I hate the sound of the word sin. It is sharp and biting, its abruptness leaving no space for excuses or escape. It penetrates and condemns, the very sound of it like an arrow slicing the air and then piercing deep into the flesh. All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. The wages of sin is death.
Grace is soft and round, slow and soothing. It slides off the tongue smoothly, the final sound dissolving into silence, so that the word itself seems to linger in the air, comforting, upholding. For it is by grace you have been saved. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you. Sometimes, when I read the word grace, I hear it in a thick Scottish accent. I picture my hand in the weathered grip of an old Scottish pastor, imagine the sparkle in his warm eyes as he says: Grace to you, lassie, grace to you.
I like the sound of grace, but I can’t escape the reality of sin. It creeps up everywhere, boils up in fact from the deep places of my own heart.