My life is a witness to vulgar grace -- a grace that amazes as it
offends.
A grace that pays the eager beaver
who works all day long the same wage as the grinning drunk who shows up at ten
till five.
A grace that hikes up the robe and
runs breakneck toward the prodigal reeking of sin and wraps him up and decides
to throw a party, no ifs, ands, or buts.
A
grace that raises bloodshot eyes to a dying thief's request -- "Please, remember
me" -- and assures him, "You bet!"...
This
vulgar grace is indiscriminate compassion. It works without asking anything of
us. It's not cheap. It's free, and as such will always be a banana peel for the
orthodox foot and a fairy tale for the grown-up sensibility. Grace is sufficient
even though we huff and puff with all our might to try and find something or
someone that it cannot cover. Grace is
enough...
Sin and forgiveness and falling and
getting back up and losing the pearl of great price in the couch cushions but
then finding it again, and again, and again? Those are the stumbling steps to
becoming Real, the only script that's really worth following in this world or
the one that's coming. Some may be offended by this ragamuffin memoir, a tale
told by quite possibly the repeat of all repeat prodigals. Some might even go so
far as to call it ugly. But you see that doesn't matter, because once you are
Real you can't be ugly except to people who don't understand...that yes, all is
grace. It is enough. And it's beautiful.
God
loves us as we are, not as we should
be.
Brennan Manning
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