“For if, while we were enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of his Son, then how much more, having been reconciled, will we be saved by his life.” (Romans 5:10)
When we talk about God forgiving us, it’s helpful to remember that we’re not talking about him forgiving us for some “minor” offense. It’s not just some condescending little, “Oh, fine, I guess I can let it slide that you didn’t make it to church last week.”
There is no one against whom we have committed greater sin than God. Think about that for a minute. Think about the nastiest, most evil person in all of history, the one who you would personally have the very hardest time forgiving—and that is YOU before God. You were literally God’s ENEMY.
Perhaps you did not deliberately set out to be God’s enemy, but the fact is that you were His enemy by association, just as all soldiers in war fall on one side or another based on which leader they are taking orders from.
And this is precisely why God’s forgiveness is so mind-boggling. Under the circumstances (which He could justly declare unforgivable), really the most we could hope for would be something like: “Because of my great mercy, I’ll let you get by without the death sentence, but you’ve offended me so much I’m still going to exile you to an island for the rest of your life.”
But instead, it’s this magnificent: “You were my enemy; now become my heir!”
He offers reconciliation that is full, complete, without caveat. He wipes our record clean, and calls us up to the place of honor reserved for beloved children.
I think that reconciliation must be one of the most beautiful words in all the English language.
P.S. See this original post for info about this photo challenge and more about this reading plan I’m using this summer for the book of Romans (and I’d love to have you join in!)!
“[Abraham] did not waver in unbelief at God’s promise
As the coral sun sets in a sea of softly apricot sky, I drive down the familiar bumps and curve of our own driveway after a long day in town. Three small girls, happily sticky with the residue of free Dumdum suckers from the bank, tumble out of the car and I herd them inside to put on pajamas, brush teeth and crawl into bed. We kill all the mosquitoes in their room, say prayers together, turn out the lights. And then, I go back out to unload the groceries, a flat of plants from the greenhouse, and a newly repaired bicycle that’s ready for a six-year-old to learn to pedal. It’s late and I’m tired, but suddenly I pause in the midst of my trips up and down the porch steps, because—