Adventist World Podcasts

“But I don’t feel forgiven.” Millions every day confront the gap between God’s promise to forgive their sins and the relentless guilt that drives them to despair. We trust the truth of our emotions elsewhere: why not here as well? But a gracious God wouldn’t allow our forever to hang upon the slender thread of changeable—and whimsical—emotions. We love pasta on Tuesday, and don’t ever want to see it again by Friday. We adore a particular shade of green, only to despise it one week later. Just as it was necessary to trust God’s Word that we were sinners and separated from Him—even when we didn’t feel like sinners—so it’s crucial that we trust God’s Word that we have been forgiven when we place our trust in Jesus—even though we may not feel forgiven. The apostle John learned this truth from Jesus: “By this we shall know that we are of the truth, and reassure our hearts before Him whenever our hearts condemn us; for God is greater than our hearts, and He knows everything” (1 John 3:19-20). We don’t activate God

Why is it we love lists so much—for diets, muscles, marriage, money—even friendships? “Six Things You Should Never Eat.” “Eight Stretches You Can Do at Home.” “Five Ways to Fireproof Your Marriage.” “Three Best Investments for Recession.” And even “Ten Ways to Know if Friends Are Talking Behind Your Back.” We want what’s big and daunting in our lives reduced to things we can accomplish. We cling to our illusion: each new list will simplify our lives; we can recapture lost control. We crave the magic of past centuries without the stardust and the spells. Aladdin’s cave should open when we master “Four Ways to Memorize Your Passwords.” But all that’s deeply valuable in life can’t be reduced to numbered lists—love; faith; eternity; serenity; and joy. When the crowd once asked Jesus, “‘We want to perform God’s works, too. What should we do?’ Jesus told them, ‘This is the only work God wants from you: Believe in the one He has sent’” (John 6:28-29). Grace is irreducibly amazing—rich and complex, full and free. Any

When you have the chance, choose friends who breathe the air of grace.  Grace doesn’t make them better golfers, but you’ll want their gentleness when you earn that triple bogey on the 8th.  Grace doesn’t make friends wise or witty, but they’ll know to put an arm around you when you’re hurting or discouraged, for God has laid His hands on them.  Grace doesn’t turn friends into counselors, but they can lead you through forgiveness when you’ve blown it big and can’t see daylight up ahead. “For God was in Christ, reconciling the world to Himself, no longer counting people’s sins against them. And He gave us this wonderful message of reconciliation” (2 Cor 5:19). Grace doesn’t give conversation skills, but they’ll stay with you—and not let go—when others would go running for the exits. They’ve heard God say in seasons of deep loneliness: “I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with unfailing kindness” (Jer 31:3). Friends who live the grace of God bring hope and kindness on the journey. Keep ch

If concerts lasted 60 days, the audience would be smaller than the band. If a book took 40 years to read, almost no one would ever finish it. We want the distillation of a life, not the whole story. We’re looking for the summary, not the entire sermon. We’re addicted to the soundbite, not hours of video outtakes. And so we speak of grace as an event, even a moment, that can be captured, imaged, even timed. “I got saved at 7:23 pm last Tuesday.” “God turned my life around in 20 minutes during lunch.” Yet grace is frequently a long and gentle process in our lives—at least a season, often a decade, sometimes an orbit of 50 years. We celebrate the moment of insight; heaven counts the long and winding road that led to now—a thousand times the sad trajectory of our lives was turned so quietly by love.  “And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being changed into His likeness from one degree of glory to another” (2 Cor 3:18). The “grace that saved a wretch like me” is simply that moment w

The resurrection is the greatest turnabout in time, a reversal of such epic scope that all our yesterdays have been reshaped and all tomorrows made anew. From Friday sundown’s grinding grief to Sunday morning’s glorious light, the balance of the world tipped.   We were the people sitting in darkness.  Now we greet His rising day. Death and dying lost their grip:  life and hope came springing up—out of the ground, within the tomb, above our loss, beyond our sin. Because Christ lives, the world’s dirge will die away;  a song of love and grace will be the anthem of the future. Join in the song that never dies:  “The Lord has risen—so shall I.”   And stay in grace. -Bill Knott

When moondust gathers on your boots, and you clutch a Nobel Prize; when you’ve led the Philharmonic, or you’ve rocked the Colosseum—you still need the gift of grace.   When you’ve made uncounted billions, and a tower bears your name; when the friends at all your parties drive their custom Maseratis—you still need the gift of grace.   When you’ve served the homeless strangers, and provided for the poor; when the offering plates at worship are all brimming with your gifts—you still need the gift of grace.   And when your sins rise higher than that 100-story tower; when the glitterati leave and all the accolades are over; when you cry out for some solace and your spirit craves for peace—you still receive the gift of grace.   “For by grace you have been saved through faith, and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God, not of works, lest anyone should boast” (Eph 2:8-9).  Nothing we accomplish can achieve what grace has done.   So trust in Christ. And stay in grace.  -Bill Knott

If—for a moment—all that’s unseen could be seen; if we could trace the prayers of those who lift our names to God, we would be stunned and overwhelmed by love. There is no night so dark nor circumstance so grim that we could miss the arcs of prayerful comets climbing toward the heavens, carrying our names and needs. God has His witnesses on earth—a parent; spouse; a long-forgotten friend—who lift their voices up to Him to plead for us—our health, our wealth, our wisdom, and our courage. And they are heard because they love, for God who taught us how to love is moved by even murmured pleas. The grace that undergirds us all is mirrored in a billion prayers—for wars to cease; for hope to win; for prodigals still far from home; for parents struggling with disease; for friends who wrestle with despair. We are more loved than we remember; more blessed than we can calculate. Grace moves among us, lit by prayer, to heal, to warm, to keep, to hold.  The lift you feel could well be someone loving you through prayer. So

“Write of the light,” the angel said. “The world has crouched in darkness for too long. The shadows multiply, as do the myths and monsters they invent. One sharp, clean shaft of light will welcome in the future.” And so we write and talk of grace, especially when shadows crowd our little stage, and curtains warn the play might soon be ending. Anxieties will have their run: calamities of every kind remind us just how fragile is our script, how inconsistent our direction. But there is One who holds the drama—and our futures—without care or worry, haste or fear. “He Himself is before all things, and in Him all things hold together” (Col 1:17). And by His own description, He is love—unbounded, unconditional, eternal. “In Him was life, and the life was the light of all people” (John 1: 4). He is “the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning” (James 1:17). When there is nothing good to write of us, the grace of Christ heals what is wounded in our play and spotlights what He did to save

‘‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear . . . Each week, 10 million Christians raise a hymn in which so many puzzle at the words. How, in a canticle to grace, could anyone refer to fear as good, from which a useful lesson could be learned? But buried in “Amazing Grace” is a powerful reminder: the grace that ultimately warms and comforts us first makes us wretched and despairing. Grace cannot thrive without the truth, and the unwelcome truth will drive each sinner’s heart to fear—cold, clutching fear: “For everyone has sinned; we all fall short of God’s glorious standard” (Rom 3:23). “For the wages of sin is death” (Rom 6:23). At the doorway of a new life hangs a sign that clearly states, “You were lost in your sins.” The good news of the gospel—of grace, forgiveness, and renewal—is only good in the presence of news that isn’t good. Your sin—my sin—however small or great we may imagine it to be, excludes us from the light and life of God’s eternal presence. Until we see this, know this, taste the bitterness

And there we were, the wretched ones, disguising all our anxious pain with skill a make-up artist must admire. We hid the sadness and the fear through years of practiced levity, with words like “Fine,” with worn-out jokes, with changes to the topic.  But then the gospel reached our world with all its fearsome clarity and hope. And quick we saw that all our artifice was glass to the all-seeing eye of Grace. Somebody we knew had come to life, with joy abundant in their eyes, and gentleness in all their words. We watched new hope suffuse their souls, and saw rich playfulness return. Grace brought to life a wounded heart, and we began to hope that we might trade our dismal trudge for joy and peace and light and love.   In them we saw; from them we heard: “God is so rich in kindness and grace that He purchased our freedom with the blood of His Son and forgave our sins. He has showered His kindness on us, along with all wisdom and understanding” (Eph 1:7-8).  Grace moves among us, heart to heart, awakening our half

As children, we would loudly boast: “I can run faster than you.“ “ I have more toys than you.” “I’m taller than you.” Not much has changed. Now all grown-up, we quietly still boast:  “I pay someone to do my running for me.” “I have the bigger toys.” “I’m thinner/fitter/wealthier.” We gain our value by comparing ourselves to those without acquired or natural advantages. We revel in what DNA or ancestors have lent us for a moment.  But Jesus offers each of us a gift for which no bragging is allowed:  “By grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God— not the result of works, so that no one may boast” (Eph 2:8-9). No leap of faith is measured. No marathon of duty gets us closer to the goal. No list of good things done—or bad things left undone—adjusts our destiny. Grace can’t be earned, is unavailable for sale, and never is inherited. Grace is God’s gift, and free to all who take it. In God’s economy, I gain it all by faith in Him “who loved me and gave Himself to

Why is it we find kindness in this broken, angry world?  Despite the ugliness of violence and greed, we still see moments of breathtaking beauty and compassion. A stranger gives a kidney to a dying 12-year old. A soldier shelters children terrified by war. A colleague holds a friend undone by stress. A spouse forgives, and pledges to rebuild. Not one of these advances some advantage. None reflect the law of tooth and claw. We do these things because we still retain, however faintly, the image of our great and kind Creator. His goodness flows through even those who do not claim His name. “We love each other because He loved us first“ (1 John 4:18). “The love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Spirit, who is given to us” (Rom 5:5).  The Spirit points toward Jesus who always shines: “And the light shines on in the darkness, and the darkness has never put it out” (John 1:5). So offer thanks whenever kindness meets you. But know the truth: there’s nothing random in it. And stay in grace. -Bill Knott

Staying in grace is hard work in the same way resisting the pull of self-congratulation is hard work. Our human nature loves to count: “I haven’t eaten chocolate for 12 days.” “I put 10 percent of my income in the offering plate at church.” “I’ve done five ‘random acts of kindness’ in three days.” We naturally crave applause from others, and most fatally, from ourselves. Yet Jesus urges, “Do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing” (Matt 6:3). Grace bids us put away our abacus, our calculators, and all algorithms of righteousness that start or end with us. The “work” of faith is learning to believe in Christ alone, and giving Him the glory for the healing of our lives. The grace that saves us is the same great love that changes us. We look to Him, and not within. So stay in grace. -Bill Knott

Just as there is no human life without oxygen, so there is no eternal life without the grace of Jesus.  All other theories, strong and noble though they seem, are grand illusions that overestimate our goodness and underestimate God’s holiness. No string of sins avoided, or good deeds performed with vigor even start to bridge the gap between our lostness and His law.  But forgiveness takes us where forgoing never can.  Jesus loves us far too much to let us go on fooling others and ourselves about the cost of being saved. Only He can pay the price—and He has paid it all.  We live with gratitude when we are sure of grace.  So stay in grace. -Bill Knott

“And what is grace?” the preacher sings. Then back five hundred voices drone: “Grace is undeserved favor. It does not stop; it does not waver.” The choir sings a great “Amen.” And everyone goes home. But has the gospel been delivered? More crucially, has it been heard? As commonly communicated, grace is an answer in a catechism, a distant theological abstraction, an idea we can safely leave alone. Yet grace is needed in the parking lot—at church or at the grocery store—when someone darts into the space we’ve waited five long minutes for. And grace is vital in the boardroom—and the family room—where pride and jealousy are real. And grace is in a hundred unexpected moments when we are suddenly aware that we are loved—that broken, hurting folks like us—are precious to the God who made us and redeemed us. “He is so rich in kindness and grace that He purchased our freedom with the blood of His Son and forgave our sins” (Eph 1:7). If grace is only cognitive, and never gets below our ears, we miss its beauty and its

If you are a believer, then you learned Christ from another believer. Your story—ups and downs and still unfinished—is still a testament to grace. Someone loved you for no reason. Someone taught you the reality of the unseen world. Someone shared with you the power and efficacy of prayer. Someone built the confidence you have in Him who holds all things together. Your shiny faith is the new link in a centuries-old chain of sharing that began when fishermen and tax collectors dropped nets and coins to follow after Jesus. So pause today to thank the risen Lord for grace that came to you through kindness from a modern-day disciple. And then, be like the one who shared their faith with you. Keep adding links: keep adding hope. For this chain is the symbol of unfettered joy and freedom. And stay in grace. -Bill Knott

The broken fragments of our days are red and ragged, wet with tears. The job ungained; the love undone; the hard, dull ache of illness in the body or the soul. We see no pattern in the pain; we find no solace in the rain.  But there is One with cosmic grace who sees each piece for what it shows of His uncanny and redeeming power. And in the long, slow masterpiece He builds, He fits the fragments of our hours with skill so great and eye so fine that even we, unlucky we, will call it good, will call it fair. “And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purpose for them” (Rom 8:28).  For what we come to call our “faith” will trace what unfaith never sees—that there is meaning in the picture—that what we thought our greatest grief has now become His center stone. God finds a use for every chip; there is no waste in all His artistry. “So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom” (Psa 90:12).  None but the Artist of

And so we launch out on the ocean of the year, presuming that the wind filling our sails will carry us to joy and not disaster. We’ve made ourselves shipshape, or so we say. We’ve thrown a handful of bad habits overboard; resolved to never navigate in fog; promised ourselves that, for the first time in forever, we’ll stay steady—patient—with the wheel. We think the future, like the rudder, is firmly in our hands. But who can fathom what the new year brings? There are uncertainties much deeper than the weather—of gain and loss, of pain and growth, of racing days and windless days. As the psalmist said centuries ago, “We are merely moving shadows, and all our busy rushing ends in nothing. We heap up wealth, not knowing who will spend it. And so, Lord, where do I put my hope? My only hope is in You” (Psa 39:6-7). So trust the navigation of your life to the One who “made the heavens, the earth, the sea, and everything in them” (Ex 20:11). He needs no North Star, nor a Southern Cross to chart your way, for “He als

            The waning days of this old year remind us we ought never walk alone. We need three things to end December: forgiveness for the wrongs we’ve done; the healing of our wounded memories; assurances that we will have safe company in days and miles ahead.             The gospel tells us we have all of these in Jesus. His blood alone removes our shame and stains. His reconciliation shields us from hard-earned, high-priced bitterness. His promise to stay with us—in every hour, in every age—gives courage on dark nights, and lifts our hearts when we can’t know the future.             By grace, we walk away from sins—our sins, and those done to us through the pettiness or animus of others. By grace, we lose the need to sanctify our scars, or grimly tell our tales of injury. By grace, we stretch a hand into the as-yet-unknown future—and discover, to our joy, that we are grasped and held and loved and valued by the Lord who walks beside us. We dare not make this crossing by ourselves, for we will either fall

When poets have run out of words, and composers call no melodies to mind; when preachers have re-told the old, familiar story; when massive choirs have sung the final hallelujah—there still will be a mystery at the center of it all. Grace moved a God of love to do what is unthinkable to us—to surrender all His privileges and power; constrict his vast galactic reach—to enter our tight time and space, and share our mud and feel our pain. Describe it, sing it, preach it if you can, but nothing but the love of God explains the grace of God. “Great indeed, we confess, is the mystery of our religion” (1 Tim 3:16). The gifts we share on Christmas Day are, at their best, dull mirrors of a gift only our God could give. Only He who fills eternity could give a life that lasts forever. “For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son, so that everyone who believes in Him may not perish but may have eternal life” (John 3:16). Hidden in the boxes and the bows are gadgets that will make us smile, or foods that tempt ou