There's Nothing I Can Do- Part 1

The following post was written by Mike Cala. Mike is a man's man. He likes to throw knives and watch MMA. His focus on God's grace has encouraged me countless times, and I pray will encourage you too.

“There is nothing you can do to get closer to God”. The pastor’s words echoed in my heart and mind. The truth exposed in that simple statement summed up the thoughts and prayers that had lain in my heart for some time now . . . nothing I do brings me one single step closer, makes me one single bit “more saved” or a “better Christian”. I came to Jesus through His grace and mercy alone; I remain in Jesus solely through that same grace and mercy (Ephesians 2:1-5, 8-9). That eternity-wide gap that kept me from salvation and knowing Jesus could not be breached by anything I could do – my efforts would have been less than nothing.

Now that I am forgiven and live in relationship with Jesus, why do I continue to try to become something I will never achieve by my effort? Attending church will not make me more of a Christian. Prayer will not make me more “saved”. Reading the Scriptures daily will not move me one millimetre closer to the throne of God. Neither will what I wear, eat, drink, read, listen to, how much I tithe, what missions I give to or who I have as friends . . . Doing the “right” thing is not what it means to be saved (Galatians 2:16; 3:1-6).

I am as close as any created being could possibly be – kneeling at the foot of the throne of the Living God, held in the scarred arms of my Saviour and Lord. I am there in the shadow of the cross, fully dependant on His redeeming love and the relentless flow of mercy and grace that comes from His sacrifice.

There is awesome freedom in this! My inability to come any closer to God also means that my failures cannot move me one single inch away from Him! If I have not prayed for I couple of days . . . I am in the same place! If I have neglected my devotions . . . I am still secure! If I have failed or sinned in any way . . . the redeeming blood of Jesus holds me fast!

So often we find ourselves feeling that our failure or weakness has moved us “away” from God. We then have to “make up” for that by being extra diligent in our behaviour or spending more time reading the Bible or doing whatever . . . don’t believe the lie! Jesus is always right there with us, holding out His arms, dying for us to simply turn to Him and be with Him. Nothing to repay, nothing to make up for, nothing to set right. Because there is nothing we can do. It’s all in Him.

(Apologies if my beginning quote is misphrased, the pastor assured me it’s pretty close)

Comfort and Fatality

I think the temperature of our relationships is best taken when the thermometer of life is taken… not orally. You do know, I’m sure, that we don’t always get to choose which end we take our medicine from. Circumstances can conspire against us, and we feel fine just sucking on a couple lozenges of encouragement and a pat on the back. Then there are moments of utter disaster, when we wake up not knowing where we are or how we got there, and someone has stuck uncomfortable things in places where nothing should ever be stuck. Machines go beep-beep, trying to tell us we’re still alive but really only stressing us out as we wait for the long note of fatality.

This can happen in any area of our lives. It’s in those moments when you can look around to see if anyone is there for you, and discern what kind of friend you’ve been. It happened once in my marriage, I’ve seen it in the lives of my friends, and I know Jesus experienced it at least once.

It’s hard to say which aspect of the crucifixion scandal would have been the most difficult for Jesus to endure. I wonder if the bite of the whip was worse than the sting of Judas’ kiss. Could the agony of his broken hands and feet have been enough to cover the shame of his nakedness? It’s hard to imagine.

What is even more difficult to comprehend is the fact that his loyal followers were for the most part nowhere to be found. At first glance, one must wonder exactly what kind of relationships Jesus had been investing his time and energy in!

But wait…

Take a step closer with me. Let the loss of blood and wrenching heartache run its course, and wait in silence until the shock of that last loud cry announces the end of the life of Jesus of Nazareth.

Two men had been watching Jesus over the course of his ministry. Seeking him out at night; intrigued by him but not wanting to be associated with a rebellious prophet. Over time Jesus captured their hearts. And now, when his corpse comes down from the cross to be claimed, they are there.

I have a friend right now who is being hung on a cross of pain. It’s hard to watch. I can’t do much for him, and I don’t know at the end whether his faith will live or die. But his story has captured my heart. It’s a tale of courage, love and strength.

I want to be there at the end. Because somehow I know that he is hanging there for me, just like Jesus was.

“…just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows.” 2 Corinthians 1:3

Jack and Jill and Bruised Butts

I clearly remember the first time I ever heard about divorce. I was in grade 6, and a classmate of mine couldn’t stop crying at recess. When asked, he explained that he had just found out his parents were splitting up. I was bewildered. My young mind could hardly fathom such an event. Up until then my biggest worries included which of the dozens of TV’s in my dad’s shop I would watch after school. Life was naturally about play and friends and birthday parties and summer holidays. For the first time I realized that things meant to last forever could be broken.

I was grateful that my parents were Christians, because I knew that going to church was a guarantee against such things happening to me personally. Heartache could be left on the playground each day when classes were over. I was a Christian too, and thus from a young age I learned that my role was to help people see that if they would only ask Jesus into their hearts, life would be so much better. After all, nothing tragic ever befell anyone who attended First Baptist Church.

At thirteen years of age circumstances, church culture, and youthful ignorance were already weaving together the fabric of my first stained-glass blindfold. Unable or unwilling to see the truth, I started fabricating for myself a religious worldview that best fit an increasingly uncomfortable reality.

It doesn’t matter whether or not you call yourself a Christian- you probably have images or words that immediately come to mind when someone presents the idea of church or Christianity. The life experiences that planted those images could be a number of things that together with mine would create a list too long to analyze here.

What your blindfold is made of isn’t the matter in question. The issue is that your blindfold, my friend, is coming off. The only questions are when, and how.

Hey Jack, do you think the church is made up of a bunch of hypocrites? Something will begin to slip when you meet someone who is the real deal.

Hey Jill, are you feeling pretty comfy in your padded pew? Wait until a loved one commits suicide or your marriage ends or the doctor gives you some really bad news or you go on a mission trip to a place half a block from hell.

Jack and Jill went up the hill,
with two homemade GPS’s.
When the batteries died, they did collide,
And gained clarity and bruised... butts.

Not What You Would Expect

I love books, but not for all the noble reasons. It’s not because I enjoy learning, although I do. A good fiction with a cup of cocoa on a cold winter’s night is fine, but that’s not the reason either.

I love to own books. I want people to come to my house and admire the shelves of hardcover classics and provocative, postmodern authors.

When I was single and childless I threw anything I owned onto the bookshelf. I have to be a bit more selective now. Cinderella and the Backyardigans have taken over the shelf that used to be laden with the weightiness of my Bible College textbooks. Nine piece puzzles and a plastic school bus abide where once rested epic tales of swashbuckling adventure. Bulky photo albums of all sizes and colors have squeezed out books I’d never read but were ancient and weathered (and thus very chic). N.T. Wright’s theological musings now share the prime real estate of my last remaining shelf with Bill Watterson’s timeless ‘Calvin and Hobbes’.

This lack of concern for the written manifestation of my masculine ego has recently become a serious problem. I’m taking an online course now that requires the digestion of at least 23 books over the next year. I’ve haphazardly given a nod to my wife’s totally reasonable request to use the library or borrow the books from friends- but c’mon! I need man-space!

So I recently visited an online book retailer, deciding that the next best thing to books on a shelf would be books strewn wantonly throughout the house. I was looking for one book in particular. Softcover- $11.99; hardcover- $16.99. Then I saw a hardcover edition for $6.99! I couldn’t believe it! I rubbed my eyes. I pinched myself. A little voice told me it wasn’t what it seemed, but I squashed that thought like the first mosquito of summer and ordered my new trophy.

This is what came in the mail:

I’m sure there’s a lesson in this somewhere. Something about God giving us exactly what we want in a size that fits into the clutter of our lives. Maybe you can figure it out for me- I've got some reading to do.

Now where did I put my glasses?

Parable of the Daughter

On the bookshelf of human history, sandwiched somewhere between a pyramid and a wild-haired plastic troll, sat a single dusty cross.

Ages passed and still it remained, until one day an apocalypse of darkness and blood shook the people’s little self-made shrine and sent their trinkets crashing down. Then that single dusty cross started to grow.

Its reach soon extended past every idea of men, until at last it covered the Earth, overflowed the seas, and ruled the heavens with justice. It spoke then, and called out in a loud voice.

Every soul heard and answered the call. Taking up the icons of their humanity, they came to stand before the One Mighty Cross, and there they were judged.

Many were found who did not know the One Mighty Cross, and who in turn were not known. Among these were those who bore the symbol of the crescent moon. Some clutched the eye of Ra. Many brought no emblem at all, which was a sign in itself. Finally those came who, with backs straight, proudly carried the Word of God, but even these remained unnamed.

The Cross cried out in anguish, “Are there none who know me?”

Then a child was brought before the Throne. In one hand she tenderly held the picture of an orphan. “Sir,” she said, “I would like to enter your kingdom, but please accept my friend too.” She reached out and presented the photograph to the One Mighty Cross.

In the silence they looked into each other’s eyes.
And smiled.


Jesus once said that not everyone who called him Lord would enter the kingdom of heaven. You can read about it in the Bible- Matthew chapter 7.

Kick the Devil in the Brimstones

All I remember of my thirteenth year is isolation and teeth-gnashing frustration. In my young mind I was spiritually mature beyond my years. My social and emotional struggles were an obvious parallel to what Jesus experienced in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Alas, this wasn’t true.

The seeds of that year were planted far in advance by Saturday morning cartoons and flannel graph Jesus dolls. Each week I’d grab a bowl of cereal, and watch as some two-dimensional character struggled with a moral decision on the television set. Two spirits would show up to perch on his shoulders: the tough devil belching baritone, and the weak-kneed angel with long lashes and no spine. You probably remember, or can guess, who won those fights. Then Sunday I’d wash behind my ears, put on some shiny shoes and go to church, where I’d learn about “Gentle Jesus Meek and Mild” and turning the other cheek.

Somewhere along the line I learned more about being a pansy than anything else- a lesson that didn’t serve me well when my brother introduced me to the game of ‘Two for Flinching’. Most of my male readers will probably know how to play, but for anyone that doesn’t it goes like this: You hit somebody, and then pretend like you’re going to hit them again. If they flinch you get to hit them twice. It’s a great contest and easy to win, because if the person doesn’t flinch you hit them again anyway.

I don’t think I lost all those bouts of TFF because of my steadfast integrity. Moral courage couldn’t have condoned the injustice. I lost because I was afraid.

The devil has his version of TFF. It’s called ‘Hide for Shaming’. It’s a simple game too. He tempts you to sin and then ~SLAP~ he gives you the backhand of shame! He keeps you playing through fear, embarrassment and self-loathing.

I didn’t care if I ever won ‘Two for Flinching’. I just wanted the game to stop. I was humiliated and beat down. My parents said to just walk away, but my brother had legs too and simply hounded me.

Then one day I hit back. Things gradually changed after that.

Are you tired of playing the devil’s little shame game? Then it’s time to hit him where it counts. Kick him in his tender little brimstones. It’ll take a little courage, but there’s grace for that.

Use the boots of Confession and Repentance.

Automobile Porn and Religion

Paul of Tarsus said and did many things before they took his head. The things he wrote and spoke about were at times hard to understand, challenging, encouraging, full of joy and full of pain. Of all the things he focused on though, there is one thing that haunts me.

He wrote to his young protégé and warned that in the last days there will be people that have a form of godliness but deny its power.

When I was younger I used to enjoy reading magazines with glossy covers and full color pictures inside. Well, I didn’t exactly read them; it was all about the pictures. My favorite was Road & Track. I still remember tracing the outlines of the shiny Ferraris and marveling at the way the lights enhanced the seductive curves of the Lamborghinis.

Imagine my lust bubbling over when one day when I came across an advertisement that said I could have my very own exotic sports car. It was inexpensive and I’d need to put it together myself, but it looked like the real thing!

My dreams were never quite realized. My allowance usually disappeared at the corner store- gobbled up by Pac-Man or some other two dimensional digital fiend- and thus even the replicas remained locked firmly in the realm of fantasy.

Not so with my religion. I learned almost by osmosis that the pinnacles of Christianity could be attained with a little hard work, one good set of clothes, and a confident smile. Oh, it didn’t accelerate or handle like the real thing, but the authentic Christianity was only found in the book with the golden words on front. My version was cheap and virtually indistinguishable from the original.

It worked great, right up until I tried it out on the race track of life. The sharp curves of other people’s pain showed the flaws in the steering- I hit the wall. The pit stop was full of sagely advice, but was chronically empty of spare parts and fuel. When I hit the pot hole of my mistakes and disappointments it all fell apart.

Does your religion look like the real thing? Great. Good for you.

But what’s under the hood?

Wisdom from the Urinal

Men are not born with the ability to write their names in the snow. Indeed, that most important of appendages takes years to train and a lifetime to master. One must be able to put together just the right combination of experience, beverage, Jack Frost, and privacy in order to achieve this hallmark of masculinity.

The training starts early, and if it weren’t for utter ignorance the process would be most humiliating. The infant lad lays there getting his diaper changed and has no more control than a hamster with a fire hose. Gradually the bladder is brought under control, and each young male begins his own journey down the hallowed halls of urination.

Using the potty.

Using the potty but calling it by a different name when girls aren’t around.

Standing up at the potty.

Standing up at the potty without making your mom angry.

One of the most intimidating rites of passage, though, is the public washroom and the urinal. With a fragile male ego just beginning to bud you are told you need to unzip your pants in the presence of other men. Depending on your father figure and what he has taught you about the status of your member, you may feel pride or shame. But there is no getting away from the jitters as you stand before that porcelain and realize that regardless of the size of your fella, your legs are just not quite long enough to establish a good line of sight.

Ideally one would be able to line things up: eyes, ‘lil willy, urinal puck. For the small of stature it gets more complicated: eyes, puck, ‘lil willy. Up on the tips of the sneakers he goes, and at that exact moment (Chariots of Fire or some other fitting theme here) every male learns something about balance and focus.

Balance and focus go hand in hand, so to speak. One without the other leaves a person either misguided or unstable, or both. This is as true for the spiritual life as it is for potty training (readers of this blog have voted, and tend to see the author as more unstable than misguided). So let me leave you with the following reminder:

As you grow and learn and live, try to stay steady and only aim at the things that matter. Remember that you’re a work in progress, and don’t be surprised at a little back-spray every now and then.