I've Grown Accustomed to His Grace

Scott Shelton is one gracious guy. Scott is a fellow staff member at my congregation – specifically, the Director of Family Life Ministries at Zionsville Presbyterian Church. He also happens to be roughly my height and my build, although my body is increasingly becoming what that small boy used to call Mrs. Butterworth’s Syrup in the TV ads: thickerer.

About five years ago I noticed that a beautiful navy blue blazer was hanging just behind Scott’s office door, alongside his pastoral robe. I own a navy blue blazer, too – it’s a standard wardrobe accessory for the smartly dressed male pastor – but mine has clearly seen better days. When I volunteered that information one day, Scott perked up. “You can borrow mine any time you want.” “Really?” I said. “Of course,” he answered.

Wow. That was a gracious offer. Guys, of course, typically don’t borrow clothes from other guys. But maybe I would wear Scott’s blue blazer after all. You know, until I went out and bought a new one for myself. Just once, on a Sunday morning.

First, I re-sought Scott’s permission. “Are you sure this is OK? I’ll make sure absolutely nothing happens to it.” As it turned out, his jacket fit me better than my own. It looked so nice on me that I decided to borrow it again. And then again. And suddenly I realized that I was no longer jumping through the hoop of even asking for it.

I would arrive on a Sunday morning, sans coat, and hope (OK, expect), that the blue blazer would be hanging there behind the door. A couple of times Scott has come to church on a Sunday expecting the same thing. I’ve been tempted to say something like, “Oh, so you’re going to be wearing our jacket for the first hour, and I can put it on after that?” On every occasion, Scott has been exceedingly gracious.

Fast-forward to the present. I have now worn the blue blazer to several weddings outside the church. And to a couple of speaking engagements. And on a few trips to other states. And to Turkey, Greece, Germany, Holland, and Romania. But who’s keeping track? The other day my wife said to me, “Honey, is that Scott Shelton’s jacket hanging in our closet?” Oh, yeah. I should probably get that back to him. Soon.

What has happened over the past five years? Like Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady, I haven’t merely grown accustomed to Scott’s face. I’ve grown accustomed to his grace. At first his generosity seemed amazing and surprising.You would really let me do that? But gradually, imperceptibly, I began to take Scott’s kindness for granted. Of course he will let me wear his blue blazer. That’s just what Scott…does.

The parallels to my relationship with God are stunning. When I first learned that God offers his love and grace to me, I couldn’t believe it. I mean I literallycouldn’t believe it. There had to be a catch. Why would God care about my misguided life? What would prompt him to invest time and energy in my future? How could there be a never-ending reservoir of hope and good will in God’s character that would call me, again and again, to imitate his Son who died for me?

After choosing to believe that God was entirely serious about blessing me, I was overcome with grief the first few times I disappointed him. God, is our relationship finished, or can we still walk together? It’s hard to overstate the wonder of discovering his forgiveness.

But soon enough I grew accustomed to God’s forgiveness. I became accommodated to his grace. I stopped feeling the sense of wonder and gratitude that had permeated the earliest days of my life with Christ. Would God continue to love me, even if I should obstinately make decisions that would break his heart? Well, sure. That’s just what God…does.

And it’s that attitude that kills the spiritual life. Human beings have the unimaginable privilege of enjoying God’s amazing grace. But God’s love and forgiveness are not entitlements. We cannot presume upon them, else the very capacity within us to receive such love and forgiveness begins to die. All we can do – humbly, and with a sense of brokenness and wonder, just as did when we first heard that God might truly care for us – is to lay ourselves before him and to say “Thank you.”

Just this last week I brought Scott’s blue blazer back to the office and hung it behind his door. “Thank you,” I said. “It has meant so much that you’ve let me borrow this so many times.” Scott was his usual gracious self. “Any time, Glenn,” he said.

I'm thinking of asking Scott something else one of these days. Is there any chance I could borrow your car this weekend? 

A Nation Rises from Ruin

Like most Americans, I have spent few waking hours thinking about Eastern Europe. In the back of my mind I have always been aware that there is a loose collection of nations that have had the geographical misfortunate of occupying the ground between Russia and the more advanced European states, and that Soviet Communism pillaged all of them in one way or another.

My working acquaintance with life in Eastern Europe after the fall of the Berlin Wall began with a trip to Romania in 1997. I visited again in 2003, and a third time earlier this month. On each occasion I have connected with a group of Romanian Baptist pastors who are facing the daunting task of launching a new generation of churches in a nation that just 20 years ago officially dismissed the claims of Jesus Christ.

Communist despot Nicolae Ceausescu ruled Romania like a tyrant beginning in 1967. He and his wife Elena were caught trying to flee the country on Christmas Day, 1989; they were summarily tried and executed by firing squad. The celebratory mood that immediately swept the country seemed inappropriately macabre to outsiders. Then the world began to learn the details of Ceausescu’s regime of terror.

Ceausescu's policies had crushed the nation with indebtedness. In an overnight effort to balance the books, Ceausescu ordered that every Romanian household be limited to a single 40-watt bulb. Thermostats in Bucharest office buildings could not exceed 57 degrees, even in the dead of winter. Individuals buying a ream of paper were likely to be interrogated by secret police. 

In an effort to raise up multitudes of workers to his fulfill his dream of a fully industrialized state, Ceausescu demanded that every young woman produce children. Women of child-bearing age were subjected to mandatory monthly OB-GYN exams to ensure that if they were pregnant, each child would be brought to term. The burden of extra children became so great that when news of his execution became public, tens of thousands of little ones were immediately orphaned – released to the streets or into the “care” of the state.

When I first visited Romania in 1997 there was a full-fledged national crisis of providing for these children. Multitudes of pre-teens were living in the sewer system of Bucharest, sniffing glue to stave off hunger. Christian organizations and compassionate individuals poured into the country. Who would give these kids a future and a hope?

I recall that during my one-week stay back then I never saw a single pregnant woman. I don’t believe I ever saw a baby. In response to the Communist horrors, Romania seemed intent on turning away from the primary social task of bringing a new generation to life and health. A few weeks ago it was a joy to see moms and dads and expectant parents everywhere. Still, there is a long way to go. There are three abortions in Romania today for every live birth. The nation is shrinking in size.

I remember walking into an orphanage in 1997 and feeling overcome by emotion. I approached the director (who was a young American woman who had given up her high-paying job with IBM to devote all of her time to rescuing kids in Bucharest) and assured her that families in central Indiana would gladly welcome these little ones in their homes. I believe she appreciated my tears and my sincerity. But I will never forget her words: “These children will all be staying here. We are loving them, teaching them, and equipping them so they can be the future of Romania.”

That’s when I got it. Hope is what restores a shattered nation. And hope is embodied not so much in programs or initiatives as in long-term investment in the lives of real men and women, boys and girls.

I saw much hope in Romania a few weeks ago. In 1997, just a few years after the Revolution, the landscape was still dominated by hulking, uncompleted buildings which loomed like statues of long-forgotten gods out of some scene inLord of the Rings. Today those legacies of Communism are being completed, converted, or swept aside. Roads have been repaved. The stores are brimming with food. I even saw, on the shelves, the ultimate sign of advanced civilization – Mountain Dew.

Our group helped dedicate a brand new church in a small town near the Black Sea. This congregation, which is only seven years old, has already established a dozen “mission points” in outlying villages. In each case they have trained and sent a young man to go live in a neighborhood where there is virtually no presence of Christian faith.

We talked with a pastor who has done what others might consider unthinkable: Armed with nothing more than confidence in Christ and personal outrage, he has stood up to the local mafia boss, the man who has been deporting young Romanian girls into lives of prostitution in Western Europe. The boss has backed down. There is great power when one man speaks with moral authority.

How has ZPC invested in this spiritual revolution? At least 60 ZPCers have made visits to Romania with Dave and Joan Gall, our Romanian mission “champions,” during the past decade. We have underwritten an orphanage and a shelter for sexually abused girls. We have served as the sponsoring congregation for a pair of vibrant new churches. Every summer our mission dollars provide a week-long summer camp adventure for Romanian teenagers, and the one-and-only “vacation” for four dozen pastors – a conference in which they can share Bible study, worship, conversation, and much-needed rest with their spouses and with each other. It was my privilege to provide the teaching for that event this year.

Eugen Groza, who oversees these Romanian Baptist pastors who are working to make a difference in their country, lived through the Ceausescu era. Now he has known almost two decades of freedom. Eugen has said, “I know what it is like to have to be ready to die for Jesus. I also know what it is like to be able to live for Jesus. I have become convinced that it is harder to live for Jesus than it is to die for Jesus.”

Indeed, it is. That’s true in Romania, and that’s true in Zionsville. Only a long and persevering obedience is equal to the task of transforming our nations, our communities, our households, and our own hearts. But by God’s grace, it is possible. And it is happening right before our eyes.