Breaking the Rules

Trading performance for intimacy with God

The handwriting in the front of my first Bible, the King James Version bound in black imitation leather, is unmistakably that of a child. The inscription simply says: "Fil accepted Jesus Christ on February 26, 1961." Looking back, I'm still not sure what happened to me on that day.

I grew up smack dab on the buckle of our nation's Bible belt. From early childhood I was taught that religion was the only ticket to the best life in this world. The church I attended provided me with a tightly sealed view of God, the world, and me. Since ours was the kind of family that showed up whenever the doors were opened, I lived within the pervasive cloud of the church's influence, which narrowed my vision and shaped the borders of my world. I learned about our corner on God's truth, and anyone who dared to disagree with us was either flirting with hell or already headed there.

My religion was characterized by a code of requirements, those activities or beliefs necessary to gain good standing with God. As I grew older, the essential truths associated with my religion became increasingly precise and the boundaries surrounding it more constricting. Vigilantly, my religion taught me that God is powerful, flawless, and provoked to anger by my weakness, defects, and disregard.

In ironic contrast to the freedom it was alleged to provide, religion enslaved me to a rigid and demanding regimen of rules. The self-salvation blueprint became the pattern I was to follow if I were to have any hope that God would recognize me as "fit for heaven." Attend religious services. Show acts of generosity and kindness (show being the operative word). Believe sound doctrine. Avoid immoral activity. Read the Bible. Pray. Obey the rules. Think pure thoughts. Boldly share the truth with others. Don't cuss. Don't drink. Don't smoke. Carefully guard your appearance and reputation.

These telltale signs were regarded as the only means to acquiring an abundant life and thereby guaranteeing security, acceptance, love, and forgiveness. Since this was the life I wanted and was striving for, I dedicated myself again and again to believing and behaving properly. Yet, despite my desire and determined efforts, I rarely felt that I was making steady progress. The only abundance I experienced was mounting feelings of disappointment.

I was ten years old in 1961 when a traveling revival preacher came to town. And he was mad! Mad at all the sinners there—and mad at me. At least that's the way I remember it. The first night of the revival I felt overpowering shame and regret as he described our wickedness and the gory details of Jesus' death. Feeling as though he was speaking directly to me, I listened intently as the preacher recited the latter half of a familiar verse, "While we were still sinners, Christ died for us" (Romans 5:8). The dreadful climax came when he urged each of us to ask ourselves, "If I were to die and face God tonight, how could I expect a holy God to allow me entrance into heaven? Why should God not cast me into hell's fiery furnace?"

It was a traumatic thing for a ten-year-old to go to bed feeling guilty, ashamed, and afraid, especially when those feelings were provoked by the preaching of what was meant to be good news. Before drifting off to sleep, I remember telling God, "I'm sorry for being so bad."

What if, instead of attempting to scare the hell out of us (which has never been very effective with me), the preacher had emphasized the extravagant love and outrageous mercy of God?

What if, instead of stressing the magnitude of our depravity, he'd emphasized God's enormous goodness?

What if, when quoting that biblical passage, he'd included the preceding words of that verse, "God proves his love for us" (Romans 5:8 NRSV)?

What if, instead of intimidating us with the threat of torture, he'd approached us with the assurance of God's protection?

What if the "gospel" he preached had actually been good news?

Tragically, as a needy ten-year-old I didn't hear or see the good news in the religion that was offered. Instead of leading me to realize that I was God's beloved, he led me to believe that I was God's biggest disappointment.

An Invitation

Have you longed for the warm embrace of God, only to get slapped down harshly by religion? I urge you to trade the rigors of religious performance for intimacy with Jesus, whose astonishing invitation is simply "Live in me. Make your home in me just as I do in you" (John 15:4, The Message). Jesus' home is a place of welcoming love, unconditional acceptance, and endless assurances of affection.

I introduce an alternative path—the beauty of brokenness—using the Mark 14 story about the woman who captured Jesus' heart when she broke an expensive jar of perfume to anoint him. An uninvited dinner guest, this woman valued intimacy with Jesus over her reputation among the religious leaders of her day. When they leveled the charge that it was a waste, Jesus elevated its value by decreeing that it was a beautiful thing. Although Jesus never made breaking the rules a worthy goal in and of itself, he made it clear that rule keeping is pointless if it's not an expression of something deeper. As we give up striving to fix ourselves, we find that the cracks in our fragmented lives become illuminated with the power of God's love, which shines into others' lives. Those who are filled with light are those who have gazed deeply into the darkness of their own broken existence.

Jesus said, "I have come to call not those who think they are righteous, but those who know they are sinners" (Matthew 9:13 NLT). When we understand what he meant by this, we find courage to confess our fears and insecurities, and plunge into the depth of God's love for us. Quit trusting in your own ability to live for God, and simply trust God instead. After all, he's the home you've always longed for.

Adapted from Fil Anderson's book, Breaking the Rules: Trading Performance for Intimacy with God (IVP, 2010). Used by permission of InterVarsity Press PO Box 1400 Downers Grove, IL 60515. www.ivpress.com.

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