Some thoughts my wife and I were musing over, in our weekend/day getaway: Most folks are fairly familiar with the children's story, "The Emperor's New Clothes" by Hans Christian Andersen, and if not, here is but a brief snippet from that delightful story:
"Here it is your Highness, the result of our labour," the scoundrels said. "We have worked night and day but, at last, the most beautiful fabric in the world is ready for you. Look at the colors and feel how fine it is." Of course the Emperor did not see any colors and could not feel any cloth between his fingers. He panicked and felt like fainting. But luckily the throne was right behind him and he sat down. But when he realized that no one could know that he did not see the fabric, he felt better. Nobody could find out he was stupid and incompetent. And the Emperor didn't know that everybody else around him thought and did the very same thing."
For those in Christendom who are finding life/love apart from the machinery of the institution, the out-of-the-boxers, the free-rangers, the out-side-the-camp-campers, or whatever other name you might use, maybe there has never been more of a magical and mystical weaving of this new heavenly clothing made out of grace about which so many seem to be pontificating.
Here's what's been gnawing its way into the core of my being: maybe, unlike never before, there is a seemingly endless ability to pontificate on what grace is. By that I mean, so many being able to know about grace, but very few knowing what grace is, about!
Consequently, have we (like the emperor) covered ourselves with this "beautiful fabric" that has, in essence, no substance?