Overruled!--August 10, 2016
"Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action. And by this we will know that we are from the truth and will reassure our hearts before him whenever our hearts condemn us; for God is greater than our hearts, and he knows everything." [1 John 3:18-20]
Believe it or not, sometimes grace feels like being overruled.
You know how the scene goes, probably more from courtroom themed TV and movies than any actual times you have spent in court (which are usually considerably less melodramatic than the big or small screen version of a court case). One lawyer will say something that seems to break the rules of procedure, and the other side's attorney will shout out (often in a tight close-up!), "Objection, your honor!" And then, the judge considers whether the objection is correct or not--was the first lawyer badgering the witness? Was a question too leading, or asking for speculation? Was the line of questioning inappropriate or irrelevant? And sometimes, of course, the judge will agree with the objection, and say, "Sustained," at least on television.
But, as you surely know, sometimes, in a moment of high drama, the judge will declare the objection is "Overruled!", which stops the objection and lets the case continue. And because the judge is the highest authority in that particular court room, that is the end of that. No matter how much or how fiercely the objecting attorney protests, once you are overruled, you are overruled. The objecting attorney may have a point, or may have had a reasonable rationale for raising the objection in the first place, but the judge gets to make the final call.
And, as I say, sometimes that is what grace feels like. Because sometimes the accusing attorney, pointing an angry finger at me and raising objections, is my own heart. The New Testament book we call First John knows something about that, and he says that "whenever our hearts condemn us, God is greater than our hearts." What an amazing thought! That we could end up being the prosecuting attorneys against ourselves, bringing up again and again the accusations, failures, and mess-ups from our past, whose memories we can't shake--and yet that God reserves the right to overrule our own hearts and declare us... acquitted, exonerated, accepted, beloved.
And that's the thing: so often it's our own memories, our own hearts, that can't let go of our past actions, or past inactions. It's the time when I should have spoken up for someone else but chickened out because I was afraid. It's the time when I was a self-centered jerk rather than a listening ear that someone else needed. It's the long list of times I tell myself I should have done, should have said, should have gone... and now, I cannot get those moments off of my permanent record. And so it becomes my own heart that objects and won't let me move on, won't let me believe I could be accepted for all those regretted moments in the rear-view mirror. It becomes my heart that accuses me and says, "You have wasted so many of your life's minutes on empty things that kept you bent in on your own self."
And, of course, our hearts have a point, like an objecting attorney in the courtroom. We all do have moments from our past we have a hard time shaking from our memories--precisely because they are the moments we cannot get back to change, to do things differently, to find courage, or forgiveness, or love that we did not muster when we lived through them. But amazingly, First John says, the message of the Gospel is that God reserves the right to overrule our own accusing hearts.
It's funny--so often, people recoil from the image of God as "judge," because we assume that judges are only interested in punishment or looking tough so they can get re-elected. But First John practically takes that image and turns it inside out. Sometimes we ourselves are the ones accusing... our own selves. Sometimes it's my heart that tells me I'm no good and there's no hope of starting over again. Sometimes it's my own heart that is so used to feeling guilty it convinces the rest of me not to believe that I could be forgiven and free. So God--the Judge, the only One with the authority to overrule an objection in the courtroom--just up and overrules our own hearts. God knows more than our own hearts do, it turns out. And God reserves the right to say, "You are set free from all of it. It's all overruled. There are no accusations, no objections, standing against you any more. You are free to go."
Who knew that our greatest hope of grace--grace enough to quiet the accusing voice from within my own ribcage--was in the unexpectedly good news that God is a judge who reserves the right to overrule my own heart?
Lord God, what a surprise! We expected, for some reason, that you would condemn us--only to discover that our own guilt-burdened hearts have been accusing us while you in Christ have been overruling our very hearts. Thank you, Lord. Thank you.
But, as you surely know, sometimes, in a moment of high drama, the judge will declare the objection is "Overruled!", which stops the objection and lets the case continue. And because the judge is the highest authority in that particular court room, that is the end of that. No matter how much or how fiercely the objecting attorney protests, once you are overruled, you are overruled. The objecting attorney may have a point, or may have had a reasonable rationale for raising the objection in the first place, but the judge gets to make the final call.
And, as I say, sometimes that is what grace feels like. Because sometimes the accusing attorney, pointing an angry finger at me and raising objections, is my own heart. The New Testament book we call First John knows something about that, and he says that "whenever our hearts condemn us, God is greater than our hearts." What an amazing thought! That we could end up being the prosecuting attorneys against ourselves, bringing up again and again the accusations, failures, and mess-ups from our past, whose memories we can't shake--and yet that God reserves the right to overrule our own hearts and declare us... acquitted, exonerated, accepted, beloved.
And that's the thing: so often it's our own memories, our own hearts, that can't let go of our past actions, or past inactions. It's the time when I should have spoken up for someone else but chickened out because I was afraid. It's the time when I was a self-centered jerk rather than a listening ear that someone else needed. It's the long list of times I tell myself I should have done, should have said, should have gone... and now, I cannot get those moments off of my permanent record. And so it becomes my own heart that objects and won't let me move on, won't let me believe I could be accepted for all those regretted moments in the rear-view mirror. It becomes my heart that accuses me and says, "You have wasted so many of your life's minutes on empty things that kept you bent in on your own self."
And, of course, our hearts have a point, like an objecting attorney in the courtroom. We all do have moments from our past we have a hard time shaking from our memories--precisely because they are the moments we cannot get back to change, to do things differently, to find courage, or forgiveness, or love that we did not muster when we lived through them. But amazingly, First John says, the message of the Gospel is that God reserves the right to overrule our own accusing hearts.
It's funny--so often, people recoil from the image of God as "judge," because we assume that judges are only interested in punishment or looking tough so they can get re-elected. But First John practically takes that image and turns it inside out. Sometimes we ourselves are the ones accusing... our own selves. Sometimes it's my heart that tells me I'm no good and there's no hope of starting over again. Sometimes it's my own heart that is so used to feeling guilty it convinces the rest of me not to believe that I could be forgiven and free. So God--the Judge, the only One with the authority to overrule an objection in the courtroom--just up and overrules our own hearts. God knows more than our own hearts do, it turns out. And God reserves the right to say, "You are set free from all of it. It's all overruled. There are no accusations, no objections, standing against you any more. You are free to go."
Who knew that our greatest hope of grace--grace enough to quiet the accusing voice from within my own ribcage--was in the unexpectedly good news that God is a judge who reserves the right to overrule my own heart?
Lord God, what a surprise! We expected, for some reason, that you would condemn us--only to discover that our own guilt-burdened hearts have been accusing us while you in Christ have been overruling our very hearts. Thank you, Lord. Thank you.
No comments:
Post a Comment