When You Believe in God but Are Ashamed of Your Past

If I'm in the car about half past five in the evening driving along and I turn on the radio,

I always feel slightly uplifted and excited when I hear the sound of this.

What am I talking about? Does anyone listen to this?

Yeah, I'm talking about Simon Mayo's Confessions.

Does anybody listen in to Simon?

Yeah, okay. Just in case you might not know what I'm talking about,

it's a Radio 2 show during drive time. It's been running for ages.

And listeners write in, email in, phone in with their stories.

And they're read out and then they discuss it in the studio as to whether or not they deserve to be forgiven.

Here's a classic.

Dear Simon, this confession makes me shake every time I think of it.

I hope you can forgive me.

It goes back to one festive season many years ago in my youth.

For some reason we didn't get our usual Christmas presents from Uncle Eric and Auntie Sheila in Australia.

But then a mysterious pot of exotic smelling herbs and spices arrived from Oz.

Mum was delighted with the gift and she put them in the Christmas pudding and it tasted great.

We ate half the pudding and kept the rest in the fridge.

About a week passed and we heard from Auntie Sheila.

Very sadly, Uncle Eric had died.

And she asked had we received his ashes to bury in our garden in Britain.

Fortunately, our father happens to be a minister.

So we were able to have a little service of interment in the garden for the remainder of the pudding.

Or should that be the remainder of Uncle Eric?

We are really, really sorry.

We wouldn't have eaten Uncle Eric if we'd known.

Can we be forgiven?

Sometimes it's a struggle to keep hold of the steering wheel when those come on.

But at the risk of killing comedy by dissecting it, isn't it often the case that the reason we find something funny

is because of the way in which it connects somehow with our experience.

Now, okay, that experience and a lot of the things you'll hear on that show may not exactly correspond with what you've experienced.

But I think probably we can all experience, connect in some way or other,

with that experience of looking back on something in our past that we wish hadn't happened.

And as I listen to those stories, although they may not chime with my experience directly,

time and time again, I'm thinking, okay, that hasn't happened to me,

but I can put myself in the shoes of what that person must have been feeling

and probably feels as they look back on it right now.

And the reason I think I can say that confidently is every single one of us has a past.

A past that contains things that when we look back at, gives us a sense of cringe.

We squirm.

We feel that if only we could have rewound and start again.

We just wish that hadn't happened.

We feel a sense of shame.

We feel a sense of regret.

In our series, The Christian Atheist, seems a bizarre phrase, doesn't it?

But it's basically focusing in on this idea that you can be a Christian

in terms of what you say you believe,

but you can actually live like an atheist by living as though God actually wasn't real at all.

And we think of today the issue of shame.

Because if it is the case that God is real,

then we are called to live by the reality of that God.

And the reality of that God in Jesus Christ

is that we are forgiven from our past.

We're set free.

But the challenge that we look at today is,

do we really live our lives by that conviction

that those things in our past we are genuinely released from?

When I was about 10 years old,

there was a series of books out that I absolutely loved.

They were called Choose Your Own Adventure books.

I don't know if anybody remembers them.

But they were game books

in which the reader assumes the central character of the story.

And the way they work, they're very cleverly written.

You would read a couple of pages

and then you find yourself in a scene where you're faced with a choice.

And it's a multiple choice thing.

And if you choose one particular course of action,

then it would say turn to page 47.

Another one, page 25 or whatever.

That took you to another scene

at which you then eventually faced another choice.

And then so on and so forth.

And so the story would be different

depending on the consequences of the choices.

They actually produced one of these

that actually was never-ending.

It was impossible to bring the story to a close.

But of the 30 or so titles that were made,

I think each book on average,

it was something like tens of thousands of possible combinations

that that story could actually take.

The story could be very long.

It could be very, very short

depending on the choices that you made.

But the thing I loved about those

choose-your-own-adventure books

was that you could read them so many times

and you could be as radically risk-taking

and as adventurous as you wanted

because you knew

that even if it all ended very horribly, very suddenly,

you could just close the book, reopen it,

and start again all over.

I may have been only about 10 years old

when I was into these,

but that was old enough

to understand

that we don't have that luxury in real life.

That we just wish that we could rewind,

we could start all over again.

You know, the reality is

that we can't change what's happened in the past.

We can't.

We can change the way that we look at the present and the future.

You see, the thing is, is our past,

when it gets a hold of us with that sense of shame,

means that the things that we have done in our past

that we feel guilty about,

we can be sucked into those things

to the point that our past mistakes,

the things that make us feel guilty and ashamed,

actually become our identity.

So that we carry around that living past

that we cannot let go of,

we cannot break free from and walk away from.

We can become slave to it.

Now, I need to say, before I go any further,

that there is such a thing as positive guilt.

Guilt can serve a very creative function.

If there's something that has happened

and you recognise that actually it ought not to have happened

and you begin to feel bad about it

and that bad feeling causes you to take action

and to try to put things right again,

that's good.

It's a bit like physical sensitivity.

You know, something's really hot,

you touch it, ouch, that shouldn't have done that.

You know, if you didn't have that sensitivity

within the moral world,

then we're done for.

Guilt can serve a creative purpose.

A story I shared a couple of months back,

you may remember,

was about a guy who couldn't sleep at night.

He wrote a letter to the Inland Revenue

and enclosed a cheque for £100.

And he said, in his letter,

he said,

I'm sending this cheque for £100 to you

because I cannot sleep at night.

I omitted to declare this on my tax return.

He paused and went back

and added to the letter,

if I still can't sleep,

I'll send you the rest.

Guilt has a purpose.

And in fact,

we wouldn't be human

if we didn't have that sensitivity.

But not all guilt and shame

is creative

and constructive in that way.

20 years ago now,

a film called Saving Private Ryan

was released.

Anybody familiar with that film?

I've watched it once

and I can't watch it again

and yet I think it was one of the greatest films ever made.

Set in the Second World War,

it tells the story of how

four brothers of the Ryan family,

three of them,

were killed in action,

in battle.

And to save their mother's agony

of losing all four sons,

a group of soldiers

are given instructions

to go into enemy territory

in France

to rescue the last remaining surviving son,

one Private James Ryan.

Captain John Miller,

who is played by Tom Hanks,

receives his instructions

and he's not impressed

with what he's got to do.

He feels that there are greater priorities

than just saving this one lone soldier.

And Miller,

when he receives his instructions,

says this kid had better be worth it.

When all this is over,

he'd better go home

and cure some incurable disease

or invent a longer-lasting light bulb.

It's a harrowing film.

Although it so compellingly reconstructs

the horrors,

the harrows

of being a young soldier at war.

But eventually,

the group of soldiers

are successful in their mission.

They find and rescue

and bring back to safety

Private Ryan.

But not before

Captain Miller takes the bullet

that costs him his life.

And there's this awesome scene

towards the end of the film

where John Miller is lying

on the bridge

in front of the young Private Ryan.

And as he draws his final breaths,

he reaches out

and pulls Ryan's head towards his

and whispers into his ears,

James,

earn this.

Earn it.

That scene comes to a close

and then we fast forward

some five or so decades later on

and a now elderly James Ryan

is standing in Arlington National Cemetery

in front of thousands

and thousands of war graves.

And he's standing before

John Miller's grave

with his family behind him.

And as he looks

at Miller's grave,

he says to him,

every day I think about

what you said to me

that day

on the bridge.

I've tried to live

my life

the best I could.

I hope that was enough.

And then with tears

welling up in his eyes,

he turns to his wife

and almost with a sense

of desperation in his voice

says,

tell me I've led a good life.

Tell me

I've been a good man.

Now,

in many ways

I found that film

deeply inspiring,

albeit very harrowing.

It reminded me of,

in a way that no other film has,

of the extent of the sacrifice

that was made

for our freedom.

The horrors that people went through

for our sake.

And the words

that James Ryan heard,

earn this,

earn this,

in a sense,

were creative words

because they inspired him

to live his life

the best he could.

But,

as that story,

that final closing scene,

is presented before you,

you can't help but wondering

whether the words,

earn this,

earn this,

have become something

of a haunting whisper

in James' ear

throughout his entire life.

You see,

guilt can work like that.

When it's outgrown

its creative function,

it just dogs us

and tells us

that if only you do

that extra one thing,

it just might outweigh

the bad stuff

that you've done.

If only you just try

that little bit harder,

if you just work a little bit more

on here and there,

if only you do that extra act,

then you might just,

it might just assage

the way you feel

about your past.

It's good to be inspired.

It's good to be prompted.

It's good to be energised

in love.

But guilt and shame

in the very worst

and ugly sense

actually is that itch

that can never be

scratched away.

It can never,

ever be satisfied.

It can haunt us.

It can become

our worst enemy.

You see,

continually looking back

at our past

with anguish

can nurture

an outlook

that faces the future

not with hope,

not with redemption,

but with despair.

And the more we feed it,

the harder it gets.

A few years ago,

I was out

on my bike one day

and a girl,

she looked about

eight years old

and very closely behind her

was,

I assume,

was her dad,

came cycling towards me

at a speed

that would have

seriously made her

a contender

for the Tour de Britain.

She was going so fast.

And they absolutely

shot right past

and they were

both laughing,

this girl,

I assume it was her dad.

But as they shot past,

he just called out

to me,

he said,

well,

it keeps her moving.

And only as they went past

could I see

what was taking place.

Because she was

really,

really going for it.

He was behind her,

but obviously

he's a lot older,

a lot bigger,

but attached

to his handlebars

and extending

by about

a metre

and a half

and brushing

against the side

of this girl's leg

was the biggest

whopper

of a stinger nettle

I've ever seen.

Yep,

it worked.

And I would be

lying through my teeth

if I was to say to you

that in telling this story

there wasn't just

one moment

that I thought

to myself,

actually,

why have I never

thought of that?

But

they were laughing

and I think

it wasn't too serious,

but

that is the way

in which

our past

can chase us.

When guilt

lays a hold

of us,

when our guilt

and our shame

and the list

of things

that we are ashamed

of actually

becomes our identity,

where we look back

and not only see

the things that we've

done that make us squirm,

but actually

they've become us.

That's a problem.

And no matter

how hard

we try to

push ourselves

forward,

our past

generates that dynamic.

Haunted by shame,

we try to move forward,

but it's always

there lurking,

chasing us,

haunting us.

We try to move forward

desperately

with greater speed,

focusing on the future,

but that past

just won't let us go.

Paul writes,

which we heard

just now,

therefore,

if anyone

is in Christ,

he or she

is a new

creation.

If we say

we believe in God,

but we're

dogged by that

sense of shame,

then either we

don't really

believe in God,

or the God

that we believe in,

is a very

different one

from the one

that Paul

is talking about.

I say this

not to

rub the guilt

in more,

but in the hope

that it might

just set us

free that

little bit

more.

Because when

we're hounded

by that sense

of earn this,

earn this,

because you've

done that wrong

in the past.

When we're chasing,

we feel chased

by that thing

that's going

to sting us.

We're thinking

about the wrong

kind of God.

The God

of the New

Testament says,

you are a new

creation,

you are set

free.

That is the

new identity.

Those things

that you would

otherwise let

define you,

don't.

You're a new

creation.

It means

listening to

the voice

of a dying

man who

does not

say,

earn this,

earn this,

but listening

to the voice

of a dying

man on a

cross who

says,

it is

finished.

You can't

change your

past,

but you can

change your

future because

God has

changed us.

two very

brief references

to scripture

that I want

to share

with you

as we

come to

pray.

The first

is the

words that

Jesus says

right at the

start of his

ministry,

when he

calls his

disciples

together.

And at the

beginning of

Mark's gospel,

we're told that

Jesus comes on

the scene and

says,

the time

has come,

the kingdom

of God is

near,

repent and

believe the

good news.

For years I

used to think

that repent

meant stop.

It doesn't.

It means go.

It's a dynamic

word.

It means to

turn around.

To go back to

Clive's analogy

this morning with

a windmill,

it means to

stop going with

your back against

God and turn

and face in

God.

Change direction,

move, but move

in the direction

of God.

Move in the

direction that God

wants you to go

in.

That's what

repent,

metanoia,

means.

Thing is,

is that we

perhaps tend to,

in a sense,

rightly emphasize

the importance of

making a decision

as a moment in

time for Christ.

To say,

I'm going to

commit my life to

Jesus and I'm

going to make a

decision there.

That's important.

It's the most

important decision

you'll ever make.

And in a sense,

the church is right

to emphasize that

as a decision-making

moment.

moment.

But the danger

with it is we

can, in emphasizing

the importance of

making a decision as

a single event in

our lives, is that

we can forget that

to repent is not

just a one-moment-in-time

thing, it's a

lifelong thing.

That means that

whether you become a

Christian suddenly or

whether it's been a

gradual thing, that

that meaning of

moving, of

traveling, of

metanoia,

repenting, is an

ongoing thing every

day of our lives.

It doesn't mean to

say that we're

continually looking at

our guilt and shame.

It means the very

opposite.

To repent as an

ongoing thing, as a

process, refers to

that lifelong learning

and lifelong coming to

terms with Christ's

forgiveness.

That's why Paul writes

in Philippians that we

are to work out our

salvation.

Yeah, coming to

terms with the fact

that Christ has said on

the cross, it is

finished.

Which means every

time we're confronted

with that sense of

guilt or shame from

the past, where we

feel we're going to

get stung again or we

hear that word, earn

this, we're actually

reminded once again of

the words of Christ on

the cross, it is

finished.

You're a new creation,

it is finished.

And working that out,

that ongoing process of

repentance is that's

kind of coming to

terms with it.

Every time we need to

be reminded, oh,

really?

We are forgiven.

Yes, you are.

We are forgiven.

Yes, you are.

You are forgiven.

Yes, you are.

It's a daily message

that we need to be

reminded of again and

again and again.

Metanoia, repentance,

continually moving in

God's direction.

Yes, there's a time when

that might happen for the

first time, but it's an

ongoing reality every day

of our lives.

The second thing,

second thing,

Psalm 23,

Psalm 23.

I'm going to read it in

just a moment.

It's probably the most

famous psalm that exists

in the Bible.

The thing is, is if you

ever look back at your

life and you see

something that makes you

squirm, makes you cringe

over the sense that I

really wish that hadn't

happened, that itself is a

sign that the growth and

the maturity of Christ in

you is taking place.

The very fact that you

wish it hadn't happened

is a sign that God's

Holy Spirit is working

in you and putting that

distance between that

thing that makes you

ashamed and the way you

feel about it now.

So be encouraged by that.

But it's a lifelong

process and in Psalm 23,

which I'm going to read,

we have a hint here of how

God is caught up in that

throughout our whole lives.

Let me read it to you.

The Lord is my shepherd.

I shall not be in want.

He makes me lie down in

green pastures.

He leads me beside quiet

waters.

He restores my soul.

He guides me in paths of

righteousness for his

name's sake.

Even though I walk through

the valley of the shadow

of death, I will fear no

evil for you are with me.

Your rod and your staff,

they comfort me.

You prepare a table before

me in the presence of my

enemies.

You anoint my head with

oil.

My cup overflows.

Now get this.

Surely goodness and love

will follow me all the

days of my life.

Now this psalm starts off

with the imagery of a

shepherd shepherding the

sheep.

But it is reckoned by some

biblical scholars that a

rendering of the Hebrew in

which this psalm was

originally written actually

ends up using hunting

terminology.

So we have the image that

starts with a shepherd and

ends with a hunter.

So when we read in our

English translation,

surely goodness and love

will follow me all the days

of my life.

What the psalmist actually

was getting at was the

image of a hunter.

Surely goodness and love

will hunt me down.

Now, think about that for a

few moments.

Think about whatever it might

be that resonates in your own

experience of past that you

wish hadn't happened.

That sense of trying to let

go of it, that sense of

being haunted by words that

might say, earn this, earn

this, or the sense of being

stung by something that's out

to pursue you.

In Christ, you're being

hunted down by something

else.

And when we stand before God

at the last, we will see a

God who is continually about

the business of chasing us,

tracking us down, hunting us

down as the determined hunter,

not the one who's out to get

you through wanting to beat

you up and to punish you,

but the one who relentlessly

hunts and tracks us down

because he wants us to know

that he loves us unconditionally.

Surely goodness and mercy

will hunt you down.

It's been chasing you your whole

life.

You may not recognise it.

You may have occasionally caught

the odd glimpse of it.

Eventually we'll all see it.

But God calls us in this

psalm to see it now.

He's there and he's determined.