The genius and grace of our faith is that we’re allowed to begin again; we’re invited to start over—over and over again. No matter what; no matter how bad it gets.
The people of God wanted idols; they wanted their petty gods. Read that story from Exodus; it’s chilling. And what’s even more chilling, for me, is that Aaron, the priest, provided. He gave in, he thought safely—just one little golden calf wouldn’t hurt. They wanted many gods; Aaron thought one god would satisfy them. They abandoned the true God who’d saved them; they turned to fake gods, to matter, to what they could see. Which happens sometimes among the people of God; had pagans done this, it wouldn’t matter, but these supposedly were God’s people, abandoning God. As I said, it happens sometimes.
And so, the prophet had to prophesy. Moses, down the mountain and angry, had to stand between God and the stiff-necked sinners, blocking his perfectly just wrath.
How did he do it? Moses remembered the covenant. He prayed God, boldly appealed to him, to remember the covenant; “Remember your servants Abraham, Isaac, and Israel…how you swore…” Now this didn’t remove punishment; it removed destruction. That’s an important distinction to note. Punishment, consequences, there still would be: some died by the sword; Moses would melt and grind the golden calf down into powder, mix it with water and make the children of Israel drink it.[1] But still, God be praised, this was grace; this wasn’t destruction of God’s whole people—which is what turning away from God deserves.
This is what hope often looks like, real hope—at least when God is involved. When hope is real, sin and wretchedness is acknowledged and admitted, not deflected or denied; there are no excuses made when hope is genuine.
In Genesis 6:6 it says God regretted ever having created man and woman. It didn’t take long: creation in the first two chapters; fall in the third; murder (fratricide) in the fourth chapter. By sixth chapter God—it’s understandable—“regrets” having made us. But of course, that begins the story of Noah, of salvation through the water. Also, think of Paul. He didn’t shy away from the error of his past. “I was once a blasphemer…arrogant.” But then he was an apostle. “[T]he grace of our Lord has been abundant,” Paul said.[2]
Now the lessons here are simple. You, wherever you are, whoever you are, whatever you have done—you can begin again; you can start over—over and over again—at least as long as you breathe.
But how? Learn from Moses and remember the covenant. Yesterday I was listening to country music in the car with my daughter; I was schooling her in the wisdom of George Strait. Texan parents do that. But then we started listening to Randy Travis and the beautiful song about a married man remembering who he really loves. “But on the other hand, there’s a golden band,” the song goes—you know it, know what it means.[3] Sometimes you’ll have to remember your marriage vows; you’ll have to be intentional about it. Sometimes you’ll have to remember your baptism; or at least remember you were baptized, remember what it means, remember the promises. Sometimes—if you’re ordained like me—you’ll have to remember the promises you made to your bishop at your ordination. Sometimes in the Church that’s necessary.
Now there will be consequences sometimes, scars, wounds from the sins we commit, from the mistakes we make. Forgiveness and absolution don’t eliminate the need for restitution. Parents know this, or they should know it; sometimes you still have to make it right; sometimes you have to live with consequences. This is as true spiritually as it is materially because God and his justice are real. And that’s fine; it okay to have scars and wounds. I’d rather limp into heaven than sprint into hell. Hope sometimes still has a little hurt in it; but that’s okay, that’s mature, that’s honest.
And really, that’s what I’d invite you to consider—that honest spiritual maturity that accepts genuine hope—the pain and the promise of it. For it’s when we accept this honest hope that’s honest about sin—like the prodigal, only after he recognizes the mess he was in and in turns back to his father; only then will we better see the Father running to us; only then will we know the grace of that embrace. And then we’ll have come to the real comforts of our holy religion, the consoling truth of our God, the Father of both justice and mercy together—in a love beyond all telling.
[1] Exodus 32:1-29
[2] 1 Timothy 1:13-14
[3] Randy Travis, “On the Other Hand” (1986)
© 2022 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield
