The doctrine of justification by faith (sola fida) that suggests that once we believe we are immediately justified, is something like this shirt I had when I was 4. I spilled cranberry juice all over the front of it and didn't really know that laundry machines existed. And so, my little brain concluded that there was only one solution to this dilemma - I took a red paintbrush and painted over the entire design that had formerly decorated my shirt to disguise the stain. Good bye forever flower-patterned shirt!
When we say that the blood of Jesus justifies us from the moment we put our faith in Him – we become that shirt – we are covered by the blood of Christ in an instant. And if we subscribe to a doctrine of once saved always saved, we can no longer re-create that shirt. Those flowers that were once there, the sin that once made us unworthy of entering heaven is permanently covered and cannot be revealed.
A few years later, I learned to do the laundry.
From that point on, I discovered that different clothes require different rinses. A general detergent is normally enough to clean a shirt, but once and a while, a special something is needed. Once the shirt comes out of the wash, it’s not always clean – sometimes it needs to be washed again before it’s fully ready to be worn again. But once it’s clean, it looks just as it did when it was made. The flowers don’t fade and the colours remain bright.
I think that’s why I find the doctrine of ongoing justification so beautiful. Everything about who we are becomes justified. We’re not all run through the same mill; we don’t all undergo the same transformation. Instead – we are uniquely transformed through our personal experiences, prayers and times of worship. It is our trials – or rather our response to trials, to temptation and to suffering that change us. Our life becomes a permanent process of conversion as God reaches deep in to our souls and draws out the spotless creature that He has made. Instead of wiping away our ability to reject God in one moment, instead we walk slowly, hourly with our God as He changes our will and strengthens us to choose in Him in every circumstance. And so our flowers remain.
It’s not as easy. And it’s not as simple.
But it’s so beautiful.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Living this moment
There is so much to be said for setting goals. For planning long term. For preparing what the future.
These things all have the power to save us sleepless nights and bouts of anxiety
But there’s also something to be said for living in the now. Especially for some of us.
The future is, and will ever be, a mystery.
But for some of us – we occasionally get a glimpse in to what it might look like.
The aspiring law student works with an accredited lawyer and envisions how her days will be spent.
A pregnant mother spends the day with her best friend’s newborn baby, and there she sees what her future may hold.
And the sick patient, the newly diagnosed, encounters a patient who was in their shoes 25 years ago. The ‘early stages’ patient meets the ‘late stage’ patient, and they, too, glimpse their future.
It’s happened to me twice.
The first time, I expected myself to react. I expected to be scared, to be anxious, to have somewhat of an aversion to Mr. Late stage.
But I didn’t.
I think it’s because Mr. Late stage was the kindest man alive. And the happiest. And he made me believe that if I ended up in his position, affected as he was, that I, too, would be happy. So after mentally noting that my reaction had not been what I expected, I jovially went on with the rest of my day.
And then came instance number two.
In class recently, we’ve been learning a bit about what my future could hold.
And it’s not THAT bad. Worse things exist.
I had a friend return recently from a developing nation where she had a needlestick with HIV and for the past month has been waiting on results that could change her life.
I know things could be worse.
But these days, when I think about the future, I’m scared.
The part of me that had dealt with this diagnosis, that has been at peace for so long, is starting to remind me, once again, that not everything is well. And it makes it just a little difficult to live in this moment. It tempts me to worry about tomorrow, even though I’ve chosen to live in today. And so I find myself in a place where I have to remind myself to enjoy the sun that is shining, the cookies in the oven, the gift of being able to learn and the health that I currently enjoy.
It’s my process. I choose to appreciate all that I have today, and I trust, that if my fears come to fruition, then I will become Ms. Late stage who gives hope to the early stage medical student that interviews me in my hospital bed.
I refuse to miss out on the joys today because of the possibilities of tomorrow. And I refuse to stop trusting that everything that happens in my life, that I have no control over, can be the wrong thing for my life. There are some things in life that we make happen. And there are some things that happen to us. When we fail to create the former – shame on us. But when we fail to accept the latter, I think we cease to grow.
And so
For today, I will live joyfully in the duty of this moment.
These things all have the power to save us sleepless nights and bouts of anxiety
But there’s also something to be said for living in the now. Especially for some of us.
The future is, and will ever be, a mystery.
But for some of us – we occasionally get a glimpse in to what it might look like.
The aspiring law student works with an accredited lawyer and envisions how her days will be spent.
A pregnant mother spends the day with her best friend’s newborn baby, and there she sees what her future may hold.
And the sick patient, the newly diagnosed, encounters a patient who was in their shoes 25 years ago. The ‘early stages’ patient meets the ‘late stage’ patient, and they, too, glimpse their future.
It’s happened to me twice.
The first time, I expected myself to react. I expected to be scared, to be anxious, to have somewhat of an aversion to Mr. Late stage.
But I didn’t.
I think it’s because Mr. Late stage was the kindest man alive. And the happiest. And he made me believe that if I ended up in his position, affected as he was, that I, too, would be happy. So after mentally noting that my reaction had not been what I expected, I jovially went on with the rest of my day.
And then came instance number two.
In class recently, we’ve been learning a bit about what my future could hold.
And it’s not THAT bad. Worse things exist.
I had a friend return recently from a developing nation where she had a needlestick with HIV and for the past month has been waiting on results that could change her life.
I know things could be worse.
But these days, when I think about the future, I’m scared.
The part of me that had dealt with this diagnosis, that has been at peace for so long, is starting to remind me, once again, that not everything is well. And it makes it just a little difficult to live in this moment. It tempts me to worry about tomorrow, even though I’ve chosen to live in today. And so I find myself in a place where I have to remind myself to enjoy the sun that is shining, the cookies in the oven, the gift of being able to learn and the health that I currently enjoy.
It’s my process. I choose to appreciate all that I have today, and I trust, that if my fears come to fruition, then I will become Ms. Late stage who gives hope to the early stage medical student that interviews me in my hospital bed.
I refuse to miss out on the joys today because of the possibilities of tomorrow. And I refuse to stop trusting that everything that happens in my life, that I have no control over, can be the wrong thing for my life. There are some things in life that we make happen. And there are some things that happen to us. When we fail to create the former – shame on us. But when we fail to accept the latter, I think we cease to grow.
And so
For today, I will live joyfully in the duty of this moment.
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