Saved by Grace

Luke 18:9-14     

I am in the habit of beginning my prayers with thanksgiving, you might have noticed this if you have prayed with me. Offering thanks to God for whatever is at the top of my mind in the moment. I have noticed this about myself, wondered about it a little, but haven’t seriously thought that it was a problem of any kind. I mean, what could be wrong with saying thank you?

Nothing at all, I thought, until I really dug into this little parable. The Pharisee at prayer begins with thanks. “I thank you, God, that I am not like other people…the thieves, the rogues, the adulterers, or this tax collector right here beside me. Thank you, God, for making me better.”

There it is. Our thankfulness can actually be kind of smug, as we count all the ways our lives are great…enviable. We risk the humble-brag – you know, where you say things like, “God is so good to have blessed me with intelligence, beauty, charm, and athletic skill.”

There is a certain pride that may prevent us from getting on our knees – literally or figuratively – and asking for God’s help with the many things in which we truly need help. Our pride prevents us from admitting those things. “It’s all good,” we want to say. “God is good. I’m good.”

And then there is this tax collector, who bows his head, beats his breast, and says, “Have mercy on me, God, for I am a sinner.”

This man makes me feel uncomfortable, because he is so clearly uncomfortable. I instinctively want to move away from the tax collector, lest I catch his angst, his agony. Who wants to feel like that? Nobody.

Really, it is no wonder the Pharisee prays as he does, thanking God for making him unlike the tax collector. He is grateful to not be burdened by so much trouble. He lives his life well, according to the standards he has set for himself.

And when you think about it, you realize that is not hard to do: to live well by the standards you set for yourself.

This time of year the church thinks a little more about these things: about thankfulness, as we approach the season of thanksgiving. And about mercy, forgiveness and grace, as we approach the anniversary of the Reformation.

Next Sunday is Reformation Sunday – the day we mark every year when we remember the man called Martin Luther, who nailed his 95 theses to the church door and set off a revolution. He didn’t quite mean to set off a revolution. He just had a nagging sense that all was not right with his world, and this would not let him settle into complacency.

It all came of a moment of personal crisis for Luther. He was caught between the tax collector and the Pharisee.  He was focused on trying to do all the right things, just like the Pharisee did.  And while another priest might have prayed how thankful he was to be so good, to be so blessed, to have this unsurpassed peace, Luther could never shake that nagging feeling that he was really not so good. That feeling of being a sinner in need of God’s mercy, just like the tax collector, was something he could not brush off. 

Then, in a moment of divine providence, Luther recognized grace.  He knew that there would never be anything he could do to justify himself; but God’s grace was free for the taking. The realization gave him the peace he had been seeking.  We in the Protestant Church have been seeking the consolation of that peace ever since.

I was brought up in the Lutheran Church, and that sense of God’s grace washed over me like Ivory soap. It was just the way it was. It was always there. I never thought too deeply or critically about it – until one conversation with my father-in-law.

Peter was a Baptist minister, in the Reformed tradition, so his beliefs were not that different from Presbyterian. When they would come to visit us early in our marriage, they would attend worship with us at our Lutheran Church. I could tell it was a little uncomfortable for them, because it was different. But one day I learned a bit more about where that discomfort stemmed from.

Peter told me that when he was in worship with the Lutherans he felt that we relied much too much on God’s grace – and grace alone. He wasn’t wrong about that. But I wondered: was that actually a problem?

Is it wrong to say that we are saved by grace, and grace alone? That there is nothing we can do to pull ourselves up from the muck of sin, that only the grace of God has the power to do that? I think not. But these many years later I realize that there is a real danger of misinterpreting God’s grace, or even misusing it. That, I think, was his concern.

In the old movie Love Story there was a line that said, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry,” which is pure rubbish. In the church, there is another equally absurd belief, and that is: Grace means never having to do anything different. That is just false. For if we say we are saved by grace and then never even try to live up to that grace in any way, we are squandering it – even profaning it. Truly, it is an offense to God to claim that grace without, at the very least, taking an honest look at your sinfulness.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote in his book, The Cost of Discipleship, about what he called cheap grace. He wrote, “Cheap Grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without church discipline, Communion without confession.”

“Cheap grace,” he wrote, “is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate.”

Cheap grace enters our world in many ways. When we lack the moral strength to look at our own trespasses honestly, when our frail hearts won’t let us look at the faults of our loved ones, cheap grace comes into our personal lives.

When we are afraid to offend one another in church, we might let cheap grace stand, unchallenged, on a Sunday morning. Because talking about sin and repentance is a downer and  people are looking for uplifting experiences. We surely can’t risk pushing them away.

Cheap grace enters our civic lives, when faith becomes a tool of a political candidate, or party. Then words like “I’ve been saved by grace,” can by tossed about to cover a multitude of sins. When we hear them, we look no further because these are the magic words: “saved by grace.” I might be living my life in a way that offends God and the people around me in so many ways, but don’t look at that, because I’ve been saved by grace! We react to these words the way we have been trained to – cheering and rejoicing. We are blinded by the magnificence of this notion of grace. Blinded, perhaps, to the truth.

Because when it is only words, it is nothing but a hollow panacea. It is the candy that gets tossed from a parade float to the children lining the streets. Cheap grace is, at the least, a distraction from what we really need to attend to; it is, at the worst, detrimental to your very soul.

Costly grace, Bonhoeffer says, is the grace of Jesus Christ. It is “the treasure hidden in the field; for the sake of it a man will gladly go and sell all that he has. It is the pearl of great price to buy which the merchant will sell all his goods.  It is the kingly rule of Christ, for whose sake a man will pluck out the eye which causes him to stumble; it is the call of Jesus Christ at which the disciple leaves his nets and follows him.  Costly grace is the gospel which must be sought again and again, the gift which must be asked for, the door at which a man must knock.  Such grace is costly because it calls us to follow, and it is grace because it calls us to follow Jesus Christ.”

Saved by grace, these are words of incalculable value. It is only through the grace of God at work in Jesus Christ that we receive new life – in all its fullness. It is only by this grace that we find the peace that passes understanding. It is only by this grace that we have the most durable kind of hope you can imagine.

This grace, Christ’s grace, is a matter of tremendous value and great, great cost. Let us not be fooled into thinking otherwise, ever. 

Photo by Ray Shrewsberry on Unsplash

Measuring Faith

Luke 17:5-10

There’s a story about a woman who goes into a coffee shop for a little afternoon break.  She goes to the counter and gets her coffee and a package of cookies, then looks for a place to sit.  The shop is crowded, so she is forced to take a chair at a small table already occupied by a man reading a newspaper.  She’s not looking for company, but she sits down with her coffee and package of cookies, gives him a quick smile and nod, then buries herself in her book.  

She notices out of the corner of her eye that the man reaches out and takes a cookie from the package on the table.  Rude, she thinks, but tries to ignore it.  She reaches out and takes a cookie for herself.  Pretty soon she sees his hand sliding across the table and taking another cookie out of the package.  This time she looks up at him, really giving him a look.  He just smiles at her.  She takes another cookie out of the package and goes back to her book, but by now she is quite distracted by this man’s behavior.

This goes on, he takes a cookie, she takes a cookie.  She is beside herself with rage, but too polite to say anything to him.  Finally, with two cookies left, he takes one and pushes the package toward her, inviting her to take the last one.  She gives him a hard glare and takes the last cookie. 

When she leaves the shop, she opens her purse – there lies the package of cookies she bought, unopened.

Occasions for stumbling are bound to come, and sometimes we bring them upon ourselves, don’t we?  I often find myself praying that God will make me a better person; or, increase my faith.  

I don’t know what to think about this “faith the size of a mustard seed” comment.  A mustard seed is very tiny.  And so the contrast between something so very small having the power to uproot and replant trees, in the sea, no less – this is huge.  And if faith that small can do things that are virtually impossible, then what does my faith look like?  Too small to even be visible.  

And then I begin to wonder what faith the size of a pumpkin seed could do.  That’s a lot larger than a mustard seed, so it would seem that it could do even more astounding things.  But I have no idea what those things could be, because he has already taken me beyond the realm of comprehension with the mustard seed analogy.  

Clearly, I am in way above my head.  How does one measure faith?

Before I went into ministry I had a career in educational testing, and I know how to measure all kinds of things, but I still wonder how to measure faith.  Can we measure it by outputs, as Jesus’ words here suggest?  So maybe I can’t move mountains or mulberry trees, but can my faith move something smaller, like dandelions, perhaps?  

It’s easier to measure material things, but it might be more realistic to consider the impact of our faith on nonmaterial things, like whether my faith can move someone to be more loving.  But still, I don’t know.

Perhaps our faith, all together, can move something.  Maybe our combined faith can move our community toward greater peace or wellness.  Do you think our faith could do that?  Still, it’s a tricky thing to measure.

Honestly, I don’t know if faith is something that can be measured.  I am not sure that was really the point Jesus wanted to make.  Because when we start measuring our faith it becomes all about us.  And when we start measuring our faith, we begin comparing ourselves to others to see if we are greater or lesser than they are.

He follows that strange comment about faith with a strange parable about masters and servants.  And again, he uses the old “which one of you” technique.  Which one of you would say to your servant coming in from working in the field, “Come and sit at the table with me”?  which one of you would thank the servant for merely doing what he was told to do?

It seems cold, doesn’t it?  It strikes us as entirely undemocratic – which, of course, it is.  Jesus did not live in a democracy.  But there is another aspect of the story that you might not notice right away: the disciples, or apostles as they are called here, were not wealthy men.  They did not have servants to order about – especially now, that they have walked away from everything to follow him.  How strange to ask them to think this way.  They might more readily identify with the servant than the master. 

And at the next moment he has switched perspectives, and he does ask them to see themselves as the servant.  “So you also, when you have done everything you were told to do, should say, ‘We are unworthy servants; we have only done our duty.’”  And, of course, they know that this is the way things work.  Servants do their duty and their reward is a job well done.

I imagine this parable is a lot harder for us to deal with than it was for the disciples at his side, because it reflected the world in which they lived.  And while we might still protest that such an oppressive and hierarchical social system is not a good system, that democracy is far superior, it may help us to take a step back – remembering that it is a parable – and reflect on what he is trying to teach.  We might reflect on what it says about our relationship with God.  Because, sure, equality among all people is good – even godly.  But when we begin to assume we are in any way on an equal footing with God, we are in trouble.

Well, hold that thought for a moment.  Let’s get back to the question of faith.  How do you measure faith? Or, do you measure faith?

Perhaps you don’t measure faith after all.  Perhaps faith is something you either have or don’t have – the size of it is immaterial, hence, faith the size of a mustard seed is plenty.  And the way you have faith is by being open to receiving it.  Faith begins with God’s actions toward us, and then our openness to receiving it.

We can only receive what is offered.  Any attempts to demand something different will only get in the way.  Our master offers us good gifts – indeed, all that we have is a gift from the master!  Opening our hearts and our hands to God, there is no need that cannot be answered.  

When we assume God owes us something, this will keep us impoverished.  We will be as pitiful as the woman who mistakenly assumed those were her cookies sitting on the table.  The blessings are more than abundant when we are simply open to receiving what is so graciously offered.  

Getting our relationship with God ordered rightly is the key to the riches of faith.

Photo by Nana Lapushkina: https://www.pexels.com/photo/food-wood-coffee-dark-10479058/

RE:think Happiness

1 Timothy 6:6-19

Here is the question: What is something that makes you happy? Don’t overthink it. There are no wrong answers, this is not a test. What comes into your mind when you think of something that makes you happy? It might not be the thing that brings you the most happiness of all, but it is something. 

Did you think of something? I hope you did; I hope you thought of many things that make you happy. Everyone should have happiness. Who ever said, “There is too much happiness in the world?” No one. Ever. Except maybe Scrooge.

And the good thing is happiness is, at least to an extent, under our control. If watching a “Die Hard” movie makes you happy, great. If it doesn’t make you happy, don’t watch it. If sitting on the beach getting all sandy and sweaty doesn’t make you happy, then don’t do it. If eating ice cream doesn’t make you happy, then don’t eat ice cream – but, seriously, if eating ice cream doesn’t make you happy then I just don’t know.

The point is, it serves us well to know what brings us happiness and what doesn’t because knowing can help us increase our happiness. Maybe.

And maybe not. Because sometimes happiness seems elusive. Just out of our grasp. 

In our scripture today we are eavesdropping on a conversation between two friends. Paul, the older apostle, and Timothy, the young man, apostle in training. And we don’t necessarily know why they are having this particular conversation. We don’t know who they might be talking about – perhaps there are other preachers in Ephesus whom Paul does not hold in high esteem.  We can only make inferences from the fragments we have – but what I think we are hearing in these words gives us something about the secret to happiness. 

During this whole month we have been working on a reboot, as we examine certain aspects of life that we all share in common and, with the help of the epistles, wonder how we might approach them differently. We took a look at the question of reconciliation. And, if we have been in the habit of walking away from old relationships that have gone bad, is God perhaps calling us to seek reconciliation?

We took a look at the matter of regrets. It doesn’t really serve us well to say we have no regrets if we have not ever examined our failures in any honest way. But once we have been honest with ourselves and God about our particular failures and shortcomings, and we have followed God’s urgings to make amends in some way, then we might truly be able to say we have no regrets. Until the next time, anyway.

We looked at the practice of prayer in our lives and wondered what the purpose of prayer is for us. We often approach prayer as a means to change our circumstances or change other people. But how often do we see prayer as a way to be transformed ourselves?

And honestly, transformation is what this whole reboot has been about. When I reboot my computer I want to it go back to being perfect. Which it probably won’t, I know. I also know that we won’t either – become perfect. Perfection won’t be found on this side of the mirror. But with a reboot, perhaps that mirror will become a little less dark, our vision a little less dim.

And if we find that our vision grows clearer, the light grows a bit brighter, might we then discover a growing sense of happiness? 

Or, contentment, as Paul puts it in this letter to Timothy. Contentment – which is kind of like happiness that sticks around.

So, how do we get this happiness that sticks around? Is there a secret to it?

I took a family psychology class once and we were presented with some research on happiness. The researchers asked people at random times of the day to rate how happy they were. And they found in this study that parents of young children were significantly less happy than other people. Based on their own responses, in real time.

I was the working mother of a young child at that time. So the results didn’t surprise me at all. I knew that if someone stopped me at any random time of the day or night and asked me, “Are you happy right now?” I might not respond with a smiley face. I knew this was true. But I knew that wasn’t all there was to it.

My sense of happiness in the moment, in the daily grind of parenting and working, was in no way a reflection of the deep happiness inside of me that came from the love I experienced in this life I was living.

This was a secret that I was just beginning to know, but about which I had a whole lot left to learn. It is possible no one else in my class knew it even a little bit, yet, because they were all young single people who were free to do whatever they wanted whenever they wanted. People who, after hearing these research findings probably began to develop a bit of healthy fear about the prospect of becoming a parent. As one should. In any case, what I was beginning to suspect was this: The secret to happiness might be that it is hidden underneath unlikely things. And this happiness that sticks around might be found in surprising ways. Just listen to this story Eric Law tells about his own family life.

Eric grew up in a family of Chinese immigrants, people who were not at all rich in material things. Each night at the dinner table, the family would sit down to dinner – and there were usually guests at the table: relatives, friends, people who worked with them.  They weren’t rich, but they made it go around.  The dishes were passed, and everyone filled their plates. Of course, no one would want to take the last piece – we all know how that is.  So inevitably, at the end of the meal there would be one piece of something left – meat if they were lucky – sitting on the platter in the center of the table.  After some silence, while they all looked at the food, one person would speak.

“Grandma, why don’t you take that last piece?  You’re the oldest; you should have it.”  And Grandma would say, “Oh no, I don’t need it.  I’ve been eating that stuff all my life.  The children should have it because they’re growing.”  And Grandma would look at the youngest child and say, “Why don’t you take it?”

And the youngest child, having been taught well, would say something like my stomach is too small, and turn to an older sibling and say, “You have an exam tomorrow, you should take it.”  Then this older child would play his part in the ritual and offer it to someone else who was more deserving.  This went on until everyone had offered it to someone else; everyone had affirmed another’s worthiness in the family.  And the last piece of food would still be sitting on the platter.  It would be put away to be made into something wonderful the next day.  It was a ritual that made this family appreciate the abundance they shared.

Paul said in another of his letters, “I have learned to be content with whatever I have…I have learned the secret of being well-fed and of going hungry, of having plenty and of being in need.” (Philippians 4:11-12). Could it be that the secret to finding happiness is to finally stop seeking your own happiness?

When we use our wealth to serve ourselves, it will always seem like not enough. But when we let the riches God bestows on us become a means to serve others, then we will feel really rich.

When we live for ourselves, our lives will be very small, but when we live for someone else, we find, in Paul’s words, the life that really is life.