When I was ten years old, I had a puppy named Tina. You would have loved her. She was the perfect pet. An irresistible, pug-nosed Pekingese pup. One ear fell over and the other ear stood straight up. She never tired of playing and yet never got in the way.

        Her mother died when she was born so the rearing of the puppy fell to me. I fed her milk from a doll bottle and used to sneak out at night to see if she was warm. I’ll never forget the night I took her to bed with me only to have her mess on my pillow. We made quite a pair. My first brush with parenthood.

        One day I went into the backyard to give Tina her dinner. I looked around and spotted her in a corner near the fence. She had cornered a butterfly (in as much as one can corner a butterfly!) and was playfully yelping and jumping in the air trying to catch the butterfly in her mouth. Amused, I watched her for a few minutes and then called to her.

        "Tina! Come her, girl! It’s time to eat!"

        What happened next surprised me. Tina stopped her playing with the butterfly and looked at me. But instead of immediately scampering to me, she sat back on her haunches. The she tilted her head back looked at the butterfly, then looked back at me, then back to the butterfly and then back at me again. For the first time in her life, she had to make a decision.

        Her "want to" longed to pursue this butterfly, to continue to play with it as it tauntingly awaited her in midair. Her "should" knew she was supposed to stop and obey her master. A classic struggle of the will: a war between the "want" and the "should". This same question faces every adult at one time or another.

        So, what did my puppy do? She chased the butterfly! Scurrying and barking, jumping and leaping, she ignored my call, the call of her master and chased that silly butterfly until it flew over the fence.

        That is when the guilt hit.

        She stopped at the fence for a long time, sitting back on her hind legs looking up in the air where the butterfly had made its exit. Slowly, the excitement of the chase was overshadowed by the guilt of disobedience.

        She turned painfully and walked back to encounter her owner, her master that she had willfully disobeyed. Her head was ducked as she regretfully trudged across the yard.

        She had violated her "should" and had given in to her "want."

        Now, I may be overdoing it a bit. I don’t know if a dog can really feel guilty or not. But a human can. And whether the sin is as slight as chasing a butterfly or as serious as sleeping with a woman outside of marriage, the effects are the same.

        Guilt creeps in and steals whatever joy might have flickered in our eyes. Confidence is replaced by doubt, and honesty is elbowed out by rationalization. Exit peace. Enter turmoil. Just as the pleasure of indulgence ceases, the hunger for relief begins.

        That, then, is the whole reason for the Cross.

        The Cross did what nothing else could do: It erased our sins, not for a year, but for eternity. The Cross did what man could not do. It granted us the right to talk with, love and even live with God.

        You can’t do that by yourself. I don’t care how many worship services you attend or good deeds you do, your goodness is insufficient. That’s why we need a Savior.