Suppose I invite you to go sailing with me. "I didn't know you were a sailor,"
you observe.
"You bet your barnacles I am," I answer.
"Tell me, where did you learn to sail?"
I flash a cocky smile and pull a faded photo out of my pocket. You look at the
sailor standing on the bow of a schooner. "That's my great-grandpa. He sailed
Cape Horn. Sailing is in my blood. I got saltwater in my veins."
"Your great-grandpa taught you how to sail?"
"Of course not. He died before I was born."
"Then who taught you to sail?"
I produce a leather-bound book and boast, "I read the manual."
"You read a book on sailing?"
"More than that. I took a course at the community college. I can tell you the
difference between fore and aft, and I can show you the stern and the bow. I can
tie a square knot. You ought to see me hoist a mast."
"You mean, `hoist a sail'?"
"Whatever. We even went on a field trip, and I met a real captain. I shook his
hand! Come on, you want to sail?"
"Honestly, Max, I don't think you are a sailor."
"You want the proof? You want the real proof? Take a look, matey, I've got a
gen-u-ine tattoo." I roll up my sleeve revealing a mermaid sitting on an anchor.
"Watch how she jumps when I flex."
You aren't impressed. "That's all the proof you have?"
"What else do I need? I've got the pedigree. I've got the book. And I've got the
tattoo. All aboard!"
Chances are you'd stay on shore. Even a landlubber knows it takes more than a
family tree, a night course, and ink-stained skin to be seaworthy. You wouldn't
trust a fellow like me to sail your boat, and Paul wouldn't trust a fellow like
me to navigate the church....
Let's go back to my sailing invitation. I know I said you probably wouldn't go,
but let's pretend that you aren't as smart as you look, and you accept and board
the boat.
You begin to worry when you notice that I lift the sail only a few inches on the
mast. You think it even stranger that I position myself behind the partially
raised sail and begin to blow.
"Why don't you raise the sail?" You ask.
"Because I can't blow on the whole thing," I pant. "Let the wind blow it," you
urge.
"Oh, I can't do that. I'm sailing this boat by myself."
Those are the words of a legalist, huffing and puffing to push his vessel to
heaven. (Ever wonder why so many religious folk seem out of breath?)
With time we drift out to sea, and a powerful storm hits. Rain splatters on the
deck, and the little vessel bounces on the waves. "I'm going to set the anchor!"
I yell. You're relieved that I at least know where the anchor is, but then you
are stunned at where I put it.
First, I take the anchor and set it up near the bow. "That should steady the
boat!" I shout. But, of course, it doesn't. Next I carry the anchor to the stem.
"Now we are secure!" But the bouncing continues. I hang the anchor on the mast,
but it doesn't help. Finally, in fear and frustration, you take the anchor and
throw it out to the deep and scream, "Don't you know you have to anchor to
something other than yourself!"
A legalist doesn't know that. He anchors only to himself. His security comes
from what he does; his lineage, his law, and his tattoo. When the storm blows
the legalist casts his anchor on his own works. He will save himself. After all,
isn't he in the right group? Doesn't he have the right law? And hasn't he passed
through the right initiation? (Ever wonder why so many religious people have
such stormy lives?)
Here is the point: Salvation is God's business.
In the Grip of Grace
copyright [Word Publishing, 1996] Max Lucado, p. 43, 44, 51,52.
Used by permission.
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