Her name was Evelyn, and she baked cookies for the whole street. The kind with browned butter and chocolate chips that melted on your tongue. When someone moved into the neighborhood, Evelyn was the first knock at the door, arms full of Tupperware and welcome. She kept a folded dollar in her glovebox for the homeless man who stood at the corner of Sycamore and 7th, and she never forgot a birthday. Not one.
So when Evelyn passed, people said, “If anyone’s going to heaven, it’s her.”
Maybe you’ve said something like that too. I have. There’s a warm comfort in believing that goodness—kindness, decency, generosity—gets rewarded. It makes sense to us. Like karma in Sunday clothes.
But God speaks differently.
“For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast” (Ephesians 2:8–9).
Not from yourselves, He says.
That changes everything.
Scripture pulls the curtain back on our notion of human goodness. Romans 3 tells us, “There is no one righteous, not even one… all have turned away… there is no one who does good, not even one.” And Isaiah’s words press even deeper: “All our righteous acts are like filthy rags” (64:6).
It’s not that our goodness doesn't matter. It's that it can't save us.
That’s the pivot we miss. We confuse being “good” with being godly. But God isn't grading on a curve or comparing our kindness to someone else’s cruelty. His standard is His own holiness—blazing, perfect, unreachable. And none of us, not even sweet Evelyn with her cookies and kindness, can earn our way up that mountain.
That’s why grace matters.
I remember sitting on a wooden pew, maybe nine or ten years old, watching a man being baptized. He was probably late fifties, graying. Big hands, steady voice. He stood before the church and said, “I spent my whole life trying to be a good man. But I only met Jesus when I realized I wasn’t good enough.”
That line stuck.
The story of salvation doesn’t start with our merit. It starts with our need. Grace steps in for the guilty, not the deserving. Through Jesus, God didn’t ask us to climb up—He came down. He lived perfection, bore our brokenness, and offered righteousness in exchange. A gift, not a paycheck. Not earned, only received.
That’s what faith is. Willingness to say, “I can’t do it. But I believe Jesus did.”
Maybe you've felt that ache—the quiet self-talk that wonders, “Am I enough?” We measure our days by how kind we were, how generous, how calm we stayed in line 3 of the grocery store. And the enemy whispers the lie that the key to heaven is trying harder.
But friend, here’s the truth you can underline: Heaven doesn't run on merit—it runs on mercy.
We love Evelyn. We learn from her. We imitate her kindness. But we don’t place our hope in her goodness—or our own. We place it in the one whose goodness never dimmed, even on the cross where He hung in our place.
So do good people go to heaven?
The Bible would gently answer, “No. Forgiven people do.”
People who look at their goodness and admit it’s not enough. People who lean wholly, madly, daily on the grace of God. Through faith—not because their record impresses, but because their debt was paid.
That’s why the gospel is good news—it means anyone can be saved. The thief. The cynic. The bake-you-cookies neighbor. Me. You.
We can’t earn it. But we don’t have to.
That’s grace. And it’s still enough.
Her name was Evelyn, and she baked cookies for the whole street. The kind with browned butter and chocolate chips that melted on your tongue. When someone moved into the neighborhood, Evelyn was the first knock at the door, arms full of Tupperware and welcome. She kept a folded dollar in her glovebox for the homeless man who stood at the corner of Sycamore and 7th, and she never forgot a birthday. Not one.
So when Evelyn passed, people said, “If anyone’s going to heaven, it’s her.”
Maybe you’ve said something like that too. I have. There’s a warm comfort in believing that goodness—kindness, decency, generosity—gets rewarded. It makes sense to us. Like karma in Sunday clothes.
But God speaks differently.
“For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast” (Ephesians 2:8–9).
Not from yourselves, He says.
That changes everything.
Scripture pulls the curtain back on our notion of human goodness. Romans 3 tells us, “There is no one righteous, not even one… all have turned away… there is no one who does good, not even one.” And Isaiah’s words press even deeper: “All our righteous acts are like filthy rags” (64:6).
It’s not that our goodness doesn't matter. It's that it can't save us.
That’s the pivot we miss. We confuse being “good” with being godly. But God isn't grading on a curve or comparing our kindness to someone else’s cruelty. His standard is His own holiness—blazing, perfect, unreachable. And none of us, not even sweet Evelyn with her cookies and kindness, can earn our way up that mountain.
That’s why grace matters.
I remember sitting on a wooden pew, maybe nine or ten years old, watching a man being baptized. He was probably late fifties, graying. Big hands, steady voice. He stood before the church and said, “I spent my whole life trying to be a good man. But I only met Jesus when I realized I wasn’t good enough.”
That line stuck.
The story of salvation doesn’t start with our merit. It starts with our need. Grace steps in for the guilty, not the deserving. Through Jesus, God didn’t ask us to climb up—He came down. He lived perfection, bore our brokenness, and offered righteousness in exchange. A gift, not a paycheck. Not earned, only received.
That’s what faith is. Willingness to say, “I can’t do it. But I believe Jesus did.”
Maybe you've felt that ache—the quiet self-talk that wonders, “Am I enough?” We measure our days by how kind we were, how generous, how calm we stayed in line 3 of the grocery store. And the enemy whispers the lie that the key to heaven is trying harder.
But friend, here’s the truth you can underline: Heaven doesn't run on merit—it runs on mercy.
We love Evelyn. We learn from her. We imitate her kindness. But we don’t place our hope in her goodness—or our own. We place it in the one whose goodness never dimmed, even on the cross where He hung in our place.
So do good people go to heaven?
The Bible would gently answer, “No. Forgiven people do.”
People who look at their goodness and admit it’s not enough. People who lean wholly, madly, daily on the grace of God. Through faith—not because their record impresses, but because their debt was paid.
That’s why the gospel is good news—it means anyone can be saved. The thief. The cynic. The bake-you-cookies neighbor. Me. You.
We can’t earn it. But we don’t have to.
That’s grace. And it’s still enough.
