell are locked on the inside.”

In other words, people willingly––and madly––consign themselves to and lock themselves inside the gates of hell.

This is why Acts 7 is so haunting.

For these religious leaders, Stephen’s message was, well, hell. The announcement that Jesus is the Messiah did not sound like good news to them. It sounded like an accusation. It sounded like a threat. It sounded like an unjust and unwarranted condemnation of everything they believed in, stood for, and fought for.

To those who hate Jesus, even the presence of Jesus feels like hell.

But this reality reveals a jarring spiritual conundrum. Stephen’s message about Jesus felt like hell. But being away from Jesus is even more hell.

As the apostle Paul writes in 2 Thessalonians 1:9, those who reject Jesus “will be punished with everlasting destruction and shut out from the presence of the Lord and from the glory of His might.”

This is the terrible paradox of hell. If you do not trust in Jesus, it doesn’t matter if you are with Him or away from Him––both feel like hell.

But if you do trust in Jesus––that is when you begin to discover heaven. Because that is when you begin to discover that Jesus is not against you, but for you; not a threat toward you, but a comforter who is with you; not merely a judge of you, but a Savior who willingly gives Himself to you.

This is why, according to Scripture, heaven is not finally about clouds, harps, mansions, or streets of gold.

Heaven is as simple as being with Jesus.

The One whose presence exposes our sins––as He did through Stephen with the religious leaders in Acts 7––is also the One whose wounds on the cross forgive our sin. So come to Jesus. Trust in Him. Because to those who do, the presence of Jesus is not hell.

It is heaven.

And heaven is infinitely better than hell.

Sermon Extra: When Guilt Won’t Go Away

In my message this weekend, I talked about how Israel’s worship of the golden calf in Exodus 32 became a watershed and guilt-inducing moment for literally centuries in ancient Israel. 

For instance, ancient Jews paid an annual half-shekel tax for the upkeep of the temple in Jerusalem. Jesus references this tax when He instructs Peter: “Go to the lake and throw out your line. Take the first fish you catch; open its mouth and you will find a four-drachma coin. Take it and give it to them for my tax and yours” (Matthew 17:27). The coin Peter finds is equal to a shekel––enough to pay the tax for both Jesus and Peter.

But this tax was not merely about maintenance. It was also tied, in later Jewish interpretation, to malfeasance. A Jewish collection of sermons known as Midrash Tanchuma connects the half-shekel tax to Israel’s sin with the golden calf: “Because they had violated the Ten Commandments,” and specifically the First Commandment when they made the calf, “each one had to give ten gerah, which totals half a shekel” (Midrash Tanchuma, Ki Tisa 10:1). The tax became, in this tradition, a way of reckoning with guilt for a sin committed centuries earlier.

Another tradition, which I did not mention in my message, notes that on the Day of Atonement, the high priest of Israel, who usually sported a jewel-encrusted golden breastpiece, would enter the inner sanctum of the temple wearing simple white linen garment, according the instructions first given Moses in Leviticus 16:4. Later rabbinic interpretation explains why: “For what reason does the High Priest not enter the innermost sanctum, the Holy of Holies, with his golden garments to perform the service there on the Day of Atonement? It is because a prosecutor cannot become an advocate” (Babylonian Talmud, Rosh Hashanah 26a).

In other words, because gold had been used to forge Israel’s most infamous idol, the high priest could not wear gold while making atonement for Israel. The material associated with Israel’s accusation could not also be worn in Israel’s defense.

It is striking that both of these traditions arose long after the golden calf catastrophe. Guilt over this one sin lingered for a long time.

Have you ever struggled with guilt that just will not go away? Maybe it’s guilt over the cross word that became the beginning of the end of a relationship. Maybe it’s guilt over a failure as a parent. Maybe it’s guilt over an old decision you’re still terrified someone will discover.

When Moses first walks into the golden calf calamity, he says, “Perhaps I can make atonement for your sin” (Exodus 32:30). But Moses’ best efforts at atonement fail. In the end, “the Lord struck the people with a plague because of what they did with the calf Aaron had made” (Exodus 32:35).

Atonement for sinners by another sinner—even if that sinner is a man as great as Moses—never works.

This is why, at the heart of the Christian faith, there is an atonement made not by Moses on a mountain, but by Jesus on a cross. Not by a sinner doing his best, but by the sinless Son of God giving His life.

Only Jesus can make atonement for sinners. And because He has, the guilt you feel is not spiritually real. Your payments, rituals, self-punishment, and refusal to forgive yourself cannot do what Jesus has already done. He has forgiven you. And His grace is greater than your guilt.

You do not need to keep paying for what Christ has already covered.

Losing Who We Want to Save

As news broke about the Central Texas floods and the loss of 27 girls at Camp Mystic, this was the picture that got me. A first responder – clearly tough as nails – with his head in his hand sobbing at what – at who – he has just found.  

When I first saw it, I started sobbing, too. 

I am no mind-reader, but I can tell you with almost 100 percent certainty what he was thinking as the tears flowed: “If only I could have saved her.” In fact, even more than that: “I would have willingly given my life for hers.” 

There is something in the human instinct and drive to save others, especially children, that profoundly reflects the God in whose image we are made. It’s why mothers leap to the ground to cushion their toddlers from a fall. It’s why firefighters rush into burning buildings. Tears for Fears told us, “Everybody wants to rule the world.” Maybe so. But there’s something even deeper in us that wants to save the world. 

I can’t imagine a more exhilarating feeling than saving a life. The mixture of joy and relief that rushes through the soul can’t be described – only experienced. 

But the inverse is also true. I can’t imagine anything more soul-crushing than losing a life you desperately wanted to save. Hence the haunting thoughts: 

“If only I could have saved her.” 

“I would have willingly given my life for hers.” 

I know these thoughts because they are universal. We’ve all thought them in one form or another when loss visits us. And they’re ancient. This is why the Psalmist complains: “No man can ransom another, or give to God the price of his life” (Psalm 49:7). But oh, how we wish we could. 

The gospel has something to say to that first responder – and to us – when we cry: “I would have willingly given my life for hers.” It says, “Thank you. And I know you would have. But Someone already has. She’s taken care of.” 

This is why this is the other picture that brought me to tears.

This picture reminds me that the girls who lost their lives at Camp Mystic still have their lives – because long before floodwaters surged down the Guadalupe River on a Friday in the twenty-first century, one Man gave His life on a cross in exchange for theirs on a Friday in the first century. 

That doesn’t stop our tears. But it promises us that our tears are not final.

How Are We Justified?

Credit: “The Parable of the Pharisee and the Tax Collector” by Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld

When Jesus tells the story of two men who go up to the temple in Jerusalem to pray, He relays two prayers that couldn’t be more different. One man, a Pharisee, prays:

God, I thank you that I am not like other people – robbers, evildoers, adulterers – or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get. (Luke 18:11-12)

The tax collector, to whom the Pharisee refers in his prayer, is the other person who prays at the temple that day. His prayer consists simply of:

God, have mercy on me, a sinner. (Luke 18:13)

In his prayer, the Pharisee compares himself to other people and judges himself better than them. The tax collector compares himself to God and finds himself infinitely lacking, so he asks for mercy from Him. The Pharisee believes he is like God and unlike other sinners. The tax collector confesses he is utterly unlike God and worse than other sinners.

After describing these two prayers, Jesus declares:

I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. (Luke 18:14)

Jesus says that the tax collector, and not the Pharisee, leaves the justified before God. Why? Because the tax collector looked to the righteousness of God to justify him. The Pharisee only looked at the sinfulness of others and justified himself compared to them. The Pharisee tried to justify himself before God by using others. The tax collector realized if you want to be justified before God, you need to be justified by God.

It is far too easy to try to justify ourselves like the Pharisee tried to justify himself by using others. But true justification comes not by using others, but by trusting Jesus. May we find our justification in the right place – which is in the Righteous One.

When Knowledge Isn’t Power

Credit: Karolina Grabowska / Pexels.com

It was Francis Bacon who ostensibly was the first to say, “Knowledge is power.” Whoever actually said it first, it’s been repeated many times – and it’s been believed for much longer than it’s been said.

When Satan shows up in the Garden of Eden, he tempts Adam and Eve with nothing less than knowledge. He tries to get them to eat fruit from a tree that God has forbidden, because it will open their eyes to the knowledge of not only good, but also evil. But Satan says this knowledge will also give them power:

God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil. (Genesis 3:5)

Satan implies that if Adam and Eve can gain the knowledge of God, that will give them power over God. And they fall for it. But instead of gaining power, their new knowledge instead results in death.

One of the wisest men who ever lived, King Solomon, sternly warns against gossip:

The words of a gossip are like choice morsels; they go down to the inmost parts. (Proverbs 18:8 and 26:22)

We are still enticed by gossip, however. Why? Because we believe that knowledge about someone may afford us power over someone. From blackmail to shaming to even manipulating someone with knowledge we know about them that they don’t know we know about them, we still believe knowledge is power. But, like Adam and Eve, such knowledge often leads to nothing but death – death in our relationships, death in our trust of another person, and the death of our ability to talk to someone rather than about someone.

Satan gossiped about God to Adam and Eve and look where it led them. There are some things that are simply none of our business. We don’t need to know. In a culture that loves to know, sometimes, ignorance isn’t just bliss; it’s holy. So, let’s reject gossip about others. For by rejecting gossip about others, we can know God better. And He’s someone we do need to know.