We who have been adopted as sons behave like squatters in the throne room of God. Our crowns bought with the blood of Jesus are tossed about like plastic dollar store baubles. The inspired word of God is little more to us than a doorstop holding ajar the gate of heaven. The table of the Lord is a burden to us blocking our way to the speedy exit of our churches. Our songs are hymns to our own happiness. We despise the body of which we are a part pronouncing it all gangrene, but assessing the draining boils and pustules of our own lives pure enough for a holy God. Our High Priest is our mascot, the Spirit is but a nuisance, and the Father merely our celestial vending machine. And in the midst of it all we kick open heaven's door, stomp into the throne room, and take the best seats at the table in complete confidence that none could be better than we.
What will be our condemnation when we stand before God? If only we knew the riches of Christ!