Graceland

I don’t get grace. I mean, I am a grateful recipient of it, but I don’t “get” grace. And I don’t mean that I can’t understand how or why God extends grace to us; I realize it is beyond my comprehension and I’m okay with that.

What I don’t “get” about grace is: how do you live in grace? Once you receive forgiveness, how do you go on without either vowing to try harder the next time, or throwing up your hands and giving up, admitting your sin nature is too strong for you, and just living like a sinner until the guilt and conviction push you to repentance again? How do you find the balance, if there is one, between righteousness and real life?

It seems I am in constant struggle with my self-tendencies, repenting yet never getting victory over them completely. It doesn’t seem right that I should just give in; how can I be a reflection of a holy God when I can’t even be consistent about cleaning my house or balancing my checkbook? Let alone purify my thought life.

Grace is God’s gift to us—His goodness and favor extended without any relation to merit, of which we have none. But isn’t it cheapened when we live in sin, enjoying His benefits while living for ourselves?

Here’s an illustration of what I mean: It’s like Jesus goes to the back alleys and bars and hands out invitations to this big party at his house. He hands them out at the Laundromat and to work crews doing community service picking up trash along the interstate. He knocks on doors in the trailer park, giving them to grumpy fat chain smokers who are annoyed that He interrupted General Hospital. He gives some to derelicts on park benches, who are too paranoid because of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder to pick up the envelope. Hookers are a little puzzled at this guy who gives them something without asking for anything in return. He slides one across the counter at the fast-food place, toward the catatonic teenager with piercings and poor customer service skills. He probably drops off a few at corporate headquarters, country clubs and government offices, too.

Anyway, although it seems random, these invitations are all personally addressed specifically to each individual. They give all the usual information: date, time, address. They also give very specific instructions on how to dress and what to bring. According to the invitation, a limousine will pick each person up at an appropriate time to ensure a timely arrival.

So the big day comes and we screw it all up. We miss the limo because we’re dumpster diving or watching Judge Judy or waiting to add fabric softener to the rinse cycle. We’re forgetful procrastinators who are too self-absorbed to adequately plan and prepare. Our good clothes are at the cleaners and we’re too broke to buy what we’re supposed to bring. But hey, a free meal is a free meal, and it’s nice to see how the other half lives, so we go anyway. We show up late, dirty, empty-handed and in our underwear.

Jesus, ever the gracious host, meets us at the door with a warm smile, politely not mentioning our tardiness, appearance, or the fact that dinner is getting colder by the minute. He embraces us, squeezing us so tight we’re left breathless, as if each of us were a long lost friend. He instructs us to go into the guest bedroom, where we can freshen up and put on the clothes laid out on the bed (as if He knew we would be underdressed).

After a quick shower in a luxurious marble bathroom, we arrive in our new clothes at the dinner table. The other guests look a little freshly-scrubbed themselves, with awkward smiles and shy eyes. During dinner, Jesus engages us all with colorful stories and conversation, all the time drawing us in with questions and genuine interest. Some, no all of the guests need a little work on our table manners and etiquette, but Jesus acts like He doesn’t notice.

After a scrumptious dessert, we are encouraged to roam around the house and grounds, which are spacious and beautiful. On the terrace at the back of the house, lanterns are hung, but they don’t interfere with the brightness of the stars. We mingle and get to know each other, marveling at it all, the place, the food, our Host, and just the good fortune of being invited. We compliment each other on our clothes, even though we all know that we showed up in a ratty slip or torn boxers.

Okay, so far so good. I know God has lavishly blessed us and forgiven us, but how do you go on from there? How do you not return the suit to the closet and slip out into the night (after thanking the Host, of course, or mentally promising to send a note)?

I mean, every party comes to an end and then you return to real life. That’s what makes parties special events. It would be exhausting to have a party that never ends, like New Year’s Eve without a midnight. After a while everyone gets bored, or drunk, or irritable, and then falls asleep. End of party. Nothing left but the icky feeling in your mouth the next morning and confetti in your hair.

But what if this party wasn’t like that? What if Jesus said to stay, and we slept in the guest rooms on silk sheets and awoke to waffles for breakfast? What if our party clothes were exchanged for nice comfortable jeans and a polo shirt and sneakers? What if . . . we never left?

What if, day by day our table manners improved and we learned how to play croquet and prune the rose bushes and the food was always good and we discovered that all the other people were interesting and good and funny, even though they disagreed with us sometimes? Is it possible that over time our memories and longing for Oprah and Starbucks and People magazine would fade as we became more accustomed to this new way of living? Would our old identities dim, so that we are no longer addressed by our former nicknames, like Lefty or Stinky or Flo or “Ready Betty” (or worse), and started living up to the names Jesus calls us, like Beloved and Beautiful and Bride. What if, each night we dumped our sweaty soiled clothes in the hamper and awoke to find them clean and pressed on the chair? What if, when Jesus asked us to do something, we considered it an opportunity to repay His kindness, and did it out of love instead of as an act of obedient service or grudging duty?

Is that what living under grace would be like?

If so, I’m going to Graceland to see the King.