Line upon Line

No, my brothers and sisters, the gospel plan is not fair.

Here we are, a universe of us, dropped into a telestial world of sorrow and confusion. We are blind and angry, armed with teeth and fingernails and fists. Here, we face sorrows and hungers and losses. Here, we turn our weapons on one another.

But this is not the great unfairness.

Here we are, thrust down to this telestial world of darkness, burdened by our own weaknesses and failings. It lets us pinch and kick. This world, it does not stop us from doing harm, or hold us back from lashing out. It thrusts us among other imperfect people and lets them practice on us, prickly imperfect people shoving through the darkness with elbows and knees.

This is an agony,

but it is also not the great unfairness.

Here we are, selfish and wounded. Even the best of the best are not good. Every resident of this dire world has harmed another, has scratched and spat, has closed their eyes against the light, and bruised their heels on their brothers’ heads.

Nobody who enters that dark room leaves it having done well. Nobody who enters that dark room leaves it unhurt.

And yet, fellow fighters, there is another injustice, worse than the violent darkness, worse than the gnashing of teeth, worse than the bruising of the soles of our feet.

This is the great unfairness of existence, the injustice at the heart of the plan: in the darkest of dark and the cruelest of fists, a Lamb steps in to absorb our blows.

He sets his skin against our nails and teeth and his body in the path of our weapons. He absorbs the blows meant for us. Harmless, he does not fail or lash, but suffers the rending of his flesh and the pulling of his fleece. He wanders innocent through the violent throng, absorbing blows and yielding to cuts.

The lamb walks alone and abandoned through the gauntlet of violent and lonely lashings, bleeding from every pore. Harmless, he carries his cross into agony, the key that opens the door to let in the light.

Its blinding ray spreads from corner to corner, and it says that we dark stumblers are gods

that we are beloved – oh so beloved – of tender and affectionate parents

that our cruel and harmful flailings can be forgiven

that our scratches and bruises and wounds can heal

that nothing stops us from crossing the room and standing with Him in the light.

No, the gospel plan is not fair.

It is not fair that I can be forgiven of the blows I struck. It is not fair that he welcomes me into the light while still bleeding from the wounds I carved in him.

It is not fair that my own scratches and bruises and cuts will heal as if they had never been, that all injuries sustained in that dark room can be replaced with health and strength and youth, that we can leave that place with our bodies restored, that at the end of all things there will be no reminders of sin remaining,

no scabs, no sprains, no lameness, no blindness, no marks of age or wear, no bruises, no wounds, no tears, no scars will remain

except on him.

Harmless, he uses his still-wounded hands to wipe away tears and smooth away scratches and toothmarks. Harmless, he walks on scarred feet to the darkest corners of hell. Arms outstretched, he beckons his own assailants into the light of healing and forgiveness. No, this is not fair at all.

His enormous lovingkindness, his boundless compassion, they tower over “fair” and drown it in a flood of mercy.

Light pours in through the door unlocked by the cross. For the tiny price of repentance, we can walk through to eternity, to a glory we do not deserve and have not earned. Our sins will not be mentioned to us. We are invited to ride on the wings of the one we have harmed, to grow and soar in the celestial realms as far as we are willing to go.

No, the gospel plan is not fair.

Not fair at all.