Day Thirty-Five | April 3 THIRTY-FIVE

Saved from Sin

He came riding on a donkey: not on a warhorse, not on a great, powerful stallion … He came on a donkey, on a lowly colt of peace. But the crowds didn’t get it: they still thought He had come to overthrow the power of Rome; and, as they waved their palm branches, they shouted: “Hosanna!” (Lord, save us now!) But they didn’t understand. They didn’t understand that their greatest enemy wasn’t Rome, that it was inconceivably bigger. They didn’t understand that the foe Jesus came to overthrow was death and sin and the grave. It was hopelessness and despair, surviving at the expense of really, truly living.

After everything they’d seen … after everything they’d heard and felt and experienced, still they didn’t get it. Still, they didn’t understand who He was. And my fear is that we don’t either.

Jesus is our Savior. Above all else, let this be unmistakably clear. Who is He? He is the One who saves us from all our sins, from all our guilt, from all our shame. And He does so, not because of who we are, but because of who He is – worthy and righteous and loving and good! To truly receive Him, we must realize that we need Him: this One who enters our storms. This One who enters our fears. This One who enters our brokenness and addictions and jealousies and pain. He’s the One who enters the prison cells of our souls to set us free. In fact, He takes our place behind the bars. He frees us. He delivers us. He saves us. From the wickedness within and around us, He saves us. And He does so from the inside.

When Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were thrown into the fiery furnace in the Book of Daniel, the guard looked in to see not three men … but four. It is the promise of God’s saving presence with us, in all of life’s trials – and there are going to be trials. It’s the promise of joy in life’s battle, of peace and power in life’s storms – and there will definitely be storms. It’s this uniquely-Christian understanding that, in faith, we are never alone even if it sometimes feels that way. And we have to own that sometimes it does: sometimes it does feel that way … like we’ve been abandoned, like God isn’t hearing us, like He’s a million miles away. And, for as much as we hesitate to admit that, it’s just a part of the reality of faith that sometimes the eyes of our hearts can’t see. And that doesn’t mean that we’re not saved. It doesn’t mean that we’re bad Christians. It just means that we’re human Christians … just like St. Augustine and John Wesley and Mother Teresa – these “spiritual giants” who, in their journals, all admit to feeling the exact same way. But what they found was the ability, the power, the faith to trust even then – especially then – that God was real, that God loved them, and that God was present in a way that their too-small minds couldn’t comprehend. From the inside, they experienced the presence and freedom of the Savior … and we can, too.