salvation

This is not a call for crappy unwarranted  facebook ranting argumentative opinion spewing.  This is a call for Biblical boldness. By nature, I am a pretty outspoken person.  If you know me personally, that is extremely obvious to you.  I always have something to say.  As I am maturing, I am getting increasingly better at knowing when not to say something.  My tongue is scarred from biting it so much.  Sometimes I have to sit on my hands to keep my fingertips silent, too. But I am also becoming increasingly aware that I am unable to stay silent about certain things – especially when it comes to Jesus. If you’re just opening my blog for the first time, you will notice that I really really really like Jesus.  I believe in God’s Word, and I believe in God because I’ve seen Him move. I also believe I’m right about all of this.  I say that not meaning that I am the ultimate authority on right and wrong, but that I believe in the God who is. You may not believe I am right.  We can go round and round and round about why I am right and you are wrong,

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I’ve been recently confronted with someone wanting proof of God. And while I submitted what I know of as proof, it still wasn’t good enough.  They wanted something I couldn’t give them.  They wanted scientific method proof that God exists.  Only then would they consider believing in Him.  Their reasoning being that they could not believe in a God who would allow such horrible things to happen to people, and to sit back and watch as they do – an example used was a 13 year old girl who committed suicide by jumping off a bridge. And I couldn’t answer them the way they wanted me to.  God’s sovereignty is meant to be a mystery to us.  If we understood it all, we could consider ourselves equal with God, to which attempting such has not ended well for certain angels recorded in the Bible, nor did it end well for Adam and Eve. What I could tell them is that free will is an option.  I don’t believe God washed His hands of that girl.  The character of God says that He tried over and over to rescue her, and forces took her to a place where she felt she had

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Imagine this: You’ve got a precious gift in a box.  So precious that you would do anything for this gift.  You’d die for this gift, even.  You’ve read the instruction manual and it’s got lots of good stuff in it.  It can do all sorts of things. But this box has a requirement – you have to give it away.  You have to tell everyone you can about it and give it to them every time.  Inside the box is the same gift.  So precious. What?  No.  Not my gift.  This is mine.  You gave it to me.  If you wanted other people to have it, why don’t YOU give them one?  Why do I have to be the one to do this? And what if they don’t like what’s inside?  What if it offends them?  What if they no longer see me as a loving person because I gave them an offensive gift?  I certainly don’t want to be offensive. What if they don’t use this gift in the way I intend them to?  What if they just trash it?  Or try to change it?  Not my gift!  It’s too precious to be giving it to people who don’t care.

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Mary Magdalene went to the tomb early on the third day after Jesus’ death.  She was coming to anoint Jesus’ body with oils and perfumes, in keeping with Jewish customs.  She was expecting to see the large stone still covering the entrance, and to have to ask the Roman soldiers standing guard at the tomb to roll it away for her to enter the tomb.  She was preparing herself for the stench of a body now dead for three days, having been left untreated in observance of the Sabbath.  The burial cloths would be stuck to the wounds left from the brutal torture the body endured. But when she arrived, the stone was rolled away.  There were no guards.  The burial cloths were there on the bed, but there was no body.  The tomb was empty. Mary was afraid.  She had been there for it all, a devout follower of Jesus and one of the women dedicated to taking care of the disciples as they journeyed from town to town.  She had heard every word.  Three days before, she had seen every whip lash and heard every cry of agony from Jesus.  She stood with Mary, his mother, as they watched it

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The day was long. Jesus had spent the last 24 hours being beaten, mocked, and dragged from Caiaphas, to Pilate, to Herod, and back to Pilate again.  He was questioned and interrogated for hours, only muttering a few words of confirmation of who he was.  He was without food or sleep. It still wasn’t enough. He was already bruised and battered by the time Pilate ordered the scourging.  The Roman soldiers tied him to a wood block and whipped him over and over again, with leather thongs laced with broken glass, metal pieces, and fragments of bone.  The whip wrapped around the barrel of his trunk, the nape of his neck, and his buttocks and hamstrings.  People stood around and watched – the priests of the Sanhedrin in victory, the followers of Jesus in horror, and the hundreds of people around in sport who were in Jerusalem for Passover. And it still wasn’t enough. The high priests begged for more.  It was crucifixion they wanted.  Complete destruction of this man who threatened everything they believed and all that they controlled.  Only Rome had the authority to crucify – a brutal and painful death of only the most deserving criminals.  They wanted

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