In Need Of Repair
Just around the corner from where our church worshiped in Arlington stood a rundown brick building housing an equally rundown repair shop. A sign on the wall advertised its services: New England Furniture Repair—or at least, that’s what it once said. Over time, missing and broken letters had transformed it into an almost indecipherable jumble: Ne gnl d Furn re Rep r. Every time I drove past, I couldn’t help but smile at the irony—terrible marketing for a shop dedicated to restoration. Yet the workers inside were master craftsmen. If the leg of your antique table was broken or the upholstery on your favorite chair was torn, this was the place in Arlington to bring it back to life.
We all need restoration. Parts of our lives are broken, disconnected, or worn down. Some of our scars are visible, but many remain hidden—even from ourselves. Maybe it’s the echo of a parent’s voice telling you that you’ll never amount to much, a whisper that still resurfaces whenever you give a presentation at work or navigate a social setting. Maybe it’s the ache of losing a loved one, a long-awaited promotion, or an entire career—leaving you feeling abandoned. Or perhaps it’s the quiet isolation of always feeling like an outsider, simply because you weren’t born here.
Parts of our community are likewise broken and disconnected. The unemployed remain without work—not for lack of skills or motivation, but because they lack the relationships that could open a door. A child in the foster care system is shuffled from one home to another, from one courtroom to the next, from one school to another, never learning to trust because other people haven’t been trustworthy. A wealthy professional, after a lifetime of climbing the ladder of success, begins to wonder if it’s been leaning against the wrong wall all along.
Parts of our lives and our community are in need of repair. Where will we go for restoration?
To a broken body on a broken-down cross. The cross of Jesus is, by any account, terrible marketing. In the cruelest corners of the Roman Empire, the cross was reserved for criminals, rebels, and those society had discarded—a place of public shame, brutal punishment, and ultimate rejection. It was a symbol of defeat, brokenness, and abandonment. Hardly the image you’d expect for a Savior promising to restore anything.
But if you need a Master Restorer—someone who meets you in your brokenness, sin, and shame, who knows every part of you and loves you anyway, who has the power to turn your life inside out—this is where you go. Instead of turning away in disgust, the Son of God moves toward us. He humbles himself, taking on our humanity, and then bearing our sin and shame. And there, at the cross—the place of utter brokenness—restoration takes place in the most incredible exchange. Our sin for his righteousness. Our insecurity for his assurance. Our isolation for his embrace. Jesus takes the broken pieces of our lives and our community and makes us whole.
Today—this moment, this week—we have the profound privilege of joining in Jesus’ ongoing work of restoration. Every time we draw near to our vulnerable and brokenhearted neighbors, humble ourselves by showing our own need of the cross, and extend the love and presence of Jesus, we become part of his redemptive story.