Buy Article

The theological concept of grace, as it has been received in the West, was profoundly influenced by the writings of Augustine, so much so that he was later referred to as the doctor gratiae. His thought on the subject, built on the earlier transactional language (“accruing merit” and “making satisfaction”) of Tertullian and his intense study of Paul, crystallized in his debates with the British layman Pelagius.

God’s grace comes to us by a variety of means. The church has long taught that the sacraments (baptism and the Eucharist), Scriptures, and preaching are means by which we experience

God’s grace. But this list could also be expanded to include the arts, the imagination, nature, friendships, and much more—anything that makes God’s presence a reality to us. Any gifts that reveal God’s truth, beauty, and presence become means of grace.

Yancey and Crabb talk candidly about the lack of grace in church and in society. They cite a poignant story about how grace operated when Yancey was present in a meeting with top Russian leaders to discuss how to restore morality to the country. It was there that Russian émigré and Christian evangelist Alex Leonovich forgave the vice chairman of the KGB and offered him a Russian bear hug even though Leonovich and members of his family had endured atrocities at the hands of the KGB.

I have come to believe that God is not far from any of us and that if we are attentive to this fact we will become aware of regular Divine visitations. I like to ask people how they experience the Divine in their lives. Some answer by naming one of the traditional “means of grace”—things such as the Eucharist, the sacrament of reconciliation (confession), prayer, or Bible meditation. Others have told me of the remarkable openness to God they experience when walking in the woods. Many tell me how silence and solitude provide them with their most powerful experiences of God’s presence. Others, how pain or suffering allows them to uniquely meet God. A few are bold enough to confess that it is in their sin that they have their most immediate encounters with Grace. The list goes on and on, but makes clear that the variety of ways in which we can experience the Divine is remarkably diverse.

I have a secret. This is a secret I try to keep not only from others; it is one I try to keep from myself. It’s seriously at odds with how I want others to see me, but it also makes a mockery of how I want to see myself. It is, in reality, tremendously disruptive to life as I naturally want to live it.

Nietzsche once wrote, “To grow wise, you must listen to the wild dogs barking in the cellar.”

I’m no Nietzschean scholar, but I don’t think he was talking about the wild dogs of depravity. The evil beasts he had in mind, I’m guessing, were what he thought to be the “givens” of existence: death, meaninglessness, isolation, and the intolerable burden of freedom that requires us to make choices in a random world that guarantees no certain outcome.

together are representatives from the prominent tributaries of Christian spirituality- incarnational, contemplative, evangelical, holiness, charismatic, and social justice. Each is participating in a dialogue, sharing with unusual transparency about authentic transformation and why it seems so difficult actually to become like Jesus.

I have a particular appreciation for Conversations, not only because I am enriched by each issue, but also because I owe so much to one of its originators. David Benner’s precious trilogy Surrender to Love, The Gift of Being Yourself, and Desiring God’s Will—has been a great vehicle of grace for me. The first of these three books came to me in a particularly dark period, and it effectively invited me to turn to my prodigal Father and experience his affirming love, to climb up in the lap of Jesus as a child and experience the kind of love a child knows when he is securely settled in the lap of his father. With these experiences, the darkness gave way to dawn and a new day in the journey. As I moved along, I was fed also by Benner’s second and third volumes. With the third, another significant breakthrough came as I realized how much God desires me. I sit now in that desire and seek to respond to it with the whole of my being. It’s the first great commandment, isn’t it: to love the Lord your God with your whole mind, your whole heart, your whole soul, and your whole strength.

The rich young ruler in Mark’s Gospel (Mark 10:17–22) came running to Jesus, running to engage him, running to ask his most important questions. No wonder “Jesus looking upon him loved him” (v. 21, RSV). Yet the young man walked sadly away. And Jesus let him go.

A colleague sitting next to me offered me a stick of chewing gum during a Wheaton College chapel service. Maybe she was just being kind, or maybe she was trying to tell me my breath needed some help on that particular day. Either way, the gum looked good. Still, I turned down the offer. As my colleague put the gum back in her purse, I began wondering why I had just refused something I wanted. This is both a benefit and a liability of being an introvert—I analyze the inner contours of every decision until I understand it. I think I turned down the gum for the same reason it is difficult to borrow an extension ladder from my neighbor: because I had done nothing to earn it. Somehow, it seemed easier to turn down a piece of chewing gum than to say, “Thanks, let me give you a dime for it.”