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In this broken world, we have two options.

First, we can deny our complicity and blame others for messing up the world. In doing this, we put ourselves in the role of moral spectators, critics, or victims. In Jesus' parable of the two men praying in the temple, the religious leader says, "I thank you, God, that I am not a sinner like everyone else, especially like that tax collector over there! For I never cheat, I don't sin, I don't commit adultery, I fast twice a week, and I give you a tenth of my income." This is the path of self-deception.

The second option is to dare to believe that God is gracious and to admit our sin. In Jesus' parable, the tax collector does not even risk raising his eyes to heaven, but beats his chest and cries out, "O God, be merciful to me, for I am a sinner" (Luke 18:13). This is the path of hope, the journey of Lent that leads toward Easter.

We are sorely tempted to take the first option. I do sometimes. I am usually nice to my students, treat my colleagues fairly, deeply love those in my family, pay my taxes, provide psychological help to pastors in crisis, go to church and tithe. I don't steal, commit adultery, use illegal drugs, or swear. And I floss regularly. When I was younger, I would gladly sing, "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound" and then remain uncomfortably silent for the next six words. I was no wretch, that was for sure.

But when I look at myself honestly, I see my sin. I micromanage, consume more than my share of resources, and harbor bitterness from past losses. I hoard my time and resent others for intruding on it. I am vain and consumed with how others perceive me. I wrestle with my sexuality and have strayed away from Lisa, my wife, with my eyes and my heart. I have learned how to pretend to listen without really listening. I think more about being great than about being good. I act more spiritual than I am. I am a mess—broken in every way—and my only hope is in God's mercy.

I have been socialized in a therapeutic language that proclaims "I'm okay, you're okay." Our culture is fascinated with the cult of self-esteem, as if this is the path to self-acceptance and the ultimate experience of love. Many have become adept at polishing the steel of the defensive armor, but the inner self still longs for love more than self-love, for grace more than impression management, for authenticity more than admiration. Beneath the armor of our pride, we live as vulnerable men and women longing to be loved and known. Our hope is found in cautiously shedding the armor and clinging to the possibility of amazing grace.

In the parable of the prodigal son, who looked longingly at the pods he was feeding to pigs, Jesus says that "he finally came to his senses" (Luke 15:17).

We each have moments of coming to our senses. It may happen while sitting in a counselor's office, participating in a worship service, or praying quietly. Some people come to their senses while scooping pig slop; others are encompassed in the warm embrace of a lover. The moment may start as a gentle nudging, wisps of renewal coming as a gentle summer breeze. Or it may knock us over like a coastal hurricane. We might be alone or sitting in the midst of thousands. In every season and every place God keeps pursuing us, wooing us home, bringing us back to our senses.

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May 2004, Vol. 48, No. 5