a beautiful mess

“You gave me hope / You made me whole / At the cross /You took my place / You showed me grace / At the cross where you died for me // And his glory appears / Like the light from the sun / And age to age he shines / Look to the skies / Hear the angels cry / Singing holy is the Lord” – Hillsong, His Glory Appears

“I am so thankful that I understand grace.” – Anonymous

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quite simply, i don’t understand grace: i don’t grasp her scandalous ways: grace wrecks me.

i mean. i can define it. i can couch it in terms befitting of a love seat. yeah, sure, i know what it is. but do i know grace? do i embody grace the way my master embodies grace?

i guess sometimes i do. there certainly are times i am gracious. but no sooner are my hands offering grace, offering you a drink to quench your thirst than they are releasing the splintered, well-worn handle of the knife in your back.

[selah]

and do you know what disturbs me? i wrote the previous word picture, the one about the water and the knife, quickly. almost too quickly. for as soon as i began meditating – these words invaded my kingdom, my own little world where i sometimes like to reign, these words marched in:

“then the righteous will answer him, ‘lord, when did we see you hungry, and feed you, or thirsty, and give you something to drink? the king will reply, ‘i tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these, you did it to me.’”

AND. THAT. IS. grace.

that the one we offer water to with our right hand, and stab in the back with our left, is our master. yet he continues to remember us, to save us, to strengthen us, to lead us, and love us. oh how he loves us.

he takes us by our left hand, filled with splinters, just as he does our right; oh the grace.

he gives us hope and makes us whole. he takes our place. he is grace, and he shows us himself at the cross. !*

[selah]

someone once said, “i am thankful i understand grace.” but i am thankful i don’t. i don’t want to understand it. i don’t want to put it in every other box in the world. i don’t want it to become a formula. i don’t want to understand grace. i want it to always wreck me – the way it does when i lift my voice with the hundreds of other voices on a clear sunday morning; the way it does when i see flowers pushing through the dirt; the way it does i hold my son close and realize he’s mine for a little while; the way it does when i see forgiveness at work, when saints put down their stones.

grace wrecks me. i am a son of the resurrection. i guess this makes me resu(wreck)ted. for i am ultimately wrecked by the resurrection itself. it won me over and washes over me now.

for me to live is christ, and to die is gain. and i don’t understand that – but i will continue to accept that.

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despite my unbelief, i believe that who i am is a son of the only living god & king, YHWH [blessed be his name]. a son of the resurrection. a son of the wind which bends all things.

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