I find it so extremely difficult to believe that God loves me.
Because I know what I’ve done. I cannot imagine anyone who would see the depth of all my worst and still love me.
I imagine God in Heaven, who has seen everything: the worst of our wars, the ways we killed for money and stole for fame, the schemes and plotting and backstabbing and agendas. He saw the entire human history of abuse and trauma and genocide and turning real living breathing people into property. He saw the worst of my heart, the secret thoughts I would never share, the evil that you and I have barely restrained ourselves from.
Yet none of this surprised him. And Jesus still chose to die. He didn’t refuse the lashing. He didn’t jump off the cross. His mind was already made up about you. He stayed. Nothing we do would make God time-warp His Son off the cross. Even when over two-thirds of the world would reject him. Even when the other one-third could abuse his name. He stayed, not from our own merit, but simply because he loves.
When I know this, I’m free. Free from guilt. Free from the second-guessing. Free to serve without squeezing compensation for what I’ve done. Free to believe I’m loved, that maybe He actually likes us. There’s peace. I can taste joy. And maybe when we get that, we can turn some of this around. He’s the only one who can, and does.