The pants were cut from the cloth of my good works, sturdy fabric of deeds done
and projects completed. Some studies here, some sermons there. Many people
complimented my trousers, and I confess, I tended to hitch them up in public so
people would notice them.
The coat was equally impressive. It was woven together from my convictions. Each
day I dressed myself in deep feelings of religious fervor. My emotions were
quite strong.
So strong, in fact, that I was often asked to model my cloak of zeal in public
gatherings to inspire others. Of course I was happy to comply.
While there I'd also display my hat, a feathered cap of knowledge. Formed with
my own hands from the fabric of personal opinion, I wore it proudly.
Surely God is impressed with my garments, I often thought. Occasionally I
strutted into his presence so he could compliment the self-tailored wear. He
never spoke. His silence must mean admiration, I convinced myself.
But then my wardrobe began to suffer. The fabric of my trousers grew thin. My
best works started coming unstitched. I began leaving more undone than done, and
what little I did was nothing to boast about.
No problem, I thought. I'll work harder.
But working harder was a problem. There was a hole in my coat of convictions. My
resolve was threadbare. A cold wind cut into my chest. I reached up to pull my
hat down firmly, and the brim ripped off in my hands.
Over a period of a few months, my wardrobe of self-righteousness completely
unraveled. I went from tailored gentlemen's apparel to beggars' rags. Fearful
that God might be angry at my tattered suit, I did my best to stitch it together
and cover my mistakes. But the cloth was so worn. And the wind was so icy. I
gave up. I went back to God. (Where else could I go?)
On a wintry Thursday afternoon, I stepped into his presence, not for applause,
but for warmth. My prayer was feeble.
"I feel naked."
"You are. And you have been for a long time."
What he did next I'll never forget. "I have something to give you," he said. He
gently removed the remaining threads and then picked up a robe, a regal robe,
the clothing of his own goodness.
He wrapped it around my shoulders. His words to me were tender. "My son, you are
now clothed with Christ" (see Gal. 3:27).
Though I'd sung the hymn a thousand times, I finally understood it.
Dressed in his righteousness alone, faultless to stand before the throne.'
I have a hunch that some of you know what I'm talking about. You're wearing a
handmade wardrobe yourself. You've sewn your garments, and you're sporting your
religious deeds ... and, already, you've noticed a tear in the fabric. Before
you start stitching yourself together, I'd like to share some thoughts with you
on the greatest discovery of my life: the grace of God.
My strategy is for us to spend some time walking the mountains of Paul's letter
to the Romans. An epistle for the self-sufficient, Romans contrasts the plight
of people who choose to dress in selfmade garments with those who gladly accept
the robes of grace. Romans is the grandest treatise on grace ever written.
You'll find the air fresh and the view clear.
Martin Luther called Romans "the chief part of the New Testament and ... truly
the purest gospel." God used the book to change the lives (and the wardrobes) of
Luther, John Wesley, John Calvin, William Tyndale, Saint Augustine, and millions
of others. There is every reason to think he'll do the same for you.
In the Grip of Grace
copyright [Word Publishing, 1996] Max Lucado, p. xi-xiii.
Used by permission
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