I have a friend who is the mother of two. When Sam and I lived in New York, we went to visit her and her family often. One Sunday, after church, we popped in to hear her very sternly scolding her oldest son who was probably about 11 or 12 years old at the time. Quietly, we sat down so she could do her thing. After sending him out to the yard and their townhome community with a roll of dog-poop bags, she turned to us shaking her head and explained that on their way home from church that day, she realized that he had stolen a candy bar while she was pumping gas. She said she didn’t care if it was a Snickers or a flat screen TV, her son wasn’t going to grow up to be a thief.

I always find it silly when I’m talking about Jesus to someone and they say something along the lines of, “I can’t be a Christian. God doesn’t want me. I’m too far gone for all that.” In theory, I can understand what they mean, and I can sympathize with the fact that someone thinks they are outside of God’s love for them or that they’ve done something to disqualify them from being a part of what God is doing. We might all feel like that at some time or another– caught up in our flesh and sin, knowing we have done wrong– and felt that there was no way Jesus could save us after knowing how despicable we are. To feel that way is to not understand what Jesus did on the cross, and the full extent of that salvation extended.