What do you hear in Paul's words? Grace or judgment? Law or gospel? Hope or despair? Advent is a time of waiting. Often we wonder, "How long? How long can I wait for his coming? How long can I look off to the horizon? How long can I proclaim his return?" When we see Paul's words through the filter of grace, we realize the answer is just a little bit longer.
During a British conference on comparative religions, experts from around the world debated what, if any, belief was unique to Christianity. They began with the obvious — the incarnation? The resurrection? The cross? The debate droned on until C. S. Lewis wandered into the room and asked, "What's the fuss about?" They told him that they were discussing Christianity's unique contribution among the world's religions. Lewis responded, "That's easy. It's grace."
The notion of God's love coming to us free of charge without any strings attached seems to go against every human instinct. We want to get what we deserve. We want things to be fair. So, the Buddhists have their eightfold path to nirvana, Hinduism has a doctrine of karma where you get reincarnated over and over again until you are good enough. The Jews have 613 laws to follow and the Muslims have the five pillars of Islam to obey in order to gain Allah's favor. Each of these religions provides a path that you must follow in order to get to God and get what you deserve. In Christianity, there is no path to God. There is a person who dared to teach, live, die, and rise again to convince a skeptical world that God's grace is enough.
And yet, I dare say, even we Christians have a difficult time accepting grace. We are willing to say that God forgives, but reluctantly — after making the sinner squirm. That's why the story of the prodigal son is so amazing. When the son finally comes to his senses, after squandering the father's money, he returned home destitute, humble, and willing to work as a servant. However, there is no solemn lecture from a stern father with folded arms who says, "I hope you've learned your lesson." Instead, the father humiliates himself by running down the road toward the boy, showering him with a hug, a ring, a robe, shoes, and a party with the fatted calf in his honor. That's grace.
"I don't deserve that, Father." "You are right. You don't. This party is not about you being good enough. It's about my joy to have you home. Now, come and eat."
Grace always comes as a shock to the sinner. We are used to finding a catch or a string attached to every promise. We want to be frugal with God's grace, like the older brother in the story who thought his younger brother didn't deserve a second chance.
Contemporary preacher, Fred Craddock, preached a sermon on the prodigal son but with a twist. Instead of the father honoring the younger, rebellious son, he slipped a ring on the older brother, thanked him for his faithful years of service and killed the fatted calf in honor of doing what was right. And from the back of the sanctuary, a woman yelled out, "That's the way it should have been written."
But it wasn't. That's why Christianity is so unique. It's not written the way we would have written it. Christianity is for the person who feels like the younger son — unworthy, unloved, not good enough. And yet there's a place at the table. It was written for the person who feels like a thief on the cross — out of time, out of luck, out of hope. And yet there is a place at the table. It was written for the person who feels like Judas — my life is a lie; this smile covers the deceit; I've sold my soul to the devil. And yet, Jesus welcomed him to the table. It was written to the person who feels lost, excluded, and forgotten by God and yet, like a lovesick father, God makes sure there is a place at the table. Grace. That's what makes Christianity unique. Jesus came not for the well people but for the sick people, not for the righteous people but for the unrighteous people, not for the good people but for you. "Come and eat."
When Paul wrote about the delay of Jesus' return, it is not to be received with a groan but rather with thanksgiving. This is a God with abundant grace, whose return is delayed in order that more may hear, more may receive, more may believe, and more may be saved. We certainly pray for God to stir up his power and come during this Advent, but I dare say that each one of us knows someone who, if Jesus came today, would not be counted among the saints. God's grace in his delay is for all to believe.
That's what makes Christianity unique — grace. An extravagant grace that overwhelms the people with a place at the table. The delay is for more to be added. And who will be there? Better yet, who deserves to be there? Do you? Of course not, that's the point.
In the Academy of Fine Arts in Venice there hangs a painting by Paolo Veronese that got him into trouble with the church. The painting is Jesus at a banquet with his disciples. That wasn't the problem. But along with them there are some Roman soldiers, a man with a bloody nose, stray dogs, a couple of drunks, dwarfs, black Moors, and even Huns. When called to explain, Veronese said that these were the people whom Jesus probably dined with — the ones whom the religious people thought didn't deserve to be there at the table. Of course they didn't. That's the point. However, the church didn't like the message and made him change the title and make it into a secular scene.
People have a hard time with the thought of Jesus having a party with prostitutes and tax collectors who were received with grace. There is a little elder brother in each one of us who would like Jesus to come today so that those misfits with loose morals would get what they deserve. And we would be rewarded with a place at the table. We don't think the way of grace until we experience it first hand.
Philip Yancey, in his book, What's So Amazing About Grace, tells the story of a pastor who was battling with his fifteen-year-old daughter. He knew she was using birth control and on several nights would not bother to come home at all. The parents tried all sorts of punishments but nothing changed — in fact, the more they pushed, the more rebellious she became. The daughter even turned the tables on them and blamed them saying, "It's your fault for being so strict."
The pastor basically said, "I remember standing before the plate-glass window in my living room, staring out into the darkness, waiting for her to come home. I felt such rage. I wanted to be like the father of the prodigal son, and yet I was so furious with my daughter for the way she manipulated us and twisted the knife just to hurt us — and herself. I understood on those nights when the prophets would say that the people wounded God and he cried out in pain."1
And yet I must tell you, when my daughter finally came home that night, I wanted nothing more than to take her in my arms, to love her, to tell her I wanted the best for her. I was like a helpless, lovesick father who wants above all things to forgive, begin anew and announce with joy, "This my child was dead, and is now alive again. Lost but now found. Bring on the fatted calf. Come and eat."
He knew that the delay of Jesus' return meant that there was hope and grace for his daughter.
Make no mistake. Grace doesn't condone sin and sweep it under the rug with inane excuses such as, "Boys will be boys," "To err is human," "Nobody's perfect," or "Don't be so hard on yourself." Grace is not a free pass to live however you please. Grace, true grace, radical grace is transforming. Luther spent three hours a day in the confessional booth, fasted until near death, slept outside without blankets, and whipped himself to experience the thrashing of Jesus and still couldn't find peace with God. Why? We can never be good enough to earn God's love. That's the problem with the five pillars of Islam and the eightfold path of Buddhism and the 613 laws of Judaism: Enough is never good enough, not because the path is faulty, but because I am faulty. I'm not good enough. The turning point for Luther was grace — a God who loved him, warts and all; a God who came down to Luther because Luther couldn't go up to God; a God who was patient with him; and a God whose grace takes away the rebuke, prepares the table, and welcomes Luther, sinners, prostitutes, bankers, teachers, doctors, lawyers, and even pastors to an extravagant feast. That's grace.
Last month I attended a great funeral, which is a strange way to put it. But what made it great was not the eight granddaughters who sang — though that was sweet, or the nice handout that listed his accomplishments — though that was informative. What made it a great funeral was that the family did not preach him into heaven by saying what a great guy he was. They didn't do a stand-up comedy routine that some people feel compelled to do at funerals. They didn't break down and embarrass themselves or make the congregation uncomfortable. They talked honestly about their father — the good, the bad, and the ugly. What made it a great funeral was that they all knew that Dad had a place at the table — not because he was father of the year or a pillar of the church or a Good Samaritan to the community, but because of grace. Undeserved, extravagant, transforming grace given by God who has not provided us a path we must obey to God but a person — Jesus, who gives you this promise, "You will not get what you deserve, I will not be fair with you, and you are going to hell — over my dead body. You have my word on that." And if that were not enough, he has delayed his coming for one purpose, so that you may hear and believe that this God of grace has a place at the table for you.
"I don't deserve that, Father." You're right. You don't. This delay in his coming is not about you being good enough. It's a gift. It's a gift called grace and it's unique to Christianity. Now, come and eat. Amen.
1. Philip Yancey, What's So Amazing About Grace? (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Zondervan, 2002).