A Word of Grace

She didn’t intend for this to happen.

Catherine O’Leary was just a poor Irish immigrant milking her cow in the barn.

Nobody knows for sure – in the end it was speculation.

Some folks think it was a group of men gambling. Others accused Daniel “Pegleg” Sullivan. He was the first to say anything about it and some insisted that he caused it while trying to steal milk in the barn.

The most common account though centers on Mrs. O’Leary and her cow.

Just as she was finishing her milking, the cow kicked over the lantern.

It was around 9:00 PM on Sunday evening, October 8, 1871, at 137 DeKoven Street.

The shed next to Mrs. O’Leary’s barn was the first building to go up. Three days later, on early Tuesday morning, October 10, the thick smoke finally began to clear.

The city had been devastated.

The Great Fire of 1871 had destroyed more than four square miles of Chicago, Illinois. More than 100,000 people were homeless. Another 300 were dead, casualties of the horrific blaze.

The conflagration had engulfed more than 2,000 acres of the city, destroyed more than 73 miles of roads, 120 miles of sidewalks, 2,000 lampposts, 17,500 buildings and $222 million in property – about one third of the city’s total valuation.

The wind, drought and dry timbers in Chicago had conspired to make this one of deadliest and most destructive fires in American history.

It all started when a cow kicked over a small lantern in a barn.

The anguished residents of Chicago were reminded of what man learned when he first discovered fire: it is a humble servant but a fearful master.

Fire warms, comforts, enlightens and guides. Out of control, it kills and destroys.

Words are compared to fire in the Bible, especially in the Book of James. The brother of Jesus was blunt in much of what he wrote in his epistle. This includes what he wrote about “the tongue”.

The forthright James can think of no better metaphor for human speech than fire.

The tongue may a small member of the body but “behold, how great a matter a little fire kindleth,” he writes (James 3:5, KJV). Mrs. O’Leary would have vouched for that.

Just like an obscure lantern in a barn, words may start small enough but carried along by the winds of slander and exaggeration, the embers of maliciousness fall on the dry wood of envy and gossip. Soon they become a howling blaze of destruction.

It may not be what anyone intended but it gets out of control.

“In the beginning was the Word,” John writes in the prologue of his gospel (John 1:1).

Words have great power – for good and for evil. “Death and life are in the power of the tongue,” wrote the wise man of Proverbs (Proverbs 18:21, KJV).

Thomas Jefferson helped to forge a new nation with his eloquence in the Declaration of Independence. Of Winston Churchill’s stirring orations, President Kennedy said:

“In the dark days and darker nights when England stood alone – and most men save Englishmen despaired of England’s life – he mobilized the English language and sent it into battle.”

But in the mouth of an evil man words are “a burning fire” (Proverbs 16:27).

While Churchill galvanized England, Adolph Hitler used his fiery demagoguery to fuel the passions of hate and lead his nation into self-destruction and world war.

Sticks and stones may break our bones but words can also hurt us.

They can be beautiful or ugly. They can wound or heal. Words can build us up or tear us down. Words can unify or divide; give us hope or cause despair. Like fire, words can offer warmth and comfort or they can consume and destroy a life.

Jesus tells us that our words don’t just determine our character – they reveal it.

“For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks,” he explains (Matthew 12:34, NKJV).

“A good person produces good words from a good heart, and an evil person produces evil words from an evil heart” (Matthew 12:35, NLT).

That’s simple enough – cause and effect.

Words matter – tremendously. They change lives, families, churches, nations and the world.

Sometimes in an instant.

When he uses analogies like taming a horse and sailing a ship, James has this one thing in mind: control.

You and I must control what we say – and how we say it.

The stakes are high, the dangers real.

“It only takes a spark,” James warns us, “to set off a forest fire. A careless or wrongly placed word out of your mouth can do that. By our speech we can ruin the world, turn harmony into chaos, throw mud on a reputation, send the whole world up in smoke and go up in smoke with it, smoke right from the pit of hell” (James 3: 5-6, The Message).

Out of control, our words can be “the very world of iniquity … set on fire by hell” (James 3:6, NKJV).

May this be our prayer:

“Set a guard over my mouth, LORD; keep watch over the door of my lips” (Psalm 141:3, NIV).

Let’s harness the flame.

To a boy of three the world’s a wonder.

Wrapped in mystery, gilded with discovery and glistening with delight, every step is an adventure.

I was reminded of this joyful innocence when I went for an Easter afternoon walk in a park with my two grandsons.

Finley, two and making a remarkable recovery from his leukemia to the point where it’s hard to believe he’s still got it – or ever had it – decided to sit down on the sidewalk and summarily remove his shoes and socks.

Grampy gently put them back on – thankful that this only happened once and nothing else came off.

Soon a little voice shouted behind me. I turned to see Finley’s older brother Jackson running with his arm held out.

A big grin crossed his handsome face.

“Grampy, take these. I want to give them to Mommy.”

He opened his little hand.

There was a loose clump of daisies. Some of the petals had fallen off and several of the stems were bent.

It was a pretty sorry bouquet.

“Jackson, these are beautiful!” I told him. “Mommy will be so excited to get them!”

I held onto to the flowers as if they were prize-winning marigolds. I knew his mom would be happy, thank him profusely and give him a big hug. She’d tell him how wonderful these haggard-looking daises were.

And for that moment little Jackson would be on cloud nine, so proud that he had done this extraordinary thing for his mother and given her this precious gift.

When I had emergency surgery a year ago, Jackson and his older sister Ava made get-well cards for me. Jackson’s had random indecipherable lines scrawled all over it. Ava’s had a note inside:

“What did they do to you? I want to see you after you get home.”

The cards still sit on my desk – symbols of something wonderfully and beautifully indescribable.

I don’t love the cards. I love the little people who loved me enough to do that for me, though they hardly knew how. That’s why I can’t part with those simple, awkwardly scrawled, little messages.

I accept the frailties because I know the heart. I know and understand the pure intention and I’m moved by the desire.

Jackson’s daisies may never have made it into a vase but they entered a mother’s soul.

Anyone who has ever loved a child knows exactly what I’m talking about.

Trinkets and scribbles become priceless emblems of an affection that cannot be defined – a tenderness that will never be rejected.

This is how God sees us. It’s how he knows us. It’s how he loves us.

He loves us in spite of ourselves, not because of ourselves. He loves and accepts us in our weakness not in our strength; in our ignorance not in our knowledge. Just like a little child, we can’t bring much to God. He knows that and loves us just the same.

This is the profundity of God’s grace.

This is the incalculable dimension of his love.

If we as parents love our kids that much imagine how much more our heavenly Father loves us.

The prophet Isaiah writes of God’s tender-hearted care – of his divine sensitivity:

“A bruised reed shall he not break, and the smoking flax shall he not quench: he shall bring forth judgment unto truth” (Isaiah 42:3, KJV).

“He will not crush the weakest reed or put out a flickering candle. He will bring justice to all who have been wronged” (NLT).

The life that is bruised in heartache, sin and defeat will not be broken by the God who knows and cares. The soul that is just barely flickering in the cold despair of the lonely night God will never snuff out.

A man or woman may be down. With God they are never out.

The stems of Jackson’s daisies may have been bent, the petals falling off, but his mom readily accepted them – and gently embraced the boy who had done all he could.

She would get other gifts – and nicer flowers – in the years to come. But for now this was more than enough to make her heart dance with joy to the rhythms of her love.

“The Lord is compassionate and merciful,” David wrote, “slow to get angry and filled with unfailing love. He will not constantly accuse us, nor remain angry forever” (Psalm 103: 8-9, NLT).

David would have known this. More than once, as did Moses, the apostles and great saints through the ages, the shepherd king revealed his altogether too human frailty. And so he could tell us:

“The Lord is like a father to his children, tender and compassionate to those who fear him” (vs. 13).

Why does God treat us so patiently and with such compassion and forgiveness?

“For he knows how weak we are; he remembers we are only dust” (vs. 14).

To God we are like a three – year old bringing him crumpled daisies.

The poet Whittier put it well:

“All sin and wrong, Compassion which forgives
To the uttermost, and Justice whose clear eyes
Through lapse and failure look to the intent,
And judge our frailty by the life we meant.”

This is God’s love.

He accepts our bent daisies. To him they are more than enough.

We fail.

We sin.

We all miss the mark.

Whether it’s by a lot or a little makes no difference. The glory of God is a very high standard and there’s not one of us who hasn’t fallen short of it.

We disappoint others. We disappoint ourselves. We disappoint God.

Yet no failure must ever be final.

No sin must ever be fatal.

A man called Peter could tell us.

It would have been bad enough that evening for this disciple. But he typically was the one who spoke up, and that only made it worse. Jesus had just warned him: “Simon, Simon, behold, Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift you as wheat” (Luke 22:31, KJV).

Your might expect Peter to have cautiously pondered that spiritual advisory, coming as it did from his Lord. But then he was, after all, Peter.

“Lord,” Peter insisted, “I am ready to go to prison with you, and even die with you.” [22:33, NLT].

All of us pledge enthusiastic loyalty at the outset – and we’re always sincere in the moment. Devotion comes easy until it’s put to the test. Courage means nothing until it’s called for. At the time he spoke those words, Peter meant them.

We’re always ready to march – before we actually have to; before we see the enemy staring us down.

What Jesus then told Peter – perhaps in the presence of the other disciples – stunned him to silence.

“Peter, let me tell you something. Before the rooster crows tomorrow morning, you will deny three times that you even know me.” [22:34, NLT].

As the ominous evening wore on, Peter’s loyalty began to unravel and the courage he had so passionately professed evaporated into the night mist.

First, he couldn’t even stay awake through Jesus’ agony in the Garden of Gethsemane. While Jesus wept, Peter slept.

As his Lord – the One for whom Peter would be willing to die – was led away by Roman guards, “Peter followed at a distance.” [Luke 22:54, emphasis added].

And then came the expletive-laced denials.

Luke tells us something that the other gospel writers omit. After Peter insisted – for the third time – that he didn’t know who Jesus was, Luke records:

“At that moment the Lord turned and looked at Peter.”[22:61, NLT].

We don’t know how Luke was aware of this startling detail – except that Peter must have told him. Peter remembered that look. How could he ever forget those eyes, so sad yet so kind? Was it not a look of understanding and compassion? Surely, Jesus didn’t scowl at Peter. It could not have been a look of condemnation or anger. It was, perhaps, the brief look of a broken heart.

However Jesus looked at Peter in that instant, the impact was immediate.

“Suddenly, the Lord’s words flashed through Peter’s mind” [vs.61, NLT].

“And Peter remembered the word of the Lord” [KJV].

It cut Peter’s conscience to the marrow.

Luke says that he “left the courtyard, weeping bitterly.”[vs. 62, NLT].

Peter disappears into his shame and disgrace and his incredible guilt. Yes, “Peter remembered.” That’s all he could do. He remembered the courage he had when it didn’t count. And the courage he lost when it did. He remembered how his lofty allegiance melted in a crucible of unimaginable disloyalty.

Most of all, Peter remembered the look. How could Jesus ever forgive him? How could Jesus ever look at Peter – again?

Luke tells us that the buzz following the resurrection was that “The Lord has really risen!”

How did they know?

“He has appeared to Peter” [Luke 24: 34, NLT]. Yes, Peter!

Mark says that the young man at Jesus’ empty tomb commanded the women who had come to anoint Jesus’ body to “go, tell his disciples and Peter” that Jesus had risen. [Mark 16: 7].

“…and Peter…” Don’t forget Peter.

Peter, whose greatest days were still ahead. Peter, who would strengthen, encourage and lead the first Christian church. Peter, who would yet die for Christ. Yes, Peter, who was forgiven and still loved by the Savior he had denied knowing.

You will search in vain throughout scripture for a greater testament to the love and forgiveness of our Lord Jesus than those two simple words, “and Peter.”

They are full of meaning. In them is the glory and redemptive power of the Gospel. Here is the greatness of God’s heart. The resurrected Christ went out of his way to single Peter out – and to include him in the mighty breadth of his extraordinary grace.

For every one of us who has ever stumbled and fallen – who has ever been tortured by a painful regret and a guilty remembrance – he has done the same.

Jesus has reached out and included you and me by name.

He has forgiven us – and asked us to forgive ourselves.

It has been said that “we need to be loved the most when we deserve it the least. Only God can fulfill this need. Only God can provide a love so deep it saves from the depths.”

Peter could tell us that.

He knew.

Chris Bires, 41, was on his way to work.

He walked this street in downtown Chicago every day, Monday thru Friday. It was routinely uneventful.

Until that day.

When Chris spotted a man playing his saxophone on the street and the empty can next to him, he decided he’d do a good deed. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out all his coins and emptied them into the can. The bearded young saxophonist smiled at the clean-shaven executive and thanked him.

When he got to work, Chris discovered that he was missing his wedding ring. The ring fit a little loose and he had been planning to have it re-sized. He must have somehow accidently handed it over to the street musician when he gave him his money. His heart sunk. Chris raced back to where the saxophonist had been but he was gone.

As he walked back to his office, Chris wondered how he would explain this to his wife. And then he thought, “If only I hadn’t given that guy my money”. Chris ruefully sneered to himself. “I guess it’s like they say, no good deed goes unpunished.”

Weeks went by.

Then one day, walking to work, Chris was anxiously intercepted by a smiling middle-aged woman. She reached into her handbag and pulled something out. When she opened her hand to Chris, there was his lost ring.

Chris couldn’t believe it.

Bonita Franks, a panhandler, had seen Chris return that day telling someone about the man with the saxophone and his lost ring. She remembered it when she later spotted the sax player. And she took it upon herself to get the ring back, as only a street- savvy panhandler could do.

Bonita didn’t know if she’d ever see Chris Bires on that crowded city street again but she vowed to watch and when she did, she couldn’t wait to return his lost treasure. And there, on that busy Chicago street, surely surrounded by all manner of greed, apathy and selfish striving, two unlikely people hugged, brought together by their kindness and generosity.

We’ve all been tempted to feel that in this world, sooner or later, idealism gets brutally mugged; that good deeds are unrequited and, as often as not, punished. Our age breeds cynicism and contempt and the headlines blare it.

We shake our heads. “That figures. They should have known better.”

God, faith and the Bible go boldly against this rough and hardened grain. They beckon us to a higher standard, a softer heart and a more hopeful disposition.

There is an ancient Hebrew saying found in the Old Testament: “Cast your bread upon the waters, for after many days you will find it again” (Ecclesiastes 11:1-2, NIV).

What does this mean?

Give generously, with no thought to your own interests and, no matter what may happen in the meanwhile, your kindness will not go unnoticed or unrewarded. The blessing may be immediate or it may be delayed but it will never be abandoned or overlooked by a God who sees all and cares deeply.

How do we know this?

Because God will be a debtor to no one. We cannot out-give him. God is the ultimate Giver. He has given us His only Son and our greatest gift, eternal life. Daily God blesses us beyond all measure in so many ways we fail to count or recall. As the poet wrote, “he giveth and giveth and giveth again.” God is unbelievably and extravagantly generous.

He gave all this to us when we had nothing, could do nothing and were nothing.

We cannot pay God back.

This is the glory of our salvation – and its chief stumbling block for so many. We feel we must earn that which we can only accept. There can be no grace without God’s giving; nor can there be grace without our open arms and empty hands.

“In my hand no price I bring, simply to Thy cross I cling”.

In a world and culture that’s all about taking and getting, everything about Christianity involves giving. As Jesus prepared to send out the disciples to perform all manner of good deeds, He reminded them:

“Freely you have received, freely give” (Matthew 10:9, NKJV). Their receiving was the basis of their giving.

So is ours.

“Give”, Jesus tells us, “and it will be given to you: good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over will be put into your bosom. For with the same measure you use, it will be measured back to you” (Luke 6:38, NKJV).

“Give away your life; you’ll find life given back, but not merely given back – given back with bonus and blessing. Giving, not getting, is the way. Generosity begets generosity” (Luke 6:38, The Message).

In these fractured and coarsened times how important that we remember our Savior’s teaching.

The poet Edwin Markham expressed this spiritual truth when he wrote:

“There is a destiny which makes us brothers; none goes his way alone. All that we send into the lives of others comes back into our own.”

Chris Bires and Bonita Franks would smile, fist-bump and say, “Back at ya!”

Through the dark woods the little boy ran.

As fast as his skinny legs would take him he ran. Through the gullies and up the hills; across the streams and over the fields he breathlessly scurried on.

His heart beat faster and faster. Fear raced through him like a freight train. He dared only once to glance back at the giant vicious predator. The bear was closing on the lad, his growls of hunger growing louder as he pursued his tiny prey.

The boy finally reached the place of no return –and no escape.

He was cornered.

The little boy closed his eyes tight. The bear leaped on him from behind and gave a menacing final growl.

Then just as suddenly, the bear released the little boy from his powerful grasp. The boy squirmed out and jumped to his feet and turned to face the bear. The boy giggled and ran into the bear’s strong limbs.

“I love you Daddy!” he gleefully exclaimed.

Hugging him tight, the dad smiled and whispered, “I love you too, son.” Taking his little hand in his, the father walked his son out of the bedroom.

Game over.

How comforting to know that the menacing bear you imagine pursuing you is really your loving father. Your unfounded fear melts away in the warm embrace of the one who would never harm you because he loves you more than you’ll ever know.

After all, he’s your father.

When Francis Thompson first published his iconic poem, The Hound of Heaven, many readers were at first startled at the metaphor of God as a relentlessly pursuing animal. But when studied and understood, the comparison pulsates with a passionate beauty. The poem is the story of God’s determined persistence in the face of our stubborn and foolish resistance. We try to run and hide, but we can’t. God chases us “down the nights and down the days … down the arches of the years …”

We continually flee “from this tremendous Lover”, Thompson writes. Until, in time and circumstance, God corners us with his love. And we surrender, not into the grip of a ravenous hound, but into the arms of a compassionate and merciful God, who loved us all along.

After all, He’s our Father.

When Jesus first addressed the Almighty Creator of the universe, shrouded in sovereign, inscrutable mystery, as “Our Father”, the Jews were unaccustomed to such Deistic intimacy. Nor were the gods of other religions any more approachable.

People perceived a menacing bear, a hungry hound, perhaps, but not “Our Father.”

Still, Jesus pressed the analogy.

“You fathers,” Jesus said, “if your children ask for a fish, do you give them a snake instead? Or if they ask for an egg, do you give them a scorpion? Of course not! So if you sinful people know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him?” (Luke 11:11-13, NLT, emphasis added).

We all want to be good parents. Most of us believe we are, whatever else we may be. Is not God our Father capable of being so much more to those who commit themselves to his care?

That’s the point Jesus is making, not only in his Sermon on the Mount, but throughout his teaching and his stories – throughout his brief life on this earth: God is our merciful and loving Father. Yes, he will punish us, he will correct us, he will test us and he will teach us. But the one thing he will never do is hate us.

Why then do we so often fear him and flee from him? Why are we tempted in our sorrow and pain and suffering to see God as a cruel, vindictive or, at best, indifferent Sovereign?

God loves you and me perfectly and John tells us that “there no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear.” (I John 4:18, NKJV).

John wraps up our relationship with God into the arms of the Divine loving nature:

“We have come to know and have believed the love which God has for us. God is love, and the one who abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him.” (I John 4:16, NASB, emphasis added).

This is much more than a lovely esoteric concept; it is a life-altering reality for the one who believes.

The Bible is nothing more – and nothing less – than the story of our Father’s abiding presence, his faithful provision and his unfailing protection. The essence of its panoramic display – cover to cover- is the Father’s unchanging, unconditional and endless love.

CS Lewis, in The Chronicles of Narnia, consistently portrays the lion Aslan – the Christ figure – as neither tame nor safe but always good.

I don’t know why God should love me. I truly don’t. But I know he does, despite my occasional misgivings. It is his nature to love me. And as Paul reminded Timothy: “he cannot deny who he is.” (II Timothy 2:13, NLT).

After all, he is my Father.

“God is love.” This is the summation of his nature.

In this central, undeniable and incontrovertible truth is our hope – both now and forever.