In a fallen world, sin is always followed by the prepositional phrase "against another." It never occurs alone, no matter how secret the sin may be. Its fingers always reach into the lives of those around us. And, most importantly, its stench always reaches into the heavens.
I wish this theology wasn't true. I wish that I could disagree with my own orthodoxy concerning my own sin. But I can't. Truth is a person, a divine person, who is seated at the right hand of the Father in heaven, and who cannot be touched, manipulated or relativized by me or anyone else. Therefore, I am forced to struggle with the implications of my own fallenness. My sin is always against another.
When I slow down to consider my role as a husband, I can barely bear the weight of it. My wife, who is closest to me, is ironically the one who is most likely to see, and be affected by, my untamed sins. Then, I move down the relational line to my children. For some reason I am more sorrowful when it comes to them, and can even be brought to tears when I think about the ways they might be formed and molded by their sinful daddy. Will my little girls grow up and have acceptance issues? Will I hear my son one day tell me, "I never felt like you loved me."?
I'd also like to think that life isn't as serious or significant as it really is. Sometimes I want to sit my kids in front of the television and sleep the day away; or, get a sitter so I can escape to search the web or read some theological book. Other times, I lose hope altogether and over-desire a place that doesn't exist in this life - a place where I am sinless and not accountable for my actions; a place where only my good deeds affect people and my bad ones sort of evaporate before they touch another human being.
I'm going to resist now the ever-so-easy pastoral transition that goes something like, "But God...now I feel better." I can't say that I opened by Bible today and with my eyes closed pointed to just right the verse to fix me. I'm not fixed. I will say, however, that the reality of the above has forced me to think seriously about Christ, and how He is more significant and serious than the topic of a sermon or paper; that He is more than some theological avenue to let people know how much I know about Him.
Through these difficult weeks, I have been agonizing over the implications of the atonement. I have asked Him time and time again, "Jesus, I know you have redeemed me from the slavery of sin. But, what about the relational consequences of my sin? What about my sin "against others?" What about my children? What about my wife? Do you redeem that too?"
The orthodoxy that I previously desired to reject, now gloriously comes to rescue. The nature of the Savior cannot be understood apart from the nature of sin. If the tragedy of sin is that it is always against God and others, then I must understand redemption in the same relational context. The gospel informs me that Christ's redemption alone can heal the relational places my sin has wounded. In other words, my hope is found in nothing less than Jesus blood and righteousness.
In Him, redemption provides healing for every sinful wound. At this point, I rest in this. That I only need to show my wife and children Christ, who, unlike daddy, perfectly loves, saves, and redeems. Unable to fix what I have done, I am forced to abandon my selfish ship. By openly and honestly repenting to those I have hurt, I direct them to the Healer, the Refuge, who alone deserves our worship, and who is the only true object of our faith.
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