There, but for grace, I go.

One day after school, my little brother, Tyler, came tearing through the kitchen headed straight towards my mom.  He slammed down his backpack, looked her square in the face and yelled with every ounce of his little second-grade being,

“Do you know what Dustin means!?”

Perplexed, my mom said, “...no.”

“Brave warrior! And do you know what Tyler means?”

Still perplexed and now a bit skeptical she again replied, “...no.”

“Layer of tiles! It means a layer of tiles!”

Apparently, there had been a project at his school in which everyone researched the meanings of their names and Tyler was less than thrilled with his discovery.

That was the night I found out my name, Alexandra, meant “defender of mankind” and I never let that “layer of tiles” forget it.

Sometime after that memorable episode in the kitchen, I bought one of those little, laminated cards with Alexandra “defender of mankind” written on it. I think I got it from Cracker Barrel. It seems like something one would purchase at Cracker Barrel.  That little card found its place as a bookmarker in my teen study Bible for quite some kind. I figured Alexandra, defender of mankind, was a name of which to be proud. Mankind was lucky to have a defender like me.

In all actuality, however, I have a better chance living up to the name of Tyler than Alexandra.  Unless, of course, “defender of mankind” is really translated out as “defender and tolerator of the parts of mankind which are likable”. That’s much more fitting for me.

I love people with all my heart. I really do, but, goodness, do I despise and reject people from the same wicked heart.  I have this ongoing joke that I have the spiritual gift of mercy, but only in reservation for those whom I deem worthy.  Yeah… that’s mercy, right?  Great defender, huh?

The contrast of the wickedness of my heart against the absurdity of the Gospel is that even in my depravity, Christ died for me.  God chose me.  He does not withhold his mercy from me nor am I worthy of mercy outside of his redemption.  In his infinite sovereignty, He has chosen me to redeem.  He has given me a new name, a new identity.

Ephesians tells me before Christ I donned the titles of blind (1:18), dead (2:1), follower of the world (2:2), and child of wrath (2:3).  My debt of sin can only be reconciled with death and this is just.  Outside of Christ, I am deservingly a blind, dead follower of the world and child of wrath.

However, before the foundations of the world, I was chosen.  I was predestined. I was elected. I have been blessed in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places (1:3). I am holy and blameless (1:4) and adopted as a daughter (1:5). I am redeemed and forgiven (1:7). I am lavished in the riches of his grace in all wisdom and insight (1:8).  I am sealed with the promise of the Holy Spirit (1:13), thus, nothing can separate me from his love.  I am alive (2:5), seated in the heavenly places (2:6).  I am his workmanship and created to walk in good works (2:10).  

I look at this list, which would only expand with more scripture, and I think of that laminated card with the pretty script and pastel pinks- “Defender of mankind”.  I cast aside the name, the card, the prideful assumption that I have something of eternal substance to offer through my existence.  I turn and stare into the depths of my new identity in Christ. The one that has nothing to do with me.

There is no way to defend the decision of my savior.  If not for his grace, I would be living for death as so many others.  In my flesh, this inventory could be adorned as laurels upon my head, but through the enlightened eyes of my heart, I am drawn to my knees, humbled and broken.  Humility is a far fall from atop my mountain of vanity, so I land hard and not without scars.  I am merely a Jacob, chosen before I sinned my first sin or carried out my first “good deed”.  And the question hangs thick in my soul… why me?  And my head reels with images of souls… why not them?  And again the eyes of my heart are enlightened and brought back to the glory of God, the sovereignty of God.  It is not for me to know, but to glorify.  And what do I do with this knowledge of grace?  What do I do with this undeserved salvation?  I withhold mercy from whom I deem unworthy.  I criticize others as seems appropriate to me.  I assert energy for my gain, efforts, or agendas.  I reserve time for what benefits me.  I question God’s design, direction, and will.  I am a clod of earth supposing to gain recognition for the work of the gardener. I am a grain of sand believing the waves to be breaking in submission to me. I am a stroke of paint identifying as a masterpiece.  Foolish, I am so foolish. I walk in the haughty arrogance in an identity that I did absolutely nothing to obtain.

The fall from my mountain is swift,  painful, redemptive and regrettably, cyclical, belayed back up by the enemy himself. On my knees, humbled and broken, I beg for the sentiments of John Bradford to be my own. Upon witnessing criminals march towards execution, he states, “There, but for the grace of God, I go”.  Those criminals fates had been sealed, judgments finalized and punishment carried out.  But daily I gaze into the eyes of criminals, like me, whose debt may still be paid as mine, a gift.  Yet I hold this bondage-breaking truth to myself, the answer to the ailment of the soul, kept.

And this is my prayer, that the weight of salvation would be what holds me from advancing up the mountain of pride from which I shout praises of me.  Instead, may I see the glory of God through the redemption of my depravity by His work on the cross. From bent knees may I look into the eyes of my fellow criminals and see souls in need of a savior.  And may I be stirred in my soul to profess this exuberant gift to all who have ears to hear, looking into each criminal’s eyes and seeing my own.  No longer may I be limited to the confines of my name, but raise the banner of the Most High and His inexhaustible power.  May the mount of my arrogance be cast into the depths of the sea and the heaviness of my unworthiness yield a forever posture of reverence for the one who has chosen me. 

I am His and I know not why.