I’ve been listening to the Together for the Gospel live stream yesterday and today. Such good stuff. I’m so thankful that I have a job that, apart from sitting in on meetings, allows me the ability to stream these sessions in the background while I do documentation work.
In particular, the panel on justice this morning was superb. And, surprisingly, the workshop by Timothy Keller this afternoon–on preaching, of all things–has been the most encouraging so far in terms of words to my mind and soul.
But what has surprised me a bit is the effect that listening in on the worship sessions has had on my soul. Old songs, new songs—all incredibly settling. Songs that I have clung to with my very nails in the past few years…like Though He Slay Me, and All I Have is Christ. Timeless words, such as those in In Christ Alone and Be Thou My Vision and so many others.
Solid, solid words.
Not shallow. Not “feel good” love songs better song at a wedding yet masked as worship songs. Not verse chorus verse chorus bridge chorus rinse repeat repetition and if you throw in some alliteration you get bonus points.
No, this is stuff I can think about.
This is stuff I can pray.
These are psalms.
I’m not sure why, but I’ve paid closer attention to the words of some of these songs both yesterday and today. One verse, in particularly, sent me scrambling to find something I had recently read. About forgiveness of sin.
It’s a section of words that Philip Yancey wrote, on his website. When I first read them, I gravitated to them because I had been reading and thinking about the thief on the cross, in the days leading up to Easter. And, asking the “Why?” questions that so often get me in trouble.
Like: Was his faith real? Or was it jailhouse/death row religion? That last desperate grasp, in the very last moment. Fire insurance, if you will.
And, many more. (Thank you brain.)
So I re-found the words from Yancey, when I heard the words to a particular hymn. Here are Yancey’s words, first. I’ll share the hymn in a bit.
In one of his last acts before death, Jesus forgave a thief dangling on a cross, knowing full well the thief had converted out of plain fear. That thief would never study the Bible, never attend synagogue or church, and never make amends to all those he had wronged. He simply said “Jesus, remember me,” and Jesus promised, “Today you will be with me in paradise.” It was another shocking reminder that grace does not depend on what we have done for God but rather what God has done for us.
Jesus knew. He knew. This thief–this low life, this thrown away, this sinner–he would never be a Sunday School teacher or visit any shut-ins or go on any mission trip. He would never have some “amazing” testimony that he could share on the speaking circuit. Because he was breaths away from being dead.
And yet.
And yet Jesus forgave him. Forgave him. Jesus saw the scrap of 11th hour faith and the man’s recognition that Jesus was who he said he was, and he heard this thief’s acknowledgement that Jesus was no ordinary man, in his words to the hard-hearted thief (Do you not fear God?).
And he was saved.
That kind of grace is so hard to understand. It is beyond us. Even though I know I would ultimately fail–because I could never work hard enough, and I am o, so good at failing, I have degrees in failing–I still want to earn God’s favor. Earn salvation. Earn justification. Earn sanctification.
So, the hymn. That wonderful, painful hymn.
There is a Fountain Filled with Blood
Written by William Cowper in 1772. A man plagued by great depression and anxiety and fear bordering on insanity. A man that many probably saw as flawed. Deeply flawed. And whom we know considered himself to be flawed.
He wrote these words in the second verse of this hymn:
The dying thief rejoiced to see that fountain in his day;
And there have I, though vile as he, washed all my sins away.
Washed all my sins away, washed all my sins away;
And there have I, though vile as he, washed all my sins away.
What must the thief have experienced–in both his mind and soul–in those moments between his encounter with Jesus and his last gasp? Was it relief? Shock? Rejoicing, such as Cowper imagined here?
Joy, in the throes of death?
But here’s the kick….here is where this hymn gets me: “And there have I, though vile as he, washed all my sins away”
God’s grace is shocking.
His grace, to the thief, is shocking.
His grace to any of us is shocking.
His grace, to me (though vile as he!!!), is shocking. A thousand times over.
And I can never earn it, though try as I may. No matter how much hard work I do. I can not earn it.
Shocking.
