I used to think all those people who went on about God’s grace—its inexhaustible depths, poured out prodigiously by our Father—were just weak. They couldn’t shake the sin in their lives and so they just started talking grace. Presuming upon it. They embarrassed me as a Christian. They lived their unholy lives and kept on telling people they were “one of us,” when they should have just shut up.
But me, here I am. Here I am with my weakness. Here I am with my tenuous friendship with repentance—our on again, off again romance—and I count myself decidedly among the grace-talkers. Because I need to be. Have to be. Otherwise I step on holy ground and evaporate from sole to crown. I need Jesus. I need him like I never knew I needed him. So help me God.