Mercy Took My Seat

Some years ago, Gary Haugen told a story he called “snack math.”

He was teaching his kids about fairness. One child got two cookies while another got only one. The protest came fast: “That’s not fair!”

That moment made Haugen realize something profound — every child is born with a built-in sense of justice. We may not agree about much in this world, but everyone recognizes unfairness when it touches them.

The cry of “That’s not fair!” is the human heart’s echo of divine justice.

But there’s a problem: our fairness is selective.

We want mercy for ourselves and justice for everyone else.

Grace when we fail — judgment when others do.

At the cross, God refused to be selective.

He poured out all His justice and all His mercy, completely and simultaneously, upon one Person.

That’s why the cross isn’t just a symbol of suffering; it’s the single event that changed the moral universe.

It’s where mercy took my seat.

---

The Justice We Feel

We live in a world addicted to outrage.

Open your phone, turn on the news — someone’s angry about something: politics, prices, potholes, neighbors, rules.

We burn with moral heat but rarely stop to ask, What standard am I using to decide who’s wrong?

Our longing for justice is evidence that we are made in God’s image.

But our justice is warped because we measure horizontally — comparing ourselves with others — while God measures vertically — comparing all things with His holiness.

Human fairness says, “I’m not as bad as them.”

Divine fairness says, “Be holy, for I am holy.”

If we cry out for fairness, we must be ready for that fairness to be applied to us.

And that’s where we discover the real problem: we want a Judge who punishes evil but winks at ours.

We want a holy God who is lenient with us but strict with everyone else.

That’s not justice — that’s preference.

And God is not a God of preference; He is a God of perfection.

---

What Sin Really Is

The Bible uses three words for moral failure: sin, transgression, and iniquity.

Sin means “to miss the mark.”

Transgression means “to step over the line.”

Iniquity means “to twist” what is straight.

Together they tell the story of every human life. We miss, we cross, we twist.

Jesus defined sin even more sharply.

He said hatred is murder in seed form, lust is adultery rehearsed in the heart, and selfishness is hidden idolatry.

That means sin isn’t just what we do; it’s what we are apart from grace.

It’s not a list of mistakes — it’s the air a fallen soul breathes.

And the more we try to fix it, the more we realize how deep it goes.

Sin isn’t comparative; it’s contagious.

You can’t grade decay on a curve.

Saying “I’m not as bad as…” is like a corpse claiming to smell better than the one next to it.

That’s why religion without grace becomes exhaustion.

It measures rot with a ruler.

---

Encountering Holiness

Isaiah 6 gives us the clearest picture of what holiness really means.

“In the year King Uzziah died,” Isaiah writes, “I saw the Lord, high and exalted, seated on a throne, and the train of His robe filled the temple.”

Seraphim hovered above Him crying, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty; the whole earth is full of His glory.”

The doorposts shook. The air filled with smoke.

Isaiah didn’t say, “What a glorious vision!”

He said, “Woe is me! I am undone! I am a man of unclean lips.”

That’s what holiness does — it unmasks us.

It doesn’t humiliate; it reveals.

It exposes the cracks beneath the polish.

But in that same moment, grace arrives.

A seraph touches his lips with a burning coal and says,

“Your guilt is taken away; your sin atoned for.”

The same holiness that exposed Isaiah now purifies him.

God’s fire doesn’t burn to destroy; it burns to refine.

Think of gold in a furnace — the hotter the fire, the purer the metal.

When Isaiah cried “Woe is me,” God wasn’t condemning him; He was cleansing him.

Holiness and mercy are not opposites — they are partners in redemption.

The flame that reveals is the flame that heals.

---

The Canyon We Can’t Clear

Every religion tries to cross the canyon between human failure and divine perfection.

We build moral bridges, spiritual ladders, and self-help staircases.

But picture standing at the rim of the Grand Canyon and deciding to jump across.

Maybe you can leap ten feet farther than I can — but you’ll still fall short by seven miles.

Romans 3:23 says, “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”

The canyon is real.

No one crosses it by effort.