The Generosity of Grace

Drawing by: Casey Arden

By Andrea Lingle

When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?”

John 11:32–37

When did you realize that no one was coming to rescue you from life? Was it the jarring moment you noticed your dramatic ascent of a grassy hill under the pounding rain of a hot summer afternoon was completely devoid of a sound track? Was it when the broken keepsake stayed broken? Was it when you exercised three times a week and still ended up with heart disease?

Until I had to stare down the stinking, steaming throat of grief, I thought that grace was synonymous with spring-type words: blossoming, growing, greening. All the opening, hopeful words. Easter words. A community of grace would be one that was idyllic. An unfolding place steeped in gentleness and life. A collection of moments so completely cradled in the numinous that those who tarried long enough would be thickly insulated by meaning and life, and even the discomfort of sorrow would not be able to penetrate ultimately.

Turns out I was wrong.

Either about the existence of or nature of grace.

We have all asked Mary’s question: Why, Lord, did you let this happen? Were you unable or unwilling to spare me or him or us? If you really loved me, why did you go so far that you couldn’t get back in time? In the fullness of the Biblical canon, the story of Lazarus’s death feels like a betrayal. David called on the Lord and the giant fell to his river stone. Joseph’s kidnapping and enslavement was redeemed. He not only saved his brothers, but his father and Egypt also. Their treachery was all in service to the glorious plan. It was how it worked. If you don’t cut your hair or walk around the city or paint the lintel with blood, you will be saved.

Mary’s heart was broken. Her brother was dead. Four days dead. According to many who taught about such things, four days dead meant all the way dead. The soul had departed. Yesterday. Jesus had arrived today—on the heels of despair. It was not supposed to go like this. There was always a last second twist that kept the hero in the story. Did that mean that Lazarus wasn’t heroic enough? Was he just an extra, written in to add depth to the main character? Mary’s sobs caught in her throat. He had been important to her. Did that mean anything?

Grace did not shield me from sorrow’s arrival or resultant agony; grace met me there. Grace sat down on my front porch steps without saying a word, while my angry tears salted the earth. Grace did not offer advice or perspective. Grace sat, deeply moved, and wept with me.

Grace is not an anesthetic; not an opiate for the masses or me.

My story did not turn out like Mary’s. My tears did not end in a laughing embrace in front of an empty tomb. It would be lovely to say that they ended in joy, but that might not be the right word, yet. I think it would be the most right thing to say that my tears ripened in the gritty grip of grace.

No, grace does not insulate you from or numb your pain. Grace inhabits your pain, and, for now, that has to be good enough.