Misfits

Mis =  means to bypass. It is what happens when we aim at something and fail to hit or achieve it.  You may, for example, aim your application at a job and almost get it but another applicant edges you out.  You miss it by a hair.  To miss is to over-shoot, to under-shoot or fall short.  Your aim may be to get what you think is a husband only to discover that you got something less or vice versa.   It is to drive along and miss your turn, mis a sign, miss an exit. And with the exception of one vowel, “miss” and “mess” are similar because mess is what we often end up with when we miss.  Almost does not seem to satisfy us because a miss is a miss. A missed turn, a missed exit has no benefit. If you miss it, you have to turn around. Can you picture King Agrippa sitting in hell burning for the past 20 centuries, reveling in the fact that he was almost persuaded to be a Christian? His problem is that he cannot turn around and do it over.

Fit = means pieced together in perfect symmetry,  piecemeal but tailor made.  Even if it comes off the rack in a dress shop and it is a perfect fit, then it was made for you. It’s yours.

All of this causes me to reflect on the fact that not one of us was fit for heaven. We had to do the thing that I just did a few seconds ago.  I had to uninstall it and start all over again.  Now it works like a champ.  Some call it being born again; others call it being saved, but let’s not get bogged down in terminology.

What the Bible basically tells us that we won’t make it the way we are so we have to be made over, uninstalled and reinstalled, gutted and remodeled, given a miraculous bath.  And we must find a detergent that is strong enough wash away all the spiritual dirt and filth.   Oxydol — I know that I am dating myself but — oxydol, Tide, and Spic and Span want to do it. Amonia cuts grease but it will not do what a loving God requires.  The stain is so deep that it is a part of my constitution. I discovered a detergent that could do it.  Yep, I am still imperfect in both thought and action but this great discovery cleans continutally.

William Cowper wrote about it in a song.  It goes:

There is a fountain filled with blood,
Drawn from Immanuel’s veins,
And sinners plunged beneath that flood
Lose all their guilty stains:

Lose all their guilty stains,
Lose all their guilty stains;
And sinners plunged beneath that flood
Lose all their guilty stains.

The dying thief rejoiced to see
That fountain in His day;
And there have I, though vile as he,
Washed all my sins away:
Washed all my sins away,

Washed all my sins away;
And there have I, though vile as he,
Washed all my sins away.

Dear dying Lamb, Thy precious blood
Shall never lose its pow’r,
Till all the ransomed church of God
Are safe, to sin no more:

Are safe, to sin no more,
Are safe, to sin no more;
Till all the ransomed church of God
Are safe, to sin no more.

E’er since by faith I saw the stream
Thy flowing wounds supply,
Redeeming love has been my theme,
And shall be till I die:

And shall be till I die,
And shall be till I die;
Redeeming love has been my theme,
And shall be till I die.

When this poor, lisping, stamm’ring tongue
Lies silent in the grave,
Then in a nobler, sweeter song,
I’ll sing Thy pow’r to save:

I’ll sing Thy pow’r to save,
I’ll sing Thy pow’r to save;
Then in a nobler, sweeter song,
I’ll sing Thy pow’r to save.

But there is still a problem, because, now that I am fit for heaven, I often feel as if I do not fit in this world anymore.

A songwriter said this about that:

“This world is not. my home.
I’m Just passing thru.
My treasures are laid up
somewhere beyond the blue.
The angels beckon me from here to eternity
and I can’t feel at home in this world any more

Oh Lord, you know, I have no friend like you.
If heaven is not my home, Oh Lord what shall I do
The angels beckon me from here to eternity
and I can’t feel at home in this world any more.”

Just one clarification on misfits. To fit does not mean to accommodate. I work jigsaw puzzles as a past-time. And there are many pieces of the puzzle that accommodate each other, but they don’t fit. This world accommodates me. There was another fellow named Perry, born to his parents who fit in this world. He died. He was uninstalled and reinstalled one Friday night on Minnesota Avenue and now he is just right for heaven.