Hearing the gospel for the first time as a teenager. No one’s good enough to please God, to deserve His favor, to earn a place in heaven on their own. It’s a radio program that I’ve stumbled across unintentionally. I certainly wouldn’t be seeking it out. The DJ plays current hits, applying certain themes to Jesus. His tender heart. His willingness to carry our burdens. His peace in our turmoil. That’s the part that gets me.
Then comes the catch. He loves, He cares about every one of us, but there’s this separation between us. It’s called sin. No matter how hard I try, no matter how good I am, I will always fall so far short of the holiness of God that I cannot reach Him on my own. Without some kind of outside intervention, I’m headed for hell.
I’m skeptical and offended. I’m not such a bad person. I am so much better than so many other people. Who does this preacher think he is, telling me I’m not good enough to go to heaven?
But I listen. I tune in each week to hear the message again. And again. I like this Jesus who loves so deeply, so selflessly, so far beyond what any human being is capable of. For the next several months I weigh the arguments, consider the options. My thinking starts with “If God is who I think He is, then . . .”
Then how perfect would He be? Absolutely perfect. Then how good would I have to be to satisfy Him? That’s a tougher question. Better than Hitler? That’s not too hard. Better than my best friend? Got that one beat. She misbehaves more than I do. But the evangelist insists that no matter how good I am compared to others, I can never be good enough for God.
I don’t want this to be true. I don’t want to be humiliated like that. I’m good at lots of things. School, athletics, puzzles and games. If I set my mind on something, I can do it well. Better than just about anyone else that I know. Surely if I tried hard enough, I could earn God’s favor.
But the preacher makes so much sense. If God is who I think He is, then He couldn’t simply accept me unless I’m morally perfect. I may be good, but I’m not that good. If God is who the DJ says He is, then He’s so loving and kind and compassionate that He would take the initiative to reach down to me since I’m unable to reach up to Him. If sin separates me from Him so completely and yet He loves me so dearly, then He would pay any price to make it possible for me to come to Him.
And the only price that would be high enough would be the life of a perfect, completely innocent human being. That would be the most valuable thing in the universe. But the only way any human being could be perfect and completely innocent would be if He was also God. God the Son. Jesus. As I ponder it, I realize that it all makes sense. Eventually letting go of my pride as the conviction hits—yes, I believe. I start reading my Bible and going to church.
A few months later, a terrifying thought strikes out of nowhere. My faith depends entirely on that little “if.” If God is who I think He is. I’ve never doubted that. I’ve never questioned His existence, His character. Why not? What reason do I have to believe that He is, and that He is who He says He is? None.
I stumble around in this agony of doubt, seeing no way out, trying to push it from my mind, trying to work up enough faith to overcome it, unwilling to express any of it to my new Christian friends for fear of rejection. I keep reading my Bible and going to church in an attempt to stifle it, to avoid it, to find my way through it.
Then I come to Psalm 22 in my daily Bible reading. Verse 1: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Isn’t that what Jesus said on the cross (Matthew 27:46)?
Verses 6 though 8: “But I am a worm and not a man, scorned by men and despised by the people. All who see me mock me; they hurl insults, shaking their heads: ‘He trusts in the Lord; let the Lord rescue him. Let him deliver him, since he delights in him.’” That’s exactly what happened to Jesus in Matthew 27:39-44.
Verses 14 and 15 could be a description of the effects of crucifixion: “I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint. My heart has turned to wax; it has melted away within me. My strength is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth; you lay me in the dust of death.”
Then the most amazing prophecy: “They divide my garments among them and cast lots for my clothing” (verse 18). John 19:23-24: “When the soldiers crucified Jesus, they took his clothes, dividing them into four shares, one for each of them, with the undergarment remaining. This garment was seamless, woven in one piece from top to bottom. ‘Let’s not tear it,’ they said to one another. ‘Let’s decide by lot who will get it.’”
How can this be? How can David, writing many centuries before Jesus was born, describe in one Psalm so many aspects of the day we call Good Friday? It’s not possible. It’s not humanly possible.
My faith is restored. Only God, the God I’ve grown up believing in, the God who reveals Himself in the Bible, could orchestrate such precise fulfillment of prophecy.
All this happened to me years ago. Since that time, I’ve learned about many other prophecies in the Old Testament that are fulfilled in the New. Faith doesn’t mean irrational belief in something that I know can’t be true. It doesn’t mean psyching myself up to believe when the doubts creep in. God didn’t give me a brain so I could turn it off when it comes to trusting in Him.
Every year on Good Friday I celebrate the good God who reached down to me because I was incapable of reaching up to Him, who paid the highest possible price in order to bridge the great gulf between us, who saved me from an eternity of torment in hell. The One who led me to that radio program and to Psalm 22, who provided a solid foundation for my faith just when I needed it.