When I was a little boy, we used to have our family reunions and vacations down at my grandfather’s cottage beside Carancahua Bay, near Palacios, Texas.
It was a sleepy, little spot that smelled like shrimp 24/7. We would seine for shrimp early in the morning, fish for speckled trout and redfish during the day, and go floundering at night. Wonderful memories, all!
My maternal granddad was the most influential adult in my life as I grew up. One day he said to me, “I want to explain something to you.” And he used a big word I had never heard before: erosion.
The bank that dropped off into the bay was continually being eaten away by the pounding waves and rainy weather. We walked over near the edge, and he measured a certain distance from that point to where the bank dropped off down to the water.
He drove a stake into the ground. “You’re going to be here next summer,” he told me, “and we’ll measure this again then.”
When I came back the next summer there had been two hurricanes, several super-high tides, and rough waters. Eight inches were gone from the bank.
I would never have noticed if we hadn’t measured it. I think the next year he wrote me and said, “Twelve inches dropped off this year.”
No one I’ve worked with in ministry who has fallen morally sat on the side of his bed one morning and thought,
Let’s see, now, how can I ruin my life? How can I implode my reputation?
Erosion doesn’t happen like that. It is always silent; it is always slow; it is always subtle. But its final blow is always severe.
Paul’s words to the Corinthians haunt me, as well as challenge me:
Let him who thinks he stands take heed that he does not fall (1 Corinthians 10:12).
He goes on to write,
No temptation has overtaken you but such as is common to man (10:13).
Even the apostle Paul back in the first century lived with the horrible possibility that after even he had preached to others, he might disqualify himself (9:27). All of us who preach must remember his solemn warning.
Every day is a day I could begin the fall. Every day is a day I could choose to compromise . . .
And the public would never know it . . . not then. But I would know it. Those close to me would someday begin to sense it, but the world at large wouldn’t know it until the final implosion.
I regularly evaluate my life. I measure the depth of my devotion to Jesus to discern if any commitment has eroded. My daily time with God is good for that.
Driving around town in my pickup is also an excellent opportunity for self-appraisal. And of course, the Lord’s Table was designed for such self-examination.
Whenever I find that erosion has occurred, I refuse to justify it or ignore it. I begin the hard work of repentance and renewal.
Slowly and steadily, I want to be moving closer to Jesus in my life and ministry . . . and not eroding away from Him. I want the same for you.
You’re not keeping any secrets are you?