Readings:
Exodus 19:2-8
Psalm 100
Romans 5:1-8
Devotional:
I read a story this week of a woman who was attending her mother’s retirement party. While she was there she learned that years earlier, her mom had been up for a giant promotion, one she had worked years for, but that she decided to pass up. The woman had never known, and she asked her mom why she hadn’t taken the job. The mom told her it was just when the daughter was starting a new school and had made the volleyball team, and she didn’t want to uproot their whole family to move again. The daughter had no idea—her mom came to volleyball games, brought snacks, all with a giant smile. So she asked, “Why did you make such a sacrifice for me?” And the mom answered, “You were never a sacrifice. You were the whole point.”
The whole point. What a place to find ourselves: not as an afterthought or concession, not second place or a begrudging acceptance or even a resolute follow-through on a commitment. The whole point.
The woman experienced the fullness of her mom’s presence, the joy of her being near, being involved, being excited, never imagining that there was any other life. (After all, nobody knows the outcomes of the life that didn't happen.) But somehow, when she heard that there was a choice or another option along the way, she began to wonder what was lost. We do that — we hear about something done on our behalf and assume that it incurred some cost or “less than” experience. We imagine that there’s a new indebtedness to make up for the missing quality of life that was left behind. Or maybe we feel we have to live up to or prove ourselves worthy to participate in something that was freely given. We try to earn the gift or the invite that was already ours.
The analogy is simple. Life in Him, the fullness of His presence, the joy of Him being near, involved and excited, really has always been ours. Ours, as in, everyone, everywhere.
Let’s go way back to Exodus, before the Law, before the ten commandments. The children of Israel, having fled Egypt under God’s protection, are encamped at the foot of a mountain. Mountains often represent meeting places with God, and this mountain is no different. They come to this place of worship in the mountains, and God calls out to Moses to offer nearness, to invite them to presence.
Remember, He says, how I cared for you with My strength? Remember how I looked after you in Egypt when you were fragile? Remember how I carried you to Me? He uses pictures like eagles’ wings, and recalls their plight with Egypt, but He is painting a picture of who He cares for. It’s not the whole and well, but those who need compassion. He’s reminding them that He cares for the weak and those in need, and brings them to Himself.
Now, safe at the foot of the mountain, He invites them to come near, talk with Him, and be His people. And when He says, “obey my voice” and “keep my covenant”, you could also write that as “carry out my affairs” and “maintain our alliance and friendship.” If you listen closely, you can hear the language that sounds like the garden and the co-mission to His work: walk and talk with Me, tend the garden, co-labor in My work.
What happens when they do this? Naturally, obviously, they become His people. Not for meeting a set of requirements, but simply because we grow to be like those who we are with. And what’s really amazing is that He says, “you will be a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” Priests includes laypeople who fill the role. It’s not an exclusive seat; we are all called to the harvest. And the holy nation literally means Gentile nations becoming set apart by God. It’s been the whole point all along that everyone, everywhere could participate, could belong, could have a Place and be made right.
It’s really hard for us to imagine this. We have learned a tradition of a plan we ruined, and we carry a burden of guilt or debts owed in striving effort. We look from the outside, imagining us vs. them, and want in. But why want what by grace you already have?
If we instead imagine ourselves as being the whole point, our posture changes too. This isn’t a desperate back-up plan where we earn our seat. This isn’t a wishful attempt to be part of something and try to fit in. This is a welcoming invitation.
The Psalmist understands it and shows us the actual posture that makes sense: gratitude and praise. Shout to the Lord all the earth. No talk of outsiders. All meaning any and every. All of us get to come into His gates and enter His courts. Which means all of us are citizens — you don’t enter a gate to somewhere you’re not invited or expected to be. You don't sneak in the back way, ashamed to be caught. All the earth is anticipated and welcome to His presence. Eden’s invitation is back again: He is our Shepherd, we are the sheep of His pasture. We belong with Him, sharing in His work. So with the confidence of someone meant to be in the room, we can be joyful, excited, and thankful.
Paul gets it too, as he writes to the Roman church, who are trying desperately to figure out who is in and who is out and what exactly is required. (They've lost the picture of everyone, everywhere in the midst of all the activity of the church… a familiar situation if we are honest with ourselves.) So he reminds them that “having been justified” by faith (remember it’s not the law, as we saw in chapter 4), we have peace (wholeness and oneness) and can hope in the glory of God.
And having hope isn’t shameful, it doesn’t disappoint us. Even in our internal struggles, hope isn't the lesser life. It's expected, just like we are expected in His company, because God’s love is poured out within us. Note that it says within, because we are the dwelling place of God, even in our weakness, even as tax collectors. Just like way back in Exodus when God promised to make us priests and a holy nation. Just like the Psalmist confirming that we are His sheep, with full license to enter His courts. Paul is trying to help the Roman church understand that the plan all along has been everyone, everywhere, and that we’re not at odds with a requirement system or rulebook for admission. Neither rightness by a system nor goodness by what we did that earned us a Place; we were already welcome.
And welcomed, we can walk and talk with God in peace and hope. So now, when we look at Christ dying for us, we can see the life of His presence. We can see where He has chosen to be near us, to bring us joy and excitement. Christ dying for us, the ones in need of the same eagles’ wings of compassion, is a demonstration of His love, but it’s not one we carry with the guilt of repayment. We didn’t receive God’s second best or “B-” life. God’s love for us isn’t a concession or the worse of two options. It isn’t a backup plan to be loved by Him. No, just like the woman was chosen by her mom, well before she even knew it, we were chosen a long time ago, and we are the whole point. This life, loved by Him, is “A+”, is the very best.
And so we give thanks, reveling in His love. Reveling in His intention and willingness to come to us in our weakness, to carry us, to place us at His feet, to be with us, to call us His own precious treasure. Joyous to realize we were chosen all along. Grateful to belong without striving. Praising for the hope and glory that’s been placed in us and pours out of us.
Hold your head up high. You, beloved, were the whole point.
A Prayer for Each Moment
God Who Calls,
Your voice calls us near, regardless of name or nation. Help us continue to hear Your words and be reminded that we are Your treasured and protected children through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom with you and the Holy Spirit be honor and glory, now and forever.
Amen
A Prayer for Each Other
Our Father,
You don’t mind being close to us, no matter our condition. May we feel the powerful strength of your protection and the tender vulnerability of your care as we experience the life You intended for us.
Amen.
Blessing
May our hearts be full of gratitude, joy, and hope as we experience the continued kindness and favor of God.
Photo by Siamak on Unsplash
Exodus 19:2-8
Psalm 100
Romans 5:1-8
Devotional:
I read a story this week of a woman who was attending her mother’s retirement party. While she was there she learned that years earlier, her mom had been up for a giant promotion, one she had worked years for, but that she decided to pass up. The woman had never known, and she asked her mom why she hadn’t taken the job. The mom told her it was just when the daughter was starting a new school and had made the volleyball team, and she didn’t want to uproot their whole family to move again. The daughter had no idea—her mom came to volleyball games, brought snacks, all with a giant smile. So she asked, “Why did you make such a sacrifice for me?” And the mom answered, “You were never a sacrifice. You were the whole point.”
The whole point. What a place to find ourselves: not as an afterthought or concession, not second place or a begrudging acceptance or even a resolute follow-through on a commitment. The whole point.
The woman experienced the fullness of her mom’s presence, the joy of her being near, being involved, being excited, never imagining that there was any other life. (After all, nobody knows the outcomes of the life that didn't happen.) But somehow, when she heard that there was a choice or another option along the way, she began to wonder what was lost. We do that — we hear about something done on our behalf and assume that it incurred some cost or “less than” experience. We imagine that there’s a new indebtedness to make up for the missing quality of life that was left behind. Or maybe we feel we have to live up to or prove ourselves worthy to participate in something that was freely given. We try to earn the gift or the invite that was already ours.
The analogy is simple. Life in Him, the fullness of His presence, the joy of Him being near, involved and excited, really has always been ours. Ours, as in, everyone, everywhere.
Let’s go way back to Exodus, before the Law, before the ten commandments. The children of Israel, having fled Egypt under God’s protection, are encamped at the foot of a mountain. Mountains often represent meeting places with God, and this mountain is no different. They come to this place of worship in the mountains, and God calls out to Moses to offer nearness, to invite them to presence.
Remember, He says, how I cared for you with My strength? Remember how I looked after you in Egypt when you were fragile? Remember how I carried you to Me? He uses pictures like eagles’ wings, and recalls their plight with Egypt, but He is painting a picture of who He cares for. It’s not the whole and well, but those who need compassion. He’s reminding them that He cares for the weak and those in need, and brings them to Himself.
Now, safe at the foot of the mountain, He invites them to come near, talk with Him, and be His people. And when He says, “obey my voice” and “keep my covenant”, you could also write that as “carry out my affairs” and “maintain our alliance and friendship.” If you listen closely, you can hear the language that sounds like the garden and the co-mission to His work: walk and talk with Me, tend the garden, co-labor in My work.
What happens when they do this? Naturally, obviously, they become His people. Not for meeting a set of requirements, but simply because we grow to be like those who we are with. And what’s really amazing is that He says, “you will be a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” Priests includes laypeople who fill the role. It’s not an exclusive seat; we are all called to the harvest. And the holy nation literally means Gentile nations becoming set apart by God. It’s been the whole point all along that everyone, everywhere could participate, could belong, could have a Place and be made right.
It’s really hard for us to imagine this. We have learned a tradition of a plan we ruined, and we carry a burden of guilt or debts owed in striving effort. We look from the outside, imagining us vs. them, and want in. But why want what by grace you already have?
If we instead imagine ourselves as being the whole point, our posture changes too. This isn’t a desperate back-up plan where we earn our seat. This isn’t a wishful attempt to be part of something and try to fit in. This is a welcoming invitation.
The Psalmist understands it and shows us the actual posture that makes sense: gratitude and praise. Shout to the Lord all the earth. No talk of outsiders. All meaning any and every. All of us get to come into His gates and enter His courts. Which means all of us are citizens — you don’t enter a gate to somewhere you’re not invited or expected to be. You don't sneak in the back way, ashamed to be caught. All the earth is anticipated and welcome to His presence. Eden’s invitation is back again: He is our Shepherd, we are the sheep of His pasture. We belong with Him, sharing in His work. So with the confidence of someone meant to be in the room, we can be joyful, excited, and thankful.
Paul gets it too, as he writes to the Roman church, who are trying desperately to figure out who is in and who is out and what exactly is required. (They've lost the picture of everyone, everywhere in the midst of all the activity of the church… a familiar situation if we are honest with ourselves.) So he reminds them that “having been justified” by faith (remember it’s not the law, as we saw in chapter 4), we have peace (wholeness and oneness) and can hope in the glory of God.
And having hope isn’t shameful, it doesn’t disappoint us. Even in our internal struggles, hope isn't the lesser life. It's expected, just like we are expected in His company, because God’s love is poured out within us. Note that it says within, because we are the dwelling place of God, even in our weakness, even as tax collectors. Just like way back in Exodus when God promised to make us priests and a holy nation. Just like the Psalmist confirming that we are His sheep, with full license to enter His courts. Paul is trying to help the Roman church understand that the plan all along has been everyone, everywhere, and that we’re not at odds with a requirement system or rulebook for admission. Neither rightness by a system nor goodness by what we did that earned us a Place; we were already welcome.
And welcomed, we can walk and talk with God in peace and hope. So now, when we look at Christ dying for us, we can see the life of His presence. We can see where He has chosen to be near us, to bring us joy and excitement. Christ dying for us, the ones in need of the same eagles’ wings of compassion, is a demonstration of His love, but it’s not one we carry with the guilt of repayment. We didn’t receive God’s second best or “B-” life. God’s love for us isn’t a concession or the worse of two options. It isn’t a backup plan to be loved by Him. No, just like the woman was chosen by her mom, well before she even knew it, we were chosen a long time ago, and we are the whole point. This life, loved by Him, is “A+”, is the very best.
And so we give thanks, reveling in His love. Reveling in His intention and willingness to come to us in our weakness, to carry us, to place us at His feet, to be with us, to call us His own precious treasure. Joyous to realize we were chosen all along. Grateful to belong without striving. Praising for the hope and glory that’s been placed in us and pours out of us.
Hold your head up high. You, beloved, were the whole point.
A Prayer for Each Moment
God Who Calls,
Your voice calls us near, regardless of name or nation. Help us continue to hear Your words and be reminded that we are Your treasured and protected children through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom with you and the Holy Spirit be honor and glory, now and forever.
Amen
A Prayer for Each Other
Our Father,
You don’t mind being close to us, no matter our condition. May we feel the powerful strength of your protection and the tender vulnerability of your care as we experience the life You intended for us.
Amen.
Blessing
May our hearts be full of gratitude, joy, and hope as we experience the continued kindness and favor of God.
Photo by Siamak on Unsplash