Month: April 2025

“Repent therefore, and turn back, that your sins may be blotted out.”
Acts 3:19

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My wife is an avid and skilled knitter. She regularly masters complex patterns demanding multiple yarn colors, and she often employs up to five needles at the same time. Many times she has discovered errors in published pattern charts or has modified rows and stitches to customize her project. Her closet is a trophy case of beautiful scarves, cardigans, sweaters, leggings, and seasonal decor. Her socks are favorite gifts for family and friend alike. Every Wednesday evening she hosts “Knit Night” for a group of women who spend a couple of hours each week chatting and working on their own projects. She’s a yarn Yoda.

Every so often, however, she will discover that her row or stitch count is off. When that happens, she pauses with a frown, checks the pattern, and tabs with her finger backwards through the stitches until she locates the problem. Sometimes her friends will bring to her projects gone hopelessly awry and beseech her to search out where they went wrong. My wife will study the problem, then carefully backtrack through the knits and purls until she discovers where her friends got off track. Once she has found the starting point of the problem, she will determine if all it needs is a quick surgical fix or—the knitter’s great dread—if the project will have to be unraveled back to the mistake and begun again correctly from there. More than once my wife has had to unravel one of her own nearly completed projects and to start over from the very beginning. Sometimes you have to go backward to go forward.

This is the whole idea of repentance. To believe in the good news means not only to turn away from unbelief itself but away from all the acts that come from it. When the crowds came to John the Baptist, he insisted that they “bear fruit in keeping with repentance.” This fruit is the reckoning and righting of sinful acts as the evidence of a new life in Christ. The first act of saving faith is repentance.

Not all repentance is created equal, however. It is true that whatever is not of faith is sin. Unbelief is unbelief no matter what it looks like. Even so, salvation does not always demand that we revisit the past. There is the famous (added) account in the gospel of John of the woman caught in adultery. After her accusers leave, Jesus asks her, “Has no one condemned you?” She replies, “No one, Lord.” Jesus then tells her, “Neither do I condemn you; go and sin no more.” The woman’s past is now irrelevant; she need not go back to make things right. The Lord has mended her soul and restored the pattern of the woman’s life.

But some repentance does demand that we revisit the past. Zacchaeus, the diminutive chief tax collector who climbs a tree to see Jesus, is a delightful example. Overjoyed that the Lord should visit his house, Zacchaeus exclaims to Jesus, “Look, Lord! Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount.” Jesus announces, “Today salvation has come to this house!” Unlike the woman caught in adultery, Zacchaeus is able to rectify his notorious history. He does not consider Christ’s grace leave to simply walk away from his past actions but as the motivation to redress the wrongs he had committed.

Repentance is not always a merely personal matter. When transgressions are of a corporate or even national nature, the righteous reckoning can be severe. There are many examples found in the scriptures, but perhaps one of the harshest is recorded by Ezra, the spiritual leader of the Jewish exiles who returned to Jerusalem around 467BC. Ezra confronts the male exiles for breaking the express commands of God by marrying foreign women from the idolatrous and immoral peoples in the land. In spite of this great sin, Ezra acknowledges that God has granted them an opportunity. “Now for a brief moment favor has been shown by the Lord our God, to leave us a remnant and to give us a secure hold within his holy place, that our God may brighten our eyes and grant us a little reviving in our slavery.” Ezra understands that it is God’s unwarranted grace that now makes repentance not only possible but desirable.

According to the record, the great assembly of exiles weep bitterly over their breach of the covenant, but they also recognize the opportunity for genuine repentance. They address Ezra:

“We have broken faith with our God and have married foreign women from the peoples of the land, but even now there is hope for Israel in spite of this. Therefore let us make a covenant with our God to put away all these wives and their children, according to the counsel of my lord and of those who tremble at the commandment of our God, and let it be done according to the Law.”

After three months, the community of exiles finish the extensive and painful task of dissolving all marriages to foreign women.

To our modern sensibilities this seems inexcusably draconian. To sever marriages and families for the sake of corporate integrity seems graceless and cruel. The lead pastor of a large conservative evangelical church in my area recently insisted from the pulpit that Ezra was wrong. The pastor argued that Ezra struggled with fear, legalism, and pride, and that it was out of fear (not zeal for the broken covenant) that Ezra put up boundaries to prevent the Israelites from being influenced by the people around them. The pastor lamented that all this came at the expense of Israel’s influence among the peoples of the lands. It seems that he would not have made the same mistake had he been in charge. No doubt many in his congregation are relieved that their pastor won’t be pulling an Ezra at their church.

Charges of pernicious piety aside, the examples of Ezra, Zacchaeus, and the woman caught in adultery teach us something about the nature of authentic repentance. If repentance marks the end of the transgression, there is no need to address past sin. If it provides personal absolution but does not end the transgression, then repentance requires making amends for past actions. (Of what import is Zacchaeus’ salvation if his victims remain defrauded?) And if the transgression is pervasive or systemic, like that of Ezra’s congregation, real repentance can sometimes demand extraordinary action and hurt like hell. Those who ply a shallow grace offer absolution without alteration. True grace heals the offender and, whenever possible, redresses the offense.

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer’s art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.
—T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

“Those whom I love, I reprove and discipline, so be zealous and repent.”
Revelation 3:19

“I am the Living One; I was dead,
and now look, I am alive for ever and ever!”
Revelation 1:18

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I’m not a big fan of Good Friday services. Jesus did institute the Lord’s Supper as a remembrance of his death, of course, but he did not designate a special day for it. My problem with Good Friday is that churches tend to “celebrate” it with a funeral. Sanctuaries are often draped in dark colors and congregations are led through somber hymns, stations of the Cross, meditations on their sinfulness, and sermons about agony and abandonment. It’s an annual ritual of mourning, not unlike the “weeping for Tammuz” ritual mentioned by the prophet Ezekiel. And although the apostle Paul tells us that Jesus died to sin once for all, Good Friday services seem to insist on crucifying the Son of God all over again every year. To put it rather harshly, and at the risk of offending my devout brothers and sisters, Good Friday observances often seem to me a kind of soft-core Passion-porn.

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Is this the kind of fast I have chosen,
only a day for people to humble themselves?
Is it only for bowing one’s head like a reed
and for lying in sackcloth and ashes?
Is that what you call a fast,
a day acceptable to the Lord?

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My Scrooge-like aversion to self-flagellation notwithstanding, the death of Jesus cannot be minimized. It is at the Cross where God held humanity fully accountable for its sin and satisfied the demands of incalculable justice. Christ’s sacrifice cannot be reckoned by somber contemplation, exquisite explications, or stylized reenactments. 700 years before the Cross, Isaiah descried an unfathomable mystery: 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. The bumper sticker is indeed true: Jesus died for our sins.

But that is not good news. It is, in fact, the worst news possible. The death of Jesus did not save humanity; it killed us. God sent his own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh to be a sin offering, writes Paul. And so he condemned sin in the flesh. The cross is not a pardon but a condemnation. The dark before creation is nothing compared to the horrifying darkness that swallowed the world when the Son of God gave up his spirit.  Although death had reigned over humanity since our first parents’ disobedience, in his forbearance God had left the sins committed beforehand unpunished. The Cross was the end of that divine forbearance—and the end of humanity. Christ’s death did not deliver us from death; it delivered us over to it. Jesus did not die so that we don’t have to. As Paul contends, his death is our execution: one died for all, and therefore all died. No one survived the Cross; at the Cross all died, and for three days there was no life in the world. Good Friday is not good—at all.

And so we come to Easter. For many, the resurrection of Jesus is a bonus. The Cross, we assume, is where the real work was done, and so the resurrection is an added benefit. Not so. Paul makes it clear: If Christ has not been raised, our preaching is useless and so is your faith. Without the resurrection, the death of Jesus brings only certain doom. But as Paul also declares, “God raised him from the dead.” The blood of Jesus is made effectual by his resurrection. Easter gives meaning to Good Friday, not the other way around.

The resurrection is the defining feature of the gospel. It is by his resurrection from the dead that Jesus is appointed the Son of God in power and enthroned as Christ our Lord. As such, the resurrection, not the Cross, is the guarantee of salvation. If you declare with your mouth, “Jesus is Lord,” and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. The resurrection is the whole point of the Cross. As Paul tells the Corinthians, We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. Christianity is about life, not death.

And it is the resurrection of Jesus that defines what it means to be a Christian. His life becomes our life, and though we embrace the Cross, it is as the crossover from sin to salvation, from everlasting death to eternal life. Count yourselves dead to sin but alive to God in Christ Jesus, exhorts the apostle, who also tells us, He died for all, that those who live should no longer live for themselves but for him who died for them and was raised again. The Cross destroyed us; the resurrection defines us.

Christ’s sacrifice and resurrection are not two separate events but one redemptive reality: the CRUCIREXION, if you will. To be sure, Christ was sacrificed once to take away the sins of many. But he is risen from the dead, and he will appear a second time, not to bear sin, but to bring salvation to those who are waiting for him. On that day, whatever remains of the Cross will be swallowed up in victory and life. Death shall die.

He is risen, my friends. He is risen indeed.

But for you who fear my name,
the sun of righteousness shall rise
with healing in its wings.
Malachi 4:2

So then, the word of the Lord to them will become: Do this, do that,
a rule for this, a rule for that; a little here, a little there—
so that as they go they will fall backward.
Isaiah 28:13

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One of the Bible’s most poignant admonitions is found in the Revelation’s letter to the church at Ephesus. After commending the congregation for its hard work and perseverance, the glorified Christ then declares, “Nevertheless I have this against you, that you have left your first love.” It is a devastating indictment with significant implications. In spite of the many noteworthy things these believers have done, their fall from true devotion jeopardizes the very existence of their church.

The Old Testament is the history of a stiff-necked people. In their misery the Hebrews would turn to their God—who would then save them—only to lapse back into their sinful ways. The whole of Psalm 106 is like an AI generated summary of their persistent folly. The psalmist sums up 1500 years of Jewish history in a single verse: Many times God delivered them, but they were bent on rebellion and wasted away in their sin. Bang. The circle of strife.

It’s easy to reprove the wayward Hebrews; we are meant to. Theirs is a cautionary tale. Paul informs us that these things happened to them as examples and were written down as warnings for us, on whom the culmination of the ages has come. The kingdom of God has indeed come, but the potential to drift away from our first love is no less real and far more consequential.

Jesus warns his disciples of a coming apostasy: “Because of the increase of wickedness, the love of most will grow cold.” His prediction is literally chilling. Jesus warns that the rampant sinfulness of the world in the last days will cause most—underscore most—to lose their spiritual passion for the Lord. The author of the letter to the Hebrews is justifiably concerned when he exhorts the church, See to it, brothers and sisters, that none of you has a sinful, unbelieving heart that turns away from the living God. In light of these cautionary statements, it seems wise to consider how the dwindling of devotion might come about.

Ironically, spiritual enthusiasm can often lead to its own demise. When fervor is its own objective, it’s likely to veer into the ditch. Zeal without knowledge is not good, quotes the proverb, and hasty feet miss the way. I have known too many Christians whose enthusiasm was based on a shallow understanding of the scriptures and fueled by charismatic cheerleaders and incessant self-talk. They seemed to me like sailors blowing their own sails. Some of them, desperate to keep the hype alive, careened from fringe to fringe seeking strange winds. Others floundered on reefs of disappointment and discouragement, and their fragile zeal eventually gave way to apathy or unbelief. The shipwreck sagas of the flaky and the deflated are cases in point that pure and lasting devotion does not feed upon itself.

Unmoored enthusiasm isn’t the only danger to devotion. The fall from first love can also follow another trajectory, one that begins with the scriptures themselves. I remember my first experience with the Bible after my saving encounter with Jesus. The words exploded off the page with palpable power and glory. I was astonished at the sheer beauty of the scriptures and the way they opened my eyes to the presence of God. My soul exulted with the psalmist: I delight in your commandments because I love them. Many believers can bear witness to this Bible-born rapture.

But for many the Bible has become a benign burden. It is the book we know we’re supposed to love, but it has become as clinical as the medication guide included with a prescription. The words that were once charged with light are now dim and tired, reflecting the overall state of our listless hearts. More, this spiritual stupor even drains away concern. We don’t actually care anymore—and we don’t care that we don’t care. What started as delight decayed into doctrine, doctrine decayed into dogma, and dogma decayed into dullness. We’re sleepwalkers, miming a form of godliness without power. As the John Mellencamp song goes, Life goes on long after the thrill of livin’ is gone. The most we can muster is that it is what it is.

Of course, the best way to keep the fire of first love burning is never to lose it in the first place. Never be lacking in zeal, Paul tells the Romans, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord. This exhortation reminds us that lasting devotion is not a self-feeding enthusiasm loop but is an informed, relational commitment to serve the Lord. Jesus himself is the fuel for the heart fire, not some vague notion about being fired up.

But what if, like the church in Ephesus, we have already fallen from our first love. What if the cares and allures of this world have choked out the life we once knew? What if we are even now bogged down in the torpor of a shallow, lifeless faith? Can these dry bones live again?

And if I were to answer yes, would it make a difference? Would another book or sermon provide the vital information? Would a hand on your shoulder and a reassuring word bring about a resurrection? Have they before? Instead, this from the prophet Isaiah:

Brought low, you will speak from the ground;
your speech will mumble out of the dust.
Your voice will come ghostlike from the earth;
out of the dust your speech will whisper.

And what will it whisper?

Restore to me the joy of your salvation.

Then, and only then, will you know. Only then.

My eyes are dry
My faith is old
My heart is hard
My prayers are cold
And I know how I ought to be
Alive to You and dead to me

But what can be done
For an old heart like mine
Soften it up
With oil and wine
The oil is You, Your Spirit of love
Please wash me anew
With the wine of Your Blood

—Keith Green

We want each of you to show this same diligence to the very end,
so that what you hope for may be fully realized.
Hebrews 6:11

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A story is told about an artist who was famous for his simple but exquisite sketches of roses. One day a man came into his studio and told the artist that he had long admired his work and would like to commission a sketch as a gift for his wife on their anniversary. The artist placed a fresh sheet of paper on his easel and, with a few confident gestures, rendered a beautiful image of a rose. The man was delighted. It was exactly what he had wanted. But when the artist informed him of the steep price, the man blanched. “That’s outrageous!” he cried. “It took you only moments to finish!” The artist sighed and led the man through a door into a large room. The walls were covered with thousands of sheets of paper. Upon the floor towered stacks upon stacks of canvases. On each sheet and canvas was a meticulously wrought sketch of a rose. “This,” said the artist quietly, “is where I have labored to perfect my art.” He gazed kindly at the astonished man. “The rose I created for you has taken me a lifetime.”

Stephen Curry is one of the best professional basketball players of all time. He lights up the court with his ball handling and shooting skills. Curry is a four-time NBA champion, a two-time NBA Most Valuable Player, an NBA Finals MVP, a two-time NBA All-Star Game MVP, and he’s the first player in NBA history with 4000 career 3-pointers. The apparent ease with which he razzle-dazzles fans and players alike is misleading. Curry practices hard. “I take hundreds of shots in a single workout,” he reveals. “It’s about muscle memory and consistency.” His ball handling drills include figure 8s, behind-the-back crosses, and one-hand behind-the-back movements up and down the court, over and over and over. On Mondays he works his chest (push-ups, nautilus presses). Tuesday is back day (pull-ups, seated rows). Wednesdays he focuses on his shoulders (Arnold presses, lateral raises). On Thursdays he works his arms (bicep curls, tricep press-downs). His practice sessions run anywhere from 90 minutes to three hours, day after day. What the fans see is a game-time superstar putting on a show.

That’s the way of it. Whether it’s success in the arts, in sports, in business, or even in the kitchen, most of us see only the finished product. We wonder at a Michelangelo, cheer a Muhammad Ali, admire a Steve Jobs, or rave about Mom’s apple pie. What we do not see, however, are the hours or days or years that it took to make it happen. It is true that many who are at the top of their various fields have special gifts. No matter how hard we might try, we will probably never out-Mozart Mozart. Even so, rarely is the gift alone enough. (The road to success is littered with the failed husks of the gifted.) As the parable of the talents teaches us, the wise know that they must invest their gifts if they hope for a return. There is no guarantee that the investment will bring the desired results—Stephen Curry does have a bad game from time to time— but disappointment is indeed certain if the gifted do not put their gifts to work. Without guts there is no glory.

For over 25 years I have headed up a small nonprofit organization called Burning Bush Ministries. Whenever I am asked what it is we do, I usually reply that our primary role is teaching church leaders but that we also support Christian missionaries and aid community development around the world. This answer usually suffices. If they are interested, I can relate tales of dramatic visitations of God or unnerving manifestations of evil. I can show photos of me preaching in India and Africa and Brazil or wading through monsoons in Bangladesh or trudging through the Russian snow. These are the exploits that we showcase in our newsletters, emails, and campaigns, the highlight reels that I hope will justify my vocation.

Every so often, though, a curious someone presses further and asks what I actually do during a typical day. I hate that question. It’s not that I don’t know the answer; it’s that I’m actually kind of embarrassed by it, mostly because, for many people, it would appear that I don’t do much of anything. And so before I answer, I consider who is doing the asking. If it is an unbeliever, I will say that each morning I have a meeting with the CEO of my organization. That meeting, I tell them, may last an hour, the morning, or even the whole day. After that I will attend to the projects at hand, whether it is studying, writing, or planning. They tend to nod with understanding, and I’m generally off the hook.

But if the curious questioner happens to be a passionate follower of Jesus, one who is acquainted with the dynamics of the heavenly realms and the alien mechanics of the Kingdom of God, if I deem that person a kindred spirit and faithful servant of our common Lord, I may tell him the undisguised truth: what I do is pray. For over a decade prayer has been my primary daily activity. It is ground zero for everything else I do. When I am in prayer I am at the center of all things and all times. In prayer I reach across oceans, lift up the weary, bring down the proud, demolish lies and pretensions, hold back the tide of wickedness, and establish sanctuaries of grace and peace. In prayer I carry my brother’s burden, believe for him when he cannot, and clear a path for his steps. In prayer I take up the great cause of righteousness. I cry out for mercy, for justice, and for truth. In prayer I am advocate, ambassador, and avenging angel.

The real work happens there, in the trenches. All else is razzle-dazzle.

Nothing which is true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore we must be saved by faith.
Reinhold Niebuhr

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One of the hallmarks of social media is its impressive ability to highjack things out of context. If something can be yanked from the ground of original meaning and repurposed, the agents of the internet can—and usually do—do it. Whether it’s a freeze-frame innuendo, a proof-text aspersion, or a clipped video defamation, the maestros of the media can sound-bite a fact out of all truthfulness.

Taking things out of context is not a new thing, of course. Perhaps the most notable target for misappropriation is the Bible. The scriptures have long been plundered and employed to justify all manner of ambition, agenda, and unrighteousness. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me becomes a mantra for personal achievement. “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future” becomes the guarantee of a piece of the American pie. And the current favorite, “Do not judge, or you too will be judged” becomes a shield for blatant immorality and perversion. Another favorite is the apostle Paul, who is excised from the kingdom of God and vilified as an enemy of the very grace that he championed. Jesus himself is extracted from his life and message to serve as a firebrand or a free ticket. The gospel can be whatever you want it to be, and Jesus is the all-purpose poster boy.

But decontextualizing scripture isn’t the only way to repurpose it. Pundits and pastors have mastered another art less overtly propagandistic. Rather than lifting Bible passages out of context (which is easier to spot, at least by the biblically literate) they instead disarm and redirect these verses by interposing a light-warping contextual lens between the scriptures and their audience. By heaping historical, cultural, and textual qualifications upon the text, these scholars purport to uncover its true intentions. What the text actually says, they claim, is not what it means. This practice is what I call the contextification of the gospel, and it can be as misleading as a gospel cut loose from context altogether.

To provide examples of contextification would not be very helpful, since there are as many possibilities as there are Bible verses. Not only that, a single verse can be contextified in different ways depending on the underlying agenda. There are, however, tell-tale signs by which efforts to contextify the scriptures can be recognized.

In his first letter to the Thessalonians, Paul writes, We know, brothers loved by God, that he has chosen you, because our gospel came to you not only in word, but also in power and in the Holy Spirit and with full conviction. Paul recognizes that the working of the true gospel does not rest in eloquent words or plausible explanations but is manifest by deep conviction through the power of the Holy Spirit. This, then, is the lens through which we can perceive attempts to contextify the gospel.

One of the signs of contextification is the effort to lessen the scripture’s impact and implications. The goal of legitimate contextualization is to magnify the original sense; contextification, on the other hand, seeks to minimize or subvert the original sense. Legitimate context enhances what the text actually says in order that we might frame a proper perspective. Contextification, by contrast, starts with a perspective and works to align the scripture accordingly.

Another sign of contextification is the muting of Spirit-prompted conviction, especially a conviction that demands repentance. Both John the Baptist and Jesus heralded the kingdom of God with the call to repent and believe. Contextification often lessens or even eliminates the gospel’s demand for real repentance by redefining what it means to be a sinner. The biblical “acts that lead to death” are now culturally determined, and a  contextified righteousness draws its substance from the patterns of approved social practice. A contextified gospel rarely requires genuine repentance.

Ultimately, contextification of the gospel erodes the authority of the scriptures themselves. The received text, it is assumed, is archaic and unintelligible, and it must be qualified, modified, or even dismissed where it cannot be reconciled with modern sensibilities. If the gospel is to remain relevant, say many, it must be reinterpreted for our times. In 1999, John Shelby Spong, then the Episcopal Bishop of Newark, published his provocative manifesto Why Christianity Must Change or Die. Contextification is the attempt to rescue Christianity from the grip of Holy Writ by telling us, as did Inigo Montoya in The Princess Bride, “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

Then, again, what if it does?

Whom have I in heaven but you?
Psalm 73:25

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In the final scene of the movie Thelma and Louise, the titular characters, who are running from the law, drive their 1966 Thunderbird convertible to the rim of the Grand Canyon. As they admire the magnificent view, they are suddenly cornered by an army of law enforcement vehicles. Faced with the certainty of being captured or gunned down, they decide to “keep going” and gun it toward the edge of the canyon. The last shot shows the Thunderbird rocket over the rim and soar gracefully into the air.

The scene’s impact does not come from the car’s dramatic launch, however. What gives this final scene its punch is the poignant exchange between the characters just before their last act. Realizing that they’ve run out of other options, they confront the only one that remains. The stark reality of their situation unnerves and then thrills them. They surrender to the absurdity of what they are about to do and with grim euphoria charge headlong into the valley of no return.

One of the cornerstones of the good life, so we are taught, is the availability of alternatives. The greater number of options from which to choose, the better. Long gone are the days of Henry Ford who, describing his new Model T, is purported to have declared, “Any color the customer wants, as long as it’s black.” We now expect selection—and selection we get. Ford alone currently produces an estimated 28 different models, and their flagship F-150 pickup comes in eleven colors. The proliferation of options isn’t limited to automobiles themselves. Each state now offers multiple license plate designs to appeal to any taste. Maryland has the most plate designs of any state at 989, nearly twice as many as runner-up Texas at 476.

Modern consumers are drowning in options, whether at the retail store or the ivory tower. There are roughly 5,000 different types of breakfast cereal to choose from. The US hosts more than 2,500 apple varieties. (The UK has a staggering 1,750.) It’s not just food products either. In 2023, Nike offered 773 different footwear products, including 342 men’s shoe styles. Need a new refrigerator? Among multiple other brands, Home Depot offers 52 Frigidaire models. And then there’s the tech market. In 2024, over 1.8 million apps were available in Apple’s App Store and over 3.9 million Android apps on Google Play. Need a little higher education? There are some 5,916 colleges and universities in the United States to choose from. What to study? Penn State offers more than 275 undergraduate major programs; the University of Minnesota offers nearly 300. Can’t afford to pay up front? Chase offers 32 iterations of its Visa card. Speculators might be interested in a few of the 1,900-plus cryptocurrencies currently busking in the digital marketplace. Looking for a spiritual uplift? By some estimates, in the US there are over 200 Christian denominations and about 370,000 religious congregations to satisfy the most esoteric itch. Whether it’s cereal, shoes, or salvation, there’s an orgy of options out there.

Yet rather than deliver the producer-promised contentment, this plethora of possibilities often results in confusion, second-guessing, and dissatisfaction. Cognitive psychologist George A. Miller of Harvard University’s Department of Psychology asserted in 1956 that the number of objects an average human can hold in short-term memory is about seven. “Miller’s Law” suggests that lists much longer than that become significantly harder to remember and process. Nelson Cowan, a cognitive scientist at the University of Missouri, has demonstrated that when a number of objects are flashed briefly, their number can be determined very quickly, at a glance, when the number does not exceed four objects. As the number of considerations increases, the ability to process decreases. What may seem beneficial for decision making can quickly become counterproductive to making informed choices. There can indeed be too much of a good thing.

The serpent insisted that unless our first parents chose other than what their creator desired for them they were not free at all. A careful reading of the account reveals that he was not advocating for the right to choose per se (humanity had already been granted that right). The wily serpent was actually arguing for a specific choice, and until the serpent’s pitch, it would seem that Eve hadn’t considered that disobedience was an option. The assumption (which persists) is that something cannot be freely chosen if it is the only option available. This, in turn, leads to a most egregious supposition—that choice itself is of greater value than anything that might be chosen.

An obvious manifestation is our culture’s objection to a Christianity which insists that Jesus Christ is the only one through whom humanity can have a relationship with God. Most unbelievers have little problem with Jesus as one of many, or even as the best of many; but they take issue with Jesus as the one of one. This objection is rarely aimed at the actual biblical testimony (of which most are either ignorant or dismissive) but is instead leveled at Christians as though they are the problem, not Jesus himself. To insist that Jesus is the only option leading to eternal life is to blaspheme against the great god Option whose temple is Choice and whose archenemy is the Chosen.

Christians like options too. We church shop and swap congregations whenever we hanker for a vibe change, or maybe we opt out of organized gatherings altogether. Above all, we don’t accept any real spiritual authority over us. Sermons are suggestions; constraint is cultish; discipline is dead. Even the Bible is more inspiration than imperative. Devotion can take any form that appeals to us. We allow no one to drain the pool of available options. For Western Christians, submission is just another word for nothing left to choose.

So what happens when God pulls a Henry Ford? What if he nullifies all options but one? What if he grants you the right to choose only what he wants? What if the God father makes you an offer you can’t refuse? He’s done it before. When Israel continues in her unfaithfulness, God declares through the prophet Hosea:

“I will block her path with thorn bushes; I will wall her in so that she cannot find her way. She will chase after her lovers but not catch them; she will look for them but not find them. Then she will say, ‘I will go back to my husband as at first, for then I was better off than now.’”

If the subject is particularly resistant to instruction, God generally employs one of two strategies. Either he gives the reprobate over to his wayward desires to reap what he sows (definitely not what you want), or he will narrow the aperture of possibility to expose the futility of carrying on as usual and to provoke a return, even if a half-hearted one. But waywardness isn’t always sinful. Sometimes God blocks the way simply because we are lousy cartographers

God also eliminates options for those whom he calls to important work. Paul’s Damascus experience is a textbook case. First God aborts Paul’s mission to destroy the fledgling church by striking him blind. God then orders Ananias to go to Paul: “Go! This man is my chosen instrument to proclaim my name to the Gentiles and their kings and to the people of Israel. I will show him how much he must suffer for my name.” Note the imperative he must suffer for my name. When God chooses you, you have little choice, no matter what your pet definition of freedom is. If Jonah teaches us anything, it’s that the call of God cordons off the exit ramps.

It’s not that he won’t give you an out. Even Jesus could have bailed if he had wanted to. (Remember those twelve legions of angels?) But if you’re especially slow in the revelation department, God will keep throwing roadblocks in front of you until you hang-dog the only road back home. As an uncharacteristically meek Simon Peter once told Jesus, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.” Ardent devotion can be fickle. Sometimes you just need to be herded like a dumb sheep to the green pasture.

So enjoy the scenic routes when you can. But remember, O chosen one of God, “What he opens no one can shut, and what he shuts no one can open.” And when you find that the only road left to you leads off the precipice, put the pedal to the metal. You’re not coming back from this one—and that’s the thrill of it.