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Soul Set Free: Why Grace Is More Liberating Than You Believe

Soul Set Free: Why Grace Is More Liberating Than You Believe

by John Lindell

Learn More | Meet John Lindell


All my life I’ve heard that the gospel is the good news. And as a working definition, that’s fair enough. Gospel was originally conceived as a play on words in a time when the Roman Empire proclaimed “the gospel of Caesar,” the good news that Caesar’s rule was going to usher in peace and prosperity. The apostle Paul uses the word subversively, to say the really good news is the news about the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. But after spending all my adult life as a pastor, I’ve come to believe that the “good news,” as conceived by most Christians, really isn’t good news at all. It’s “OK” news. It’s “fine” news.

All my life I’ve heard that the gospel is the good news. And as a working definition, that’s fair enough. Gospel was originally conceived as a play on words in a time when the Roman Empire proclaimed “the gospel of Caesar,” the good news that Caesar’s rule was going to usher in peace and prosperity. The apostle Paul uses the word subversively, to say the really good news is the news about the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. But after spending all my adult life as a pastor, I’ve come to believe that the “good news,” as conceived by most Christians, really isn’t good news at all. It’s “OK” news. It’s “fine” news.

I don’t know where you are, or how you are, as you read this. I know the world feels like a volatile and unstable place right now, no matter where you come from or how you see the world. I know the road is hard on many of us, and the toll can get heavy. If you are collapsing under the weight of sorrow and your heart feels fragile for whatever reason—if you can’t imagine swinging your legs over the side of the bed and rising to face the storm one more day—I have certainly written this book with you in mind.

But just as much so, I’ve written this book for people who are not necessarily in the midst of some existential crisis, not necessarily on the verge of total collapse. Of course we all get to those dire, difficult moments, where the journey feels relentless. But I am writing just as much to those of you who don’t feel the road you’ve been traveling is especially exhilarating, nor is it so brutal you just can’t take it—or maybe right now, the road doesn’t feel like much of anything. The long miles keep unfolding monotonously, like driving through those parts of the Midwest when one field starts to become indistinguishable from the rest, or through Highway 50 in Nevada, the so-called “loneliest road in America,” which is almost all desert.

Maybe you’ve kept the car maintained just well enough to keep you going, the wheels still turning—and you keep moving on, regardless of what happens. You aren’t thriving, and may not even be giving much thought to whether or not you are thriving…you’re just surviving. Cruising. You get lost in the highway stare, not too reflective on where you are, where you’ve come from, or where you are headed, because it takes all that you’ve got to just keep yourself on the road and between the lines. It’s not awful. There may not feel like much to complain about in the grand scheme of things. Life just…is. It may not feel quite melancholy per se, just mundane.

Or maybe you are more like me. I was never bored with my life. I saw the Christian life as a race, and I was in it to win it. For me it was about grit, determination, hard work, following through, and keeping my word! I did everything I knew to do to live in a way that was obedient and faithful. But no matter how hard or fast I ran, I still felt something was missing.

I was acutely aware of this when I saw people around me living the Christian life with a kind of joy and ease that seemed to elude me. How was it that I did not have that same sense of delight, that freshness to my faith, when I was putting in so much effort? Shouldn’t there be at least some sense of exhilaration, passion, joy…power? There may not be any one particular thing keeping you awake at night, just a growing, nagging feeling—as I had—that there must surely be more than this.

If you are in such a place right now, passing that I-know-I’m-missing-something-but-Idon’t- know-what-it-is mile marker, this book is especially for you. Because I’m convinced that the God who spoke worlds into existence, called all created things into being, and then sent Jesus into a fallen, fractured world to win back His sons and daughters, did not intend for your life to be “just fine.” Nor did He intend for you to be utterly exhausted from trying to live a life of faith from your own effort.

I can’t imagine that God would go to such lengths to draw us to Himself as beloved sons and daughters if He didn’t have a plan for something richer, deeper, and fuller. God spared no expense on His kids. He went all out to lavish His love upon us. I’m not talking about a fairy tale where money falls out of the sky and every stray whim is gratified; I’m talking about living with power, clarity, and purpose.

I believe that kind of life is not only attainable but is also possible right here, right now, at this very moment. You don’t have to die to have it. You don’t have to change jobs or upgrade your house, your spouse, or your kids to have it. There is power available to you that can unlock your soul and all of its hidden longings—the buried hopes of the past, the strength needed for the moment, and the dreams for a beautiful future. That is the power of the best news: the gospel is able to change your life at this moment, even now.

The One Word That Changes Everything

What is this power that can close the distance between just fine, pretty good, and the best? What is this key that can unlock your very soul? It’s all bound up in a single word—grace.

If you’ve had even casual encounters with the church, then grace is a word you know all too well. We sing about it in our most universally beloved hymn: “Amazing grace! How sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me!” When people bow their heads to pray before a meal to give thanks, we sometimes call this saying grace. If we see a person moving with a sort of ease and beauty, a man or woman fully at home in his or her skin, the kind of person who lights up a room— we might say they are graceful. If a friend unexpectedly takes you out to dinner, you would call him gracious. It’s a word we think we know.

Grace is the mystery at the bottom of all the others. It is the most distinguishing feature of the gospel, what sets Christianity apart from every other world religion. It’s such a simple word to say, and yet it seems as if all the beauty of the gospel is somehow bound up in it. Grace is the word that changes everything. Philip Yancey writes, “Grace means there is nothing I can do to make God love me more, and nothing I can do to make God love me less.”

Yet I am convinced that most of us don’t know exactly what grace is, much less how it works or the difference it can make in our lives. After all my years of serving as senior pastor at James River Church and seeing countless lives changed by God, my experience is this: most Christians struggle to access grace for themselves, no matter how well they might speak about it.

We struggle to believe God could have really loved us in our deepest, darkest moment when we said or did the thing of which we are most ashamed.

We struggle to believe God could love us in the midst of addiction.

We struggle with the idea that grace can truly cover our past, sustain us in the present, and even extend into our future.

We can’t fathom that grace is a bottomless, limitless resource that will never run out.

I’ve seen it over and over again in the eyes of people I have loved and served—and if I’m honest, even in the eyes looking back at me in the mirror. We are all too aware of all our flaws and imperfections. Deep down it’s hard to believe God is really that good. It’s hard to believe He could really love us that much.

I decided to write this book because I believe God’s grace is far bigger, better, and wilder than you could ever imagine. I wrote this for every person who has ever wondered if God’s grace is really wide enough, broad enough, deep enough, to erase the shame of your past. I wrote this for every person who has ever wondered if His grace is sufficient for the moment you’re in right now and if it will be enough for your future. I wrote this for every person who struggles to comprehend the depth and breadth of His grace, and for every person who struggles to extend grace to the people around them.

This is not a self-help book—making extravagant promises if you follow this diet, try this technique, repeat this mantra. The astonishing thing about grace is that “the work” is really not up to you at all; it is the proclamation that the work has already been done for you and is being done in and through you. “There remains a Sabbath rest for the people of God,” the Book of Hebrews says (4:9). And everywhere I go, I meet sons and daughters of God who are exhausted from trying to do all the heavy lifting themselves, trying to earn God’s approval, trying to prove they are worthy, trying to outrun their shame or their past.

Grace says everything that ever needed to be done has been done for you already. Grace says you can finally lay the burden down, let the people who hurt you off the hook—even let yourself off the hook. Grace says there’s nothing else you have to do to make yourself right or righteous—that the only response God expects from you in response to His radical forgiveness is to come on home where you belong. Grace says you get to start over. Grace says you get to be free.

Grace says there is enough for you, and enough for everyone you care about—that there will always be enough. Grace says you are living in God’s abundance, in a world where everyone seems to operate out of a sense of scarcity. Grace says nothing is irreversible, no verdict is final, and there are no dead ends. The best news is that grace is not some hazy thing out in the distance somewhere. His grace is here. His grace is for you. His grace is now, holding you, sustaining you, filling every moment.

You aren’t asked to do anything about it—except believe. Put all your weight down on grace and the God who offers it. Accept it. Live in light of it; live as if you can really trust it. You and I have many barriers to letting ourselves be fully convinced of it—some outside of us, but most inside of us. Living as if grace is real, solid, and true can be easier said than done. But if you dare risk to believe it, grace changes everything—most of all, you.

Broken Open to Grace

I spent some time in Europe studying Martin Luther, who struggled in his relationship with God because of his experience with his father. Luther’s father, Hans, was an unrelenting man who had designs for his son to become a lawyer. When Martin dropped out of law school after less than one year to become a monk, his father was furious at what he saw as a waste of his education. But even—and perhaps especially—while living an ordered life of religious devotion, his distance from his father seemed to set the agenda for his entire life: no matter what he did or how well he behaved, Luther felt tormented by his own guilt, unworthiness, and condemnation.

It was precisely this lifelong struggle, though, that prepared Luther to be broken open to a radical message of grace. Luther, like his hero the apostle Paul, was a zealot who minded his manners and kept all the rules. A lot of us hard-working, doing-the-best-we-can types suspect that if things are good between God and us, surely it’s because we are trying really hard to keep the rules. And perhaps this is why, from Paul to Luther to a much smaller figure in the church’s story like mine, there has to come a moment when life breaks you open.

Ultimately it’s about being broken open to love. For me there was a particular moment on an airplane when all that had been stirring underneath finally bubbled up to the surface. The feelings in my heart finally found expression in words. I don’t know exactly why it all hit me that day the way it did. Being the kind of person who has always worked hard on my life on the ground, maybe there was something about being thirty thousand feet in the air that finally gave me a different perspective.

I’ve had a full life in many ways, and there is so much I am grateful for. But I’ll never be able to unsee what I saw that day on the plane: that for all the ways I have seen God at work in my life, grace still eluded me. And I knew that somehow, sometime, I had to find it, hold it, grasp it, and know it in a way I had not known it before.

I wonder if you’ve ever had such a moment, a kind of divine disruption that breaks you open to a grace more ferocious than you ever dreamed. If you haven’t, there is no better time than the present. That’s the beautiful thing about life with God—you get to start again from wherever you are, no matter how you got there. Make a mental note of where you are sitting as you read these words and prepare to embark on this journey with me. I pray that this precise spot, in this exact moment, would be the start of your own awakening to radical, revolutionary grace.

Chapter 1

On the Road Toward Grace

All are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus.

    —ROMANS 3:24, NIV

I was sitting on the plane next to my wife, Debbie, on our way to Florida for a much-needed rest when I felt a peculiar churning in my stomach. The clouds had been gathering for a while—not quite a storm, just that growing, nagging sense that something wasn’t quite right. I hadn’t been able to put my finger on it.

In a month both Debbie and I would celebrate our fiftieth birthdays. I was conscious that nearing our fifties, in many ways we were in one of the best seasons of our life together. We’re still as in love as ever. We have three grown, healthy, beautiful children we adore and a whole flock of grandchildren. Our home is filled with love and laughter. We are surrounded by community, too—throughout twenty-five years pastoring James River Church in Springfield, Missouri, we’ve seen a dynamic move of God that has resulted in fifteen thousand gathering for worship every week.

I know I’m a blessed man, rich in all the treasures you cannot buy, and I take none of it for granted. Life is good, the ministry is good—I’m doing work that gives me a strong sense of purpose, meaning, and a feeling that I’ve been able to serve something that is changing the world in some small way. In full disclosure, I don’t consider myself an especially reflective person. I inherited my dad’s strong work ethic, and I’ve done the best I can with what I’ve been given. I try to be present for what God has called me to do, keep my head to the ground, and not try to take my own emotional temperature every few minutes. But I couldn’t deny it anymore that day on the plane—something just wasn’t right.

With time above the clouds for my mind to wander, I finally broke the silence and told Debbie, “You know, I’m a messed-up dude.”

“Why is that?” she asked.

Point of fact, I value stability and security and live a fairly tightly ordered life. I am not known as a messed-up dude, generally, even to those closest to me. I’m more methodical, grounded, and to the best of my ability, in control. But in this unguarded moment it all came tumbling out: I’m a preacher. I love Jesus. I’ve loved Jesus all my adult life. I’ve preached Jesus and seen hundreds if not thousands of people place their faith in Him. I’ve seen the difference He makes in people’s real lives. I’ve always believed what I preach and lived it to the best of my ability.

There was just one small problem: I wasn’t sure if I actually loved God the Father. Not really. Even now it feels odd to articulate in print, just like it did for me to say out loud that day. Given all I’ve seen and experienced, and all the ways God the Father has blessed me and provided for me, how could I not love Him? I had been taught that Jesus would take a bullet for me. So on one level I knew that I did, in fact, love Jesus—and as Christians, we do believe that Jesus is God.

But what about this God that Jesus called Father? That figure, for all I’d heard about Him and read about Him and preached about Him, still felt more obscure, more ambiguous to me. I believed He was good, as a matter of dogma. I had no difficulty respecting Him, reverencing Him, or even worshipping Him. I wanted to love Him, but I wasn’t sure that I did. And I certainly didn’t feel like He could really love me.

There are many things you can respect or react to with a sense of awe and wonder but not necessarily love. I respect the ocean—vast, powerful, endless, beautiful. It inspires a sense of reverence in me. But how precisely does one love something as vast and wild and boundaryless as the ocean? God the Father was still like that for me. It was easy for me to bow a knee to Him, sing to Him, and thank Him for my food. But the gap I felt growing inside of me was a sense of distance. It was polite distance, but distance nonetheless.

It made me think of John Wesley writing to his brother Charles in his mid-sixties, after already seeing the Methodist revival God ignited in and through him sweep the globe. In a moment of personal introspection he realized his love for God was less than it should have been. He wrote, “I do not love God. I never did,” even though he saw countless souls come to saving faith through his proclamation of that God. He wanted “all the world to come” to what he himself in that moment did not feel.

Many Christians have been there; maybe you are there right now. Like Wesley, it’s not that you aren’t a Christian, but you realize there is something missing in your love for God. You may love God in general, and you may love Jesus, but do you love the Father? Do you feel a personal connection to Him and understand just how much He loves you? Questions similar to those were stirring deep inside my heart; it was almost as if a hole had been slowly opening in me.

Reflecting on all of this, I told Debbie on the plane that day, “I just don’t feel like I really get it. I just don’t. I don’t get grace.” I need to get it. I’m a pastor—I’m supposed to get it! But in my heart I knew it was true: the grace that animates every movement in the symphony of Scripture, the grace that burned hot like fire in the apostle Paul, the grace I have heard myself preach in countless sermons still somehow seemed just out of my grasp.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know “about” it. I knew all about it, in a way. On an intellectual level grace had always been present in my life. I’m a logical man and a verse-by-verse Bible teacher. I knew grace as a concept, a construct, a theory, a doctrine. I believed in grace because I’ve watched it sweep through people’s lives, turning chaos into beauty. I’ve witnessed it firsthand in our church over and over.

Since I preached grace conceptually, maybe in one way I preached ahead of my experience. But there’s also a very real way that you can only genuinely preach what you know. And on some level grace was not something I quite yet knew. There was this part of me that felt like an outsider to it, as if I was pressing my face up against the glass looking in, observing, longing.

I’ve wondered if some people, by virtue of temperament or experience, just get a hold of grace easier than the rest of us. My wife, Debbie, is one of those people—she grasps grace intuitively. She has an ease with herself and others, a joy, a playfulness that just oozes grace. Enjoying her walk with God never seemed hard for her like it was for me. For me it was always a matter of hard work and discipline. For her it seemed doing life with God was less structured, more relational, and a whole lot more relaxed. We both read the same Bible. We theoretically know the same God. But in some way that I could never quite get my hands around, it just seemed like she was having more fun than I was, and I didn’t know why.

I am very much my father’s son. All my life I’ve been driven and competitive. I’m the sort of person who thinks doing more than what is required is good, and doing too much is just about right.

Elder Brother Syndrome

In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus tells a story about a prodigal son. At least that is how people know of the story—in reality it isn’t just the story of a prodigal son; it’s actually the story of two lost sons. One has stayed home his entire life, the elder son in a culture in which being the firstborn meant everything. He had kept the rules, been honorable and respectable like his father, been an exemplary son. His younger brother, on the other hand, did an unspeakable thing: he asked for his inheritance early so he could leave home and spend it however he wanted. It was an insulting request, surely belittling to a man of dignity—the cultural equivalent of saying, “I wish you were dead.”

The son went out and spent his inheritance the way any young man would—on all the toys and pleasure he could get into. Before long he’d squandered all of it and ultimately had to take a job working in a hog pen—the vilest, filthiest profession imaginable for the product of an orthodox Jewish home. It was while feeding the scraps to these animals, deemed ceremonially unclean by his culture, that a revelation came on the tail end of another hunger pang: even the servants at my father’s house have it better than this. At that moment “he came to himself” (Luke 15:17)—he remembered who he was, who his father was, and who he was called to be. This is surely how any journey with God must start—some vague memory of home, a remembering of who we are as sons and daughters created in the image of God.

The realization settled on him like morning dew, and he immediately started plotting and scheming. The best he could imagine, from the low place, was that his father might be interested in striking up some kind of a business arrangement, letting him come back to the farm as a kind of indentured servant. A fast talker and a charmer by nature, he started rehearsing the speech in his head, hoping against all the odds that his dad might be open to it. Covered in filth, he left the pigs and started on the long journey home, replaying his little speech over and over again, hoping to say it just right, with the right inflection...hoping he would seem sorry enough, broken enough. He felt the knot in his stomach, though, when he was within sight of the village—hunger now overridden by anxiety. He braced himself for the worst.

And then the truly shocking thing happened: before the son could even get to the house, he saw a dot in the distance come bolting toward him. It was jarring at first. He had left the village in a patriarchal culture in the rudest, most disgraceful way imaginable. Was somebody already running out to tell him he had no business coming back here? As the blur of color in the robe got close and features became visible, he wiped his eyes—surely he had seen a ghost. It looked like his father; it was his unmistakable gait. But it seemed impossible, as wealthy, respectable, landowing fathers in the ancient Middle East didn’t run anywhere for any reason; it was considered beneath their standing. But it was him—it was really him!

As the son took a deep breath, already struggling to hang on to the trail of words evaporating from his mind, his father tackled him. They were on the ground, covered in dirt like children, the old man laughing hysterically, the son wet from the tears running down his father’s beard. He couldn’t get a word in for his father covering him with kisses. “My son, my son!” He was crying and laughing, laughing and crying, utterly oblivious to the crowd of servants and villagers gathering to watch the spectacle. “Quick! Get me my ring, my robe, and my sandals— I’m giving them to my boy to wear. Kill the fattest cow we’ve got. Invite all the neighbors. My boy—my boy—my boy is home!”

From the edge of the porch the boy’s elder brother watched the scene unfold—his father throwing his dignity out the window in front of the community—and quietly seethed. “I’ve been here all these years, kept the rules, minded my manners and my father’s affairs, and nobody ever threw me a party!” A polite, well-behaved young man’s decades’ worth of simmering rage boiled to the surface.

When it came time for the party—an event the elder son would have been culturally obligated to host on his father’s behalf—he couldn’t bring himself to greet the kid. His father came to check on him. “What’s wrong, son?”

Finally he unleashed all of it: “I just don’t get it, Dad! How can you treat him like this? What has he ever done for you? I’ve done everything I’ve been asked to do, without fail. But there was no party for me, no dancing or drinks. But he goes out and spends your hard-earned money on whores, and this is what he gets?” His chest and neck were splotched bright red, every word spat out with fire.

But no anger darkened the face of his father. His eyes were wide and tender as he walked over and placed a hand on each of his son’s shoulders. “My son.” He paused until his firstborn son finally looked him in the eye. “Don’t you know that all I have is yours? That you could have any of this, anytime that you wanted? Don’t you see—it was as if your brother was dead, and now he’s come back to life! How can we not celebrate? Please, won’t you come and join the party?”

Hopefully now you see that it’s not really a story about the prodigal. There are two lost sons, and the story is about the distance between each of them and their father. One—the wild, impertinent, burn-it-all-down son—bridges the space between them, comes back home, and falls into his father’s embrace. The other son has been on his father’s porch all along, but there’s more space between him and his dad than his prodigal brother had experienced from hundreds of miles away. Geographically he was right there. But his heart could not have been further.

The weight of the story lands not on the prodigal, who is already home, welcomed, and delighted in, but the lingering question of the elder son. What will he do? Grace makes its way easily to those who need it most, to those who live fast and hard, speeding their lives into the wall early on.

But what about the quieter, more respectable older sons and daughters—those of us who have always harbored some deep suspicion that to whatever extent God does love, like, or approve of us, it is because we have done our part or at least tried really hard to get it right. Elder sons like me may have never really had reason to feel our distance from the father the way the prodigal does through his more colorful, visceral journey.

But that doesn’t mean the distance is not there. In fact, the end of the story shows that while the prodigal is celebrating at home, the elder son has never been further away. Often for elder sons and daughters it’s not until some random moment on an airplane or some stray hard feelings toward the prodigal arise that we realize how far we are from home.

How Grace Changes Everything

My life wasn’t changed on the plane, but the journey to go deeper into grace was instantly accelerated. There is something liberating about giving voice to your questions and coming to terms with your deficiencies. The conversation stayed with me, and in the weeks that followed I increasingly realized that my understanding of God as a Father, better yet as my Father, needed some work. I began to study God the Father, paying close attention to His love for people and personalizing His love for me. The more I read and meditated on His love, the more real it became to me.

As the months passed, it became increasingly clear that grace is the framework by which the love of the Father is explored and expressed. When you’ve spent all of your adult life preaching to people every week, it’s humbling to see that it’s taken so long to grasp the revelation of grace for yourself. I’ve had to acknowledge that sometimes I don’t think I have been very gracious because I’ve not fully known grace. But since that day when I finally came to terms with my own bankrupt understanding of grace, I’ve slowly been coming to see. That’s what grace does—it heals your eyes, and nothing looks the same. You are able to view Scripture, the world around you, and perhaps most of all your own self through healed eyes. Grace is a whole different way of seeing the world.

As my heart was opened to this newfound desperation to grasp His ungraspable grace, I stumbled into the Book of Romans again. Romans is the apostle Paul’s greatest work, his magnum opus. For Christians, it is the Magna Carta of grace!

Seventeen hundred years ago, when a young Augustine was outside with his friend in Milan, he heard the voice of a child singing a song: “Pick it up, read it; pick it up, read it.” He thought it was related to a children’s game at first, but he could not recall ever hearing those words before. Sensing there was something divine about this encounter, he picked up a Bible, opened it, and read the first passage he saw—from the Book of Romans. He was never the same.

It was also the Book of Romans that initiated Martin Luther’s awakening twelve hundred years later and sowed the seeds of a grace reformation in him. Hearing Luther’s preface to Romans read aloud stirred yet another revolution in John Wesley, who felt his heart “strangely warmed” just hearing Luther’s testimony of how Romans had changed him.

I’m a low-drama kind of guy, and my story is subtler than these. I make no claims of being an Augustine, Luther, or Wesley. But in my own way I felt it was the Spirit that somehow led me back to this primal grace text after years of pastoring. And as I preached through Romans, I realized this story of amazing grace really had become my own story—the story I had been slowly living my way into all along, and the story I most wanted to tell the world.

Because I love Scripture and tend to keep the emphasis on Scripture when I preach, many people in our church haven’t heard me tell my own story of how all this came to live in me. As much as I want to be vulnerable, I generally enjoy telling people Bible stories more than I do telling my own story. But it feels urgent to share it with you in the pages of this book. First, because I think it could be the key to unlocking your own story, and second, because I know from firsthand experience that it actually works. I want you to come to understand the grace of God in a way that it was never explained to me.

When I dove again into Paul’s magnificent letter with my defenses down and my heart cracked wide open, I saw colors there I could not see before. Suddenly the good news was really good news, and it was actually changing my life! For the first time I began to catch a glimpse of the way He sees me. I started to see what it means for Him to choose me, for Him to pick me.

I started to see how unsurprised He was by my failures and how relentlessly committed He was to seeing this process all the way through to complete transformation. I finally started to see that when I fell down, there was no need to start again as if nothing that came before counted. That is just not how God works.

I take my role as a father very seriously, and I love my children more than just about anything. As I worked my way through Romans again, I began to see that there is no way I could be more loving to my own children than God is to me. If they come to me with a struggle, I intuitively know they need more of me, not less. How could God be any different? I could feel the truth of grace starting to shift my insides; I could feel my own soul giving way to this radical freedom.

How do I know that when you truly grasp God’s amazing grace, it will change your life? Because it has changed mine. And it is still changing me, even now.

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