what is enough?

Twenty-nine students, seven leaders, sleeping bags, pillows, sleeping pads, and tents for all, plus food, games, and firewood. All crammed into five cars and one small U-Haul trailer. Seasoned graduated seniors stood in a group sharing playlists and games they’d brought for the car ride. Incoming freshmen scampered back and forth between parents, each other, and leaders asking various forms of the same question, “when are we leaving?”

Fully packed and ready to go, I went back and forth between church buildings and the car I would drive all week. Shoes and sandals, shorts, sunscreen, bathing suit, more shorts, a sweatshirt, and more sunscreen? Check. My Bible, my journal, a pen, my pillow, and my sleeping pad? Check. Snacks, a water bottle, and directions to the campground? Check.

Feeling one hundred percent prepared as we sat around the campfire that first night my friend, mentor, and the pastor to students looked at each of us and asked, “What is the point? Why are you here?”

I sat on a picnic bench just out of reach of the fire’s smoke as those words hung in the air. I did not pack for this.

As my brain engaged and my thoughts picked up speed I considered those questions and the question that followed: Is your life purposed for something greater than just waiting to get to heaven?

The obvious answer to this question is yes. Yes, my life, your life, our lives and this time we have been given are about more than waiting for the day we enter heaven and spend eternity with Christ Jesus.

But what is that purpose? What is the point? If I am, upon my confession of faith in Christ Jesus, one hundred percent saved and my salvation is secure, then what do I do with the rest of my time here on earth?

The Sunday after we returned from our summer trip there was a guest preacher at church. It was one of the best sermons I’ve heard. As he concluded his teaching he encouraged us to ask the question of enough.

There are plenty of ways to interpret that question. What is enough tithing? What is enough social justice? What is enough loving my neighbor?

I saw the question through the lens of five hot days full of laughter, shared meals, and hours on the river and nights full of hard questions about what we choose to do between our confession of faith and meeting the One in whom we have placed all our faith.

My question of enough is this: What is enough like Christ?

Is confessing that He is my Lord and Savior, the one and only True God enough?

Yes.

It is enough to secure my salvation.

But is eternity in heaven the only reason I am here on earth?

No.

Is eternity in heaven the only reason you are here on earth?

No.

Is the point of this life to just confess faith in Jesus and then wait until we die? What about all the days, months, and years between now and then? What do we do with them?

Because my confession of faith did not suddenly make me into a brand new, perfectly Christ-like version of Haley. It just made me aware of how un-Christ-like I am and how desperately I need Him.

You cannot live a Christ-like life unless you make Christ-like choices.

God’s grace IS enough, and His ability to cover sin is something I cannot fathom. But am I honestly going to sit here, staring down the greatest gift I have ever and will ever receive, and respond by living life as usual? By living life pre-Christ?

I can.

You can.

We can.

But we can also pray and live His kingdom come and His will be done NOW.  Here.  On earth NOW as it is in heaven.  As it will be for all eternity.

We can also choose to take the gift of His grace and DO something with it.  To put hands and feet behind the knowledge of our salvation.

We can choose to be Christ-like.  And in our inability to be like Him, He comes alongside us, filling in the distance between us and Him.

We can choose to say that to be like Him is what it means to live out our purpose here on earth.

We can choose to say that enough like Christ is simply to be Christ-like.  To be Christ-like in thought, word, and deed.  Every day, from now until the day we stand before Him.

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