Grace: A Play, in Three Acts

We all know that we’re looking for something, something shapeless but intoxicating.  The hunt for that something inspires books, movies, and music.  We draw pictures and hang them in galleries for searchers of something to ponder.  We build skyscrapers, hoping they might reach it.  A never ending search—elusive, maddening, frustrating.  And still, we look.  We all know we’re looking for something.  But sometimes, there’s a beautiful moment when that thing we’re looking for finds us.  For the Christian, that Something is a Someone, and that encounter with Him is called “grace.” 

Paul, that guy who wrote half the books in the Bible, had something to say about all that grace stuff to the tune of Acts 20:24:

                But I do not count my life of any value to myself, if only I may finish my course and the ministry                 that I received from the Lord Jesus, to testify to the good news of God’s grace.

Something captivated that guy.  Chancellor Nordenberg has a lot to say about how much he’ll give to make Pitt great, but he’s never announced that he disregards his life’s value for the sake of his ministry.  Ben Roethlisberger has never said that about Steelers football.  Paula Dean has nothing of the sort to say about the Food Network.  So what is it that grabbed Paul?  What exactly is the good news of God’s grace?

Grace is one of those words that 2,000 years of Christian culture has made trite.  Grace, Jesus, Salvation—heard that one a thousand times, learned it by heart, know it, check, what’s for lunch?  To a modernity vaccinated against the gospel, grace is how your Grandmother interprets everything, grace is a word that bounces off the walls of our churches like tennis balls, and Grace was the 7^th most popular name for baby girls in 2003.  But all of that doesn’t quite capture the drama of what grace is about, so let’s try it this way: let’s dim the theater, cue a spot light, raise the curtain, and tell this story as a play, in three acts.

            Act I.  Meet the characters.  You’re important to this story, or, more precisely, that truest most authentic part of you that we call your soul is.  The main guy in this story is Jesus, but you can’t really know Him without first meeting Grace, so we’ll start with her. 

Who is Grace? One of those women so lovely that her presence captivates a room, one of those individuals so mysterious that the experts who figured out Mona Lisa are baffled.

What is Grace like? Grace is warm, like having macaroni and cheese on a February afternoon— sometimes.  Sometimes, she’s more like the cold shock of being pushed into the deep end of a swimming pool when you’re least expecting it.  Sometimes she’s the gentle touch of a mom putting a band-aid on a little bleeding knee.  Sometimes she’s the harsh burn of hydrogen peroxide, killing toxins in a wound.

Where does Grace hang out?  Not where you’d expect.  Grace hangs out with tax collectors and sinners, frat boys and prostitutes.  Grace makes appearances with alcoholics and bullies.  Grace isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty.  Grace lurks in dark corners, waiting for someone to notice her.  She hides in dim alley ways, looking for action.  She dodges the blows of angry words and harsh judgments with the dexterity of a secret agent.  She sidesteps gossip, violence, and drunkenness.  Sexual impurity can’t defile her.  Pride can’t drive her away.  She watches it all, and she waits.  Sin hates her; Sin tries to subdue her.  Sin plays tricks.  Sin blinds us so we can’t see her.  Sin screams loudly so we can’t hear her.  Sin wants our hearts, wants to consume them, wants to slither in to little corners where we don’t notice or don’t care that he’s there.  Sin’s a smooth talker, and he makes everything look easy, quick, comfortable.  We let him in the door, and the next thing we know he’s moved in, and he’s playing video games on our bed, and we can’t kick him out because he’s kicking us where it hurts most.

We can’t kick him out, but someone else can.  Grace doesn’t play tricks, and she doesn’t blind us, and she doesn’t shout.  She doesn’t burst through the door, but she does knock.   Sin pretends no one’s there.  Grace keeps knocking.  Sin screams.  Grace usually whispers.  They both have things to say to you.

Sin says, “This is as good as it gets.  Grasp for what you can, and despair.”

Grace says, “You were made for more than this.”

Sin says, “You’re worthless; you’re not good enough.”

Grace says, “You have value.  Someone has chosen you.”

Sin says, “You can’t do this.”

Grace says, “You can’t do this—but Someone else has done it for you.”

Blow after blow, Sin versus Grace fighting desperately over you, for your soul.  You wield the power; only you can call checkmate in this battle to the death—or the life. 

If you side with Grace, then she’ll take your hand.  She’ll bring you to Someone, and show you His face and tell you His name.  He is Jesus.  He sees you.  He knows you.  Completely.  Whether you have reached Him crawling in agony or running in eagerness, He loves you.  Completely.  Whether your relationship with Sin was a petty flirtation or a wild love affair, He forgives you.  Completely.  You are broken, so He has allowed Himself to be broken with you.  You are bleeding, so He has allowed Himself to bleed with you.  You cannot defeat Sin, so He has conquered it for you.  He needs one thing from you: your allegiance.  Your love.  Your yes.

Grace is the sweetness of a surrendered soul.  Because once it’s out of your grasp, there’s Someone who can give your soul exactly what it needs when it needs it.  Exactly what it needs—and more.

Enter Act II.  The plot thickens.  There is more here than meets the eye.  Because when you have known Grace, then you can truly know Jesus.  Because your poor, battered soul needs Jesus, forgiveness, healing, and salvation—yes, absolutely, if you haven’t asked Him for that, do it right now.

But when the televangelist’s 40 minutes are up, there’s more to the story, and more to be had.  There’s more that you’re looking for.  Because that incomprehensibly, inexpressibly sweet encounter of your soul with Jesus should leave you wanting more.  Here’s the thing about Jesus: He’s not a limited time offer, and He’s not on sale for three easy installments of $19.99. Grace is out to make sure that you realize that when a paleontologist finds a bone, he’s still got a whole dinosaur to uncover.

Who is Grace? Grace is a red rubber stamp that says “eternity” on your soul.  Dear finite creature, you don’t really know what that means. You only know that you woke up at 9:03 a.m. and you’ll get to bed around 12:38 a.m. and that there’s an urgent, finite tick, tick, tick of 15 hours and 35 minutes in between.  Something you should know about Eternity: her Siamese twin is Infinity, and they always were, always are, and always will be together.

Eternity and Infinity—we’re hungry for them, and that’s why we hang up pictures of sunsets and oceans.  But we don’t really understand them, and sunsets and oceans don’t quite cut it, so we settle for the numb rush of the tick, tick, tick between appointments, tick, tick, tick between class and work, tick, tick, tick between our bits of fun and relaxation on the weekends.  We settle for the numb rush, and we call that life.
That’s where Grace comes in again.  Grace never settles.  Grace is voracious, ravenous, insatiable.  If you’re only mildly acquainted with her, you might not realize this about her, and you might think she’s warm and polite.  And she is.  Warm and polite Grace will often introduce you to Jesus, but she’s not gonna propose that you all sit around and drink tea and eat scones for the rest of forever, ‘cause that’s not her style.  Or His.  If your Jesus sounds a lot like Mr. Rogers, then you’ve got the wrong guy.  If your Grace looks like a fairy godmother, you’re reading the wrong story.

Jesus does not wear cardigans, and Grace does not wear pink tutus.  If you tell Grace that life sounds like the numb rush of tick, tick, tick, she’ll laugh in your face.  If you start spending more time with Grace, you’ll realize that she pushes her friends into the depths, and shoves her intimate companions into the abyss.  And waiting at the bottom: Jesus, the Real Jesus, The Infinite and Eternal Jesus.  Life beyond tick, tick, tick.  Life on His terms, not yours.  Life says, “Leave everything.”  Life says, “Come follow Me.”  Over and over.  Because you don’t just meet Him once and know Him.  You meet Him, and you learn to know Him eternally, and infinitely, more and more, deeper and deeper.

Where does Grace hang out?  Grace is right next to the man with the crumpled, withered arm when Jesus says, “Stretch out your hand”—and the man does it.  Grace is behind the impoverished widow who drops her very last two coins—clink, clink—into the temple treasury.  Because Grace is behind her, the widow knows she’s not giving anything up, she’s just trading it in—the stuff of earth, for the stuff of eternity, the meager inheritance of this world, for the bountiful inheritance of the world to come.  We can’t see that world with our normal eyes—we need Grace to see it for us, and to whisper what she sees into the depths of our hearts.

Act III.  Typically, the end.  But this is an atypical play.  The ending of this play is not quite a tragedy.  Sure, someone dies: your Old Self, the Self You Were Never Meant to Be, but that’s not the important part.  The ending of this play is not quite a comedy.  If the pieces of this story suddenly fit together hilariously and blissfully, that’s largely incidental. The ending of this play is a surprise, because it’s not over yet.  The ending of this play is also not a surprise, because we have some idea of where it’s headed, somewhere in the four-way intersection of eternity, infinity, resurrection, and absolute joy.  Meanwhile God’s writing this play, not Shakespeare.  This ending is a beginning, so there’s no neat resolutions—only a challenge—and a question.

God issues his challenge through the mouthpiece of Grace. (Who is Grace?  Grace is a stick of dynamite—don’t mess around with her if you’re afraid of explosions.)

Shakespeare didn’t ask Hamlet whether or not he wanted to die, but God sends Grace to ask us whether or not we want to live.  Grace interferes all over the place.  Grace was there, for example, in that moment when God hit the pause button on the history of salvation and waited for a young virgin’s invitation, “Let it be done to me according to thy will.”  Grace hit play.

Here is the challenge Grace utters:  Go further; go deeper.  Meet Jesus; meet the face of salvation.  But then, let’s get to work.  Let go of the tick, tick, tick you call life.  Stop walking around with your arm hopelessly dead and mangled; stretch it out and let Jesus heal it.  Let go of the two copper coins you cling to as your treasure.  Drop them, and stretch out your hand.  Reach for something more, for Someone more.

Here is the question Grace asks:  Will you do it?