Dear Cobham Park Church Family,
I remember how proud and confident I was as I rolled off the assembly line. My chrome sparkled in the sunlight. I was painted in spotless Wimbledon White. My interior was dressed in dark blue Corinthian vinyl with matching Shetland check cloth. My big-block V8 growled at idle, ready to tow any load in an 8-foot bed. With four wheel drive, I could go anywhere. I felt more than ready for any job! That was a long time ago.
My first owner was full of ego and short on sense. He drove me much too hard. Oil changes were hit or miss. In my maintenance—when I had any—he always took the cheap and easy way. Things were damaged and went unfixed. Poor decisions accumulated. In the end, I threw a rod. That did me in.
My owner abandoned me in a weather-beaten barn on the back of his place. There, my tires gradually deflated until rims met the dirt floor. My gaskets dry-rotted. Rust ruled. My cab was as leaky as the barn roof. Mice made a home in my glove compartment. Decades of neglect would leave me a wreck. I was good for nothing but the crusher.
Then…he came. Through one unbroken headlight, I could see him handing a wad of cash to my owner, who walked away with a smug look on his face. I later learned that this man gave his bottom dollar to buy me that day. Why? I still don’t completely understand his reasons. All I know is that he then turned toward me and gently placed his hand on my dusty hood. He smiled. I don’t think it was a smile of pity or mockery. No, he saw something that pleased him. It’s as if he saw past my rust and disrepair back to the assembly line—or maybe he was looking ahead to the truck I would become. Right there, I trusted that smile. I believed in what this man could do. He held my title now.
My rescuer towed me back to his garage. This was a humble place, but neat and clean. I noticed several thick manuals stacked at the corner of the workbench. These books were dedicated to the mechanics of my model, and they appeared well-worn. When my new owner went to work, I guessed that he planned to restore me—or do something even better. He seemed to know everything about me, and to always have the right tool in hand. The thought of undented fenders and new paint excited me, until I realized that the man was concentrating solely on my engine. He sensed my disappointment, and patiently reminded me that my irreparable engine must be replaced with a new one. This would hurt, but it was a crucial work that had to be completed before anything else.
Sometimes, the man’s friends helped him. Usually, however, it was just the two of us working late under a drop light. Well, he actually did all the real work—but I held my hood open for him. I’ve been in that garage for a long time now. I still may not look like much, but yesterday, my new engine roared to life. And are those new tires I see leaning against the wall?
In case you haven’t already caught on, this parable is my story in Jesus—and probably yours too. It describes what He started on the first Christmas: “This means that anyone who belongs to Christ has become a new person. The old life is gone; a new life has begun (2 Corinthians 5:17; NLT)!”
A Fellow Wreck Under Renovation,
Pastor Keith
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