Saving Grace

My mother once told me about a Christian, powerful in the faith, deeply anointed, who walked firmly with God on a daily basis. But even a Christian as strong as she might stumble, and one day, she did: Overwhelmed by her fears and cares in the world, she got in her car, sped down the road, and hit a tree. She died instantly.

That woman went to Hell, my mother told me, because she died in her sins. Suicide was a sin, and because she couldn't ask forgiveness for it before she died, it meant her actions would eternally separate her from God.

This story terrified me. Not necessarily because I was afraid of killing myself—

suicidal thoughts weren't part of my repertoire as a kid—but because it made me realize how precariously balanced my salvation was. I will admit that for many years, I had a fragile grasp of my salvation. God may have saved me, but my sins consistently piled as a tower to overwhelm me with condemnation. No amount of forgiveness was ever enough; though I would pray that God might redeem me, and though in the moment I might feel cleansed by the flow of his blood, inevitably the dirty rags of my sin would sop up the blood and show me soiled still. Forget what sins I had yet to commit; the ones already on my plate were overwhelming.

I remember once visiting my great grandparents and, while being a rambunctious child with my brother, knocking over a lamp. No damage to the lamp was done, but the bulb burnt out. It didn't even shatter. It simply stopped working.

Of course I, the child afraid of a reprimand, kept my part in the burnt-out lamp a secret. And that was my sin: maintaining silence rather than accepting whatever punishment I should have received. That silence tortured me. For years it remained in the tower of nightly terrors, the wall of sin that God continually had to tear down, so that every night I would beg forgiveness for that slip-up of mine. Every night he would scour me clean, until the next night all my stains reappeared as if he had done nothing.

I shudder to imagine who I would be now if all the failings I've since built up continued to stand as a witness against my salvation. Surely I wouldn't be writing now, too ashamed of my mistakes to ever voice them, too scared of what I would do tomorrow to add to that burden, squashing my spirit before each day could even begin.

But thankfully God did not leave me in a fragile state. I read a book by Dutch Sheets called "Roll Away Your Stone," and it changed my life. I cannot claim to remember any of the book verbatim, but I can say that the book talked about God's forgiveness. Specifically, it talked about how Jesus' sacrifice did not, in fact, pay for the sins I had committed. Rather, and much more powerfully, Jesus' death paid for my sins.

Full stop. Jesus paid for my sins, for our sins. All our sins.

Hebrews notes that "Christ did not enter a sanctuary made with human hands that was only a copy of the true one; he entered heaven itself, now to appear for us in God’s presence. Nor did he enter heaven to offer himself again and again, the way the high priest enters the Most Holy Place every year with blood that is not his own. Otherwise Christ would have had to suffer many times since the creation of the world.

But he has appeared once for all at the culmination of the ages to do away with sin by the sacrifice of himself" (Hebrews 9:24-26 NIV).

This was not a piecemeal sacrifice. It's not a flood that my sin could block as a wall. The scouring power of Jesus's blood is not meant to last only a night, but to last for eternity. Every sin, from beginning to end, has been paid for. We just have to accept that gift.

Reading that changed my life. Whereas before my past mistakes would rear up on me to tear me down, now I had proof that God was stronger than my mistakes. The tower crumbled and never again would I erect it. The lamp stopped torturing me, which gave me the strength to accept my failing and repent of it.

Similarly, the sins that I would commit, that I've yet to fathom, have been paid for. Jesus died for them all, and though I will stumble on occasion, my saviour refuses to abandon me. I am secure in his sacrifice and in his love even when I lose my way.

It is for that reason that I wonder if suicide is really the unforgivable sin. Yes, it is tragic.

It is a moment of weakness. It may be permanently moving against God's plan for a life.

But God is stronger than our weakness. His omnipotence goes beyond our smallness. His grace stands to intercede on our behalf. And while I think he is grieved by suicide—just as he is grieved by any sin—I do not think he has failed to take it into account. In that, I maintain my hope.

For God so loved the world that he gave his only son, so that whoever believes in him—though they are weak——though they are fragile——though they might crumble——though they could do naught but accept a gift——will have eternal life.