We do not accept cash, credit, debit, or check.

There are lots of things you can earn.

You can earn a reputation.

You can earn a living.

You can earn a promotion.

You can earn a swift kick to your rear.

But you can't earn your way to heaven.

There is a woman with coiffed hair. She dotes on her children, she meticulously plans to read five chapters of her Bible every morning. She never misses a single sermon. She bakes pies for newlyweds, she visits the sick, she works in the local soup kitchen. She does all of this with a tally book in hand. Being hospitable: check. Working for a charity: check. Loving: check. Sunday School: perfect attendance.

She is gripping her tally book quite tightly, her fingers like forceps around its carefully documented pages. When she dies she wants to keep careful hold of this tally book, so she can show it as admittance at the pearly gates. She has proof of her works. She has earned a free pass into heaven.

Or so she thinks.

I see this scenario far too often. This woman is running in circles, she is missing the point.

Going to heaven is not something we earn, like a reputation, or a pay raise, or a boy scout medal. We cannot pay for it in cash, check or debit.

We need to stop trying to earn our way to heaven. We'll come up short every time.

Tithing

Should Christians tithe?

Yes.

What percent?

10%

Do I tithe?

Yes.

Easy enough. Tithing is the church's basic money management system. We tithe, the church stays running, life is good.

What is so complicated about that?

Fruit baskets, atomic bombs, and Jesus

I think society sees Jesus as a gift-wrapped fruit basket.

The population realizes this man, Jesus, is something special, hence the gift-wrapping. He stands out as something that has been given as a present. Society has no problem saying that Jesus was a great teacher, a rabbi, some might even say he was a prophet. Everybody likes a good fruit basket, there isn't a threatening thing about a bowl full of fruit (except perhaps an occasional bug). The general population wants Jesus to be something safe and subdued, like a basket full of fruit.

If Jesus were to ask the Christians who they think he is, most would reply, “The son of God”. The Bible nicely outlines this response when Jesus asks Peter and Peter replies and says that Jesus is the Son of God. Then Jesus tells Peter to keep in on the DL, and its all right there in the Bible.

Instead of seeing Jesus as a fruit basket, Christians see Jesus as an atomic bomb. No, I do not mean to say Jesus has the destructive capabilities of an atomic bomb, I just want to focus on the power of an atomic bomb. Atomic bombs have power, they get people talking, they shape countries diplomatic relationships with each other. Jesus has that kind of power. At the mention of the existence of an atomic bomb, things change. At the mention of the existence of Jesus, things change.

If the population came to realize that this nicely wrapped gift was not harmless bananas and apples but was instead full of power and would change the world, I think things would be in perspective a bit more.  

Mom, Dad, I want you to meet him. I think we're in love.

I was riding home from a soccer game with my parents and my older brother. I asked my parents,  "Mom, Dad...I just wanted to tell you I met a guy from Zimbabwe and we've been talking a lot. I want you both to meet him. I think we're in love."

At first my parents were incredulous because they wondered how I could meet and fall in love with a guy so quickly. It was the first month of my junior year and it was a month after I broke up with another guy-an all-american type from Michigan. 

"Are you serious?" my mom asked.

"Yeah mom, I want him to come home for Thanksgiving."

"Well," my dad said, in all of his wisdom, "Is he a Christian? Does he treat you right?"

"Yes. He's great," I replied. 

"Thats fine by us. Thats all we ask."

"So its no big deal he is from Zimbabwe?" I asked them.

"No, I dated a mulatto girl in high school," my Dad said.

"You did?" I asked. My brother and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows. My Dad always kept his life so secret. Apparently my mom was surprised as well.

My mother quickly piped in, "The only thing I ask is that he doesn't take you back to Zimbabwe because then you would be really far away."

Her comment was so typical of my mother. Her only concern was proximity and had nothing to do with skin color.

"Well thats cool," I said, "You don't have to worry about that because I just made that all up." 

With that, I turned back around in the front seat and told them it was a question posed by a web writing class I am in. It was an experiment in racial differences. I think they passed. I was quite thankful to be raised in a family that would let me marry someone from Zimbabwe, or Korea, or Brazil, or anywhere really. 

The country has come a long way in terms of racial reconciliation, and a conversation with my family on the way back from a soccer game is proof.