I waited longer than usual at the crosswalk known for its danger. Steady rain made the winter evening feel ominous, alerting all of my senses to the present moment. Eventually, a driver followed the rules and came to a purposeful, complete stop. I cautiously stepped into the street with my excited golden retriever, Duncan, reeling him in close to my side. Suddenly, the stopped car was moving at a quick speed, nearly brushing Duncan’s nose. I shrieked and froze as my heart thumped through my winter layers. The car had just barely missed us; we were lucky.  

It was a close call that would haunt me for days. Before I stepped into the street, I had been fully present, undistracted by a phone in hand or music in my ears. I patiently waited for a safe pause in traffic to cross the intersection. I was careful. In other words, I had done everything right. 

As I replayed the terrifying moment in my mind over the next few days, I realized how desperately I wanted to be able to blame myself. If I had been texting, lost in a podcast, or rushing, it would feel better. I would be in control. I would feel less vulnerable. Most importantly, I would not have to face the reality that my security does not depend on me doing things right. 

David warns us of this when he paints the picture of a rule-following person trying to please God with religious performance in Psalm 51. At the time, his declaration was shocking. In a culture accustomed to sacrificial acts, it was hard to believe in a God who desires broken hearts more than burnt offerings. Today, our sacrifices are different but the struggle is the same: to fully grasp that, as followers of Christ, our security is dependent on one thing only–our surrendered hearts.