Fouls and Forgiveness

My Dad and I are at the NCAA tournament. Nevada is playing Florida. We’re only four rows from the court—close enough to hear sneakers squeak against the wooden floor.

“Close game,” my dad says. “Either team could win this.”

The clock continues to count down. As it does, the crowd tenses, and the players get more aggressive. Their movements are sharper, and their plays are quicker.

Florida has the ball. The players pass it amongst each other, circling the basket. Then, the ball is passed to the player closest to the hoop. He springs into the air to make the shot, and his defender mirrors him.

The two players come in contact mid-air, and a whistle pierces through the stadium.

“That’s a foul,” my dad says. “It might cost Nevada the game.”

The players begin preparing for the free throw. They form lines of alternating blue and white jerseys.

Foul.

I can’t help but think about that word. In the context of basketball, the word foul has been stripped of its power. It’s synonomous with “contact between the players.”

But in any other context, the word carries weight. Foul is used to describe things that are rancid, filthy, and rank. It isn’t a term we throw around lightly. It describes the worst of the worst.

The word foul reminds me of sin. Sin is everything that is impure, unclean, and immoral. But how often do I sanitize sin? How often do I justify my wrong thoughts and actions?

My sins aren’t as bad as other people’s.

Nobody’s perfect.

I’m a good person.

I diminish my own wrong until my sin has lost its weight. But minimizing the weight of my sin diminishes the saving grace of Christ. Jesus didn’t die because I make little mistakes. He died for me because the penalty for my sin was complete separation from God. He cleansed me of all foulness and made me righteous.

The ball arcs through the air and into the basket. The free throw was perfect. My dad was right—the foul might cost Nevada the game.

But I’m so glad that, because of the sacrifice of Christ, my sin won’t cost me a thing.

The Battle Within

It’s Saturday. I’m sitting in my recliner, reading a book. It’s raining outside. I’m glad I can stay inside this morning and keep dry.

I set my book down and look at my window. Water droplets weave their way down the glass, following invisible paths.

Beyond the window, the weather is changing. The rain is falling slower and slower. Soon, the raindrops transition to snowflakes. They drift toward the ground—a swamp of slush and runoff. The snowflakes disappear on contact.

This is March. Winter and spring are locked in battle. The sludgy mess outside is no-mans-land.

The scene resonates with me.

Sometimes, my spiritual life resembles March. Sometimes, I struggle against God. Instead of fully committing my life to Him, I hold pieces back for myself. Instead of allowing Him to show me new ways to grow, I fight for what is comfortable and familiar.

And instead of experiencing the goodness of spring, I get stuck in the March muck.

God wants good things for me. But I can’t move toward those good things if I fight against Him.

I need to learn to relinquish control.

So, as I watch the seasons battle each other outside, I pray that the battle inside me would cease.

Lord, You are God, and I am only a man. Help me to submit my whole life to You. Let me hold nothing back. And lead me into the newness of spring.

I open my eyes. The seasons continue to wage war. But I begin to feel at peace.

A Bridge Between Worlds

I’m trekking through the skywalk in downtown Des Moines. The network of glass bridges runs from building to building. It’s a bizarre experience for me, walking over full city blocks without touching the ground.

There are shops and businesses on the skywalk level of each building. I pass smoothie bars. Boutiques. An art studio. Many of the people here wear suits and carry briefcases. The air smells antiseptic, like a hospital.

The whole scene is too ritzy for me. I feel overstimulated, so I decide to take an elevator down to the street level.

I walk through automatic doors, expecting to be refreshed by cool spring air.

Instead, I breathe in car exhaust.

I look around. Everything is different here. The streets are lined with grey March slush. The businesses are fast food restaurants and drug stores.

For the most part, the people are different too. They wear Levis instead of Armani. A disheveled man holds up a cardboard sign that says “Hungry Veteran.” A young woman sits cross-legged against a building as she smokes a cigarette.

I can’t believe that the skywalk is directly above me. This is a different world. I wonder if the people above are even aware of it.

But I know that Christ is. While on earth, Jesus taught fishermen and scholars. He healed Jews and Gentiles. He died for shepherds and kings. Christ’s love was the bridge between worlds.

I want to be like Christ. I want to show love to all people, even those who lead different lives than mine. I want to see them as my Savior does.

So, as I walk down the sidewalk, I meet the eyes of each person I pass. I want them to know I see them. Later, I’ll do the same on the skywalk. Because Christ’s love extends to all.

A Gift of Connection

It’s Saturday morning, and my brother Sam and I are getting haircuts. I step out of the barber chair and run a hand through my hair. It feels neat and even, not like the wild tangle I’m used to. I walk out to the seating area and motion to Sam that it’s his turn.

“Do you have my book?” I ask him. I’m looking forward to having a few minutes to read a novel. I’m busy all the time, and I need a brief escape.

“I left it on the chair,” he says. “But you won’t get a chance to read it,” he whispers. “That lady’s a talker.”

He nods toward an older lady sitting in the chair next to my book.  She’s smiling and taking in everything around her. She taps her foot as if she’s keeping time to a beat that only she hears.

“Hello,” I say as I sit down. I crack open my book.

“You must be Sam’s brother,” she says.

I close my book.

“I had such a nice time talking with him,” she says. “We actually have a lot in common. I have four siblings as well. I’m the baby of my family.”

I was not prepared for this level of conversation this morning.  I just wanted some quiet.  But I also don’t want to be rude.

“I’m the oldest,” I say. “What’s it like being the youngest?”

“It’s good when you have brothers and sisters like mine. Growing up, they always made me feel like one of the big kids. My brother taught me how to play the piano, and my sister taught me how to sew. I miss those days.”

“Do you keep in touch?” I ask.

“We do. Before my mother passed, she asked me to do one thing: make sure my brothers and sisters stayed connected. She was afraid we would drift apart. So we write each other. I send a letter to my brother Paul. He adds to the letter, then sends it to my sister Alice.  It goes from sibling to sibling until it comes back to me.”

“And then?” I ask.

“I start a new letter,” she says. “Being connected with others is one of the greatest gifts you can have.”

Her words are true.

God created us to be relational. He knew it wasn’t good for man to be alone. The ability to connect with others is a valuable gift. It allows us to learn and to grow. It allows to listen and be heard.

I almost missed out on the gift of connection this morning. I didn’t want conversation; I wanted quiet. But if God had let me have things my way, I wouldn’t have met this woman and learned about her life.

“I think they’re ready for me,” the lady says as she stands. “Nice to meet you.  Keep those younger brothers of yours in line.”

I open my book again. It looks like I’ll have a few minutes to read after all. But the story I’m most grateful for this morning is one I hadn’t expected.