What Can Wash Away My Sin?

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun,

Which is my sin, though it were done before?

Four hundred years ago, the poet John Donne wondered aloud whether God would actually forgive the wild, foolish choices he had made in his life.

In the last four days, at least half the people in the world have silently wondered the same thing.  Can God—will God—actually erase the record of our anger, lust, and dishonesty?  Or will those choices always drag behind us as painful reminders of our foolishness?

God’s promise for those who turn to Him is clear and categorical:  “I will forgive their wickedness and will remember their sins no more” (Jer 31:34). The Father knows that we have doubts about His goodness, and so the Bible tells us, “If we confess our sins to God, He can always be trusted to forgive us and take our sins away” (I John 1:9).  And just in case we need a visual reminder of His promise to repair our brokenness, we hear: “As far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us” (Psa 103:12).

There’s nothing more dependable than God’s promise to forgive your past.  Trust His promise:  experience His freedom.

 And stay in grace.

Forgiveness on a String

On some bright Tuesday when we’re feeling poised, benevolent and calm, we set our minds to finally forgive the one whose wrong we can’t forget. “It’s all an act of will,” we say—and so we try to unremember their insulting words; the money borrowed that never was returned; the way they turned their backs to be with finer friends.

And like all good intentions, it lasts an hour or two or even ten—until the insult twists again, or we are snubbed, or mocked, or cleaning up for them. Our righteous anger burns like bile, for now we have fresh evidence of malice.

The wellspring of forgiveness is the heart from which it starts. “Forgive one another, just as God forgave you because of what Christ has done” (Eph 4:32), the Scripture urges. We can’t forgive until we know—again—how much the Father has forgiven us—for all the insults to His grace; for how we misused gifts He gave; for when we turned our backs on Christ.

Only forgiven folk forgive. The grace we give is grace we have received: we make none by ourselves. “For by grace you have been saved through faith; and this is not your own doing, it is the gift of God” (Eph 2:8).

So stay in grace.

—Bill Knott

The Growing Season

We sift the ash of burnt-out days, and wonder why our faith seems hesitant, half-formed, not ready for the fray.

Where was our patience when the boss was overbearing? What happened to our pledge of gentleness when someone threw a verbal brick? Why didn’t self-control rise up and save us from temptation?

We want our virtues quickly: why can’t they grow like cultures in a Petri dish? But God’s Word teaches us that all good things need rain and sun; dark and day; bud and flower and long development.              

“The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control” (Gal 5:22-23).

The finest fruit takes time to grow: there are no hothouse virtues. Our thinking and our living both mature as we accept the Spirit’s promptings in each day. Tomorrow will be sweeter than today. Our growth in grace will come in God’s good time.

“He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ” (Phil 1:6).

So stay in grace.

—Bill Knott

The Confidence of God

It isn’t difficult to disappoint.

Expectations crowd around us. We’re reminded by sly colleagues of why we didn’t get the job; why our résumé is lacking; why no one trusts us with the ball. We rarely measure up to super-charged young climbers on the ladder of success, or those who spend long afternoons perfecting three-point shots.

Our mere mortality gets glares from those whose motto is Olympic: Faster; Higher; Stronger. Only winners need apply.

And often, on our poorer days, we wrongly think that God is disappointed with us too. In our imaginations, He stands for all who ever called us slow, or slack, or sinful.

 In this, we always read Him wrong, for He has made His deep affection clear: “God was in Christ, reconciling the world to himself, no longer counting people’s sins against them” (2 Cor 5:19). “God showed His love to us. While we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Rom 5:8).

 We can’t hear these words too often. Grace never disappoints; does not withdraw; does not let go. Even when we get it wrong, we are the ones God always loves.

 So stay in grace.

—Bill Knott

No Traveling Alone

When every tire we ride is losing air and going flat . . . When there are miles to go in this day’s marathon but never knees enough to make the finish line . . . We wonder why our race is all about endurance, and little about joy.

Ahead of us—some far ahead—are all the ones with bright and shiny faith—so sleek, so well-equipped, so sure. And we imagine this is how they always race because of gifts not given us. They breathe the air of heaven, so it seems, while we go panting in this smog of trouble and dejection.

But there is one who traveled all our roads, who knows the drama of flat tires, and remembers His own Heartbreak Hill. “This High Priest of ours understands our weaknesses, for He faced all of the same testings we do, yet He did not sin” (Heb 4:15). And He is still content to travel at our pace. He knows that weariness and doubts don’t ever mean we are disqualified.

For “the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to the skillful” (Eccl 9:11). 

Grace travels with us when we ride, or run, or walk, or crawl. There is no stretch of road on which we ever are alone.

So stay with grace.

—Bill Knott

Hail the Day

When our last star has flickered out;
When our last square of daylight
Has been canceled by the rolling of a stone
That crushes everything our hope had built,
We grieve like those deceived.
We huddle with our frightened peers,
And wonder just how long a man must walk
To get back to his fishing boat,
Or why Emmaus seems so far.

Embarrassed, tortured not with nails but doubts,
We sabbath with no rest, our minds a fright house
Of unscripted dreads.
If we could wake the dead, we would—
Call life back to the silent lips, the pale hands—
As we had watched Him do.
But there is grief, and there is fear,
The burnt-out moons of this dark night. 

And yet, beneath the hill, behind the stone,
Life stirs in answer to a Father’s call.
And He who made the rock
Some laborer had shaped to close His tomb
Steps out, reclothes Himself with His abundant life,
And strides forth like the sun at noon.

This day is more than we had dared to dream,
But everything we need.
Dawn does not break: it builds with rays unstoppable
Until all shadows disappear.
He has risen. Grace still rises. We will rise.

—Bill Knott

Unbroken Love

There is no life without its wounds.

We spend our decades battling others, trading insults, feeling used by those more powerful or proud. First our knees and then our hearts get scraped by this tough, bruising sport of life. When we aren’t fighting to defend ourselves, we’re putting bandages on wounds that no one else can see.

The scars, the tight-lipped bitterness, teach all the worst of lessons: that no one can be fully trusted; that evil lurks behind each smile. We watch the grim parade of former heroes now reduced to injured, hurting souls like us.

But there is one whose wounds bring healing to us all. In all our broken, lacerated past, just one man drained the bitter cup, felt sorrow rip His heart apart—and still, somehow, remained the joyous, hopeful Saviour He was meant to be. Beaten, cursed, condemned and killed, Jesus never lost the love He lived.

“He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on Him, and by His wounds we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5). 

His story doesn’t end with pain, for He broke through our woundedness one cool, spring, life-affirming dawn. The morning—ours; the healing—ours; His resurrection—what’s in store for us.

Choose healing now. And stay in grace.

Not for Sale

Can you change your everafter by the good things you do now?

Millions all around the world believe it. Tens of billions—dollars, euros, rubles, yuan—are given every year by those who earnestly believe their gifts improve their odds of getting into heaven.

Massive projects are begun; hospitals are long-endowed; homeless veterans at the corner get twenty dollar bills. Others light their hopeful candles, fast twice a week, and even cause their bodies pain in hopes the Father will relent.

Since everything must have a price, where do we buy our everafter tickets?

But heaven never was endowed, nor can we own a single brick on streets bright-paved with gold. “For by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God— not the result of works, so that no one may boast” (Eph 2:8).

Our only claim on heaven is the Father’s great affection for us. You’ve heard the line so many times: this time hear it clearly. “For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son, so that everyone who believes in Him may not perish but may have eternal life” (John 3:16).

In God’s wise and gracious plan, kindness flows from those who have received His grace, not as a way to earn it. Accept God’s gift before you give your own.

And stay in grace.

—Bill Knott

The House that Grace Builds

What if, when we were wrong, the response was thoughtful listening and respect?

What if, when tempers snap, we were quick-wrapped in gentle joy?

What if, when we confessed our pride, we were embraced by those who deeply know their brokenness—included, freed, forgiven?

Why, this would be a heaven on this earth—a place where healing flourishes and misspent lives can be made whole. This is where we’d spend our time—among the ones who make us know we’re safe, accepted, and renewed.

Among such people, we could grow. We’d soon discover we no longer need the weapons of our war. If we can be mistaken and yet fully loved, we’ll rapidly repent of all the wasted time we spend defending our depletions.

These people will become our sanctuary, our church—with or without a building built of brick and glass. This will be the Holy Spirit’s home.

This is the house that grace builds—a living room, a rented hall, a steepled church where Welcome Ave meets Freedom Street.

So meet me where forgiven folk still joyously forgive.

And stay in grace.

A New Economy

Before we even learned to count, we learned the way the world works.

We did “good” things: we picked up toys; ate all our pears; and gave the cat his needed space—and we were praised. Our value was affirmed.

We did “bad” things: we fought with siblings; refused to take a needed bath; threw tantrums on the kitchen floor—and we were criticized, less loved.

The love we knew was often a transaction: for doing X, we could get Y. And when we took up jobs and cash, the lesson only deepened: value gotten meant value given.

And then we heard a strange, new thing: Jesus overturned the economy of value, just as He overturned the tables of the merchants. We are loved, the Father says, before we ever did good things, and even when we do bad things. “God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Rom 5:8).

So constant is His matchless care we never leave the orbit of His love. “This is love: not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins” (1 John 4:10).

Here is the gospel of new value: we are loved because God loves, and not for what we offer Him.

So stay in grace.

—Bill Knott

The Flowering of Grace

The words were angry, tight and cold. We spat out syllables designed to wound, expose, pronounce, condemn.

And then we crouch behind dark curtains, grieving for the pain we’ve caused; the lack of laughter where we live; the friendships stalled or even broken. We cannot see a way back home, and time drags wearily toward night.

But there is light and warmth—and grace—for us. The Bible says, “God was in Christ, reconciling the world to himself, no longer counting people’s sins against them. And He gave us this wonderful message of reconciliation” (2 Cor 5:19). We reconcile when we restart the conversation pain has paused: we choose to move beyond this dry impasse into the ease and laughter we once knew. Because of grace, our friendly options flower like deserts do from nighttime rain.

The miracles of grace first happen to us and then through us. Because we are embraced by God, we learn the language that rebuilds: “I’m asking your forgiveness. I want us to be friends again.”

And somewhere God, who never pauses or desists, is smiling as we practice grace. The love that saves us makes us kind.

So stay in grace.

—Bill Knott

Getting What We Don't Deserve

We want the verdict we can’t have—to be both right and righteous; to win each argument on points, and yet be counted blameless.

But something in our quest to win undoes our fleeting grip on grace. “Love is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs,” (1 Cor 13: 5) the Bible says—and still we keep a tally sheet of wounds we’re waiting to avenge. We chase a kite tail in the wind to fix what gossip has besmirched, convinced that what we call the “truth” is ultimately more prized than love.

But only God can get it right. Only a wise and gracious Father can be both “just and the justifier of the one who has faith in Jesus” (Rom 3:26).

“He was pierced for our transgressions,
He was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was on Him,
and by His wounds we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5).

The goodness of the gospel is not getting what we’ve earned. For there is One who took our lies, our lust, our longing to be right and washed them with His tears and blood. As grace replaces all our fantasies of justice for ourselves, we yield to the greater truth: “The Lord has laid on Him the iniquity of us all” (Isaiah 53:6).

It is enough if only Christ is right, and through His grace declares us whole.

So stay in grace.

—Bill Knott

Manna in Our Wilderness

We breakfast on the crusts of aging self-help theories. “Believe, believe in who you are,” we mutter as we face another thin and hungry dawn.

By lunch, we are negotiating losses, trying hard to still believe that “We are wise, and we are warm, and we are kind.” But conflicts with our colleagues and chasing three-year-olds around a house belie the bromides and bravura.

At supper, we go searching for our comfort food, the self-indulgent set-aside of all that didn’t work that day. “No one could have expected more of me than me,” we chant. Our sins were only foolish calories—not consequential, easy to explain.

There is, no doubt, a better way. The gospel taught by Jesus doesn’t ask us to think better of ourselves or imagine qualities that never have appeared. “God shows His love for us in that while we were yet sinners Christ died for us,” (Rom 5:8) the Bible says. “This is real love—not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son as a sacrifice to take away our sins” (1 Jn 4:10).

Grace builds our confidence in everything God gives. “I am the bread of life,” Jesus says. “Whoever comes to me will never be hungry again” (Jn 6:35).

This is the manna for each day—“not I, but Christ.”

Trust what He gives. And stay in grace.

Assumed Identity

The storyline is so familiar now. A kindly grandfather in some quiet town is found to be a gangster living under an assumed identity. A civic leader loses her elected role when her history is revealed behind a different name. We shake the dust off polished shoes in not-so-righteous indignation, for we prize honesty, we say.

And yet, we know this story well. Before we learned to count or read, the orbit of our life was willful, proud, and self-involved. To these we added faults we chose—the cruelties of school playgrounds; the teenaged gossip that cut worse than any knife; the damage done our bodies and our minds through substances and time ill-spent. Our failures ran much faster than our years.

And then, one day, the Father offered us a new and strange identity: forgiven sinner; healed outcast; prodigal brought home. He wouldn’t let us take a lesser role, but righteously insisted we accept our place as sons and daughters deeply loved.

So now we live with this assumed identity, and struggle with the Father’s robe we feel ineligible to wear. He is relentlessly insistent on this new life He’s given us: “Do not call something unclean if God has made it clean” (Acts 10:15).

To feel unworthy never means that we are unforgiven. Grace is the way we’re learning how to live within the Father’s house, enjoy His love, and welcome other prodigals back home.

Put on the awkward robe of grace. And stay in it.

—Bill Knott

Why Grace Makes Us Uncomfortable

We’re no good at accepting gifts when we can offer nothing in return.

And so we wrestle for the restaurant bill, determined not to be obliged for what someone who loves us wants to pay. We writhe in proud embarrassment when gifted with a sum so large we fear we’ll lose our freedom to decide, to regulate, to choose. 

We’re willing to be thankful so long as there’s no lingering commitment: we’ve traded Christmas cards and dinners. Our scores must all be evened, and all accounts be balanced.

And then the Father overwhelms us with impossibly good news—a flood of undeserved and unrequited kindness for which there’s not a payment plan: “In Christ we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of His grace that He lavished on us” (Eph 1:7).

There’s no way we can work if off: there’s no amount of painful, legal rectitude that ever can resolve our debt. God’s grace confronts us with a gift so great that we at last give up on ever evening the score. We learn to live as loved and liberated souls, and one day even revel in “the immeasurable riches of His grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus” (Eph 2:7).

Receive the gift from God’s great heart. And stay in grace.

—Bill Knott

Reassuring Rhythms

When do we offer reassuring words?  Whenever there is fear, perplexity or pain.  Our words rebuild the vital bridge connecting pain to hope, to peace, to continuity.

“Don’t worry, little one,” we soothe.  “Daddy’s going to be right here until you go to sleep.”

“You’ll be just fine,” we tell the anxious student on the night before the test.  “You’ve studied hard: you know this stuff.”

“You’re not alone,” we whisper to a saddened soul who cannot see beyond the terrible calamity of now.

In these, we faintly echo all the Father’s reassurances. He both anticipates our fear and moves to heal it with deep promises of connectedness and peace.  In one short psalm, we hear the same phrase 26 amazing times:  “His steadfast love endures forever” (Psalm 136:1). The rhythm of His reassurance rolls through history, time, and all our fears until the message of sustaining grace becomes embedded in our souls:  “His steadfast love endures forever.”

The arms that hold us in our grief are here:  “His steadfast love endures forever.”  When we are lonely, we recall:  “His steadfast love endures forever.”  When conflicts, large and small, besiege our lives, and we can hardly summon hope—“His steadfast love endures forever.”

Grace is the story of God’s endless and unbroken love.  At every turn; in every hurt; when joy arrives; when hope renews—“His steadfast love endures forever.”

So stay in grace.

—Bill Knott

Reclaiming Our Identity

“Who do you think you are?” the bully thundered, and we shrank back into some smaller self that could more easily escape or hide.

“Who do you think you are?” the college entrance essay asked, and we explained we were the product of suburban schools, or immigrants, or persons trying on new cultures. “I am a daughter; an orphan; a member of a racially exploited group.”

“Who do you think you are?” the counselor gently queried us, and we described our brokenness, our loss of self, our pain, to someone whom we paid to listen to our stories.

“Who do you think you are?” the Father asks. And how He smiles when we respond with joy and laughter shining in our eyes—“I am the prodigal come home. I am a son, a daughter of Your love. I am the one You never take your eyes off—even when I played the rogue, or spent Your wealth, or claimed I never knew You.”

“I am the child You pledge to always love. And even when I get it wrong, I feel Your grace, Your kindness, Your forgiveness.”

“God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Much more then, having now been justified by His blood, we shall be saved from wrath through Him” (Rom 5:8-9).

You cannot earn the Father’s love. You cannot lose the Father’s love.

So stay in grace.

Love That Won't Let Go

When dreams of bright success have stumbled on the hard edge of reality . . . When every scheme for fame or followers has left the needle where it was . . . When all the crowd who live for now have gone on dancing down the boulevard—just then we learn the value of the love that won’t let go.

It’s father in the driveway saying softly as we pack, “You can come home again.” A colleague asks us on the elevator ride, “Are you OK? When would you like to talk?” A high school friend calls from a time zone far away to say, “I pray for you each day. What do you need just now?”

We learn the ceaseless grace of God from people still receiving grace. Their patience—their persistence—through the twists of all our wandering gives substance to the truth we read in Scripture: “The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, His mercies never come to an end” (Lam 3:22). From heart to heart and hand to hand, we practice love that rescues us.

And one day soon, we will be saying to some other soul—“What do you need just now?” “When would you like to talk?” “You can come home again.” 

The grace we share is grace we’ve learned. The kindness never stops with us.

So stay in grace.

Renewal in the Ruins

At every rounding of the year, we realize how much we need renewal.

On New Year’s Eve, we want to slam the door on the departing year, or banish memories of 2020’s pain and grief. But there are—and must be—great ties between the old year and the new.

We live in the same bodies: we inhabit the same homes. We remain related to the same family: we work at the same jobs. We worship with the same believers: we study the same Word.

It’s renewal, then, and not a clean break from the past, that offers us our greatest hope in 2021. How can our bodies be renewed? Will this year be the one when we’re transformed by the renewing of our minds? (Rom 12:2). How does a weary marriage find new sources of resilience and of laughter? Can dry and broken friendships be restored? We crave the ageless source of all renewal—the grace and mercy of our Lord revealed in the pages of His Word. 

Yes, grace renews what grace began.

“That is why we never give up. Though our bodies are dying, our spirits are being renewed every day. For our present troubles are small and won’t last very long. Yet they produce for us a glory that vastly outweighs them and will last forever!” (2 Cor 4:16-17).

 So here’s to growing deeper, stronger, wiser, kinder in 2021.

Stay in grace.

Love Came Down

This painful year has made us clear on what we want for Christmas. Though Lexus and Mercedes-Benz are sure we want a gleaming ride with giant ribbons on the roof, we have no miles we want to drive. The ads all tease us with dark fantasies on Amazon or Netflix, but we still have our darkness to get through. The tech toys that we bought for sport have only one compelling use this year.

We want each other more than gifts. We want the long and lingering embrace of two-year olds who won’t let go; the bear hug from a distant friend; the real gatherings of real folk around a tree, a table, or a fire. We want the laughter never muted, carols sung by families on nights no longer silent. We want the deep security we find in holding, playing, eating with the ones we love in places we call home.

So Christ came down because He couldn’t bear the breach of space; the distance numbered in light-years; the loving words half-understood. He came to us in helplessness so we might know He needed love—our love, the warmth for which He fashioned us. He laid aside His rulership so that a two-year old could grip Him tight; a mother’s tears could turn to joy, and bitter, broken men could heal. He came to make the lepers dance; to be the face the blind first saw; to hear the deaf sing harmony.

His joy is us: we are the only gift He wants.

Accept the grip of His embrace. And stay in grace.