I have many faults. Some are irritating, some are mean, some are selfish, all land under the general heading of pride. I wish that weren’t the case, but as they say, wishes ain’t horses. My faults and I are well acquainted. When I start to lose touch, one of them quickly pays me a visit, in order to maintain the relationship.
There are a few of the faults, with the grace of God, that have been away so long that we are now strangers. When I see the fault on someone else, I may not even recognize it at first glance. I might even remark on how ugly that fault is, on that person, over there. Another of my faults.
But the Holy Spirit is always on duty and reminds me that I used to own that one too. And I remember what it was like to live with that fault, the unpleasantness, the ignorance of its true effect, the chain that held it as habit. Then I realize what it must have looked like in me.
My fault quakes open to reveal a character of sin. Those moments bring either shame or plain-old-gratitude. Shame looks back and condemns. Gratitude looks forward and steeps in the gift of mercy. I can’t imagine worshipping a god unfamiliar with mercy. I’m too constant a patron of the concept.
Once again, I’m grateful for that which I cannot earn, cannot repay, and cannot fully appreciate on this side.