Unless We Tell Them

Every year at Christmas I think back to December 25, 1972. Some of you already know my story. 

I had just finished a book by Hal Lindsey, The Late Great Planet Earth. What he said puzzled and excited me at the same time.

As I rehearse the memory of that Christmas of 47 years ago, I wonder how it could be that I’d lived 22 years in America and did not know Jesus died for me. I only knew His name as a swear word, and that He was the god of the Gentiles. 

Yes, how could it be that I never heard the truth that Jesus, the Jewish Messiah, took all my sins – even the totality of my most heinous sins – that He substituted Himself and paid the penalty I deserved to pay for those sins? 

But how could I know it? No one ever told me. It was not until a few months earlier in 1972, on the most holy day in Judaism – Yom Kippur – that God unveiled to me the soul-rending truth that I was lost in sin and without hope of forgiveness.

The point? 

How many attend church each Sunday, sometimes several times a week, and don’t really understand why Jesus died? How many have never heard, week after week, year after year, Jesus died in their place, as their willing substitutionary sacrifice? How many, who look at a cross or a crucifix time and time again, do not yet understand Jesus’ death – and only His death – can purchase their forgiveness if they continually come to Him humbly in confession, thanksgiving, and a determination to obey His commandments? 

I lived for 22 years without ever hearing God's wonderful promise of forgiveness until someone told me of it.  Even so, as we approach the end of 2019, how many still have never heard the full reason for Calvary’s cross – and won't know it unless WE tell them?