Many Christians—especially my fellow reformed evangelical Americans—think it must be really cool to live in the United Kingdom, if for no other reason than one’s promixity to the thousands of historic places that had great significance during and after the English Reformation. I can remember my first visit to Bunhill Fields Cemetery, the burial ground of John Owen, John Bunyan, Isaac Watts, George Fox, Joseph Hart and John Gill; and the emotions that swept over me as I approached the elaborate tomb of the Bedford tinker who graciously endured twelve years in prison and invested them in the soul-stirring book, The Pilgrim’s Progress.
But what about the sixty million people who live in this land who are strangers to God’s grace? Have you ever thought about their perception of Jesus Christ or Christianity when they enter those history-laden cemeteries, chapels, and cathedrals of Britain? What goes through their minds? Jeff Lucas, in his book, Grace Choices, opens our eyes to their world in these openings words from chapter one:
He stared down at me, his eyes wide and fixed. His thin lips were pressed tightly together, no hint of color anywhere—was this the white of purity, or the chalky mask of death? I peered through the flickering candlelight and tried to look deeper into those eyes. Was it my imagination, or did I just glimpse a softening, the slightest narrowing of those fixed eyelids, into something other than a glare? Did those pursed lips curl ever so slightly upwards? Perhaps not. His eyes were hollow, and his nose was long, and he stared down it like a judge about to pass sentence. Yet those eyes bored through me: he surely knew the worst; all my secrets. The blood on his brow was congealed, muddy brown rather than bright crimson: old blood, a dribble from a wound inflicted long ago, in another world, by other people.
He held his arms out to me: and for a moment, I felt a glimmer of hope. Was he beckoning me, inviting me to come closer into the warmth of an embrace? Or was he like a policeman signaling traffic to halt—holding his hands out to warn me to keep my distance? Back off, sinner boy, don’t cross the threshold. I watched him, conscious that others had sat right where I sat now for over a thousand years, and they had watched him too. Had they, like me, dared him to move? Had he ever smiled at them? What could stir him?
I decided to try a little provocation, bringing to my mind a swear word, and repeating it in my head, challenging him to react, as surely he would be able to read my profane thoughts. Still, like a big bland holy puppet, he stared down at me. Nothing.
I shivered but not from the cold; stood and grabbed my coat. Then I paused to cross myself quickly—more superstition than devotion. Eager to get out of there now, my hurried steps echoed down the nave. I fumbled for the big, iron door handle, and walked out into the welcome afternoon sun, leaving Jesus behind—or rather, the stained glass image of him that dominated the altar area. I left him marooned in the twilight that ruled in that musty old place. I didn’t want anything to do with him. He looked too much like a glowing prefect, a pompous moralist who could never be satisfied, no matter how good I might become. I ran more than walked to the gate, bolting it firmly behind me. I was glad to leave him back there in that half light, alone, and still staring. ((Jeff Lucas, Grace Choices (Milton Keynes, England: Authentic Media, 2004), pp. 3-4))
You can continue reading most of the first chapter to discover how God’s grace transformed this once-bleak caricature of Jesus into something real and powerful and life-changing in the author’s life.
While you might be tempted to think, “Oh, those poor uninformed souls! If they could only hear the good news of God’s grace, their whole attitude would change completely!” Not always. At least, not in the minds of many evangelical Christians I have met and talked with in the valleys of South Wales. While they would profess to know a living Savior, their lifeless expressions of dutiful worship seem more akin to the character Lucas portrays in the excerpt above; and they’re not really sure at all that God loves them and that he is for them, not against them.
I’m not suggesting that they take on a “happy-clappy, permanently-fixed smile, and exuberance” that is over the top and out of character for them. No. That would be dreadful, indeed! [I smile as I realize just how British some of my expressions are becoming.] But there’s a huge difference in knowing God’s grace—in theological abstract terms—and to be given permission to revel in that grace with the same degree of joy we find in other daily-life situations: like birthday parties, rugby matches, wedding receptions, reunions with friends and family, watching the sunset, and a million other pursuits that bring a smile to our faces and genuine happiness to our hearts. Once again, I’ll let Lucas shed some penetrating light on this dilemma:
How easily we make God into a monster or a bore in turn. How many have rejected a dull God, fearing that he might just be the spitting image of the frigid congregation that claims to know him. [ouch!] In a rigid understanding of holiness and transcendence, we have lost sight of the wonderful news that there is a Person at the heart of all things who is the very best, the highest example of nobility and self sacrifice, the epitome of patience, love and kindness—and the most saintly human is but a pale reflection of him. ((Lucas, p. 7))
