When I hear the word
"grace", I think of little girls named Grace, pink tutus pirouetting
around a stage, bouquets of feathery double camellias. I think of being a grac(e)ious host, or of a
graceful falcon turning effortlessly on the wind. I think of Grace Kelly - a woman who truly
fits her name. Even the way the word
sounds when we say it connotes a delicate beauty.
Well, let me tell
you - there's another side of grace that often goes unspoken. I get it, we like ballerina-pink-rosy-nice
grace. We appreciate the warmth of a
gracious host. We hope to have grace
extended to us when we miss a deadline or err in our calculations. Heaven knows churches like to talk about the
grace of God that covers our failures and mistakes (and even our "on
purposes"), and we like how that feels.
That's all well and good, and I should say hosts ought to be gracious
and ballerinas to be graceful and churches ought to talk about the grace of
God.
But.
What of the giver of
grace?
Are we naïve enough
to think that grace given freely comes at no cost to the giver? That the gracious host hasn't been preparing
dinner all afternoon, cleaned house and spent money on the candles that smell
like October? We just think all of that
appeared and fell into place the moment we walked in the door?
From the time I was
two or three until the time I was twelve, I took ballet. (I blame this early encounter for my
preoccupation with dance.) By took, I mean I went to class several hours a week
and worked. And worked. And worked.
We jete - ed, we turned, we arabesque-ed. Again and again and again. We stretched, we planked, we took account for
the angle and curve of every finger and toe.
We internalized every beat of music and turned it into movement. Only after hours of drill did we turn to the
choreography, to the dancing itself.
Only after months of choreography did we take to the stage for our end
of year recital. Only then were we
graceful.
The year I took
pointe, I learned more about the difficulty of grace than ever before. Wearing pointe shoes is like taking a wooden
box, disguising it with pretty pink silk, stuffing the end with foam and then
cramming your toes in and tying it on tightly.
Within a week, my feet were blistered, red and sore. This was not effortless grace. This was not the glamor and glory I'd seen on
stage watching The Nutcracker at
Christmas. This was excruciating.
Grace is
excruciating. Literally. See that little second syllable there? Cruc?
It means cross.
Excruciating. What excruciating
really means is pain so intense it feels like
you're being crucified. Jesus was
crucified for grace. Suddenly, grace
doesn't look so pink anymore. Grace
doesn't seem so soft anymore. Grace
seems more like a Navy Seal than a three year old with pigtails.
This grace, which
comes to us freely was not acquired for us freely.
Those who are well have no need of a physician, but
those who are sick. Go and learn what
this means "I desire mercy, and not sacrifice." For I came not to call the
righteous, but sinners. - Matthew
9:12-13
For while we were still weak, at the right time
Christ died for the ungodly. For one
will scarcely die for a righteous person - though perhaps for a good person one
would dare even to die- but
God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for
us. - Romans 5:6-8
And you were dead in the trespasses and sins in which
you once walked, following the course of this world, following the prince of
the power of the air, the spirit that is now at work in the sons of
disobedience… and were by nature children of wrath, like the rest of mankind…
for by grace you have been saved through faith.
And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God. - Ephesians 2:1-3, 8
Let's be honest,
friends. We were in pretty dire
straits. I mean, look at those words
used to describe us - sick, sinners, weak, ungodly, children of wrath. I don't know about you, but that's not
usually how I answer the question, "What are 7 words you would use to
describe yourself?".
Not only were we in
a mess, but we were incapable of getting out of it. As a generalization, we aren't a people too
used to feeling helpless. We have
resources, networks, insurance policies.
We are rarely without recourse, or so it seems. But all those words? There was no undoing them. There was no "figure it out" or
"do better next time". The
only ransom was the death of a perfect life.
I fear we become accustomed to Christianese - of course Jesus "died
for our sins". Of course, as if it
were a simple thing.
When's the last time
you heard of someone dying for someone else?
Sure, it happens now and then.
When's the last time you heard of someone dying for someone that had
never heard of them? Well, that's kind
of weird. OK, when's the last time you
heard of someone dying for someone who belonged to an enemy who didn't even
acknowledge them? That enemy was me and
you. And that someone was Jesus. And that death he died? It wasn't a "put down your old dog with
a needle and some chemicals" kind of death. It was as though the Son of God was an insect
specimen ruthlessly tacked on a board with pins to die for the world to see. Excruciating.
Cruc. Cross.
Jesus didn't come to
die so we could color eggs at Easter.
Jesus didn't come so we could go window shopping and drive around
looking at lights on Christmas Eve or eat monkey bread at Christmas breakfast. Jesus came so that grace, like a Navy Seal,
could accomplish the most extraordinary rescue mission the world has ever
known. He came to pay the ransom for a
people held helplessly captive and set them free forever.
Don't forget that
grace has grit.
Love,
Little Miss Sunshine
