[The following is my version of a story other ministers have used over the past decades. I have no idea of the identity of the story’s original author. What follows is the version I crafted and told many years ago. I find it helpful and hopeful, especially in a time like ours when it’s easy to give up on humanity. Elsewhere I have written about the absolute necessity of repentance. This story is not intended to nullify that necessity. Grace must be received and allowed to do its transforming work to be effective. (Please read the blog articles entitled “The Last Judgment” Parts One and Two which deals with the relationship between grace, judgment, and repentance.) When it has been at its best, the Christian faith has always maintained that God’s grace is greater than our sin, despair, and stupidity. When I feel tempted to give up on myself or any other human being, I try to remember this story and realize that there is hope for all of us in God’s economy of amazing grace.]
A minister was asked to visit a woman in a correctional facility. Her crime was heinous. When the minister and woman met, there was instant hostility on the part of the prisoner—so much bitterness and anger—and as the minister perceived, so much guilt and hopelessness. His impression was that the woman had given up on herself, God, and the world. There was no good news for the likes of her. So, she said, “Don’t start preaching at me! And don’t offer me any of your religious crap! I don’t believe any of that stuff. I have no use for you or any of the dumb, hypocritical sheep that follow you.”
But the minister noticed that the woman was not storming out. She stayed and his experience had been that, if someone stayed after such a verbal barrage, at some level they were still searching for help. So, he said, “Okay, I won’t preach to you. But do you like stories?” The woman, staring at the floor with a look of boredom, did not reply. The pastor took this as a sign that he could risk telling his story.
A certain man died and went to the Pearly Gates. This man had done some horrible things in his life. He had been self-centered in ways that had hurt others. He was totally indifferent to the suffering of his fellow humans as well as the pain he had caused others, even those closest to him. In fact, when people read his obituary in the local newspaper, they could not think of a single thing this man had ever done to help another human being. But they could recount much of what he had done to make life miserable for countless victims.
When he arrived at the Pearly Gates, he was met by an auspicious delegation. Before him stood Abraham the father of Israel, David the great king, Peter the Rock of the church, and Luke the author of one of the four Gospels. Abraham said, “We’ve heard a lot about you. You have kept the heavenly scribes quite busy recording all your sins. I’ve taken a personal interest in your life. What has struck me the most has been the lack of trust on your part as well as the lies you have told to get ahead and to hedge your bets. How dare you come to this gate thinking you have any chance of entering Paradise!”
The man bowed his head low and said, “You’re right, Father Abraham. I have not been a man of faith. And because I have not been willing to trust, I have lied. But Father Abraham, perhaps you have forgotten. You were not always an example of faith. Do you remember the time when you did not trust God and lied about your beloved wife Sarah? Because you were afraid and wanted to get ahead in a foreign land, you told pharaoh that she was your sister, not your wife. You lied and let your wife be taken and used by another man because you could not trust your God. You were willing to forsake your wife and the promises of God for personal security and advancement.”
This time it was Father Abraham who bowed his head. The patriarch simply said, “I withdraw my objection.
King David stepped forward in all his royal glory and said, “Well, I have an objection—a serious objection. As king, it was my responsibility to maintain justice and see that people did right by one another. I too have watched your life. Because of your greed and ruthless ambition, you have been the source of so much suffering, so much pain, and so much violence. You have even hurt your own family committing adultery time and time again while neglecting your children and leaving them such a horrible example. If you had been brought before me when I was king of Israel, I would have judged you severely and cut you down like the dog you are!”
The man replied, “You are absolutely correct, your majesty. I have hurt others. I have been the source of much pain and suffering in this world. I have even done damage beyond repair to those closest and dearest to me. But if I may be so bold, I would remind your majesty that you, the one after God’s own heart and the apple of God’s eye, committed adultery and then killed the woman’s husband so that your sin would not be found out. Yes, your majesty, perhaps you have forgotten Bathsheba and Uriah. And you plotted the deaths of many others as you secured your position as king. And, with all due respect, your majesty, your own example as a husband and a father resulted in much grief among your own children. Do you remember the lovely Tamar, your daughter raped by your own son? Have you forgotten Absalom, your favorite child? And surely you know by now that your successor Solomon followed your example, ruthlessly securing his power by killing his own brother.”
King David no longer looked so regal and cocksure. He stepped back and said, “I withdraw my objection.”
Then Saint Peter, the prince of the apostles, came forward and said, “Well, you may get by with these Old Testament characters, but I’m here to tell you that with Jesus Christ we have different standards. You have no chance of entering these gates. Your whole life has been a lie. You were never a man upon whom anyone could depend. You have failed over and over again. And even though you have had ample opportunity, you do not even know Jesus or follow his example. How dare you presume that you might have even the remotest hope of joining the faithful in these heavenly realms!”
The man replied, “You too are correct, Saint Peter. I have been a miserable failure, totally untrustworthy. But you, the prince of the apostles, the Rock of the church, the one to whom the gates of heaven and hell have been entrusted—you too have failed, perhaps at a time when you were most needed. Have you forgotten, Peter, that last night when you could not even be trusted to stay awake while the one you call Lord sweated in agony in the Garden of Gethsemane? And have you forgotten that three times you denied even knowing Jesus? ‘I swear to God, I don’t even know the man.’ Do you recall those words and how Jesus looked into your eyes the third time you denied him?”
With tears of shame and regret streaming down his face, Peter also stepped back and said, “I withdraw my objection. And Lord, be merciful to me, a sinner.”
Finally, it was Luke’s turn. This Gospel writer assumed he had an advantage over the other three. The Bible said nothing about his life that would impugn his character. This wicked man could not defend himself by accusing Luke as he had accused the other three men. Luke would make him realize his total worthlessness. So, Luke said, “You are a sly, shrewd man. You have turned the spotlight away from your own evil life to focus on the faults and mistakes of others. That may have worked with them, but it will cut no mustard with me. I know these men. They are good people. You have no right to compare them with your miserable life. The bottom line is that you are lost—hopelessly, irretrievably lost. We have no place for you here. Leave and never present yourself again before heaven’s gate!”
The man knew when he had been bested in an argument. He had no answer for this Gospel writer, and so he turned to face his judgment while the others turned to reenter paradise. But suddenly a thought came to the man, and he said, “You are right, Luke. I am lost. But perhaps you have forgotten. You wrote about me in your Gospel. I am the one sheep out of a hundred the Good Shepherd went out to find, risking the other ninety-nine. I am the younger brother who came home not to condemnation but to a banquet; not to a reprimand but to an embrace; not to ridicule but to compassion. I am the prodigal son who is trying to come home.”
Luke, now instructed by his own words written so long ago, said, “I too withdraw my objection.
As the minister finished his story, the woman, in tears and with a quiver in her voice, said, “It’s just a story, isn’t it? No more than as story?” “Yes,” the minister said. “But perhaps it can become your story.”
Whether we are Abraham, David, Peter, Luke, the worthless man, or the imprisoned woman, by God’s grace it can become our story. In fact, it already is our story if we will but embrace it. Grace piled upon grace. The older I become and think back on my life, the more I realize my need for such grace. I think that as we age and are honest with ourselves, the pretense, hypocrisy, and selfishness of our lives all become more apparent. As I said in the introduction, such grace must be followed by our willingness to change. I believe that this possibility of change is always available to each and every person (both in this life and the next dimension). If I depend on such unconditional love and mercy, then it would be the height of presumption for me to begrudge such grace for others—even for those who seem so worthless and evil according to my value system. As Paul says, God’s grace is greater than our sin. In other words, I trust that in the end, love wins.
