A Lion for Grace

It was one year ago today.

A beloved man and new-found friend passed from this blip on the radar to life everlasting. Michael Spencer, dad, teacher, husband and a lion when it came to the grace of God. And even though he only had what would have been the first of several books published (Mere Churchianity, 2010), I’ve never read more words from the pen of such a gifted and gospel-rich writer. His blog, of international acclaim, had thousands upon thousands of us habitual readers.

When Michael wrote, you knew he had something to say. Hot air wasn’t his gig, he didn’t have the stomach for blowing smoke. He wrote out of the context of what he lived. Although he glibly opened each of his weekly podcasts (which ran for roughly 3 years), “…from his reserved seats high above the evangelical circus”, Michael wasn’t a bleacher creature (maybe at a Reds baseball game, which he looked forward to whenever he could get to Cinci to catch them).

No, Michael wasn’t on the sidelines talking a good game, he was a gritty player not afraid to get his jersey dirty.

Michael Spencer was engaged in the battle, he knew what the term “where the rubber hits the road” meant. Michael’s faith wasn’t the showcase kind, he lived it in all it’s pain and strain in the arena. He never struck me as the demonstrative type, let alone one to wear beliefs on his sleeve. He wasn’t about letting the rest of us know all the strides in cleaning up his behavior he’d taken for God (he wrote in the post I cite below, “Getting better? Quite true. I’m getting better at knowing what a wretched wreck I really amount to, and it’s shut me up and sat me down”).

Simply stated, Michael was the type to call it like he saw it. And how he saw it meant not making much of himself, never caught him bragging. But sharing the good news about the man we call Jesus, the man we call God—now that was Michael’s thing, he didn’t shy away from those opportunities.

Michael’s writings varied in terms of content. One morning he’d write about the challenges facing Episcopalians and later that afternoon he’d tee off on the latest “Christian” song that was about as “Christian” as the Budweiser frogs. But one thing remained the same in all I read, one common denominator topic to topic, rant to rant, discussion to discussion and blog post to blog post.

Michael hung his hat on the grace of God and wanted everyone he wrote for to experience just what that meant. He was a promoter, proponent and preacher of raw grace.  Grace that saves us from ourselves. Grace that needs no assistance from us. Grace that is free for the asking. Grace that frees the most wicked among us from the horror of a life of darkness. Grace that changes the way we relate to one another and defines the way God relates to us.

In honor of Michael’s life, (now more alive than ever), I wanted to pass along a clip he shared in a post he wrote one year before his passing (When I Am Weak: Why we must embrace our brokenness and never be good Christians). It’s taken from physician Richard Selzer’s book,  Mortal Lessons (Touchstone Books, 1987):

“I stand by the bed where the young woman lies… her face, postoperative… her mouth twisted in palsy… clownish. A tiny twig of the facial nerve, one of the muscles of her mouth, has been severed. She will be that way from now on. I had followed with religious fervor the curve of her flesh, I promise you that. Nevertheless, to remove the tumor in her cheek, I had cut this little nerve. Her young husband is in the room. He stands on the opposite side of the bed, and together they seem to be in a world all their own in the evening lamplight… isolated from me… private.

“Who are they? I ask myself… he and this wry mouth I have made, who gaze at and touch each other so generously. The young woman speaks. “Will my mouth always be like this?” she asks. “Yes,” I say, “it will. It is because the nerve was cut.” She nods and is silent. But the young man smiles. “I like it,” he says, “it’s kind of cute.” All at once I know who he is. I understand, and I lower my gaze. One is not bold in an encounter with the divine. Unmindful, he bends to kiss her crooked mouth, and I am so close I can see how he twists his own lips to accommodate to hers… to show her that their kiss still works.”

Michael continued, “This is who Jesus has always been. And if you think you are getting to be a great kisser or are looking desirable, I feel sorry for you. He wraps himself around our hurts, our brokenness and our ugly, ever-present sin. Those of you who want to draw big, dark lines between my humanity and my sin, go right ahead, but I’m not joining you. It’s all ME. And I need Jesus so much to love me like I really am: brokenness, memories, wounds, sins, addictions, lies, death, fear… all of it. Take all of it, Lord Jesus. If I don’t present this broken, messed up person to Jesus, my faith is dishonest, and my understanding of it will become a way of continuing the ruse and pretense of being ‘good.’”

Well said Imonk, as always. Your writing lives on as do you. Looking forward to getting a copy of your next book when we finally get to sit down for a brew.

There was only one of you and will never be another.

See you soon.