My life is a witness to vulgar grace–a grace that amazes as it offends. A grace that pays the eager beaver who works all day long the same wages as the grinning drunk who shows up a ten till five.
A grace that hikes up the robe and runs breakneck toward the prodigal reeking of sin and wraps him up and decides to throw a party no ifs, ands or buts.
A grace that raises bloodshot eyes to a dying theif’s request–“Please, remember me”–and assures him, “You bet!”
A grace that is the pleasure of the Father, fleshed out in the carpenter Messiah, Jesus the Christ, who left His Father’s side not for heaven’s sake but for our sakes, yours and mind.
This vulgar grace is indiscriminate compassion. It works without asking anything of us.
It’s not cheap. It’s free, and as such will always be a banana peel for the orthodox foot and a fairy tale for the grown-up sensibility.
Grace is sufficient even though we huff and puff with all our might to try to find something or someone it cannot cover.
Grace is enough. He is enough. Jesus is enough.