Good News

There is a perpetual dispute about whom, if any one, should take credit for, you know… the universe. Someone who might be pedestal worthy, if you will. There is also an accusation towards those who claim the existence of such a master of the universe, that the defence of such a claim is simple to make during easy times and hard to stick by in times of affliction.

This charge of hypocrisy also infers that even if such a reputable idol exists, it must not care for us, or hold the power to change our circumstances nor give us what it is we need.

There are several hurdles with this logic. First, it presumes that we are deserving of any kind of external interference on our behalf. Secondly, it assumes our own definition of what is best in a given set of circumstances. Lastly, it somehow exonerates us from any responsibility in creating the problem and of being part of the solution we seek.

Some years ago, I told a friend of mine something which left him very distraught. Something personal. Something which everyone in his life was ignoring, for the sake of his comfort. And theirs. Something true and intrinsically tied to his identity. It was a difficult night in which he left me without a goodbye. My friend later told me that he went home that night with an unavoidable decision to make. He had a choice to never see me again, or a choice to make a dramatic change.  

For mostly selfish reasons, I'm glad he chose the latter.

Years later, that same friend shared a new challenge he was facing and asked me for suggestions on how to tackle it. I remember telling him that it might be helpful for him to be reminded of his identity on a regular basis. He decided to hang a picture frame in his office with words which best described his place in, you know... the universe. Over time, he felt that it was instrumental in reminding him of a reality which wasn't so much the vehicle to his goal, but the destination itself.

As the Easter holiday came and went, this year, and the taste of chocolate eggs begins to fade as I wallow in sorrow, with a broken heart, I think also of the sorrow of one truly innocent. One who hung on a cross, pierced and alone, all those years ago, spat upon and tortured by those he came to rescue. One whose claims had little to do with bunnies and candy, but with life, sacrifice and freedom.

On that momentous day, there were two others who were nailed on Roman crosses surrounding the self described author of history. These admitted criminals completed a gory sight and gave us a picture of ourselves. Both thieves, probably with similarly long criminal records. Both deserving of punishment. Both caught and convicted. But one of them humble and repentant, the other - defiant. One of them recognizing the innocence and power of the man in the middle, pleading with him not for the now, but for the after. The other, mocking the innocent one and challenging him to change their circumstances with purely self-seeking motives.

As it relates to the man in the middle, every person who has ever graced the surface of our planet really is one of those two thieves. There is no third option. We bring nothing worthy of deserving his favour. Somehow, for some inconceivable reason he thought it a perfectly good idea to mix with us for a time, suffer and drag his brutal carcass onto an altar which screamed for ours. Just so we could be free. And we can. 

The question for us really is: "Which thief am I?"

When I left my home, in a desperate attempt to give my bride the space she wanted, I looked to the welcoming arms of my loving family, and also to those of my old friend. His family took me in, and my son, as one of their own. For many months we have shared the same space as I've watched them grow in selflessness through sacrifice. My little guy has at times, expelled his oblivious anger towards the very ones who have came to his aid. And I've watched them grow in love through this mucky concoction where problems and solutions are so closely tied, they can hardly be discerned.

I still remember moving into my small, windowless room in the basement of this loving home. A single bed, a desk and some shelves. Appropriate for a man looking for clear answers in the midst of hardship. As was that old picture frame on the wall, which read: "I am a son of the King."

That any of us can be both a thief and a son (or daughter) of the King and Maker of all; that is truly good news. Indeed, the greatest news in the universe.