It was a bitter cold night in February 2017. I remember it like it was yesterday. I lay on the floor of my bedroom. Curled up in a fetal position, body shaking, my tears fell away into the thick carpet threads.
I had been wrestling with my faith for several months. I had come to the realization that for the past decade I had been deceived by a false Gospel. Instead of a stream of living water quenching my thirst with satisfying refreshment, my faith had become a barren wilderness. Draining me. Starving me. Slowly choking out every bit of life within me.
Instead of freedom, my faith had become a check list of do’s and don’ts and I lived in constant fear taking a misstep. My motives seemed pure enough. I loved my Lord dearly and sincerely desired to live a life pleasing to Him. But over time my innocent motive had transformed into a chokehold of perfectionism and the spirit of the law had become suffocated out by the endless letters.
And so, finding myself lost in this wilderness, I cried out for help. “I am lost Jesus! I have wondered away from the flock and I cannot find my way back. I have tried to walk out of my legalistic prison for months now, but I can’t do it. I can no longer walk. I need you to CARRY me out, Jesus. Carry me back to your fold!”
It was a prayer of rock bottom. A desperate plead to my Shepherd to carry me to safety. And you know what? He did just that. More specifically, His LOVE did it. His overwhelming, never-ending, reckless love. A love that tears down lies and climbs over mountains to get to me.
What’s even more beautiful? I didn’t have to earn this immeasurable love. I certainly didn’t deserve it. Yet, Jesus poured out this love anyway. And that is more than just love, that is grace.