It can be a little unsettling about looking back at our lives and wondering how we became who we are. We trace the decisions—the relationships we chose, the jobs we took, the paths we walked—and we think, "If only I'd chosen differently." But what if the decisions themselves weren't really the problem? What if something deeper was at work, something that shaped the very desires that drove those decisions in the first place?

The truth is, we become who we are not primarily through our choices, but through what captures our hearts.

The pattern began in a garden, when humanity was offered something they thought they needed. They reached for it, and in that reaching, gave themselves to something other than God. And we've been repeating that pattern ever since, running from one promise to another, from one master to another, always hoping this time will be different.

This is why redemption—being bought back, reclaimed, restored to our rightful owner—runs like a golden thread through the entire biblical story. It's a major part of the story.

The story begins in Egypt, where God's people were enslaved by Pharaoh. God demanded, "Let my people go." They belong to me, not you. God wove redemption into Israel's very laws. If someone fell into poverty and sold themselves into servitude, a kinsman could buy them back. If family land was lost, it could be redeemed, returned to its rightful owner. The law itself testified to a God who specializes in bringing His own back home.

Jesus understood His mission through this lens. When His disciples jockeyed for position and power, He redirected them entirely. The world's way is to accumulate power and lord it over others. But Jesus said, "It shall not be so among you." Instead, He came "not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many" (Mark 10:45).

A ransom. A price paid for release. A life given to buy back what was lost.

But here's where it gets personal. Even knowing this truth, our hearts condemn us. We remember what we've done, who we've been, what we've given ourselves to. The shame feels overwhelming. The guilt feels deserved. We wonder: How many more times will He forgive me? Surely His grace must run out eventually.

This is where 1 John offers one of the most stunning promises in Scripture: "If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness" (1 John 1:9).

Notice the word: *just*. Not just gracious, not just merciful—though He is both—but *just*. Justice demands the price be paid. And it has been. Fully. Completely. By Christ.

To try to earn forgiveness now would be like insisting on paying for a meal that's already been covered. Justice doesn't just smile—it's satisfied. The debt is cancelled. The price is paid. You cannot pay twice for what's already been purchased.

The American temptation is to believe we belong to nobody, that freedom means answering to nothing and no one. "Be your authentic self," the culture whispers. "You do you." But this is a lie dressed up as liberation. We cannot be our authentic selves by giving ourselves to our own desires, because those desires have been shaped by a thousand influences we didn't choose and can't control.

The Heidelberg Catechism asks: "What is your only comfort in life and in death?"

The answer? "That I am not my own, but belong—body and soul, in life and in death—to my faithful Savior, Jesus Christ."

So, what do we do with this truth? We stand in awe. We confess our ongoing struggle to trust His grace. We repent of our repeated attempts to belong to lesser things. We remind ourselves—and each other—of the staggering love that would go to such lengths to make us His own.

We were created to belong to God. We sold ourselves to another. And God, in His relentless love, paid the ultimate price to buy us back. Not because we deserved it, but because He wanted us. Not because we earned it, but because His grace is that extravagant.

This is the mystery worth singing about. This is the wonder that should stop us in our tracks. We are not our own. We have been bought with a price. And that, more than anything else, is our only comfort in life and in death.