Who are you?

The answers you give to that question are, in themselves, the answer to the question. Ironic, isn’t it? You can tell more about a person by how they answer that question than by the answers they give.

Who am I?

Let me tell you. I’m a stupid, thick-headed, idiotic sinner. That’s what I am. On Sunday, we got to hear again about the law, that perfect law, that thing that drives us to Christ. I am constantly confronted by that law, and I constantly fail it. Constantly. I am more than anything that servant that digs a hole in his yard and tosses the talent it. I’m the guy that won’t put his crap up on Ebay to follow a homeless carpenter and his ragged bunch of fishermen. I’m the people taking Judas’ money back and having profound scruples about how to invest blood money. I’m a hypocrite, a big talker, and the irony of this entire paragraph is that something inside me is going, “Oh yeah, look at me telling people I’m a sinner! How good is that!” There’s that good old Dutch Reformed pride at being able to admit to people how much I suck at being a Christian.

Look at that sentence for a second. Does that even make sense? Suck at being a Christian? I don’t know. I don’t think so. What makes me a Christian - as we’re so fond of telling ourselves - is not the fact that I have all my ducks in a row, my “I”s dotted and “T”s crossed. It’s not about me; it’s about Jesus. You know, the homeless carpenter, the hope and glory of Israel?

Grace. It’s a beautiful concept. The law is a strong thing pushing me toward it. I know I need it. But I’m so sick of being told about my sin: I get it. I know. I live it every day. I’m already on the train. As I get older I become more aware of it. I have at least a small understanding of how sinful I am, and being told that again isn’t going to help me.

God rest my weary soul, tell me about grace! Tell me about how a bunch of people woke up in the middle of Catholic Europe so long ago and thought, “Something isn’t right here…” Tell me about how a monk finally got somewhere and when he was done understood that he could beat himself dead and it wouldn’t mean a damned thing! Tell me about the Solas that Derek Webb has tattoed on his arm; tell me about grace, and forgiveness, and love, and glory!

Don’t assume I understand it already, or that I’m sick of hearing about it, or that I’ll get it on my own. No - preach to me a gospel that doesn’t consume me with the agony of my sickness, but infuses me with the hope of a cure; tell me about heaven, describe it for me with all the words you have. Tell me about gratitude. Tell me how God wrapped himself in humanity and wandered the earth for thirty years, homeless, persecuted, and finally nailed to a cross with the agony of hell resting on his shoulders, all so that he could rescue his people - and me, me - from those agonies and give them a hope of something better, a hope that will not disappoint. Tell me how life entered his body and how he walked out of his tomb. Tell me how clouds took him, how he sits in glory now. Use every word in the dictionary if you have to!

Tell me that story - I’m not sick of yet. Never will be. Don’t let grace and peace be the capstone of a service, or words sucked dry through repitition. Tell me again and again, grace, grace, grace. Mercy. Peace. Love. Hope. Eternity. Grace.

But for now, let me tell it to you. It’s simple: for you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, so that you through his poverty might become rich.

dan (aMEN)

Tags: encouragement