Perspective

Nothing good matters. At least nothing good that I do, anyway.

The debt simply is too great. It would be the same as some fool emptying out the ocean one soup spoonful at a time and expecting praise for his accomplishment. Why? What difference does it make?

Only the bad matters on my end. Only then does the blood of Jesus matter. And boy does it matter. Like drying that same ocean by grasping the planet and hurling it face-first into the belly of the sun, it matters.

My death, my sin, my shame. His glory. Nothing else matters.

If anything else did, though, it would only be whether I am willing to have my world plucked from space and sent sunward, certain to crash and be forever, unrecognizably changed.

But assuming any other victory when it happens makes for childish arrogance. And why, then, go back to the place that got me into this mess in the first place?