This week Phil posted this story about the son of a murder victim forgiving the murderer, and if you'll check the comments you'll see not a little bit of outrage. He's apparently forgiving too quickly, too stupidly, too unjustly. This reminds me that forgiveness is weird and it will always be a scandal. And that's why I thought I'd share this slightly edited reprint of a post of mine that originally appeared at BCC is Broken in August 2006.
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Imagine you are one of the early church's first members. You are sitting in a home with a few other believers, sharing a meal. You pray together. You sing a few Psalms. Someone recites a bit he's heard of Jesus' biography. Then someone gets up to read a letter to you from some guy named Paul.
Paul is a guy who used to go by the name Saul. It's possible he is responsible for the murder of someone you know, perhaps even your parents or one of your children. Now you have to sit and listen to someone read not just words from this guy, but instructions from this guy. Since his conversion from Christ-hating enforcer of the Law to card-carrying Jesus freak, he's not just one of your fellow Christians. He's an authority over all Christians recognized by nearly everyone.
It is possible this arrangement would not have sit well with you.
Imagine you're attached to Peter, a guy who has his problems, but who has been with Jesus from the beginning. And this newcomer Paul actually exerts authority alongside (over?) Peter!
What in the world can explain the rise of Paul's recognized authority in the primitive church? The first explanation that comes to my mind is the authority over all authorities himself -- Jesus. If you were an early church member tempted to dismiss or disregard the teaching of a guy who used to push the killing of the ones you love, maybe you thought of something you heard Jesus said from the cross. In that excruciating place where Jewish officials like Paul had taken him, Jesus hung there dying and wished forgiveness even on the unrepentant revelers carrying out his execution.
The difference between Saul the persecutor and Paul the apostle was Jesus. The very road Paul was taking to kill Christians became his road to becoming one, because Jesus put up a roadblock and intervened. Revenge became repentance.
The difference between an early church member despising Paul's leadership and embracing it was Jesus. The same Pauline letter that might have irked became an encouragement.
Isn't that completely illogical? What weirdos this following Jesus thing makes us. C.S. Lewis was once asked what the main difference between Christianity and all other religions was, and he answered, "Oh, that's easy -- grace."
Grace isn't just amazing; it's ridiculous. It's revolutionary to our thoughts and feelings. It humbles the powerful and empowers the humble.
Jesus didn't die so you could learn how to be a better person. He died because you can't be. (That's grace offending your sensibilities right now.)
The grace of Jesus is a foolishness that, when believed, brings power to save (1 Cor. 1:18).
Grace is that bizarre missing ingredient that mucks up all human foibles, flaws, and fears. Grace is the thing that turns lives upside down. It is a sweet, beautiful irritant.
Grace is scandalous. It makes murderers into apostles, it makes victims into forgivers. It erases irreconcilable differences.
Have you been scandalized by grace lately? Has Jesus shocked you through someone's granting grace to you?
When was the last time you offended someone's expectations by extending grace to them?
This is what I see as the big idea of the Church on mission: Not that we entertain the masses as well as the culture, not that we provide a fun and relaxing atmosphere for folks tired of the stodgy church down the street, and not even that we are friendly or "relevant" or easy to understand. No, the scandalous beauty of our churches should be that we believe in bringing grace to the hopeless, to the hurting, to the shamed, to the discarded, to the confused, to the powerless. And to the despised. If we aren't about Jesus, the savior of sinners, we aren't about the Gospel. And if we aren't about the Gospel, then all the sentiment and sap in the world isn't going to make us about grace.
Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance: Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners -— of whom I am the worst.
-- 1 Timothy 1:15
- C.S. Lewis
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Here's a Thinklings two-fer. First, go read the incredible story of a man who's mother was murdered by the next door neighbor's son. What's incredible isn't the murder, it's the grace offered by the family of the victim.Yesterday at her...
Haha, yes!
In a recent Element Bible study group we were discussing how one might be able to "hear God's voice," how one would know it was in fact the Spirit speaking to us.
Most everybody talked about still small voices or doors opening or whatever.
My 2 cents was that I always know it is God when the thought entering my mind is not something I would naturally want to do or think to do. If it is a good thing that I don't want to do, I know it's God. My example was when I believed God was asking me to do speak to this homeless guy sitting out in the rain in Houston one time. I knew that was from God because I didn't want to go out in the rain and talk to a homeless guy.
(And I didn't, btw. I disobeyed like an ungrateful s.o.b.)
AWESOME post Jared. I wish every Christian could read this.
A post like this deserves a wide, wide audience like in Christianity Today or some such place.
Can I reprint it in my church newsletter?
I love the angle about someone hurt by Paul now having to listen to one of his letters. I've never thought about that before.
Forgiveness really does offend our natural sensibilities.
I can't say enough good about this post Jared. I think should all reread it once a week.
I’ll never forget one time I was absolutely furious at someone—a couple someones, actually—and in my mind I heard Jesus say, “Show them grace.” It's the closest I've ever come to hearing the audible voice of God. I knew it was God, since it wasn’t what I wanted to hear, and I protested angrily, “They don’t deserve it.” To which he responded, “I know. That’s why it’s called grace.”