Tag: Sin

  • Accustomed to His Grace

    Accustomed to His Grace

    During the week I often write things on here about how getting off your phone can be a positive in your life. So while I was scrolling YouTube videos recently I landed on an old R.C. Sproul clip. Story from early in his teaching career.

    First day of the semester, 250 freshmen, three term papers due over the course of the year. He laid it out. Papers are due on these dates. Miss one and you get an F, no exceptions except a hospital stay or a death in the family. Everybody nodded along.

    First deadline came and most of the class had their papers. About 25 didn’t. They came in trembling, explaining they hadn’t made the adjustment from high school yet, could they just have a few more days.

    He gave them three days. They thanked him like he’d saved their lives.

    Second deadline. This time 50 didn’t have it. Midterms, homecoming, the usual excuses. He reminded them what he’d said the last time. They knew. They asked anyway. He gave them three more days, a little more reluctantly, and the class actually sang to him. He was the most popular professor on campus.

    Third deadline. 150 out of 250 walked in with nothing, cool as you like, figuring here we go again. One of them, a Marine veteran, strolled up and said something like happy days, don’t worry about it prof, I’ll have it in a couple days.

    Sproul pulled out his gradebook and started going down the list. No paper. F. No paper. F. No paper. F.

    Somebody in the back yelled that it wasn’t fair.

    He asked who said that. A kid named Fitzgerald owned up to it. Sproul asked if he remembered being late the first time around, the one Sproul had let slide. Fitzgerald said yeah. Sproul said, if it’s justice you want, it’s justice you’ll get, and changed that grade to an F too.

    The room went dead quiet.

    Nobody else wanted justice after that.

    The first time around, they were amazed by the grace. The second time, they expected it. By the third, they’d talked themselves into believing they were owed it.

    That’s not a college freshman problem. That’s just what happens to a person given room to keep failing without a bill coming due.

    I know exactly how the gradebook would read if it were kept on me. Not because I’m out here doing anything dramatic or terrible by our standards. Just the regular stuff: things I already know I shouldn’t do and do anyway, or having a little too short a fuse at times. I’ve been forgiven for the same handful of things enough times that part of me doesn’t treat it like a big deal anymore.

    Because if it’s already covered, it’s already covered. Why does it matter then?

    None of this means we’re going to stop sinning. We won’t. That’s the whole reason we need grace in the first place.

    But there’s a difference between failing at something you’re trying to resist and deciding it doesn’t matter much because the debt’s already handled.

    One is a reason to be grateful for grace. The other is Fitzgerald, standing up in the back of the room, forgetting there was ever a first paper.

    Grace is a miracle that we don’t deserve. We shouldn’t stop noticing.


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  • The Going Rate

    The Going Rate

    I laughed when I first heard about it. An NFL owner, a team I’ve got no love for anyway, got caught up in a prostitution sting in Ohio earlier this week. According to court records, he allegedly responded to an ad online, agreed on a price, and showed up. Except the person waiting for him had a badge instead of whatever he expected.

    I’ll admit that one felt good for about ten seconds. Wrong team, wrong owner, easy to enjoy. If for no other reason than it wasn’t the owner of my team in the crosshairs for once.

    Then, as usual, the conversation drifted somewhere else entirely. A lot of people got hung up on the price. A man with that kind of money, doing something like that, for that little.

    Like the number was the scandal. Like he’d have come off better if he’d paid ten times as much.

    He wouldn’t have. And if you caught yourself thinking he would, that means some part of you has already sorted this into “tacky” instead of “wrong,” which may be its own kind of trouble.

    It doesn’t matter if the number is a hundred and forty dollars or a hundred and forty thousand. Doesn’t change what it is. There’s no bulk pricing on sin, no discount for going big, no premium package that makes it more respectable.

    Wrong is wrong at every price point, and most of us already know this, we just don’t like applying it evenly.

    Because it’s a lot more comfortable to grade sin on a curve when the ones at the bottom of it happen to be ours.

    The gossip. The grudge you won’t let go. The thing you said about your neighbor that felt more like observation than judgment while you were saying it. None of that makes the news. None of it gets a mugshot. So it’s easy to let it slide under a lower bar than the one you’d hold somebody else to, especially somebody whose mistakes ended up in the news.

    I do this too. Everybody does. It’s always easier to point out what the other guy does wrong while giving yourself a pass.

    The good news is that he can be forgiven. Whatever he did, whatever it cost him, there’s a way out of it that doesn’t run through explaining himself well enough. And the better news is that the same door’s open for the rest of us. Turns out forgiveness doesn’t have a price list either.

    You (probably) don’t need forgiving for what he did specifically.

    But take away what Christ did for you, and you’re standing on the same side of that line he is. Not a nicer version of it. The same line.

    Funny story either way. Just don’t spend so long laughing at his price tag that you forget to check your own.


  • Thank God We Aren’t Like Those People

    Thank God We Aren’t Like Those People

    There’s a parable in Luke where two guys go to the temple to pray.

    One is a Pharisee. Religious. Respected. Knows the rules and keeps most of them. Especially the ones where it’s visible.

    The other is a tax collector, which in that culture meant something closer to a known crook than an annoying IRS agent today. Tax collectors squeezed their own people for money and kept a cut. Nobody invited them to dinner.

    The Pharisee stands up front where people can see him and prays out loud. Thanks God that he isn’t like thieves, adulterers, or especially that he isn’t like the tax collector standing in the back. Mentions his fasting and tithing for good measure.

    The tax collector won’t even lift his eyes. Stands in the back, beats his chest, and says one line. God, have mercy on me. I’m a sinner.

    Jesus says the second guy went home justified. The first guy didn’t.

    That’s the whole story, but people manage to misread it in two different directions.

    One direction is feeling superior to the Pharisee. Easy to do. He’s an obvious villain, bragging about himself in church like that. We’d never.

    Except we do it constantly, just quieter. Comparing our parenting to the family down the street. Our marriage to the one that fell apart. Our finances to whoever’s worse off. It feels like gratitude. It’s actually scorekeeping, and the score only counts if you’re ahead.

    Reminds me of something I tell my wife. It’s not a contest, but if it was I’d be winning.

    The other direction is worse. Decide you’re basically the tax collector, beyond help, too far gone, might as well stop trying. That’s not humility either. That’s despair wearing humility’s clothes.

    The tax collector didn’t stay in the back forever feeling bad about himself. He said one true thing and asked for mercy. That was the whole prayer. No résumé. No bargaining. No project to clean himself up first.

    He didn’t even promise to change. He just asked for mercy. And he didn’t run through a litany of his faults either, he just said he was a sinner. God already knew the rest.

    That’s the part that’s actually hard to imitate. People are usually fine admitting they’re a mess in the abstract. The hard part is stopping there. Not following it with an excuse, a comparison, or a plan to fix yourself before you come back and ask again.

    Mercy doesn’t wait for the cleanup. It is the cleanup.

    Two guys walked into the temple. One left more impressed with himself than when he arrived. The other left forgiven.

    Worth noticing which one did less.