“There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”
Romans 8:1, ESV
When you start to really read scripture, you’ll soon see this idea that there’s no condemnation for anyone who believes in Jesus Christ. We’re no longer under a debilitating guilt, God’s own Son has died to bring us home.
His grace has done all of this, for us.
“31 What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? 32 He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things?”
“Who shall bring any charge against God’s elect? It is God who justifies.”
Romans 8:31-33, ESV
There is absolutely nothing that can touch us.
There is no accusation that can come against us. Our acceptance is total and complete in Christ. A vital faith in His Word has secured our salvation. We have been counted ‘just’–and this is not a clerical mistake!
When we truly repent, and believe we’re given eternal life. He has made us right. And He is waiting for us to respond to this outrageous love.
“Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.”
Romans 5:1
Any awful thing that could be smeared on us has been carried by Jesus. We gave Him all our sin, and He in turn, calls us just.
He carries us with Him to the cross, with all of our darkness and perversity. Jesus has become evil so that we might be made good. He absorbs sin, drawing in all my evil and taking it as His own.
Maybe this is strange, but I believe Jesus Christ is “God’s sponge.”
This is called justification by faith, and it’s His gift to us.
“For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.”
2 Corinthians 5:21
I struggle with my words here. What in the world is there left to say? What words can really communicate what has just happened? Let’s just stop, and think a moment. By faith “it is just as I’ve never sinned.”
Our society has pretty much embraced the American cultural icon of the cowboy. We revere those who ride alone and hard. We are rugged individualists and hardened men making our own way. Our society reflects this in subdued ways. No matter what happens, we are fiercely free and independent. We are ‘desperadoes’–we do whatever we think is best.
John Wayne, the ‘Alamo,’ and the biker with his Harley-Davidson on Route 66 have been our inspiration. Each are distinctly heroic and carry our hopes and dreams.
We must understand that the Bible is not an American book.
A cowboy did not die for our sins (which are countless). The way of discipleship does not take us through Luckenbach, Texas. We’re not desperados. We are Jesus’ disciples.
His Words to us are bold and entirely challenging in an amazingly fresh and different direction. We are told to wash feet, to repeatedly turn the other cheek, to surrender all our rights, and then take the lowest place there is in every situation.
Our lives truly begin when we come under the Lordship of Jesus Christ.
Humility is to become the way we think and how we act, we have become slaves to righteousness. Our vaunted independence has been toppled. This selfish crown has slipped. My willfulness still wants to stand instead of kneeling. We discover this has been the truth all along. We have never ever been in control.
He has been the King since before time, and will always be, for an eternity.
“Many Christians have what we might call a “cultural holiness”. They adapt to the character and behavior pattern of Christians around them. As the Christian culture around them is more or less holy, so these Christians are more or less holy. But God has not called us to be like those around us.“
“He has called us to be like Himself. Holiness is nothing less than conformity to the character of God”.
Jerry Bridges
Our churches often struggle over our personal issues of pride and stubbornness.
I pose the following questions. Are we honestly in a condition of being weak? Can you serve with a basin and towel? Is your heart that of a child? Do we see the world through the ‘lens’ of a soft and broken spirit?
I write these things surveying my own life.
Self will and my hard heart fit ‘hand-and-glove’ with being that desperado. I ride alone, making my own way, and I don’t make any disciples. I jettison my cross— my cross of discipleship. I serve no one, unless it suits me. Am I His disciple, or am I a man of my own? Is He my Lord, or have I decided to claim that right for myself?
I only hope I have spoken the truth today. Forgive me if I offended.
“Lord, I am willing to receive what You give, to lack what You withhold, to relinquish what You take, to suffer what You inflict, to be what You require.” Amen.
O Lord, God of my salvation, I cry out day and night before you. 2 Let my prayer come before you; incline your ear to my cry! 3 For my soul is full of troubles, and my life draws near to Sheol. 4 I am counted among those who go down to the pit; I am a man who has no strength, 5 like one set loose among the dead, like the slain that lie in the grave, like those whom you remember no more, for they are cut off from your hand. 6 You have put me in the depths of the pit, in the regions dark and deep.
Psalm 88:1-6, ESV
I definitely needed this Psalm today. Yesterday I went to the doctor and was blindsided by news that really isn’t good, at all. Of course, I also have this ongoing struggle with depression. Today I feel like I’m running a marathon with ‘leg weights’ on.
This particular Psalm is radically different than the others.
This Psalm has no kind words, and no praise to God for deliverance. It is a singularly sad song. Imagine if you will, a huge stone fortress in the mountains. Every room has a door, and every room a window. All except one. No light enters this room. There is no entrance or exit, no way to get free. Psalm 88 describes living that torturous experience.
I like my Psalms to be strengthening or encouraging.
But then comes this one! Life unravels and frays. Everything gets confusing. Life comes apart. The thought of being one who is irretrievably lost and damned, it saturates my thinking. The despair is beyond belief, I have no words to describe its special variety of darkness.
Anyone who has walked into this hell will understand.
Am I ‘less’ a Christian because of this vicious despair? Some would say so. The writer in verse 1-2, calls out to God. (I guess this what you are supposed to do). There is a sense of consistency in his cry. In verses 3-5, we see him evaluating his position. Again, there is a underground current of despair.
There is simply no help, no deliverance for him.
It’s a bitter and painful place to be. There are no explanations why life has gotten so nasty and bitter and out-of-control. But one thing that Psalm 88 does quite well, it strips you of any dignity that you have left.
(Does this make any sense at all?)
There is so much embedded in the book of Psalms. Comfort, faith, victory and hope are what we find. But in Ps. 88, we find a black pearl, the only one of its kind. Somehow, we dare not leave it behind, just because we don’t understand it.
I’m convinced that it has tremendous power to the disciple who is in endless pain. Just vocalizing this Psalm does something to us. These real words help. This Psalm is ours.
“Lord Jesus Christ, you are for me medicine when I am sick; you are my strength when I need help; you are life itself when I fear death; you are the way when I long for heaven; you are light when all is dark; you are my food when I need nourishment.”
Our theology makes all the difference in fighting depression, writes Kathryn Greene-McCreight, Author of “Darkness, Is My Only Companion” and Episcopal priest.
Here is an excerpt where she introduces the depression of Christians:
In his Problem of Pain, C. S. Lewis says that suffering is uniquely difficult for the Christian, for the one who believes in a good God. If there were no good God to factor into the equation, suffering would still be painful, and ultimately meaningless.
For the Christian, who believes in the crucified and risen Messiah, suffering is always meaningful. It is meaningful because of the one in whose suffering we participate, Jesus. This is neither to say, of course, that suffering will be pleasant, nor that it should be sought. Rather, in the personal suffering of the Christian, one finds a correlate in Christ’s suffering, which gathers up our tears and calms our sorrows and points us toward his resurrection.
In the midst of a major mental illness, we are often unable to sense the presence of God at all. Sometimes all we can feel is the complete absence of God, utter abandonment by God, the sheer ridiculousness of the very notion of a loving and merciful God. This cuts to the very heart of the Christian and challenges everything we believe about the world and ourselves.
I have a chronic mental illness, a brain disorder that used to be called manic depression, but now is less offensively called bipolar disorder. I have sought help from psychiatrists, social workers, and mental health professionals; one is a Christian, but most of my helpers are not. I have been in active therapy with a succession of therapists over many years, and have been prescribed many psychiatric medications, most of which brought quite unpleasant side effects, and only a few of which relieved my symptoms. I have been hospitalized during the worst times and given electroconvulsive therapy treatments.
All of this has helped, I must say, despite my disinclination toward medicine and hospitals. They have helped me to rebuild some of “myself,” so that I can continue to be the kind of mother, priest, and writer I believe God wants me to be.
During these bouts of illness, I would often ask myself: How could I, as a faithful Christian, be undergoing such torture of the soul? And how could I say that such torture has nothing to do with God? This is, of course, the assumption of the psychiatric guild in general, where faith in God is often viewed at best as a crutch, and at worst as a symptom of disease.
How could I, as a Christian, indeed as a theologian of the church, understand anything in my life as though it were separate from God? This is clearly impossible. And yet how could I confess my faith in that God who was “an ever-present help in trouble” (Ps. 46:1) when I felt entirely abandoned by that God? And if this torture did have something to do with God, was it punishment, wrath, or chastisement? Was I, to use a phrase of Jonathan Edwards’s, simply a “sinner in the hands of an angry God”?
I started my journey into the world of mental illness with a postpartum depression after the birth of our second child. News outlets are rife with stories of women who destroy their own children soon after giving birth. It is absolutely tragic. Usually every instinct in the mother pushes toward preserving the life of the infant. Most mothers would give their own lives to protect their babies. But in postpartum depression, reality is so bent that that instinct is blocked. Women who would otherwise be loving mothers have their confidence shaken by painful thoughts and feelings.
Depression is not just sadness or sorrow.
When I am depressed, every thought, every breath, every conscious moment hurts.
And often the opposite is the case when I am hypomanic: I am scintillating both to myself, and, in my imagination, to the whole world. But mania is more than speeding mentally, more than euphoria, more than creative genius at work. Sometimes, when it tips into full-blown psychosis, it can be terrifying. The sick individual cannot simply shrug it off or pull out of it: there is no pulling oneself “up by the bootstraps.”
And yet the Christian faith has a word of real hope, especially for those who suffer mentally. Hope is found in the risen Christ. Suffering is not eliminated by his resurrection, but transformed by it. Christ’s resurrection kills even the power of death, and promises that God will wipe away every tear on that final day.
But we still have tears in the present.
We still die. In God’s future, however, death itself will die. The tree from which Adam and Eve took the fruit of their sin and death becomes the cross that gives us life.
The hope of the Resurrection is not just optimism, but keeps the Christian facing ever toward the future, not merely dwelling in the present. But the Christian hope is not only for the individual Christian, nor for the church itself, but for all of Creation, bound in decay by that first sin: “Cursed is the ground because of you … It will produce thorns and thistles for you …” (Gen. 3:17-18).
This curse of the very ground and its increase will be turned around at the Resurrection. All Creation will be redeemed from pain and woe. In my bouts with mental illness, this understanding of Christian hope gives comfort and encouragement, even if no relief from symptoms. Sorrowing and sighing will be no more. Tears will be wiped away. Even fractious [unruly, irritable] brains will be restored.
“Darkness: My Only Companion”
Kathryn Greene-McCreightis assistant priest at St. John’s Episcopal Church in New Haven, Connecticut, and author of Darkness Is My Only Copanion: A Christian Response to Mental Illness (Brazos Press, 2006).
Broken Believers 