An Action of Mercy
"Therefore I tell you, her sins, which are many, are forgiven - for she loved much. But who is forgiven little, loves little." And with that he said to her, "Your sins are forgiven." - The Gospel of St. Luke, chapter 7
I am not other people so I cannot speak for them. But I am myself, and on better days I am someone a little less myself, so I can speak for me. And for me, I can tell you that I scarcely knew what it meant to be a Christ follower before I knew what it meant to receive mercy. And before mercy I never knew love.
Becoming a Christian seemed like an end in an of itself, like one becomes a millionaire. The balance of life is for lavishing yourself with the rewards of riches. I walked with a sense of entitlement, albeit garnished with sincerity and humble thanks. After all, salvation was mine because I asked, much like ordering a pound of bologna at the deli counter. So then was wisdom. And grace was given to me, receiving what I didn't earn, like boxes wrapped in colorful paper complete with ribbon on top and toy inside all for me on my birthday. And such was my Christianity. It carried me to the pulpit where I now know that I was more comfortable with the power of influence and gratitude people expressed to me for it. It all came natural to the flesh and ego: esteem, attention, authority, the conductor of an orchestra. As my baton went, so went the ibids in the cushioned, high back chairs.
I was in no position to warrant forgiveness because my sins were seemingly so few and immaterial. Confessions of those became a badge of false piety and a display of the righteousness I had achieved. Mercy? It was for those who were beyond mere confession.
Until.
Until I was plunged into vileness so that I hold my breath when the specter of it arises. I don't speak of it, but in generalities, and never unsolicited. I found myself undone and having lost all the prestige that I had once held proudly atop the mantle. Beyond confession, postured face first in the sty I awaited the only thing that I could possibly expect: God's swift justice. And harsh at that.
I find the above account of the words of Jesus so dear to me because of what the story surrounding them tells. A woman, who all we know about her is that she is a "sinner" and can do nothing but expect God's swift justice, does the worst possible thing. She enters the house of Pharisees, the self-proclaimed executors of God's righteous justice. They were quite likely to drag her out into the gutter by her hair before prying up chunks of asphalt with their pristine fingers and hurl them at her breaking skin, bruising flesh, breaking bone, until her breath left her body.
Instead she finds an action. An action of withholding the justice she is due. An action of mercy. A mercy so ferocious that it chases down and consumes her sin before it can draw another breath. An action of mercy that has satiated wrath and lulled it back into slumber. Mercy. A mercy I have felt and for that I am forever changed. I will carry it to the throne room of the Almighty one day and lay it as his feet, much of it, in fact. I shall return it to him as an offering for carrying that mercy with me has allowed me to know what it is to follow him and what it is to love. And I suppose now that I reflect on it, those mercies that are nothing short of Lucullan are all that I might carry with me to glory.
You see, I am still a bad Christ follower. I am a liar and a cheat. Selfish and gluttonous. I am sloth and vanity, a coward, a pig, a failure, a self-saboteur. But I know this now. And I carry those, shackled to my ankle, down the searing skillet of the asphalt avenue to where this Jesus reclines. I limp, with my throat collapsing on itself and tears in my eyes, through the courtyard of the home of my executioner, interrupt his meal, and collapse at Mercy's feet. My neck shivers with the expectation of cold, swift steel taking my head and am unaware that my tears have chased the dust from Mercy's feet. Mercy, sweet Mercy. Be mine. And I will hold fast to you and you shall be my song. New, new, new, every morning you are to me. Sweet is His name on my lips and His name shall be called Mercy.
Until I was plunged into vileness so that I hold my breath when the specter of it arises. I don't speak of it, but in generalities, and never unsolicited. I found myself undone and having lost all the prestige that I had once held proudly atop the mantle. Beyond confession, postured face first in the sty I awaited the only thing that I could possibly expect: God's swift justice. And harsh at that.
I find the above account of the words of Jesus so dear to me because of what the story surrounding them tells. A woman, who all we know about her is that she is a "sinner" and can do nothing but expect God's swift justice, does the worst possible thing. She enters the house of Pharisees, the self-proclaimed executors of God's righteous justice. They were quite likely to drag her out into the gutter by her hair before prying up chunks of asphalt with their pristine fingers and hurl them at her breaking skin, bruising flesh, breaking bone, until her breath left her body.
Instead she finds an action. An action of withholding the justice she is due. An action of mercy. A mercy so ferocious that it chases down and consumes her sin before it can draw another breath. An action of mercy that has satiated wrath and lulled it back into slumber. Mercy. A mercy I have felt and for that I am forever changed. I will carry it to the throne room of the Almighty one day and lay it as his feet, much of it, in fact. I shall return it to him as an offering for carrying that mercy with me has allowed me to know what it is to follow him and what it is to love. And I suppose now that I reflect on it, those mercies that are nothing short of Lucullan are all that I might carry with me to glory.
You see, I am still a bad Christ follower. I am a liar and a cheat. Selfish and gluttonous. I am sloth and vanity, a coward, a pig, a failure, a self-saboteur. But I know this now. And I carry those, shackled to my ankle, down the searing skillet of the asphalt avenue to where this Jesus reclines. I limp, with my throat collapsing on itself and tears in my eyes, through the courtyard of the home of my executioner, interrupt his meal, and collapse at Mercy's feet. My neck shivers with the expectation of cold, swift steel taking my head and am unaware that my tears have chased the dust from Mercy's feet. Mercy, sweet Mercy. Be mine. And I will hold fast to you and you shall be my song. New, new, new, every morning you are to me. Sweet is His name on my lips and His name shall be called Mercy.
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