What accomplishment fills you with satisfaction? A flower garden you planted, a car you repaired, a well-run party you hosted, an award you earned? Perhaps you aren't the type to share your achievements with others, but what things are you proud of and might show a picture of to others? Is it a wooden table you built, a delicious dish you cooked, an animal you trained, a rare lamp you found at a garage sale, or a beautiful grand baby that was recently born?
We usually attach a personal pronoun to these things. It's my garden or my Tiffany lamp or my grandchild. We might be equally delighted with a thing if it weren't ours but we wouldn't feel it belonged to us. Our accomplishments belong to us. And in a strange sort of way, our children and grand children belong to us too.
Likewise, Christ is ours. He belongs to us. He's like the accomplishment that we didn't do, but is looked on by God as ours nonetheless. And why? Because we've given up our own accomplishments, our own life. We've seen our own works aren't going to pass the test.
It's like we've entered our craft in a county fair and the judge is walking around surveying everyone's handiwork. We've entered our very best, but we're quite aware that it isn't very good. How could it be? We had no tools! Some pathetic wood carving or a poorly repaired vintage car or our best attempt at banana nut bread without ingredients.
The judge is critiquing each work as he walks alongside the table of gingham cloth. But before he arrives at our display, Christ comes up and offers us his perfect work.
"Use this instead," he says.
"What do you mean?" some ask. "You think mine's not good enough?"
You don't say that, however. You know your own isn't good enough. So you say, "Yes."
You give your lump of wood or blob of dough to him, and he puts his masterpiece on the table instead.
"Where is your work?" the judge asks.
And you point to the table. You point to Christ. "He is mine," you say. "What he did, I call mine."
And yet, we don't own Christ like we do a project or accomplishment. Rather, we are his. We put our feeble attempts at craftsmanship into his hands and he is now at his work bench, making something beautiful of our lump of wood.
And the judge took one look at what was presented on that gingham cloth under your name and went no further. He'd found the perfect work. He looks at you and shakes your hand.
"You won," he says.
Blessed Assurance
By Fanny Crosby
Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine;
Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine!
Heir of salvation, purchase of God,
Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood.
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior all the day long.
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior all the day long.
Perfect submission, perfect delight,
Visions of rapture now burst on my sight;
Angels descending, bring from above
Echoes of mercy, whispers of love.
Perfect submission, all is at rest,
I in my Savior am happy and blest;
Watching and waiting, looking above,
Filled with His goodness, lost in His love.
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