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Photo: Neka Scarbrough-Jones

Several hundred feet beneath my chair is a lake, an underground cavern of crystalline water known as the Edwards Aquifer. We South Texans know much about this aquifer. We know its length (175 miles). We know its layout (west to east, except under San Antonio, where it runs north to south). We know the water is pure. Fresh. It irrigates farms and waters lawns and fills pools and quenches thirst. We know much about the aquifer.

But for all the facts we know, there is an essential one we don't. We don't know its size. The depth of the cavern? A mystery. Number of gallons? Unmeasured. No one knows the amount of water the aquifer contains.

Watch the nightly weather report and you'd think otherwise. Meteorologists give regular updates on the aquifer level. You get the impression that the amount of water is calculated. "The truth is," a friend told me, "no one knows how much water is down there."

Could this be? I decided to find out. I called a water conservationist. "That's right," he confirmed. "We estimate. We try to measure. But the exact quantity? No one knows."

Remarkable. We use it, depend upon it, would perish without it … but measure it? We can't.

Bring to mind another unmeasured pool? It might. Not a pool of water, but a pool of love. God's love. Aquifer fresh. Pure as April snow. One swallow slackens the thirsty throat and softens the crusty heart. Immerse a life into God's love and watch it emerge cleansed and changed. We know the impact of God's love.

But the volume? No person has ever measured it.

Moral meteorologists, worried we might exhaust the supply, suggest otherwise. "Don't drink too deeply," they caution, recommending rationed portions. Some people, after all, drink more than their share. Terrorists and traitors and wife beaters, let such scoundrels start drinking, and they may take too much.

But who has plumbed the depths of God's love? Only God has. "Want to see the size of my love?" He invites. "Ascend the winding path outside of Jerusalem. Follow the dots of bloody dirt until you crest the hill. Before looking up, pause and hear me whisper, 'This is how much I love you.'"

Whip-ripped muscles drape his back. Blood rivulets over his face. His eyes and lips are swollen shut. Handfuls of beard have been yanked out. Pain rages at wildfire heat. As he sinks to relieve the agony of his legs, his airway closes. At the edge of suffocation, he shoves pierced muscles against the spike and inches up the cross. He does this for hours. Painfully up and down, until his strength and our doubts are gone.

Does God love you? Behold the cross and behold your answer.

The ultimate gift
God the Son died for you. Who could have imagined such a gift? At the time when Martin Luther was having his Bible printed in Germany, a printer's daughter encountered God's love. No one had told her about Jesus. Toward God, she felt no emotion but fear. One day, she gathered pieces of fallen Scripture from the floor. On one paper she found the words, "For God so loved the world that he gave … " The rest of the verse had not yet been printed. Still, what she saw was enough to move her. The thought that God would give anything moved her from fear to joy. Her mother noticed the change of attitude. When asked the cause of her happiness, the daughter produced the crumpled piece of partial verse from her pocket. The mother read it and asked, "What did he give?" The child was perplexed for a moment and then answered, "I do not know. But if He loved us well enough to give us anything, we should not be afraid of Him."

"[God the Son] loved us and gave himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God" (Eph. 5:2, NIV). What species of devotion is this? You'll find the answer under the category "unfailing." The holiness of God demanded a sinless sacrifice, and the only sinless sacrifice was God the Son. And, since God's love never fails to pay the price, He did.

	God sent His Son to die in our place. Yet, it's not just about us.

England saw a glimpse of such love in 1878. The second daughter of Queen Victoria was Princess Alice. Her son, at the age of 4, was infected with a horrible affliction known as black diphtheria. Doctors quarantined the boy and told the mother to stay away.

But she couldn't. One day she overheard him whisper to the nurse, "Why doesn't my mother kiss me anymore?" The words melted her heart. She ran to her son and smothered him with kisses. Within a few days, both were buried.

What would drive a mother to do such a thing? What would lead God to do something greater? Love. Trace the greatest action of God to the greatest attribute of God—His love.

It's not about us
God sent His Son to die in our place. Yet, it's not just about us. God's priority is His glory. He occupies center stage; I carry props. He's the message; I'm but a word. It's not about me; it's about God.

Would we really want the world to revolve around us, anyway? If "it's all about us" then "it's all up to us." The heavenly Father rescues us from such a burden. While we are valuable, we aren't essential. We're important, but not indispensable.

My father, an oil field mechanic, never met a car he couldn't fix. Forget golf clubs or tennis rackets, my dad's toys were sockets and wrenches. He relished a wrecked engine. Once, while he was driving us to visit his sister in New Mexico, the car blew a rod. Most men would have groaned all the way to the mechanic. Not Dad. He called a tow truck and grinned the rest of the way to my aunt's house. To this day I suspect paternal sabotage. A week of family chitchat repulsed him. But a week under the hood? Forget the coffee and cookies. Hand me the manifold. Dad did with a V-8 engine what Patton did with a platoon—he made it work.

Oh, that the same could be said for his youngest son. It can't. My problem with mechanics begins with the end of the car. I can't remember which one holds the engine. Anyone who confuses the spare tire with the fan belt is likely not gifted in car repair.

My ignorance left my dad in a precarious position. What does a skilled mechanic do with a son who is anything but? As you begin formulating an answer, may I ask this question, what does God do with us? Under His care the universe runs like a Rolex. But His children? Most of us have trouble balancing a checkbook. So what does He do?

	God loves you too much to say it's all about you.

I know what my dad did. Much to his credit, he let me help him. Holding wrenches, scrubbing spark plugs—he gave me jobs to do. And he knew my limits. Never once did he say, "Max, tear apart that transmission, will you? One of the gears is broken." Never said it. For one thing, he liked his transmission. For another, he loved me. He loved me too much to give me too much.

So does God. He knows your limitations. He's well aware of your weaknesses. You can no more die for your own sins than you can solve world hunger. And, according to him, that's okay. The world doesn't rely on you. God loves you too much to say it's all about you. He keeps the cosmos humming. You and I sprinkle sawdust on oil spots and thank Him for the privilege. We've peeked under the hood. We know what it takes to run the world, and wise are we who leave the work to His hands.

Heaven's answer
To say, it's not about you is not to say you aren't loved. It's because God loves you that it's not about you.

And, oh, what a love this is. It's "too wonderful to be measured" (Eph. 2:19). But though we cannot measure it, may I urge you to trust it?

Some of you are so hungry for such love. Those who should have loved you didn't. Those who could have loved you wouldn't. You were left at the hospital, left at the altar. Left with an empty bed, left with a broken heart. Left with the question, "Does anybody love me?"

Please listen to heaven's answer. As you ponder Him on the cross, hear God assure, "I do."

Someday someone will likely find the limit of the South Texas aquifer. A robotic submarine, perhaps even a diver, will descend through the water until it hits solid ground. "We've plumbed the depths," newspapers will announce.

Will someone say the same of God's love? No. When it comes to water, we'll find the limit. But when it comes to His love, we never will.

Excerpted from It's Not About Me: Rescue From the Life We Thought Would Make Us Happy, which will be released by Integrity Publishers in March 2004. © 2004 Max Lucado. Used by permission.

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