carbonated joy

A while back my world was rocked.
I found out that I wasn’t who I thought I was.

I grew up hearing stories that I was Native American. I took great pride in that. It gave me a story to tell. I had an actual heritage.
We all look to be part of a significant story.
I was an Indian and that was awesome!
Whenever anyone spoke of Native American things, I stood (a little) taller. They were speaking of my people. I studied Native American culture, after all that was my history.

When I grew up I told the story to my daughter. I told her who she was.
I even made up elaborate bedtime stories to hang our history on.
I told her stories about her great, great grandmother, whose name was Running Water. She was married to Bottled Water. They had children named Distilled Water and Tap Water.
I know, it was sad. But, it let Delanie know who she was, or so I thought…

It is always good to know who you are, unless you don’t.
My Wife, Diana, knew about my strong interest in my heritage. So, she got me a DNA test for Christmas.
I was excited! I spit in a little plastic vial and sent it off to a lab. And then i waited and waited and waited…for months.
As I waited, my imagination ran wild (it tends to do that!)
Would the tests show that I was a full blooded Cherokee chieftain as I had suspected and hoped?
And IF SO…
Was I eligible for casino money?
Was I a direct descendant of someone famous?
Were there skeletons in my closet? MAN! I hoped so!! I wanted something more interesting than: “well, you are a white dude.”
I finally got the results back and I learned that I was who I thought I was.
I’m 97.1% Northwestern European, with 50.5% of that being Irish/British.
I did found out that I’m 0.4% Ashkenazi Jew, so that is pretty exciting.
So I’m 0% Native American…I’m not from around here!
I’m not who I was told I was.
I wanted to be genetic Chex mix, but I found out that I’m the genetic equivalent of vanilla wafers.

We often find we aren’t who we thought we were.

I grew up thinking I was something I wasn’t because that’s what people told me.
Then I turned around and told my daughter the same.
We do that in other ways too, ways that limit.
We grow up believing certain things about ourselves because that is what we have been told.
You aren’t enough.
You can never do that.
You are just like your _______.(fill in the blank with the closest relative who never amounted to anything).
You will screw this up, you always do.
Other people try to tell us who we are.
We grow up thinking that is who we are.
Maybe it’s time to have your world rocked by learning that you aren’t who you thought you were!
You got to stop and check the DNA.
Don’t let anyone who didn’t create you define you.

What are you built of?
Turns out, it isn’t earthly stuff.
You are uncontainable and otherworldly.
You are made of uniquely molded miracle.
You are Inheritor of the infinite.
There is royalty in you.
You are loved, you always have been.
You are a chosen people, royal priests, a holy nation, God’s very own possession.
You’ve been called you out of suffocating darkness into liberating light.
You are adopted and accepted, rescued and restored.

Brace yourself, You might not be who you thought you were!

You have the DNA of heaven in you.
Check your DNA with the One who made you.
It might just rock your world.

Whenever we find ourselves in a jam, or we get a little jelly of others, we spread a bunch of compote trying to preserve ourselves. AND that is a BIG jar of marmalade.

I was never super competitive, UNTIL my kid started to compete.

Growing up, I was the chunky kid in the outfield, drawing pictures in the dirt, while grounders rolled by me.
I didn’t really care about winning or losing. I just wanted to have fun.
But that all changed when my baby girl started playing softball.
Suddenly, a competitive fire ignited in me.
I really can’t explain the feelings. Every time she went up to bat, my heart pounded and my gut tightened. When she was running the bases, It was like I was running with her, even though I was sitting on really uncomfortable metal bleachers, usually eating corndogs.

Delanie started playing softball in first grade.
Over the years, she was a Jag, a Rebel and an Angel.
As her completely impartial father, I can safely say that she was pretty awesome!
When your kids play sports, it’s never a simple thing.
It’s a full on family endeavor.
It takes a team to play team sports.
It was a commitment! We had practice twice during the week and games on Saturday. There were cleats and team pictures to buy.
I carried her pink “Hello Kitty” equipment bag.
We showed up.
We sit and cheered her on.
We braved the elements and sat in the rain, the wind, the yellow North Carolina pollen dust.
All worth it!!!
Del played softball with a wide open fierceness.
She was the catcher. She was REALLY good at it. It was amazing to watch her throw her mask off and get underneath the fly ball and get the out.
She was fearless.
There is a special kind of parent pride when you watch your kid fearlessly pursue something they love. It’s a soul swell!
We felt undiluted joy when watching her play with all her heart. When she went for the ball and caught it.
But, sometimes, she missed the ball too. Sometimes, they lost.
Sometimes, we felt incomparable hurt when watching her play. We felt completely helpless when we watched her go for the ball and get beaned. Sometimes life hurts and we can’t protect our kids from the sting.
During the softball years, we met some really cool people. They were folks in the same boat as us. They were crazy about their kids.
They became great friends, a community sharing the bleachers.
There are so many life lessons to learn in kids sports. There was a lot of parental pressure put on some of the kids, pressure that they weren’t equipped to handle.
The pressure to win, to succeed, to not make any errors.
Some kids had no room to mess up and they totally knew it.
The coaches were volunteers, usually parents. Some were really good, others were scary.
Some coaches made the game interesting.
Some coaches made the game intimidating.
As adults we tend to take the play out of play.
There were always a few kids who just showed up at the ballpark. They got dropped off or rode their bikes. There weren’t any parentals in the bleachers for them. The present parents circled around and picked up the slack. We cheered them on too.
As parents, we felt pressure too! when it was your turn to bring the snacks, do you go healthy or fun? carrot sticks or cookies? String cheese or twinkles? Juice boxes or root beer? The other parents were watching!
There are countless opportunities for parents to embarrass themselves and their offspring.
I’ve seen Dads get in fist fights and Moms get in angry food fights.
They would shout and stomp and insult the coach, the umps and the opposing team.
Dude, it’s a game!!
There was always that one dad who “played ball in college” and is an expert. He didn’t volunteer to actually be the coach, because of his busy schedule. But, that didn’t stop him. He could still coach from the stands.
I knew I wasn’t the coach and I figured out, by the lack of a whistle, that I wasn’t the umpire.
During the game, my profession was determined by my position.
I was in the bleachers.
So, my job was to cheer.
Sometimes, I was tempted to coach or try to officiate.
But the bleachers are made for cheering.
After the game, the cheering was meant to continue. Win or lose, we always went to Sonic. Because, tator tots take some of the crunch out of a crushing defeat and cherry limeades make victory even sweeter.

As our kids grow though the innings of life, we play different roles.
We officiate, we are the umpires. We teach them what’s important, we should pass along character and values. When they get out of line, we blow the whistle and make the call.
There are times when we are the coach. We show them, mostly by our example, how to play the game. We should make the game interesting and not intimidating.
But, as we watch our kids get older, our role changes.
We take our place in the bleachers of their life.
Our role becomes clear.
We cheer.
We don’t choose.
We don’t criticize.
We cheer.
We would REALLY like to make all their choices for them. But we can’t, it’s their game, not ours.
When they do screw up and drop the ball (because, we all do.) it’s tempting to criticize or cut.
But, that’s not our job.
As our kids get older and begin their own game, we take our place on the bleachers and we cheer.
We make some noise.
We are bold in our belief of who they are.
They step up and play their game.
There will be BIG moments, there will be home runs and wins. They play with all their heart and it pays off. There will be times when your heart pounds and your gut tightens and you feel so much pride that you could explode.
There will also, inevitably, be moments when they strike out.
You will have to watch them lose sometimes. As much as you would like to, you won’t be able to insulate them from the pain. There will be bumps and bruises. They will get beaned by a few fly balls. You will feel so much hurt that you could explode.
When that happens, gently remind them that you are their biggest fan.
This is their game.
Don’t make their choices.
Don’t criticize or cut.
Cheer!
Make some noise.
Unfurl the flag that says “I BELIEVE IN YOU!!”
We are in the bleachers. Our job is to cheer.
And maybe…occasionally, win or lose, take them to Sonic because there is something magical about a cherry limeade and tots.

Have you ever frantically searched for your sunglasses, only to discover that they were tilted up on your forehead the whole time?
True story: I have looked for my cell phone while talking on my cell phone!!
Embarrassing! Is it just me?
How about this, have you ever tried to find your car keys while you had them in your hand?
“I don’t know where they could be, they were just here…”
Exactly.

We blame it on age or stress.
But, I just think that sometimes we look for what we already have.

We look for acceptance and belonging in the loneliest places. We search for light in the dark.
In our furious search for love, we make deals in the dark and give away chunks of our soul.
We look for life in places that smell of death.
We look for permission to be ourselves from a crowd that has no idea who we are.
We want a voice, but we are afraid to speak up.
We wrestle with daddy issues and exhaust ourselves looking for validation from a Father figure.
“You saw what I did? It was good, right?”

We desperately search for the things that we already have.
It’s all there available, it always has been.

Easter is the realization that the keys were in our hand the whole time.

We just have to reach out in faith and trust and grab what is already there.

The One who designed and defines us loves us and accepts us.

He offers us a place to belong, a place where we can be ourselves.

He offers us grace and healing.

Our furious search has been satisfied by a fierce love.

Maybe it’s time to quit the frantic attempt to prove ourselves and just…breathe…and savor what God has supplied.
Maybe it’s time to realize that we had a home all along.

Easter is the realization that the keys were in our hand the whole time.

“And I will give you the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven. Whatever you forbid on earth will be forbidden in heaven, and whatever you permit on earth will be permitted in heaven.” (Matt. 6:19 NLT)

Hope is found right where we left it, at the open door of an empty tomb.

Happy Easter!
Your gift is right there within reach.
It always has been.

Somewhere in my formative years, I high jacked the Bible. I tried to make it all about me.
But the problem is that if the Bible is all about me, it is as limited as i am.
I need a faith that defies gravity.
I need a God that is shocking.

But that is scary.

We want a God that we can tame, that we can keep on a leash.
We want Him to meekly follow us home, where we can ask “Mom, can I keep him?”
We try to declaw God.

We want God to fit our formulas.
We want Him to be predictable and easily manipulated.
We want Him to just be quiet and make us happy.
The problem is that God isn’t house trained.
Sometimes He makes a mess.
He simply can’t or won’t be contained or explained in three points.
We try to turn the consuming fire into a controlled burn.
We try to decaffeinate God.

But, a domesticated deity can’t make a difference.
When we eliminate the mystery we eliminate the miracle.
When we eliminate the mess, we eliminate the magic.

We don’t trust what we can’t control, but that’s precisely the point, we have to surrender to the unseen.
We don’t like weakness or wildness.
But we’ve got to be honest about our weakness so that we can taste holy wildness.
The one who gave us breath should leave us breathless.
The one who was Spirit-conceived was never meant to be preconceived.
Jesus didn’t come to tidy things up, he came to turn things over.
He was the SHOCK GOD!
Just like a good shock jock, He is deliberately provocative.
Jesus is untamed.
He didn’t come to make us nice, He came to make us new.
He didn’t come to make us happy, He came to make us whole.
Sometimes that is messy and uncontrollable.
He is the SHOCK GOD!!
He came to shock us to life like a holy defibrillator.
God is meant to be a mystery that is discovered a little at a time over the course of a lifetime.
Faith is a beautiful adventure that should make your hands sweat as you hold them up in thanks.
If your god is safe or predictable, chances are you’ve created him in your image.
Predictable and trustworthy are not the same thing.
God is good, but He’s not safe. (Shout out to Aslan).
He’s shocking!
He is the SHOCK GOD!

Saints come in all different shapes and sizes.
Some of them have wet noses and muddy feet.
I was in 6th grade when I met my Saint Patrick

He was a magnificent Irish setter with a free spirit.
I remember when I first saw him.
We were at my cousin’s house. It was a beautiful spring day and we were tromping around in a small patch of trees. I saw this large red dog running with wild abandon through the neighboring field.
I fell into like at first sight.
He was a stray with a gypsy heart who had frequented their neighborhood for the last few weeks. He only stayed in one place long enough to get a free meal.
He was dirty and wild and beautiful.
He was a red headed Saint.

I was a boy who needed a dog.
Puberty had kicked in and it left me unrecognizable to myself.
Everything about me was changing.
I didn’t like me.
I didn’t understand the junior high social jungle.
I didn’t know how to navigate through the angst.
I needed a friend who wouldn’t judge.
I was a boy who needed a dog.

I instantly bonded with this Irish setter.
We got each other.
I, too, am the owner of a free spirit and a gypsy heart.
I begged my parents to give him a home.
I made promises to take care of him.
They gave in and said that we would give him a chance.
We took him to our house, we played for a while and then when I was distracted he took off.
I looked and couldn’t find him.
His free spirit had taken him away.
Dad said “that’s the way it is with strays, they can’t be tamed.”
I went to bed with a broken gypsy heart.
But then, the next morning, we were awoken by a strange yelping noise. It sounded almost otherworldly. It was a howl that I will never forget. It was the song of a saint.
It was the Irish Setter!
HE WAS BACK!!
I think he had taken a walk and considered his options.
He was waiting for me on the back porch.
It turns out that he was a dog that needed a boy.

He became my dog.
I named him Pat.
We became pretty inseparable.
He got me through some rough years.
The wonderful world of adolescence is hard.
You need someone to remind you, everyday, that you aren’t invisible, that you matter.
Our nightly ritual became routine.
I would get home from school, grab a snack and head to the hay barn behind our house.
I would pour out my heart to my big red Saint Pat.
He would just sit with his head in my lap looking at me with deep brown eyes that seemed to say “I understand and everything is gonna be alright”.
He was my therapist who never offered a word of advice.
He just listened.
He was my best friend who never judged or questioned.
He just offered unconditional acceptance and unwavering love.
I would tell him about my day, the frustrations, the confusion, the laughs, the hopes and dreams, the secret crushes…nothing was a secret from Pat.
I shared all the joy and pain of being twelve years old.
He listened.
He cared.
He had an amazing capacity for compassion.
He was a Saint.

But, He ALSO had an amazing capacity for jumping.
Pat could jump really tall fences, which became a BIG problem when there were chickens on the other side of the fence.
Pat discovered he really liked chicken.
Our neighbors had chickens.
After Pat had killed two of their chickens, the writing was on the wall.
My parents had a tough talk with me.
Pat had to go.
Growing up, the hardest lesson of all is that sometimes you have to let go.
We found him a home in the country with a great family and lots of places for a free spirited Saint to run free.
It was far away from any chicken coops.
We made arrangements.
It was a painful afternoon.
One of those days when your soul is stretched to the breaking point.
Goodbyes always suck, especially goodbyes to the saints that have helped you survive.
I had a knot in my throat and my eyes stung.
We had one last heart to hound talk in the hay barn and then we loaded Pat up in the truck.
It was about an hour drive. We listened to Merle Haggard with the windows down. Pat licked my face.
He seemed to know that everything was changing.
He had done his job, he had gotten me through some stuff. He had delivered the boy to the edge of manhood.
It was time for his free spirit and gypsy heart to move on.
Free spirited Saints don’t stay in one place too long.
They deposit a little divinity and then head down the dusty road.
We dropped him off and said goodbye and thank you.
He ran into a patch of trees as happy as could be.
We didn’t look back.
On the way home we stopped at a gas station where my Dad bought me a cold Pepsi in a glass bottle. We leaned against his truck bed drinking pop and awkwardly kicking at gravel.
I was trying so hard to contain a tsunami of emotion.
In a moment of unwavering love, my father patted me on the back and said “I’m proud of yah, you are handling this like a man”.
I will never forget that moment in time made possible by a red headed Saint.
It was a coming of age for me.
A welcome into the fellowship of man from my Dad.
It was a tangible turning and nothing would ever be the same.

Saint Patrick had come into my life and left huge paw prints on my heart. Forty years later, they are still there.
He ran alongside me down some perilous roads.
His last act of Sainthood was to nudge the boy toward the man with a beautiful wet nose.

That was a miracle…an undeniable work of magic and mystery that strangely enough, smelled like a big wet dog.

Thank you to my Saint Patrick.

[Renaissance = return, rebirth, revival, a restoration of the original beauty.]

A Renaissance Story…
Once upon a time…
A good King created a perfect land where He could spend time with His people.
His kingdom was good, so very good.
There was joy and peace throughout the land.
It was a wide open place of wild wonder.
But the Good king had an enemy.
There was a cruel, evil dragon, who was bent on destroying everything the Good King cared about.
The dragon whispered lies to the inhabitants of the land.
Rather than listen to the sweet voice of the good King, they believed the seductive lies of the dragon.
The people chose to walk away from the good King.
That changed everything.
The land was broken…
The people were broken…
The heart of the Good King was broken.
A new kingdom invaded the land…a dark kingdom ruled by the dragon.
The dragon unleashed fear, insecurity, selfishness, shame, greed, pain, sickness, war and death.
The people died to the ways of hope and wonder, entirely, completely dead.
The King knew that he had to rescue his broken people.
He sent His Son, the Prince of peace, to restore order and to bring renaissance.
The Prince left the palace and came to the broken land to change everything back, to restore the original beauty.
He lived amongst the people and everywhere He went, he reminded them of the Kingdom, the good Kingdom that was invading the kingdom of darkness and bringing renaissance.
He gave glimpses of renaissance by restoring original beauty and wholeness to the people.
But the dragon mounted a resistance to renaissance.
He deceived the rulers of the land.
Darkness infiltrated the land.
Evil ran wild.
The Prince still loved the people with a wild love that was grounded in promise rather than performance.
He loved the people so much.
But, in a betrayal that could have only been forged in the darkest places, the people brutally killed the Prince of peace.
The Prince was dead, entirely, completely dead.
The dragon thought he had won.
All hope was lost…
But…
The
Story
Wasn’t
Over.
The Prince was about to unleash “happily ever after”.
In a shocking turn of events, the Prince rose from the grave.
He killed death.
He slayed the dragon.
The Prince was alive, entirely, completely alive.
The Prince of peace became the King of hearts.
It was all part of a completely ridiculous plan.
The King of hearts had allowed Himself to be broken and ugly so that the world could, once again, be whole and beautiful.
This made renaissance possible.
This made “happily ever after” possible.
As people realized this, they returned to the kingdom.
They let the King reign in their lives.
His good dominion overcame the kingdom of fear and darkness.
Hope was reborn.
Wild wonder was awakened.
Grace ran loose.
People were set free.
They became alive again, entirely, completely alive.
In the good kingdom broken things were made brand new.
“Happily ever after” had begun.

THIS is renaissance!

a good song lifts you up.
The right song can make your day better.
You start singing along and it changes your perspective.
We all have our jam.
For me, it usually involves some 70’s – 80’s Rock.
I can be in a funk and I hear some loud ELO, Hall and Oates or Queen and everything is good.
Funk becomes funky.
A good song lifts you up.

Speaking of great music, the great poet, Bruce Springsteen sung “Everybody’s got a hungry heart” and it’s true. We all are born with hearts that hunger.
Our hearts hunger to hear a song.
A song that will lift us up.
There is one song that we all need to hear.
It’s an oldie, but it remains fresh.
It’s the song that can change everything for us.
We first hear the song in a story about Jesus. Listen for it…
“It was in those days that Jesus left Nazareth (a village in the region of Galilee) and came down to the Jordan, and John cleansed Him through baptism there in the same way all the others were ritually cleansed. But as Jesus was coming out of the waters, He looked up and saw the sky split open. The Spirit of God descended upon Him like a dove, and a voice echoed in the heavens.
Voice: You are My Son, My beloved One, and I am very pleased with You.

After that the Spirit compelled Him to go into the wilderness.” – Mark 1:9-12 (the VOICE)

Did you hear it?
The Songwriter sang “You are my Beloved child, in you I am pleased” over His Son.
“You are my Beloved child, in you I am pleased”
I love you and you bring me joy!
It’s interesting that at this point in the story, Jesus had not really achieved anything. He hadn’t done any miracles. He hasn’t got a following or an impressive resume. The cross is three years away.
His Heavenly Father is pleased with WHO He is, not what He has done.
In fact, He is so pleased that he writes a song: “You are my Beloved child, in you I am pleased”
Pleasure is found in the person, not the performance.
The song is a sweet celebration of WHO not WHAT.
Jesus needed to hear the song.
He is about to enter into the wilderness and the wildness.
He needs a song to lift him up.
He needs a soundtrack for the road trip he is embarking on.
It became His jam.

“You are my Beloved child, in you I am pleased”
It’s a simple song.
That’s good because we need to know it by heart.

As parents we need to know it so that we can sing it over our sons and daughters.
Sing it loud, sing it often until it becomes the song they can’t get out of their head (or heart).
“You are my Beloved child, in you I am pleased”
The most powerful gift we can give them is the song.

As a community, we need to sing it over the generations that follow us.
As they go into the wilderness and the wildness, they need a soundtrack…
“You are my Beloved child, in you I am pleased”

Maybe you didn’t hear the song from your parents.
You heard other songs,
Ugly songs that still play in your hungry heart.
Songs that made you feel unloved, worthless, damaged…hungry.
You need a new playlist.
It’s not too late.
It’s time to rewind.

The One who wrote the song sings it over you.
Listen.
He sings the same words over all of us.
He changes the music to match our personality.
The Songwriter is cool like that.
The music might be different, but the words are exactly the same for each of us…
“You are my Beloved child, in you I am pleased”

Even if no one else has ever sung the words over you, the Songwriter does.
He has never stopped singing the sweet song of life over you.
It’s time for you to find your jam.
“You are my Beloved child, in you I am pleased”

I pray that you hear the music.

The other day, I took our beagle, Maggie, out for a walk.
It was a beautiful day, she was enjoying the sunshine and the cool breeze.
But, then suddenly she froze with her nose in the grass.
She smelled something and that stopped everything.
Our petite hound threw herself on the ground and started writhing around in the grass.
She had found something dead and she wanted to roll in it.
She loves to roll around in dead stuff.
She has a strange fascination with the foul.
She rolls around in it and it rubs off on her.
Suddenly, she smells like death.
Actually, she smells like death mixed with Frito corn chips…it’s not a pleasant thing.
It’s embarrassing.
But what is really sad is that we do the same thing…
We roll around in things that should be dead to us.
Failure.
Lies.
Insecurities.
Fears.
Unhealthy relationships.
The past.
We roll around in what we have killed off.
We refuse to leave it alone.
We refuse to let it lose its grip on us.
We roll around in it.
It rubs off on us.
You start to resemble what you roll in.
It rubs off on you.
I think that was what Jesus hinted at in Matthew 8:22 (MSG) when he is talking to a follower who wants to go bury his deceased dad (seems like a reasonable request) Jesus tells him “First things first, Your business is life, not death. Follow me. Pursue life.”
That seems a little harsh.
But, as the natural born enemy of death, Jesus knew what it could do if you roll around in it.
He is telling us to say goodbye to the deadness.
Those old ways of defining yourself and others.
Your mistakes.
Your sins that have been forgiven.
Say goodbye to the deadness.
Run to the liveness.
Writhe around in life.
Roll around in wide open fields of wild grace.
You end up smelling like fresh cut mercy.
You start to resemble what you roll around in.

The Oscars just happened.

It’s a big Hollywood hype fueled party /awards assembly.

The Oscars ceremony is like the Super Bowl of cinema.

Movie industry types dress up in itchy looking tuxedos and sparkly evening gowns that cost more than my car. They come together hoping to win a shiny trophy.

They might say that it’s an honor just to be nominated, but they are lying (remember, they are actors) they want to win!

They want to win an eight and a half pound trophy.

It’s no ordinary trophy…it’s a trophy with a first name, Oscar.

Oscars are shiny gold plated men.

They are supposed to be knights, personally I think they look like golden foosball men with arms.

Oscars are given to recognize excellence in movie making.

They celebrate cinematic achievements.

There are all kinds of different categories, best actor, best actress, best foreign language film about lawn furniture, best song in an animated short about gym shorts.

They are a big deal.

The winners clutch the trophies to their chests. They try to look surprised, they made hurried speeches to show their gratitude.

It’s a big deal.

But, It’s not about the gold covered chunk of metal.

They are usually won by people who can afford to buy lots of gold.

It’s not about a fourteen inch piece of precious metal.

The real value of the trophy is the achievement that it celebrates.

I have a few trophies at home, they aren’t oscars and they aren’t gold plated.

I have one for public speaking, I tied for honor camper one year, I was on a winning basketball team once.

They are mostly plastic, but they are significant to me because of the achievement they celebrate.

Each trophy has a story. Some of those stories have grass stains.

It’s cool to have trophies.

It’s even better to BE a trophy.

When I gave my life to Christ, I am transformed into a living trophy.

That means, that instead of getting a trophy that I can clutch to my chest, I become a trophy and I get clutched to the chest of God.

I am a trophy of grace

I’m a little man shaped trophy that recognizes excellence in love.

I testify to the achievement of my savior.

I point to the sight of the ugliest, ultimate victory ever…the cross.

I celebrate the greatest comeback ever, when Jesus killed death.

It’s a big deal.

He unleashed a grace that achieves what I could never could do on my own.

That makes me new.

That makes me shiny.

That makes me significant.

I’m a trophy of grace laid at the feet of my champion.

I’m not alone.

The church is meant to be a big beautiful trophy room.

“We all arrive at your doorstep sooner or later, loaded with guilt, Our sins too much for us—but you get rid of them once and for all.

Blessed are the chosen! Blessed the guest at home in your place!

We expect our fill of good things in your house, your heavenly manse.
All your salvation wonders are on display in your trophy room.”

Psalm 65:2-5 (MSG)