Don't Be a Grace-A-Lot

 

Don’t Be a Grace-A-Lot

Don't Be a Grace-A-Lot - Audio/Visual 

That famous promise God gave Abraham — that he and his children would possess the earth — was not given because of something Abraham did or would do. It was based on God’s decision to put everything together for him, which Abraham then entered when he believed. If those who get what God gives them only get it by doing everything they are told to do and filling out all the right forms properly signed, that eliminates personal trust completely and turns the promise into an ironclad contract! That’s not a holy promise; that’s a business deal. A contract drawn up by a hard-nosed lawyer and with plenty of fine print only makes sure that you will never be able to collect. But if there is no contract in the first place, simply a promise — and God’s promise at that — you can’t break it. This is why the fulfillment of God’s promise depends entirely on trusting God and his way, and then simply embracing him and what he does. God’s promise arrives as pure gift. (Romans 4:13-16 MSG)

The word “fatigue” is a familiar noun to most. It’s not a foreign word. You’re probably familiar with its definition, too, i.e., burning eyes, slumped shoulders, gloomy spirit and robotic thoughts. You’re tired. We’re tired. A tired people. A tired generation. A tired society. We race and we run. Workweeks drag like an Arctic ice sheet. Monday mornings show up on Sunday nights. We slog our way through long lines and long hours with long faces because of our long lists of the things we need to do, the Christmas gifts we need to buy, and the people we’re trying to please. There are teeth to clean. Diapers to change. Carpets, kids, canaries – everything needs our attention. The government wants more taxes. The kids want more toys. The boss wants more hours. The school, more volunteers. The parents, more visits. And the church. The church? Yes, the serve-more, pray-more, attend-more, host-more, and read-more church. And what can you say? The church speaks for God, right?

It seems like every time we catch our breath, someone else needs something else. Like the Egyptian taskmasters who demanded another brick from the Hebrew slaves to construct their newest pyramid on the block. But God intervened and delivered the Israelites from the slave drivers who served Pharaoh’s Nile-sized ego. He opened the Red Sea like a curtain and closed it like an aquarium. Pharaoh's army swam with the fishes, and the Hebrews became charter members of the “Land of ‘No More’” Club. As in, no more bricks. No more mud. No more mortar. No more straw. No more mind-numbing forced labor. It was as if all of heaven shouted, "You can rest now." And so, they did. A million or more sets of lungs sighed. They rested … for about half an inch. Well, that's the amount of space between Exodus 15 and 16. The amount of time between those two chapters is about a month. And somewhere in that half-inch, one-month gap, the Israelites decided they wanted to go back into slavery.

They remembered the delicacies of the Egyptians, which likely wasn’t anything more than some bland stew. But nostalgia isn’t a stickler for detail. So, they told Moses they wanted to go back to the land of labor, sweat and aching backs. And Moses’ response? "Did someone put a hex on you? Have you taken leave of your senses?" (Gal. 3:1 MSG) Sorry, wrong author. Those were Paul’s words, not Moses.’ Words for Christians, not Hebrews. New Testament, not Old. First century AD, not thirteenth century BC.

But the Christians of Paul's day were behaving like the Hebrews of Moses' day. Both had been redeemed, yet both turned their backs on their freedom despite the fact that the second redemption had upstaged the first. This time, God sent Jesus, not Moses. He smote Satan, not Pharaoh. Not with ten plagues, but with a single cross. The Red Sea didn't open, but the grave did. And Jesus led anyone who wanted to follow him to the land of “No More.” No more law keeping. No more striving after God's approval. "You can rest now," he told them. And they did. This time, for about fourteen pages – the distance between Peter’s sermon in Acts 2, and the gathering of the church in Acts 15. In Acts 2, grace was preached. In Acts 15, grace was questioned.

It wasn't that the people didn't believe in grace. They did. They believed in grace – a lot. They just didn't believe in grace – alone. They wanted to add to the work of Christ. Grace-a-lots believe in grace – a lot. But they argue that Jesus almost finished the work of salvation. Or that in the rowboat named “Heaven-Bound,” Jesus paddles most of the time. But every so often he needs our help. So, we give it. We accumulate good works the way I accumulated awards on my high school letterman’s jacket.

In my mind, no morning was complete without at least a brief survey of my accomplishments. Each patch was a reward for my hard work. I played football to earn the football emblem, and the chevrons that came with each successive season thereafter. I ran track to earn the winged-foot badge, and more chevrons. I played soccer to earn that soccer ball patch. I wrestled to earn that grappler’s emblem. I even had medals from my CIF accomplishments. Could anything be more gratifying than earning these patches, I dreamed? Yes. Showing them off. Which I did on the day of any one of my games during its season. I strolled through campus as if I were the king of England. Accomplishments receive applause. Guys envied them. Girls swooned over them. In fact, I thought that girls secretly longed to run their fingers over my patches and medals and then beg me for a date. Teenagers.

I became a Christian during my letterman days and assumed that God grades on a similar, merit-based system, too. Good athletes move up. Good people go to heaven. So, I resolved to amass a multitude of spiritual badges. An embroidered Bible for Bible reading. Folded hands for prayer. A kid sleeping on the pew for church attendance. I worked toward the day, that wonderful day, when God, amid falling confetti and dancing cherubim, would eternally fit me with my patch-laden Christian letterman’s jacket and welcome me into his eternal kingdom where I could humbly display my accomplishments for all to see. For all of eternity. But then some thorny questions surfaced.

For instance, if God saves good people, then how good is "good?" God expects integrity of speech, but how much? What is the permitted percentage of exaggeration, let’s say? Suppose the required score is 80 and I score a 79? But how do you know your score? So, I sought the advice of a minister. Surely, he could help me answer the "How good is good enough?" question. And he did. With one word: “Do.” Do better. Be more. Do now. "Be good, and you'll be okay." "Do more and you'll be saved." "Be right, and you'll be all right." Do. Be. Do. Be. Do. Ever heard that tune before?

Most people embrace the assumption that God saves good people. So be good. Be moral. Be honest. Be decent. Pray the rosary. Keep the Sabbath. Keep your promises. Pray five times a day facing the east. Stay clean. Stay sober. Pay taxes. Earn those patches.

Yet, for all the talk about being good, no one could answer the fundamental question: What level of good is good enough? At stake is our eternal destination, yet we’re more confident about sugar cookie recipes than the entrance requirements for heaven. Fortunately, God has the answer: "For by grace you have been saved through faith, and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God." (Eph. 2:8)

In other words, we contribute nothing. Zero. As opposed to the award-filled letterman’s jacket, salvation of the soul is unearned. It’s a gift. Our merits merit nothing. God's work merits everything. And that was Paul's message to the grace-a-lots. "Christ redeemed us from that self-defeating, cursed life by absorbing it completely into himself." (Gal. 3:13) Translation: "Say no to the pyramids and bricks. Say no to the rules and lists. Say no to slavery and performance. Jesus redeemed you.” Apparently, they didn't understand. Maybe you do. But if you don’t, then consider the example of some Chilean miners.

Trapped beneath two thousand feet of solid rock, the thirty-three men were desperate. They ate two spoonful’s of tuna, a sip of milk, and a morsel of peaches – every other day. For two months they prayed for someone to save them. On the surface above, the Chilean rescue team worked around the clock, consulting NASA and meeting with countless experts. They designed a thirteen-foot-tall capsule and drilled an excavation tunnel. There was no guarantee of success, because no one had ever been trapped underground that long and lived to tell about it.

On October 13, 2010, the men began to emerge, slapping high fives and praying. A great-grandfather. A forty-four-year-old who was planning a wedding. A nineteen-year-old. All had different stories, but all made the same decision. They trusted someone else to save them. No one returned the rescue offer with a declaration of independence: "I can get out of here on my own. Just give me a new drill." No, they’d stared at their stone tomb long enough to reach the unanimous conclusion: "We need someone to penetrate this world and pull us out." And when the rescue capsule came, they climbed in.

So why is it so hard for us to simply do the same? We find it easier to trust the miracle of the resurrection than the miracle of grace. We so fear failure that we create an image of perfection just in case heaven is even more disappointed in us than we are. The result? Fatigue. Attempts at self-salvation guarantee nothing but exhaustion. We scamper and scurry, trying to please God, collecting merit badges and brownie points, and scowling at anyone who questions our accomplishments. But the Hebrew writer says, "Your hearts should be strengthened by God's grace, not by obeying rules." (Heb. 13:9)

Jesus didn’t say, "Come to me, all who are perfect and sinless." Just the opposite. "Come to me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest." (Matt. 11:28) There’s no fine print there. A second shoe isn’t going to drop. So, let me encourage you to quit performing for God. Of all the things you must earn in life, God's unending affection is not one of them. You already have it. You can’t break God’s promise. You can rest now. So, rest and then blossom and bear fruit – not because you have to, but because your roots have sunk down deep into the soil of God’s amazing and fertile grace.

Grace,

Randy