3 Grace: The Gift of a Courteous God
Grace: the gift of a courteous God
When I was young, I used to love reading fairy stories. I still have some of the books that so enthralled me back in the late 1950s, as I began to develop a fondness for inhabiting imaginary worlds. One story in particular stuck in my mind. It was about a king who wished to marry his daughter to her most eligible suitor. There was no shortage of men determined to win the princess’s love and the king’s approval, despite having to fight dragons and giants along the way. The moral of the story was clear: love is based on achievement. Not a very romantic idea, you might think, but one that lies at the heart of Western culture. You don’t get anything for nothing.
This philosophy can find its way into the life of faith. Some Christians think and act as if God’s favour has to be earned. It’s as if God is some mildly corrupt public official who needs to be bribed to get something done. Or a monarch surrounded by courtiers, and in order to gain access to the king you need to get the support of one of the courtiers and persuade him to plead your case. Yet no matter how natural such ways of thinking may be, they do not fit with that of the New Testament. It refers to the Christian gospel as the ‘good news of God’s grace’ (Acts 20.24), and in this chapter we will explore what this word ‘grace’ might mean, and how it challenges the common-sense idea of salvation as something we are asked to earn through achievement.
‘Grace is favour, the free and undeserved help that God gives us to respond to his call to become children of God, adoptive sons, partakers of the divine nature and of eternal life.’1 This helpful definition emphasizes that salvation is not something gained by merit but something bestowed by a generous and gracious God. God gives us gifts – including that of the Holy Spirit, who in turn brings spiritual gifts that deepen our faith and commitment (1 Corinthians 12.7–11).
For many of us, the idea of favour just doesn’t fit with the cultural values we experience around us. If I want someone to do something for me, I’ll have to do something for him. If we want to ingratiate ourselves with God, we’ll have to make ourselves holy and do lots of good works. It’s a natural way of thinking, deeply embedded in what scholars call ‘folk-religion’. In order for God to love us, we have to make ourselves lovable first.
However, as we saw when we were thinking about the doctrine of the Trinity, God is very good at not fitting into our categories or behaving according to our expectations! A living truth, which is too great for us to see fully, cannot but sweep away our preconceptions. The doctrine of grace is one area where divine reality and human expectations collide!
One of the great themes of the Old Testament is that God loved the people of Israel not because they were great, but because God was loving. As the history of Israel makes embarrassingly clear, Israel kept getting things wrong and messing things up. Yet God still loved her, as a parent loves a child.
The story of the exodus of Israel from Egypt and Israel’s eventual entry into the Promised Land is a wonderful and complex narrative of divine grace and human response. God saw that the people were suffering in Egypt. They cried out for deliverance. And what happened? God raised up Moses and led them out of Egypt. As they journeyed towards the Promised Land, Israel was given the Ten Commandments. Why? So that the people knew how to express and live out their faith in the God who had brought them out of Egypt.
But notice what did not happen. God did not give Israel the Ten Commandments and wait until the people had fallen into line with the demands of these laws before acting to deliver them. Deliverance was not a reward for Israel having agreed to do what God said, but a great demonstration of grace and love on God’s part, to which Israel responded by pledging obedience to God.
It is natural for us to think of salvation in commercial terms. If you want something, you pay for it or do something to earn it. Yet the core meaning of grace is ‘without cost’. God gives us what we could never afford to buy or hope to achieve. But that’s not all. What we are given is a transforming gift. Suppose you are ill. The symptoms of this illness include self-centredness and an inability to do good. Then someone tells you there is a cure. It’s expensive but it works, and as a favour he buys it for you. Now here’s the point. Suppose you take this cure. What will happen? You will change.
God loves us as we are but does not leave us that way. God’s gift to us is something that changes us into what our deepest instincts and longings tell us we are meant to be. This is one of the great themes of the Christian faith, expressed especially well in some of the psalms, which both lament the human sinful condition and long for its transformation. ‘Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me’ (Psalm 51.10).
We can think of grace in a number of ways. One of the most helpful is to look on it as a personal quality – graciousness (encompassing kindness, courtesy and compassion) – as this invites us to focus on personal relationships and the way we behave towards others. Indeed, many would argue that grace is better illustrated through stories than evaluated by theoretical analysis. A friend of mine had a casual and unplanned conversation with the evangelist Billy Graham some years ago and was deeply moved by the experience. ‘He made me feel like I was the most important person at that moment. He really listened to me.’ Part of being gracious is being attentive to an individual and valuing who he or she is, whatever that person’s ‘status’ happens to be in the world.
We see this quality of graciousness in the Gospel accounts of encounters with Jesus of Nazareth. The fourth chapter of John’s Gospel tells of a meeting between Jesus and a Samaritan woman. The full significance of this may be missed by modern readers though it is hinted at in the passage itself (see John 4.9, 27). Jesus sat down and talked with a Samaritan woman at a time when Samaritans were detested and excluded from Jewish society – regarded as untouchables. (That is why the parable of the good Samaritan is so powerful and challenging: someone who contemporary Jewish society regarded as an outcast fulfilled the requirements of the Old Testament law when its official Jewish representatives conspicuously failed to do so (Luke 10.30 –37).) Furthermore, the crude patriarchy of the culture of the time meant that it was considered inappropriate for a man of standing to have a meeting with a woman. Widely seen as a source of temptation and sin, women were shunned by respectable males.
Yet Jesus spent time alone with this Samaritan woman, and a double prejudice – ethnic identity and gender – was thus confronted and overcome.
In this personal encounter, Jesus models the life of the coming kingdom, when those who have been reviled and excluded by the Jewish religious establishment will be welcomed in. ‘There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus’ (Galatians 3.28). Paul sets out the theoretical basis of this in his letters, but Jesus actually demonstrates it in his dealings with individuals.
Perhaps the most striking aspect of this encounter is the after-effect of the graciousness shown to the woman. At the start, she saw Jesus as a kindly thirsty man; later on, she recognized his extraordinary ability to meet her own deeper thirst for meaning and acceptance. She began by seeing Jesus as someone who, like her, was tired; gradually, she realized that he was the one who was able to refresh and renew others. After their meeting, she rushed back to her town to tell others of this remarkable person she had met (John 4.28 –29).
The passage makes a point that we too easily overlook. Graciousness is not simply uncritical acceptance of someone (who may well need to be challenged about his or her behaviour and attitudes). Christianity is about transforming people, not just being nice to them, and transformation can come through experiencing graciousness, as C. S. Lewis regularly demonstrates in the Chronicles of Narnia. The courteousness of Aslan, the noble lion of Narnia, causes the children to reappraise themselves and begin to see life in a new way. But perhaps the single best illustration of the transforming power of graciousness is the Gospel encounter between Jesus and Zacchaeus (Luke 19.1– 9).
Luke’s narrative makes clear that Zacchaeus is not well liked. A rich tax collector who has made his money by collaborating with the Roman imperial authorities, he has probably been inflating his demands for payment to accumulate even more on the side. Yet he is drawn to Jesus of Nazareth. We are not told why. Is it that he is longing for liberation from his entrapment to wealth? That he has not found his heart’s desire and senses that Jesus might be the answer? We simply don’t know. The narrative tells us nothing about his motives. Its focus is on the graciousness of Jesus and the impact this has on Zacchaeus. ‘Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today.’
Those hearing Jesus’ affirming words are shocked. Doesn’t he know that Zacchaeus is a tax collector? A notorious sinner? Someone to be avoided? Surely showing such graciousness condones collaboration and extortion! Yet it proves to be transformative. ‘Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much.’
A major theological principle is conveyed in this moving story. Salvation is grace, and ethics is gratitude. Having found acceptance with Jesus, Zacchaeus responds by expressing his new status through changed attitudes and actions. We ought to be challenged by this. Surely Zacchaeus should have repented before Jesus accepted him? Yet the narrative is quite clear: transformation is the consequence, not the precondition or cause, of acceptance in the sight of Jesus. Grace comes first, and is followed by obedience.
Adoption: gracious acceptance into a community
In Lord and Saviour: Jesus of Nazareth, we looked at a range of New Testament images of salvation. One image that we did not have space to discuss in that volume is of particular relevance to thinking about God’s grace. The image of adoption is used by Paul to express the distinction between believers as ‘sons of God’ and Jesus of Nazareth as ‘the Son of God’ (Romans 8.15, 8.23, 9.4; Galatians 4.5). The image is drawn from the sphere of Roman family law, with which Paul (and many of his readers) would have been familiar.2
Under this law, the head of a family ( paterfamilias) was free to adopt individuals – almost invariably males – from outside his natural family, and give them the legal status of adoption. This had three consequences for the adopted person. First, it meant that all his existing debts would be cancelled; second, he would be granted the same inheritance rights as the natural children; and third, he would take on the name of the adopting family and have the same social status as its other members. In ancient Rome, this third point was of no small importance, given the influence of leading Roman families.
It’s easy to see why Paul found this Roman legal procedure to be such a good analogy for the altered standing of believers. Through faith, believers come to have the same status as Jesus of Nazareth (although this does not imply we have the same divine nature – we can be ‘sons of God’ without being the ‘son of God’). We are adopted into the family of God, with all the benefits that this brings. Most importantly, Paul sees adoption as an act of grace, something that is wrought by the Holy Spirit working within us. Adoption is about the conferring of privileges – privileges that we do not deserve yet God graciously bestows upon us.
First, adoption involves the cancellation of debts. In the Roman context, an adopted son would often come from a poorer family, and might even have been sold into some form of slavery – typically as a ‘bondsman’, whereby he would have agreed to serve a household for a period of several years for a certain sum. The process of adoption involved the paterfamilias settling all debts, effectively liberating the son from his obligations by buying his freedom.
It’s easy to see the important point that Paul is making. In adopting us, God cancels our debts. Everything in our past that prevents us becoming ‘sons of God’ is dealt with. Debts are cancelled. Our freedom is secured. We are given a new status at two levels. First, because our past is set behind us. And second, because we share in the reputation and prestige of a noble family. That’s why Paul speaks about the ‘freedom of the glory of the children of God’ (Romans 8.21).
Second, adoption involves receiving inheritance rights. To be a member of the household of faith is to be an heir of God. Believers are thus ‘heirs of God’ and ‘joint heirs with Christ’ (Romans 8.17), in that we share in the same inheritance rights as Jesus. He suffered and was glorified, and this may be our expectation, too. All that Jesus has inherited from God will one day be ours as well. For Paul, this insight helps us cope with suffering. Jesus suffered before he was glorified; believers must expect to do the same.
Third, adoption into the family of God brings a new sense of belonging. We are now part of a new household and family, and we take on a new name that reflects our new identity. We all need to feel that we belong somewhere: social psychologists have demonstrated the necessity of a ‘secure base’, a community or group that gives people a sense of purpose and an awareness of being valued and loved by others. In human terms, we have the family unit; in Christian terms, we are adopted into the family of God. We can rest assured that we are valued within this family, and this gives us the self-confidence to work in and witness to the world.
This third aspect of adoption has become increasingly helpful in our generation, as fragmentation within Western culture leads many people to feel they do not belong anywhere. There is a pervasive sense of being lost, displaced, adrift, and a yearning to have somewhere to call home. To be adopted into the family of faith is to be welcomed into a grand household and to enjoy the change of status that adoption brings: we matter; we are wanted; we are valuable.
This insight lies behind a story told by Ambrose (339 – 97), a bishop of Milan during the time that Christianity was the official state religion of the Roman Empire. Ambrose’s story goes back to the Valerian persecution of 258, which decreed that all Christians who had been formally denounced were to be executed and their goods confiscated by the imperial treasury. After martyring Sixtus II, the pope of the time, the prefect of Rome tried to find where the churches had concealed their riches. He summoned Laurence, one of the deacons of Rome, and instructed him to return with the spoils within three days. In fact, Laurence came back with a small group of church members. These, he declared, were the true treasure of the Church. The prefect was not amused, and Laurence was executed shortly afterwards. Ambrose’s account of this incident makes a powerful theological point about the new status of believers, granted by grace.
For when the treasure of the Church was demanded from [Laurence], he promised that he would present them. On the following day he brought together the poor. When he was asked where the promised treasure was, he pointed to the poor, saying: ‘These are the treasure of the Church.’ And they really were treasures – those in whom Christ lives, in whom there is faith in Him. As the Apostle says: ‘we have this treasure in clay jars’ (2 Corinthians 4.7). What greater treasure has Christ than those in whom he declares that he lives?3
Being reassured that God really is gracious
One of my favourite theologians of the twentieth century – now widely regarded as one of the greatest of his age – was Thomas F. Torrance (1913 –2007). Torrance was born in China to Scottish missionary parents, and returned to Edinburgh to study theology. Near the end of his life, I wrote his biography4 and as a result spent a lot of time with him, hearing memories of his ministry and discussing the development of his ideas. One period of Torrance’s life was clearly of great importance to him: the several years he spent as a chaplain to a Scottish regiment during the Second World War, initially in the Middle East and then in Italy. A memory that stood out was a question raised by a young soldier whom he found lying on the ground, mortally wounded in battle. As Torrance offered what help he could, the soldier asked him whether God was ‘really like Jesus’. Torrance assured him that this was so. The young man died a few moments later.
Torrance told me that this episode had brought home to him how important it is to be able to reassure people that God may be fully known through Jesus of Nazareth. In The Christian Doctrine of God, he put it like this:
There is only the one God who has revealed himself in Jesus Christ in such a way that there is perfect consistency and fidelity between what he reveals of the Father and what the Father is in his unchangeable reality.5
We need not fear that God is ‘one thing in himself and another thing in Jesus Christ’, for in Jesus, ‘the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily’ (Colossians 2.9). There is no ‘dark inscrutable God’ hidden behind the gracious and loving face of Jesus of Nazareth.
Torrance took great comfort from this insight and talked about it at several of our meetings. However, it wasn’t until something happened to me a few years later that I really appreciated its importance. I had been attending a series of meetings in London to set up some lectures. There were only a few of us involved, including someone who was invariably polite and helpful, and after our second meeting I mentioned to a colleague how impressed I was with this person. My colleague looked me straight in the eye. ‘I don’t think you really know him. There’s something not quite right there.’ My colleague was correct. At the third meeting, someone said something that enraged this person. He began to scream and shout, and after telling us exactly what he thought of us he ran out of the room, slamming the door behind him. There was an embarrassed silence before we just got back to the business of arranging the lectures.
What this incident revealed was that there was a public face to this man and a private reality, which nobody was meant to see. And once we had glimpsed the darker side of his nature, we could never forget it. This was what he was really like. Up to that point we had been presented with a façade, shielding us from the unpleasantness that lay beneath. Many readers will have little difficulty recalling similar encounters.
God isn’t like this rather Jekyll and Hyde character, pretending to be nice and hoping we don’t discover the truth. No. The God we encounter in Jesus of Nazareth is both the true God and the truth about God. That’s why Torrance’s insight is so important. The gracious and loving God whom we see in the face of Jesus is not a consoling delusion that we have invented or a deception that is being imposed on us. Jesus shows us the fullness of God so that God’s character and nature can be definitively seen and known. He brings the Old Testament to fulfilment, not just in the sense of being the one to whom it points, but also in enabling us to understand it properly.
In the words of Augustine of Hippo, Jesus of Nazareth removes the veil that partially conceals the true meaning of the Old Testament. Paul – in speaking of those who continue to read the Old Testament law as a demand for obedience rather than a promise of redemption – writes, ‘A veil lies over their minds; but when one turns to the Lord, the veil is removed’ (2 Corinthians 3.15 –16). It is possible to read the Old Testament as a narrative of a tribal God who demands total obedience to a legalistic code. But as Paul and Augustine both realized, this is a false reading of the text. When read rightly, in the light of Christ, the Old Testament is revealed as a narrative of God’s promises of redemption, which are fulfilled in Jesus of Nazareth. So, although some may persist in regarding the Old Testament as a collection of totally unreasonable legal demands, Christians rightly see it as a promise of grace.
Martin Luther is one of many believers who discovered a gracious God after previously thinking of God as a taskmaster who set impossible tasks for people to fulfil. I began my career as a theologian by studying Luther’s theological development, and found it fascinating to track and understand his changing ideas.6 Towards the end of his life, Luther wrote about a spiritual crisis he went through in his 20s, sparked off by Paul’s declaration that the righteousness of God is revealed in the gospel (Romans 1.17).
Why would this verse cause a crisis? Because of the way that Luther interpreted it, as a demand for righteousness on the part of sinners as a precondition for being accepted by God. No righteousness, no salvation. Luther had a very low opinion of his own holiness and couldn’t see what hope was there for someone like him – trapped in sin, unable either to break free from its grip or to become a virtuous person. He became convinced that salvation was impossible – for himself, at least.
Then he began to realize that he had misunderstood what Paul meant. When Paul talked about God’s righteousness being revealed in the gospel, he was not speaking about a legalistic demand that God imposes on us but rather the righteousness that God graciously gives us, in order that we can be righteous before God. Luther’s understanding underwent a big change. No wonder he spoke of this passage as a wonderful new way of grasping what righteousness is!
A debate about grace: the Pelagian controversy
In Lord and Saviour: Jesus of Nazareth, we noted how Christian reflection on the best way of understanding the identity and significance of Jesus of Nazareth was sparked by the Arian controversy of the fourth century. A similar thing happened with Christian thinking about grace. In this case, a debate took place in the early fifth century between Augustine of Hippo, based in Roman North Africa, and Pelagius, a British ascetic who had settled in Rome. Pelagius was concerned about the lax morals he found within Roman Christianity, and attributed these partly to the ideas of Augustine.
Augustine was converted to Christianity in August 386. He was convinced that this was not a matter of his own choosing, and as he reflected on the apparent coincidences that led him to faith he became convinced that he discerned the grace of God preceding him at every point, nudging him towards the critical moment of conversion. Augustine frequently expresses his profound sense of being totally dependent on God. ‘My whole hope is only in your mercy. Give what you command, and command what you will.’ For Augustine, a sinful and fractured humanity desperately needed a gracious and loving God, just as a wounded and damaged patient needs the ministrations of a caring and competent physician.
Pelagius read Augustine’s Confessions in Rome in about 405. He was appalled when he came to: ‘Give what you command, and command what you will.’ These words seemed to strike at the heart of Pelagius’ attempts to reform Roman Christianity, suggesting that human beings were under no obligation to seek perfection.
Pelagius asserted that we are completely free in all our actions. We are not influenced by hidden forces, nor are we restricted by powers that lie beyond our control. We are the masters of our own destiny, and if we are told to stop sinning we can stop sinning: sin is something that we can and must resist. God has given us the Ten Commandments and the example of Jesus Christ, and it’s up to us to live according to them. As Pelagius saw it, any imperfection in human nature that might stop us acting morally would reflect badly on God. As God made us, it would be insulting to God, as well as to us, to suggest that we have some inbuilt fault. It would suggest that God didn’t create us particularly well.
Augustine, however, argued that the New Testament, especially the writings of Paul, seemed to be saying something rather different. For Augustine, Pelagius’ views on human nature were dangerously naïve and bore little relation to either the New Testament teaching or human experience. Augustine’s basic belief is that human nature, although created without any problems, is contaminated by sin as a result of the fall. In other words, we have a flaw that wasn’t there when God created us – an inherent bias towards acts of sinning that contaminates our lives from birth and dominates them thereafter.
Augustine develops an idea already found in Paul’s letters. The law is able to tell us what we ought to do, although it doesn’t actually help us do what is good. It can help us to name sin, although not actually to avoid it (Romans 7.7–20), in the way that knowing what a problem is doesn’t actually help us solve it. There is something about human nature that inclines it to do things it knows to be wrong. We need help from outside our own situation.
Augustine argues that we are trapped by sin and unable to break free from its power. Some mysterious fascinating force is attracting us like a magnet and we can only struggle ineffectually against it. If left on our own, we will just become more deeply embedded in our situation, like a truck stuck in mud. The more we spin our wheels, the further down we’ll go. We need someone to pull us out.
Or it might be helpful to think of our enthralment to sin as being in prison. The mere knowledge that you’re in jail isn’t enough to set you free, though. Someone has to get you out. She might blast the jail open, or she might just turn a key in the door lock – but either way, someone else needs to intervene if you are to gain your liberty.
Pelagius argues that we are not trapped in any situation. We are the masters of our own destiny. If we are told to stop sinning, we can stop sinning. Sin is something that we can and must resist. We can take charge of our lives, and achieve whatever goals we set ourselves. Pelagius, like the subject of William Ernest Henley’s poem ‘Invictus’, a great favourite with the Victorians, believed:
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
Pelagius gained many supporters at Rome who saw his reforms as sanctified common sense. What exactly was the problem with demanding moral improvement from people? Pelagius was offering a sophisticated vision of self-improvement with a strong spiritual core, based on the teaching and moral example of Jesus of Nazareth. For these people, Christianity was really a religion of self-help and self-improvement, with Jesus as an inspiring example rather than a transforming Saviour.
Augustine, on the other hand, held that the only way we are ever going to get free is by being realistic about our situation. Sin traps humanity within nature, allowing us freedom within this sphere of activity but preventing us from breaking free from it to encounter the living God. Through grace, God opens our eyes and ears and liberates us from the limitations of our natural condition so we can recognize and respond to his gracious call.
Augustine’s understanding of Christianity is dominated by the thought of the grace of God. Perhaps his favourite text is ‘Apart from me, you can do nothing’ (John 15.5). Christ’s death and resurrection break the power of sin and cancel its guilt. Christ is the second Adam, the one who came to restore us to fellowship with God and empower us to keep the law. As Augustine himself puts it,
Grace is not just knowledge of the divine law or our own nature or the forgiveness of sins. It is something which is given to us through our Lord Jesus Christ so that by it the law may be fulfilled, nature delivered and sin defeated.
The debate between Augustine and Pelagius is often revisited by Christians. On the one hand, Pelagius’ emphasis on the importance of trying to do our best is welcomed. On the other, Augustine’s emphasis on human frailty fits in far better with the New Testament’s stress on God’s graciousness towards us. For Augustine, human beings are damaged, wounded and seriously ill. There is no point in demanding that we improve ourselves when the essence of our condition is that we are trapped in our predicament. Pelagius seems to be in denial about the human situation. His naïve approach, although unquestionably well intentioned, could be compared to ordering a blind man to see things properly. Spiritual healing, not simply moral direction, is required.
We can appreciate that Augustine sees a frail and vulnerable humanity as dependent on a gracious God for its wellbeing and salvation. But is this a healthy outlook? In the final section of this chapter, we shall consider some concerns that have been raised about this view.
Grace and dependency: an unhealthy relationship?
The movement we call the Enlightenment (or Age of Reason) was critical of Augustine’s approach to human nature. Many of its writers argued that he was devaluing human abilities and quoted a famous aphorism of the pre-Socratic philosopher Protagoras: ‘Humanity is the measure of all things.’7 The Age of Reason presupposed the reliability of human moral judgement and standards of rationality.
Possibly things were rather simpler back in the eighteenth century. Nowadays, looking at the havoc caused by world wars and the immense suffering brought about by the inhumane ways in which we have treated one another, it seems much easier to believe that there is something wrong with us. The German philosopher Nietzsche argued that life is not governed by rational principles; rather, we have to accept that it is full of cruelty, injustice, uncertainty and absurdity. There are no absolute standards of good and evil that can be demonstrated by human reason.
Others, however, would argue that the real problem with Augustine’s approach is that it encourages an attitude of servile dependence on God. Nietzsche championed this criticism of faith. ‘Christianity has taken the side of everything weak and lowly,’ he declared. ‘It has made an ideal out of opposition to the instinct of strong life.’8 Instead of standing up for themselves and valuing strength and power, Christians celebrate weakness and dependence.
Now there is something in what Nietzsche is saying here. Some Christians probably do get locked into unhelpful patterns of dependency. But it doesn’t have to be this way. What the Christian idea of grace affirms is that God does not leave us alone to confront the challenges of life, but acts to free us from the power of sin and guilt throughout our Christian lives. At one point, Paul relates how he found himself in a situation of utter helplessness, in which he became acutely aware of his own weakness. He recalls how he took comfort from the Lord’s words, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness’ (2 Corinthians 12.9).
This Christian sense of dependence on a gracious God is best expressed in prayer. Pelagianism never really came to terms with the way in which prayer clearly points to a loving dependence on God, such as a child might show in holding on to its mother in a moment of need, distress, or danger. As Augustine realized, prayer means that we are not totally dependent on our own resources. Yes, we do our best – but then we let God do the rest. Prayer expresses a fundamental aspect of the Christian understanding of grace: when we have exhausted our own resources, we can draw on a strength that lies beyond us. As Augustine put it,
Christ is your salvation, so fix your mind on Christ. Accept his cup of salvation, for he heals all your diseases . . . Your life has been redeemed from corruption; there is no need to be afraid any more.9
Is this deluded nonsense? Surely not. It is simply a recognition of the limits of humanity and the grace of God. If you’re ill, you need a doctor. If your leg is broken, you need help in walking. Recognizing our frailty and sin does not in any way detract from our pursuit of virtue, or our attempt to follow the example of Jesus of Nazareth. Rather, it sets a proper context for both, reminding us that we cannot hope to achieve such goals in our own strength but need to rely on the strength and grace of God. We do our best and let God do the rest.
Augustine took the view that humanity was wounded and messed up, prone to make mistakes and get things wrong. That’s why he liked to compare the Church to a hospital – a community of people who are ill but under the care of a physician. We are recovering from trauma, wounds and abuse. Together, we can help one another regain confidence, as we are healed and renewed.
Augustine’s image of the Church as a hospital is worth thinking more about. In part, Augustine developed this idea through his reflections on the parable of the good Samaritan (Luke 10.25 –37). Augustine saw this parable as a powerful exploration of the human dilemma and the role of the Church in healing and renewing wounded human nature. For Augustine, the wounded man left on the road is a symbol of human nature. We are wounded, abandoned and unable to help ourselves. We need someone to help us and heal us. The good Samaritan himself is an image of Jesus, who comes to our assistance in an act of graciousness and kindness. He bandages our wounds, pouring on healing oil and wine.
Yet we need to remember that the parable does not end with the Samaritan coming to the aid of the wounded man. He entrusts the man to an innkeeper and leaves him under his care until he will return. For Augustine, the redemption that is achieved by Christ is accompanied by being entrusted to the care of a community. The community of faith was to be seen as an extension and continuation of the saving and healing work of Christ our Redeemer.
This naturally leads us to think more about the community of faith. What do the creeds have to say about the place of the Church in the Christian life?