How to Survive in the Center of Spin

Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, because judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment! -- James 2:12

"Not guilty."

These are two of the most anticipated words of finality ever spoken, returning breath to a room, returning life to a man. At the same time, those two words often do little to erase the pain of those who felt sure they had been wronged, had borne the brunt of another's action, had sought what seemed to be judgment and hear what feels like a two-word announcement of emptiness. For them, breath fades.

Evidence and arguments, claims and presentations, defense and prosecution end with two words, or one. One less word can mean the end of freedom, the weight of penalty, a turning of a key, either in a clanging door of physical separation or in the hearts of those whose hopes rested on hearing the two-word verdict and now begin a soulful separation.  Drop the "not," and you are . . . guilty. Said and done.

I've only been a part of two trials in my life, both now years ago. In one, I was on the jury. In the other, I was the defendant. On the jury, I listened and watched as the details of a man's moment of passion was debated and claims were presented. Did he or did he not attack another man, knife in hand? For what purpose? The question for the jury was whether he had exercised justified anger and self-protection, or had sought vengeance and intended serious harm to an undeserving victim.

"Not guilty."

The view as a defendant is seriously different. You hear words designed to deny or justify the truth of the accusations made against you and your spirit lifts because you are sure everyone will understand and extend mercy. Then comes the crushing weight as the prosecution paints you as the scourge of society, leaving you desperately longing for a hole in the floor. Give me the key; I'll lock myself away.  One moment I looked like a pity-worthy man who had succumbed to the siren call of sexual temptation and made a fatefully poor decision leading to a regretful conversation followed by handcuffs and dry heaves. The next moment, I resembled more the mass murderer, marching along the edges of society picking off every shred of decency left in the nation, a menacing threat to all that ever was or will be good.

"Not guilty."

Then we all left and went home, pondering mercy. As I said, years ago.

That's how it works in isolated courtrooms with controlled situations and rules and rulings. It may be chaotic at times, but clarity prevails, depending on the presence or lack of "not."

But that's not how it works out here, where we all are, making our own judgments, treating mercy like it is on the verge of extinction, forgiveness as if it is a treasured antiquity to be preserved on a high shelf somewhere, and grace as if its value depends on the tightness of its rationing. Setting aside these commodities, we place the defendants -- sinners -- in the limbo of an ever-hung jury.

Sexual sinners -- in particular those who struggle with and even act out on homosexual temptations or pornography addictions or adulterous lust -- are the centerpiece of this constant cultural contention. Repent or relent? Give-it-up or just give-in? They drive on the yellow-line down the middle of the road of life, dodging the inevitable head-on collisions. It's a constant swerve, with angry fists raised in the passing traffic: "Choose a lane!"

Good advice that.

Swerve into the left lane (not politically-speaking): While driving in this lane, you will be allowed to go as fast as you want, as far as you want, whenever you want, with whomever you want, for as long as you want. It is, of course, the "Whatever you want" lane, paved in affirmation. You may not be sure where you're headed, but no one is going to stop you, so have a nice trip and enjoy yourself. It's all good.

Swerve to the right (again, not politically-speaking): Proceed with extreme caution, observing all signs and speed limits. Keep both hands on the wheel, eyes straight ahead, remove all distractions and keep your license and verification handy for frequent roadside checks, because we are keeping an eye on you. For safety's sake, of course. An occasional equipment check is in order, just to make sure you are really running right.

Let's start with the brakes. Maybe it's time for a rest stop. It seems to me the more enlightened we all become about sexuality, the darker the journey becomes for the sexually-broken. And . . . in an odd twist . . . the two "sides" are becoming more similar in their defenses and prosecutions. Affirmation is becoming a dirty word, used not to affirm you, but what you do. Hence, the hung jury, composed of the muddled masses just wanting to be left alone while someone else sorts it all out, which, of course, God is doing. But does that mean God wants us to all just stay on the courses we've chosen, watching everyone careening along, some in blissful ignorance and others en route to disaster?

Of course not.

If you are a struggler, once you escape the noise of all the traffic around you, you still have the same choice. Do I act on this temptation, or do I not? Either way, why?

The value of asking for directions is diminishing, even though there's no shortage of information and definitely no shortage of misinformation. Depending on who you ask, the answers range from "you were born this way," and "you have been blessed with the gay gene," to "you're only doing this because you have been led astray and are now seeking your own way," to "God hates you."

Welcome to sexual brokenness in the age of spin.

Sorted out:  You were not born this way. There is no gay gene. You probably have been led astray. We all -- sexually or not -- tend to seek our own way. And . . . heaven forbid, God does not hate you.

While everyone is busy debating, the decision is still up to you. It's time to shut out the silly and go back to the basics. And basically, no matter who is cheering from what sideline, the only voice that can lead you down the right path is still that still small one -- the voice of the One who made you, knows you, loves you, wants you, and will forever keep you if you will just take your hands off the steering wheel and ignore the roadside attractions.

Yes . . . storms will rage. Debate will ensue within and without about what you've done and who you've been and what it all means. Fingers will either curl up to say follow me . . . or point out like daggers to say get thee behind me. You will be declared as either blinded by your own overestimated self-worth or blind to all conviction. The blind will always lead the blind.

And yet . . . there you are. Human, in need of fellowship, hungry for forgiveness, in want of wisdom, hopeful for change, longing to confess, desiring to repent. Roaming from ravaging in sin to rooting among the pigs and crying to come home.

Help? Occasionally, instead of those beckoning fingers and those pointing fingers, you will find a set wrapped around yours, a hand that holds yours and hangs on. A squeeze that frees.

On the road again. But this road beckons us to righteousness. It's curbed with truth, paved with compassion, striped with understanding and laid out with infinite wisdom. It's quiet, as the voices of the ones who either want to figure you out or straighten you out fade away with the sights in the rear-view mirror. If you decide to follow God, you need not concern yourself with the flow of the traffic, and you can pretty much ditch the rear-view mirror altogether.

"I Have Decided to Follow Jesus" is an old hymn most of us heard and sang when we were young, We can still recall the tune and words of the five verses that lay out the path-markers that will help you navigate to freedom, regardless of the never-ending debates about your soul and worth and sexual sin, and whether you can ever confess enough, repent enough, or do enough to earn the forgiveness of men.

I have decided to follow Jesus.

Though I may wonder, I still will follow.

Though none go with me, I still will follow.

The world behind me, the cross before me.

No turning back, no turning back!

The confusion of culture in this era of spin and the hopelessness of the ever-hung jury has not changed the rules of the road:  Know where you are headed. Don't get distracted. Rest in the Lord and you will make it home. Follow Jesus. No turning back.

Some will go with you.

God Bless,

Thom

(My book, Surviving Sexual Brokenness: What Grace Can Do, is available on Amazon.com for only $11.86 in paperback or $7.99 in Kindle format. I hope you will order one today.  Thanks!)

What if it was Only an Almost Easter?

As far as I know -- for not all dreams are remembered – I’ve never dreamed of Easter. I’ve acted in church plays from high school, where I played a very youthful Jesus, to middle-age, playing Paul, who bore a strange resemblance in costume to Fred Flintstone. If that was a dream, I’m glad I woke up.

I’ve tried to put myself at the scene while watching other actors re-enact it in churches and on the big screen, but I always feel short of really capturing in my mind what it must have been like, from the triumphant entry to the triumphant victory. It’s impossible to capture the perspective, realizing when we re-enact it, we do so with the fullness of a truth the real witnesses did not have. We know how the story reconciles itself. For us, it is not an “Oh, my God” moment with exclamation points and question marks, shouts and tears. It’s a God moment. A simple period of awe suffices.

I feel almost like I cheated somehow, not having to endure the roller-coaster ride of emotions that had to have completely drained those involved, from the owner of the donkey to the owner of the tomb, from the Garden of Gethsemane to the pensive upper room. I get the heart-saving benefits of their experience without the heart-stopping moments.

Of course, we have the Word. We can read of the painful and horrifying crucifixion, Peter’s woeful sobbing through denials while a cock crows in acknowledgement of how far he has fallen, of those who fled into hiding, lost in confusion while the seemingly-defeated Messiah begins to decay in a dark and guarded tomb. We can read also of the brilliant sunrise reflecting on a rolled-away stone and an empty grave and imagine the shouts of glory from those who were first to know with absolute certainty that Jesus was and is and always will be.

I didn’t get to be among the first to run screaming “He’s Alive!” Emerging from the darkness of mourners’ distress into the light of the reality of holiness, those who knew Him first could contain their joy no more than the grave could contain the Lord.  I can put myself in their places and imagine the wash of relief and the dispensation of doubt forever. “Look . . . it is Him.”

Maybe I have never dreamed of it because it is so real and so right and so righteously radiant in truth that no unlimited deep-sleep fascination can do it justice. Even the best of “dreams” are only what might be, what almost could happen. 

In a dream, if I found myself among the mob, I could almost count the strikes of the whip; almost see the spit flying, almost share the hidden fear and pain of those who watched their hopes and dreams stumble in the dust beneath the weight.   I could almost see Christ’s eyes fill with salty sweat I could not wipe away for Him.  I could almost see him look at me through waves of pain, gazing down in mercy. I could almost imagine the labored breathing and I could almost shed the tears of those who stood in the shadows beyond the spears.  I could almost hear Him cry out, reflecting His sorrow at the silence of God who had to turn away from his cry for His will to be done. I could almost grasp the heavy finality of the massive stone inflicting blackness on the darkened tomb holding a withered man and all the weary misery of the world. I could almost feel the evil as it pushed against the stone to hold Him in, minions prepped for a victory pose, ready to move out and lay waste to the misguided mourners and reinforce the spoils of death.  And then, I could almost bear the brilliance of Christ’s victory, my salvation, and the force of a new round of nails now posting for all to see the death sentence for evil.

He is not here; He has risen! Remember how He told you, while He was still with you in Galilee: ‘The Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men, be crucified and on the third day be raised again.’ ” – Luke 24:6-7

But my eyes are open, not closed. I am awake and well beyond the third day.  Because of Christ, almost has becomes always.

I can always know that I am worth everything He went through.  In His “alwaysness,” I can always call on Him to help me to live as He did . . . according to the perfect will of His . . . my . . . Father in heaven.

Always.

I can always live knowing He loves me and He gave Himself for me. And when I fail to love others as He did and does, I can always depend on His forgiveness and His help to forgive others as He did and does. To encourage others as He did and does.

Always.

And in times of trouble, which He knows will always be with me; I will always know He is as well.

Jesus never almost did anything.

It’s an ever thing for everyone.  The love that led Him through the streets; sustained Him in the beatings; filled his lungs with labored breath; rode the waves of wracking pain; drowned out the sound of the hammer; bore up beneath the searing sun; defied the evil victory chants of Satan; burst forth in direct proclamation . . . was for you and me.

When it seems I can only “almost” do those things he always does – show mercy, extend grace, seek righteousness, forgive again, sin no more – he is always there to wipe the tears, carry the burden, open the door, mend the relationship, dispel the fear, denounce the doubt, heal and restore the hope. More strength, more guidance; more clarity; always His supply is endless. His truth always enduring.

To those who drift in the almost of Easter, it is a dreamy celebration of floppy ears and colored eggs, chocolate candy and perfect pictures posed in Sunday best. An imagining of how life should be, all sugar-coated smiles and starched clean dreams. It may work for the day, but it is a broken token in comparison to the eternity of always.

Truth trumps dreams and all imaginings.

I do not dream or imagine God left His throne for me; I know He did.

I do not dream or imagine Christ looks at me with the same mercy he did the one who pierced His side; I know He does.

I do not dream or imagine Christ forgives me as clearly and completely as He did the repentant man on the cross at his side; I know He does.

I do not dream or imagine the very aim of His death was my salvation; I know it was.

I do not dream or imagine I will one day stand before Him to join in perfect praise in person my gratefulness for His stepping free of His tomb. I know I will.

We cannot dream or imagine Christ died, defeated death and rose.  And we cannot imagine why. It was because He loves me and only He could save me. I can’t save myself. He knew that; He did that.

Jesus knew that every step he took and every word He spoke would eventually take Him to the cross, to the tomb, through death and back to the throne. As He walked the route, He knew me at every stop along the way, just as He knows me at every stumble, victory, climb, and tumble along my own circuitous route to meet Him at His throne. He knows me now.  He loved me always, always will. 

Jesus never almost did anything.

God Bless,

Thom

(Thom Hunter is the author of Surviving Sexual Brokenness: What Grace Can Do, from WestBow Press. To view a YouTube trailer describing the book, click this link: Surviving Sexual Brokenness.)

The Length of a Graceless Day

I had a stepfather once named Michael who was so twisted in his own understanding of self that his greatest pleasure was found in setting others straight. He so blatantly displayed his personal demons that it made it difficult to even criticize him because he had come to the point where he was proud that he was able to function so well despite the weight of them. In a sense, his sinfulness became like a badge of honor, as if he were saying to everyone else . . . "Just imagine if I were not so burdened with all this. Why, I'd be perfect."

So he belched, walked around half-naked all the time, scratched inappropriately in front of school friends, drank himself into a stupor on occasion, wrecked cars, sold other people's personal items to get another bottle of whiskey, snored in the recliner for hours, dropped his cigarettes on the carpet, swore like an entire fleet of drunken somebodies, and complained about the mistreatment and lack of respect he received from his wife and stepchildren, who tended to tiptoe around him, preferring a sleeping big old baby to a profanity-spewing big bad bear.

I know I did not extend grace to Michael.  As a child, I knew only to keep my distance and obey as much as was reasonable, not out of respect, but out of reality, realizing that as totally non-functional as he was, he was at that time our best chance to keep the electricity running. I didn't know what grace was anyway, and, while some grace may come naturally to us, most grows in time as we receive it ourselves and understand its immense value.

I remember one night at dinner when Michael, whose moods did not really mellow that much when sober, was teaching us the rules of polite society. We were learning that when you finish your meal, you don't say "Thanks, Mom. Can I go now?" No, you say, "I have eaten sufficiently. May I be excused?"  Of course, for some reason, Michael had taken the word "eaten," and made a new one "et."  "I have et sufficiently. May I be excused?"

It didn't matter if we had "et" sufficiently. It only mattered if we exited politely. The belching master in the terry-cloth bathrobe at the head of the table did not care if we starved, as long as we performed. "You can go now."

Some of the most-troubled people in our lives can project the greatest pain on us, projecting their self-professed superiority with such confidence that we sometimes just accept it, realizing that to battle against it in a weakened state is futile. They may not really believe in themselves, and may actually be pretty fragile, but their very nature demands that you believe in them and accept their assessment of you as . . . gospel.  The result? Infliction of rules that are not real, judgment unwarranted, insight that is beyond cloudy, a bowing to knowledge that is not there. We cower under their proclamations, accept their pronouncements, unquestionably follow their groundless requirements and stumble along, determined to please them in the hope of diminished interference. It's not altogether clear most of the time whether they mean well or actually know what they are doing, but whatever it is, "it's for your own good."

These are the ones who believe more in the gut-wrenching, in-your-face, smack-down reality of a boot-camp recognition of your horrible sinfulness than in the peace-granting, hope-building, re-constructive reality of glorious grace . . . grace which makes you grateful and aware of God's greatness. Like a hit and run driver with a more important appointment to attend, the drive-by correctors knock you to the curb, glance in the mirror just to make sure it was not a fatal blow, and speed on down the road, confident that one more sexual pervert has seen the light.

Of course, there are others whose lack of awareness runs more to the kind and gentle, a sad dismissive nature that believes everyone can be healed in the "it's all right, honey" glow of acceptance and affirmation. Here's a Kleenex; lean on me. Want to watch a little TV? You'll feel better about yourself when you've had a cookie and get some rest.

And there's the big dilemma?  To clobber or to cuddle? Of both responses to my sinfulness, I have et sufficiently. May I be excused?

I wonder sometimes if we properly measure our relative "godliness." At the height of my useless defense of self when my sexual brokenness came to light, I found myself compared to "godly men," and my shortcomings -- listed sin-by-sin -- were clear. I was not godly.

Is it possible though, that our distance from God's intent might be better-measured not by how sinful we are or have been, but by how graceless we have been or are? I have a feeling each takes the same measure of forgiveness, but one may actually be easier to repent of. Personally, I have seen more repentant sinners turn away from their sins than I have seen the bitter judgmental turn towards the dispensing of grace. 

If you're among the sexually-broken, or just a sinner in general -- the room just got more crowded -- you need grace in a much greater proportion than grief. Maybe, the way most of us see it, you deserve the grief and you don't deserve the grace. That's what makes it grace.

Can you imagine a graceless day? We would be endlessly chanting in a doleful drone an alternate verse to "Home on the Range." 

Oh, give me a home where the naysayers roam

Where the angry and pointing ones prey

Where seldom is heard an encouraging word

And the skies remain cloudy all day.

A graceless day would begin with the rising sun of rejection, sending us to the empty cupboard where we were sure grace had been stocked in sufficiency. The forgiveness we hope for has fizzled in the absence of grace, yet we remain hungry, searching the storehouse for the hope of restoration, only to find it padlocked and the key misplaced. Wandering in an ever-weakening state, we would seek someone who could differentiate our person from our presumed identity and find us worthy. But on a graceless day, all these will have wandered like sheep and gone astray. There is no grace to light the path back into the fold. 

Without grace, we meander, ever closer to the abyss, less willing to warn others that they too are on the brink of tripping into the graceless gray of uncertainty. Imagine, if you can, that there is no answer to all the wrong you've done and the ones who done you wrong?  What if all we could do is take it like a man . . . no Son of Man having taken it for us?

No grace? Get me out of this place. Both here and there are no-where.  What is the length of a graceless day? It's eternal. May as well hunker down and sit around in a bathrobe and belch.

It's hell.  So far removed from the throne, it is the only place you can't find grace.

Therefore let us draw near with confidence to the throne of grace, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need. -- Hebrews 4:16

Feeling rejected?  Draw near.

How?  With confidence.

Where to? The throne.

Why? To receive.

What? Mercy.

And? Grace.

Why? To Help.

When? In time of need.

I know that in your struggles, as I did in mine, you feel sometimes like people don't care, don't know, don't understand, don't believe you want to change, don't believe you can change, don't want to wait any longer, don't have any more answers; don't have much hope; don't extend grace.

For every don't of man, God unfolds a million does'es.

This is not a graceless day. This is a day that God wants you to remember that His grace is unlimited. And when you receive it, proclaim it and respond with hope for restoration and a leaving-behind of the things which shadowed it. Grace is given to who you are so you can be who He wants you to be.

In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God's grace that He lavished on us with all wisdom and understanding. -- Ephesians 1:7-8

Next time you struggle to make your struggle understood by those from whom you crave grace, remember that God already understands and He lavishes His grace on you.  It's sufficient. Rise and eat sufficiently, to be excused. The morning can break through the graceless grey to become a glorious day.

God Bless,

Thom

(If you would like more encouragement, please order a copy of Surviving Sexual Brokenness: What Grace Can Do, from Amazon.com, Barnes&Noble, or through your local bookstore.)

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The Blessed Affliction of a Conflicted Heart

What if the lines in the sand just keep shifting?

What if the boundaries we set up keep slipping?

What if the truth we’ve been seeking keeps drifting?

What if we don’t make it through all of this sifting?

What if our reach leaves us grasping at air?

What if our longing finds no one there to share?

What if our damage seems too much to repair?

What if we outrun those still willing to care?

But, what if we make our way into the clearing?

And what if we reject all the lies we’ve been hearing?

What if we surrender the things we’ve been fearing?

And, what if we let someone else do the steering?

What if we truly believe what He told us?

What if we allow Him to mend us and mold us?

And what if we let His great grace so enfold us

That we could be free from the “what ifs” that hold us?

What if?

Thom Hunter

For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing. -- Romans 7:19 

Why does evil so often win the want-to war?

When I look back on the many opportunities I've had to "do the good I want to do," and done it not, but instead, with a less-and-less-trembling hand chose the more harmful but seemingly more momentarily-satisfying evil, I am startled at the efficiency with which that evil, almost unimpeded, made its way through my life, hacking away the tender shoots of hope which dared to break the dry and packed down soil on which I trod in search of fleeting satisfaction.

That's if I look back. Evil would have me not do even that, but instead let bygones be bygones, memories resting in disrepair, miserable failings masquerading as best intentions. Oh, well.  What could I have done differently, anyway? We are who we are. Right?

Wrong. Like evil.

I faced temptations common to man and gave in to them. I faced choices and, with measured but dismissed reluctance, made bad ones. I saw the risks and took the leaps and left loved ones behind on the outer bank. I knew good and wanted it . . . but did bad and hated it . . . and still wanted it.

I do indeed believe in forgiveness and repentance, healing and cleansing . . . a new beginning. But what to do about what was done before . . . or . . . even worse . . . since? The truth is, even in the best of us, evil lies in wait and trips us up and leaves us pining away or clamoring after the lesser things. We are not beyond being base again. Sometimes we still decide we want to be who we were instead of who we have become.

Thank God for conflict. It pulls us back; it pulls us forward. It should put us in permanent pursuit of peace.

And then, there's the "enlightened" culture. Addicted to conflict, culture slyly applies it, selectively, succumbing to the seductiveness of evil. And culture just keeps on keeping on, while the church, ever-trying to be relevant, resists taking a stand, protecting the payments on the pews over the people sitting in them. Heaven forbid. Please.

Even the conflicts between church and culture that do go on are elevated to a higher plane, almost like a no-fly zone, while the combat goes on down here on the ground, in the conflicted hearts of Christians closer to the exit than the pulpit. We counter-attack culture with committee reports and resolutions, as it marches on and over us, gaining more and more territory, redefining truth and seeking to make everyone feel good, every sense titillated and satisfied. If culture wins, we'll all love ourselves and love our neighbors, but not exactly in the way God intended when He said we should.

As the church sits, dependent on divine intervention, culture chomps on at the pillars of life. Reluctant to be the tools of the Divine, we look on in dismay. Somebody, we say, should do something. We need to be ready to put feet beneath our prayers.

Distancing ourselves from the dirty deeds around us is not enough. We may find ourselves with clean hands, but those among us who are melding with the mud need someone daring to pull them out and steady their feet as they slowly walk away from the slippery bank.

Why are we more willing to raise funds and lift prayers for trips to foreign lands than we are to lift those around us out of the darkness. If you're sitting in the light because of God's grace, use it to help vanquish the shadows that surround you.

Again . . . thank God for the conflicted heart. If it did not exist within us, imagine how many more Christians would yield to the siren call of culture, the promise of acceptance, a place to openly go, no more hiding. At various times in life, it appealed even to me. My conflicted heart would look upon those in the gay community who seem to be so secure in who they are. Always going out, laughing, meeting for breakfast, taking in a movie, off on a trip somewhere . . . ever-smiling, smug in a greater enlightenment and understanding of what it means "to be."

Whatever unhappiness invades their lives is not their fault, they say, but just a result of the oppressiveness of culture and the ignorance of Christians who adhere to a skewed version of scriptural truth. Culture and pro-gay advocacy are so intertwined now that they are truly inseparable. They espouse a life of "surely God meant," instead of "surely God said." Lives based solely on want can never be satisfied, for there is nothing greater than what I need, what I think and my freedom to do whatever I choose.

They not only want no conflict; they don't want you to have any either. Like a mermaid sitting on a rock, they call you into drowning with promises of the best swim of your life.

Only when we, as Christians, begin recognizing the afflictions of our brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, fellow reflections of the image of Christ, will we make any inroads against the unrelenting march of culture.

Are we brave enough?
Do we care enough?
Can we love enough?
Forgive enough?
Believe enough?

As we stand warily by, culture's vultures descend on the wounded among us and mock our truths with shades of such, offering their own brands of courage, caring, love, acceptance and believe-in-yourself messages that sound all-too-appealing to the downtrodden hiding behind the hope of praise songs, wishing someone would take their hand and keep them from sliding from the pew into the pit.

We can do this, you know?

I can do all things through Him who strengthens me. -- Philippians 4:3.

That's not a verse for selective application. It says "all." Yes, it applies to the struggler who needs to resist temptation. You can't imagine how many times it has been repeated in prayer in the dead of night in the midst of great conflict. But it is also a verse that needs to be applied to the silent Christian who has by the grace of God escaped sexual brokenness, but who folds his hands in the very shadow of the struggler and fails to take a stand -- not just on the truth -- but on the love of Christ.  Instead, too many just stand by, unwilling to walk with the broken one, side-by-side, aware of the cost of conflict, but ever-sure of the outcome when we trust and obey.

We could set an example there:  "trust and obey."

The line in the sand is shifting. Where do you stand?

God Bless,

Thom

(If you would like to better understand the issue of sexual brokenness among Christians and better-equip yourself, I hope you will order a copy of Surviving Sexual Brokenness: What Grace Can Do from Amazon.com, Barnes&Noble.com, or through your local bookstore.)