Growing Green

In desert canyons, ferns will flourish, sprouting from the bone-dry walls. None of them is kept alive by current rainfall: little ever reaches them. But rain that cooled the mesa 500 feet above 20 years ago seeps down through sedimentary rock to deliver needed moisture. The source is slow, no doubt, but savingly it keeps the green things growing.

So it is with grace in us. The saving wrought by Jesus’ sacrifice began a flow that still is watering whatever’s dry in us. We may have been “saved” in a moment, but the slow water of deep holiness seeps down to the stony layers of relationships and attitudes and deserts we’ve never even hoped to water.

One day, we give up grudges, half-surprising ourselves—and certainly surprising those who wounded us. Weeks later, we begin to reach beyond our comfort zone to love the unloved and the graceless. Our most important relationships—our friendships and our marriages—begin to shift: we hold our tongues; we listen more; we offer comfort where we once doled out our wit or scorn. The grace that saves us always changes us—sometimes at once; more often slowly, imperceptibly.

This is as fully Jesus’ work as blazing, noonday turnarounds. “He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ” (Phil 1:6).

Allow what’s dry to grow toward green. And stay in grace.

The School of Grace

When our hearts are full of warmth and we feel in control, it’s easy to be gracious to the ones who give offense. “Forget about it,” we advise them. “It’s no big thing. No worries!“ Forgiveness seems within our reach. We give our grudges to the wind.

But when we’re powerless and cold; when we’ve been wounded by deep malice or contempt, we cling to the only weapons we have left—our anger and our memory. We have no grace for villains or the haughty. We pray they get what they deserve.

And then we hear again the strange new urgings of the gospel: “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (Matt 5:44).

Against our narrative of righteous indignation, grace tells us stories that seem impossible. The Lord who urged us to forgive forgives the sins we love to hate—adultery, betrayal, cruel violence, and greed.

There’s no rousing of our will that can teach us to forgive like this. Grace is the gift of Christ—from Him to us; from us to them; from them to others still unloved and unforgiven. The sequence is repeatable.

When we’re forgiven, we learn grace. We’ll never lack for opportunities to practice what we’ve learned.

Remember now how much you’re loved. And stay in grace.

Increasing Your Net Worth

We measure the worth of things by their apparent scarcity. Gold, caviar, Maseratis—all increase in value when we think supply is limited. Much of the joy of ownership is the awareness that others don’t—or can’t—enjoy them.

And in our poorest thinking, we sometimes foolishly imagine that the grace of God has been reserved for wise and careful people like us. We pretend God’s kindness is a reward for faithfulness, rather than the cause of it. If grace is freely available, won’t its value be diminished?

But the old hymn said it well: “The love of God is broader than the measure of our mind.” “He makes His sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust” (Matt 5:45). Grace is that rarest of things that becomes more valuable as it is more widely available and more fully embraced. When you love God, my joy is doubled. Heaven has no finite space restrictions, nor is the grace that leads us home reserved for just a few.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son, so that everyone who believes in Him may not perish but may have eternal life”(John 3:16).

Embrace the Lord who embraces everyone. And stay in grace.

First Light

Good news is only good because the other news isn’t good. It’s the contrast between light and darkness that makes us glad for everything that’s lit and bright and warm.

And the Bible is unsparingly honest about our real condition—about the bad news—of our lostness and our darkness. We got what we deserved: we reaped what we sowed. The news couldn’t get any worse. We were the people sitting in darkness.

But then a great light dawned.

The gospel of the Father’s unending, untiring affection for us is seen in everything Jesus did to bring us healing, joy, and abundance. “He who did not spare His own Son but gave Him up for us all, will He not also give us all things with Him?” (Rom 8:32). 

Jesus is the proof of heaven’s favor, the certainty that we are still loved—have always been loved, will always be loved. In Him, we learn the news we didn’t know: that our lives can be free, and fun, and filled with meaning. “He is able to save completely those who come to God through Him, because He always lives to intercede for them” (Heb 7:25). Grace headlines every day’s edition.

“Now there is no condemnation for those who belong to Christ Jesus” (Rom 8:1). “His life brought light to everyone” (John 1:4).

Enjoy the news. And stay in grace.

The Struggle to Forgive

Of all the sins to which we fall, none makes us feel so smug as vengeance. When we’re the injured ones, the hurting ones—acknowledged victims of some sin—we live a perilously long moment of unexpected power. The voices of our culture ring too loudly in our ears: “Retaliate. Require groveling. Make certain that they’ll never hurt you—or anyone—like that again.”

And sometimes in our weakness, we savor the imagination of how much pain we could inflict—all righteously, of course. We picture those who hurt us getting stings that we’ve endured. It’s grimly satisfying on some scale of “eye-for-eye.”

But then the gospel pierces through our fog of pain, and we hear again the words that once changed everything for us: “While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us” (Rom 5:8). “In Christ, God was reconciling the world to Himself, not counting their trespasses against them” (2 Cor 5:19).

Only people who have been forgiven every truly forgive. The memory of our undeserved redemption pushes through our injury, and we recall how we were once where our abusers are. The grace we give is built on memory of how we’ve been released, and how our hearts have been renewed.

So we lay down the lance; give up the sword. We offer others peace and healing Jesus is still giving us.

This is His way. So stay in grace.

The Pace of Grace

Humility is not in vogue—either in the magazine or in the culture. It’s an age of self-assertion, self-promotion, fueled by surging expectations that we should win an ever-larger share of likes, or votes, or ratings.

And so we miss a central pillar of the “law of Christ”—that we should bear each other’s burdens. For the secularist, this makes no sense, for all of life is deemed a competition for vanishing resources—money, spouses, power, or fame. That we would slow our sprint to walk beside a weaker brother or sister—that we would take on wounds or weight not our own—is proof that we have “lost our edge,” and couldn’t be leaders of the pack.

But still, humility is vital to the life of faith—before our God, and yes, before each other. I may say I’ve humbled myself before the Lord, but I’m then both observer and observed. Only grace received and grace enjoyed allows us to pick up the burden we don’t deserve, pray for the sin we didn’t commit, and stop to hold the one who so much needs a friend.  Humility isn’t a label we award ourselves: it requires an “other” with whom we patiently obey the word of Christ.

Grace gives us strength to walk with others in this great and human race.

Christ won the race. So stay in grace.

A Place at the Table

What Christians call the “fruit of the Spirit”—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control—is food the world needs. It’s not a banquet to which only believers are invited.

These are all relational graces: each is only meaningful when there’s a lack of it. We’re never called to dine alone—to only private holiness.

We learn these graces at the table from those who have themselves learned patience, peace and self-control in other times, at other tables. In community, in time we spend together, we practice the kindness the world needs.

Your gentleness will teach me to be gentle: my faithfulness in staying with you may be the prompt to loyalty you need. In grace, we build each other up—and all for those who hunger to experience the goodness shown to us.

This is no private dinner club: Grace always sets the table for great sharing.

Come to the meal at which all hungry souls are filled.

And stay in grace.

The Best News

What we call “the gospel” is an announcement of our true standing before a holy God because of the saving work of Jesus, in whom we place all our confidence.

It’s not the same thing as how we feel about ourselves, or an estimate of our progress in living a good life.

Our emotions—including our assessments of our spiritual experience—are subject to the vagaries of weather, backaches, or what we ate too late for dinner last night. There are days on which for reasons we can’t fully articulate, we don’t feel “close” to God. That doesn’t mean anything more substantial than that we may be limited by arthritis, sports injuries, or indigestion.

There must be—there is—a constancy about the gospel and its grip on our lives that isn’t changed by even our powerful emotions. “By this we shall know that we are of the truth, and reassure our hearts before Him whenever our hearts condemn us; for God is greater than our hearts, and He knows everything” (1 John 3:19-20). 

Jesus is more trustworthy than our feelings about ourselves. His word about our reconciliation to the Father is more true than any word we think or say. In living faith, our lives are hidden with Christ in God.

From this deep certainty grow life and joy and peace and healing. 

Believe His word. And stay in grace. 

Learning to Walk Again

It’s certainly part of God’s unfolding grace to not reveal how little we’ve understood until we’re further down His road.

At first, we catch stray glimpses of ourselves—ungainly; sometimes tripping over stones; embarrassed, not repentant. We judge that we can quickly find our stride—that we can overcome our slowness by more practice.

And then we learn that more is broken than we knew—that all that looked like confidence and legs was our attempt to fool ourselves, defend our pride, and keep our running reputation strong. We cancel all our marathons.

At last, we learn how much we’re like that man beside the pool—the paralytic Jesus lifted from a life that hadn’t moved in years. Unless His grace renews our legs and hope, we’ll always miss the road the Saviour longs to share with us.

If we knew all our weaknesses at once, and all up front, we might despair that even grace could lead us home. So it’s a mercy that we learn our ignorance and arrogance in pieces Jesus lets us know, accompanied by gentle, quiet laughter.

His grace, just like His love, is always patient and kind. 

So stay in grace.

A Psalm of Grace

Deliver me, O Lord, from cool and graceless places where the righteous cluster often to adjust their reputations. Save me from gatherings where no pulses ever quicken, where no tears are ever shed, where sinners are not swallowed up in oversized embraces. Keep me from walking into snares where theology is scrutinized, but no one wants to hear of Your tenacious love for me.

Surround me, God, with those who know the pain of brokenness—and know how rich Your healing is. Encircle me with men and women unafraid of dirt—with those who know the words of hope. And do not let me stray from them.

Appoint my steps to walk beside—among—the hurting and disheartened, for I will call to mind Your grace each time I recognize their pain. Anoint my lips with silence when I’m tempted to compare myself to those who just began their journey.

Your grace is how I seek to live—to laugh, to weep, to learn, to grow—among the many You are saving. I want no better friends than those who pray with humbled heart: “Be merciful to me, a sinner.”

Then my lips will sing Your songs: my heart will strike a higher key. Among those ransomed by Your love, my voice will be both loud and clear:

“Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me;
Bless His holy name.”

So may I always walk with You, and stay in grace.

A Covenant for Wanderers

Make covenants, not resolutions, as you walk into the year, for covenants give us company in keeping what we pledge. A resolution with no witness is too often just a wish, a good intention with nothing but our declining willpower to make the vital difference.

The covenants we really need are bigger than our diets and more urgent than our visits to the gym. We need companions to whom we’ll make the most important promises of all: to tell each other just the truth; to remind each other of how good the gospel is; to continue walking side by side through any guilt or fear the new year brings.

Agree with someone in your life—a spouse, a friend, another sinner saved by grace—with whom you’ll travel in days ahead—by phone, by app, by real steps on real roads. Pledge perseverance, not perfection, for walking with another sinner will reveal how much you both need constant grace. 

And when you stumble, as you will, a hand will lift you up, and brush you off, and help you keep on walking.

As this year starts, invite some other to what Jesus now invites you: “Come walk with me: keep covenant.”

That’s how you’ll stay in grace.

Walking Across the Line

The waning days of this old year remind us we ought never walk alone. We need three things to end December: forgiveness for the wrongs we’ve done; the healing of our wounded memories; assurances that we will have safe company in days and miles ahead.

The gospel tells us we have all of these in Jesus. His blood alone removes our shame and stains. His reconciliation shields us from hard-earned, high-priced bitterness. His promise to stay with us—in every hour, in every age—gives courage on dark nights, and lifts our hearts when we can’t know the future.

By grace, we walk away from sins—our sins, and those done to us through the pettiness or animus of others. By grace, we lose the need to sanctify our scars, or grimly tell our tales of injury. By grace, we stretch a hand into the as-yet-unknown future—and discover, to our joy, that we are grasped and held and loved and valued by the Lord who walks beside us.

We dare not make this crossing by ourselves, for we will either fall back into what has been, or hide in fear of what may be. The grace of Jesus makes the new year safe for pilgrims walking homeward. “I will never leave you or forsake you,” (Heb 13:5) Jesus says to all who journey with Him.

And for this moment, month, or year, our hearts are light, our spirits high. The road ahead is rich with kindness and companions.

So stay in grace.

Delivered Into Light

In the middle of the carol, or the middle of the night; when the parties all are ended, and the sales all suspended; when our hearts are warmed by kindness never earned and not deserved—then we sense again the rescue that is Christmas.

We were the people sitting in darkness, and on us the light has dawned. We were those aching for deliverance—from ourselves, from our stuff, from our sins, from our sadness.

The gospel every Christmas—and each day throughout the year—is amazingly adapted to our shadows and our pain. For “the Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it” (John 1:5). For once—for now, forever —darkness doesn’t get to triumph. The empty will be filled; the broken will be healed. Eyes and minds will both be opened; icy hearts will start to melt.

At Christmas, we recall that He was once delivered, and deliverance always is His plan. One tiny hand is stronger and more powerful than all the tyrants who have ruled.

Never underestimate this Child: before Him every knee will bow—not only wise men and some shepherds. At Christmas, we may sing with joy what we will one day say anyway: “Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father” (Phil 2:11).

Light grows. Hope rises. Grace will have the final word.

So stay in grace.

Not Just December 25

I hope you smell the balsam wreaths again this Christmas season. But I pray you also see in your imagination wreaths of fragrant incense rising up in heaven where Scripture says our Saviour “lives eternally to intercede for us” (Heb 7:25).

I hope you hear the cherub choirs this Christmas, decked in bows, all shiny bright; but even more, the angel hosts that John the Revelator heard. They sing not only “Peace on earth,” but “Worthy is the Lamb who was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing!” (Rev 5:12).

I hope you savor foods of Christmas—pies and puddings, cakes and cookies. But more than all, I hope you hunger for the food that one day soon will fill our mouths at the marriage supper of the Lamb. On a table miles in length, there’s even now a place card with your name on it, a table setting saved for you.

Christmas is one story of the grace that fully, finally saves us. As we grow up into Christ, “who was, and is, and is to come” (Rev 4:8), we find news gifts, great passions, and fresh reasons to rejoice.

Oh come, let us adore Him.

And stay in grace.

No Strings Attached

We trade our gifts on Christmas Eve, or Christmas morn, or some convenient holiday. We wait to see a grateful smile, or wide-eyed wonder on a child’s face—all quietly aware our turn is next: the next gift will be handed us.

And though this pageant brings us joy, and warms our hearts, we dare not say it represents the gospel, even though it’s full of gifts. Our calculations typically are tuned to give of equal value. We won’t embarrass others with extravagance that they can’t match, nor do we like the debt we feel when we receive “too much.”

But heaven gave extravagantly when heaven gave us Jesus. He came with nothing in His hands but everything—all riches—in His heart. His greatest joy is in our joy—and in our inability to trade Him anything in return.

Grace is a gift we cannot earn, and don’t deserve, and can’t repay. We don’t make things “even” by obedience, or costly sums, or kindly deeds that lessen obligation. He who “owns the cattle on a thousand hills”—and all the hills—isn’t seeking reciprocity.

Accept the gift. Embrace the Child. Be overwhelmed with joy.

And stay in grace.

Fully Identified

It would have been grace enough if the Father had executively announced from heaven’s throne that He was commuting our deserved sentences and opening all prison doors. That would have been the very definition of unimaginable and unmerited favor.

But that His Son should condescend to crawl into our hovels, be one of us, experience our dirt and pain, and taste the worst of weakness and of cruelty—that’s more than we dared ask or think. Grace took on flesh and bone, and all the drudgery and mystery of being human, in hope of bonding us forever to the Father. Jesus took no detours around our pain, for “we have One who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin” (Heb 4:15).

Jesus was—and is—the grace of God incarnate, for grace invariably moves toward those who hurt and grieve and sin. Christ passed through our last portal—death—to open up the door to heaven’s deathless throne room.

Now He has sat down again at the right hand of the Father, awaiting grace’s final chapter, when He says we will share His glory and His throne. There is no finer, better place than wherever Jesus is.

So stay in grace.

Grace at the Gates

The act of giving thanks—whispered at each common meal, or once a year at family dinners on big holidays—is an early, hopeful flag that grace has come to live with us.

For a moment—for one long, exhaling moment—we acknowledge the truth of what the apostle wrote 2000 years ago:  “You are not your own:  you have been bought with a price”  (I Cor 6:19-20).

For an instant, the guard is down, the drawbridge open, and we admit that we aren’t self-made or even self-sustained.  The castle of our lives has always had a Guardian, a Protector.  All that we are, and all we have, and every structure that secures us has been given, not deserved.  Even what we say we’ve “earned” is undeniably built on gifts too numerous to count. 

When I say “thanks,” I confess that there is something—Someone—wider, bigger, and more gracious than any defense I muster or every good I do.  So we learn grace through gratitude.  And even as we teach our children to “Say thank-you,” the Spirit prompts us each to murmur private “Hallelujahs.”

Throw wide the gates, and cross the moat. Release yourself. 

And stay in grace.

The End of Magic

The greatest illusion isn’t some card trick that leaves us gasping, or rabbits pulled from a performer’s hat. 

No, far greater is the fantasy that makes us think we’ll satisfy God’s holiness by saying “no” to salty snacks, or overcome our deficits by working longer, harder, better. 

This “sleight of hand” is hardly slight, for we deceive ourselves whenever we pretend our brokenness is of the fingernail—instead of the fatal—kind.  

Grace requires we surrender our illusion that heaven is within our grasp. Only Jesus’ wounded hands will ever lift us from our mud. When we’ve come to doubt ourselves the most, we’re ready to put all our trust in Him. 

Grace always is an “all or nothing” offer. Jesus gives us all His righteousness: we bring nothing to the performance. We’ve got no rabbits in the hat, nor extra cards tucked up our sleeves. 

“In my hand no price I bring.
Simply to Thy cross I cling.”

So stay in grace.

Can You Handle the Truth?

Now would be a good moment to start telling ourselves the truth.

I can no more make myself acceptable to God by right living or good choices than I can learn to levitate, fly unaided through the solar system, or pick strawberries on the moon.

The myth of legalism fools us into assuming that there are just a few steps left between our holiness and the holiness of God. It grossly underestimates both God’s essential goodness and our essential lostness. Oddly, legalism teaches us to lie to ourselves and God about the real picture of our lives.

 Grace, on the other, nail-pierced hand, can tell the awful truth about how far we fall short of heaven’s ideal. Jesus’ holiness covers all our lostness and our wretchedness. And for a change, we need not cringe, for we are loved no less for being sinners, nor ever held at arm’s length.

No, we are pulled into a grace embrace so kind and so forgiving that fear and willfulness begin to disappear. We start becoming like the love that saves us. 

So stay in grace.

More Day to Dawn

“Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.”

It’s every believer’s lot to occasionally grow anxious, to lose peace, to doubt that a good God really wants to do good things for us.  We remember all our sins—years after He has chosen to forget them.  We cringe at indiscretions, which in His discretion He has graciously erased from our life record.  And so we crouch into the future, heads down, half-expecting the worst, or at least the very painful.  Surely all our sins will soon catch up with us.

“But surely He has borne our griefs and carried all our sorrows” (Is 53:4). It is to us—those who have taken Jesus as our Lord—the gospel speaks with special, reassuring power. We need not linger in the half-light of our anxious thoughts about our standing with the Saviour:  “Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you” (Is 60:1). 

Grace is for every moment, even those when memories afflict us.  Christ offers all He is to all who seek His joy and light.

So stay in grace.