Sinners VS Saints

I grew up in a Christian tradition that taught me to take sin seriously. I am grateful for that. I learned that I was a sinner saved by grace, completely dependent upon Christ rather than my own goodness. I still believe that. But somewhere along the way, I wonder if I learned to make "sinner" not merely a description of my need for grace, but the defining feature of my identity.

I'm standing in front of a mirror one day trying to see the truth about myself. I pick up a pair of glasses that I have worn ever since I can remember, and I look in the mirror. Wearing these glasses, I see myself as a sinner saved by grace. I'm so thankful and humbled and appreciative that the God of the universe would look down at me, choose to love me in spite of all my shortcomings, and even find ways to use me. I'm happy. I feel loved and special. What a gift He offers me.

But then as I reach midlife, I'm introduced to a different pair of glasses. They feel uncomfortable and a little awkward, but I begin trying them on occasionally. Through these lenses, I see myself as a saint who sometimes sins. This is a new reflection that I'm not used to seeing, and although I struggle to identify what really looks different about myself, I realize something IS different. So, I take off the second pair of glasses, put them down, and pick up the first pair—the ones that are more comfortable—the ones that tell me I'm a sinner saved by grace. I very carefully study myself in the mirror and try to figure out what I am really seeing.

I see someone whose head is bowed low every time she is confronted with one of her failings. In fact, she seems to look for them most of the time. Wow, she spends a lot of time staring at the ground. I also see someone who easily and readily lifts her head up to God whenever she is reminded of the price He paid for her and how much it proves His love for her. I see someone who earnestly wants her Father to be proud of her. She desires to serve Him with everything she has. I doubt anyone ever told her she had to earn God's approval. In fact, I'm sure she was taught the opposite. But somehow, that was the message her heart absorbed. If she could just get all those sins and shortcomings under control... This cycle of focusing downward and occasionally being reminded to look up repeats itself over and over again. Humility is important to her, sometimes to the point of being a bragging right (isn't that ironic). She is intimately familiar with her struggles because that's where so much of her attention lies. She desperately wants to see pride in her Father’s eyes. As I study her more intently, I try to see what drives her. She would never admit it, but somewhere deep inside, she seems determined to make herself less costly to God—as though becoming better could somehow lighten the weight of what Christ had to bear for her. Sometimes, the guilt overwhelms her. As I recognize how sincerely she wants to please God and how much responsibility she believes she must carry, I start to feel sad for her.

With these subtle differences now running around in my consciousness, I take off that familiar pair of glasses, pick up the newer pair, and put them on again. One of the first things I notice through the lens of a saint who sometimes sins is that this version of Ramona does not have her head bowed low. Could that mean she is not humble enough? No, she still seems willing to see how she sins and where she falls short, but she doesn't live with her face turned toward the ground. Her faults are no longer the most important thing she knows about herself. Instead, she seems to be learning to see herself through what Christ says is true about her. Sin is still present, but it has moved from the center of her identity to something that is inconsistent with it. She is no longer trying to become worthy of love; she is learning to live as someone who already is. She laughs more easily with others and at herself. She lives with her attention turned outward and upward. She's full of life; she is full of energy; she is full of joy.

Because of that fullness of life, she can more easily fall to her knees and worship the God Who made her, redeemed her, and continues to remake her. Her life is no longer defined by an “OR” dichotomy; instead, she is learning to occupy that paradoxical space within “AND.” She is a saint who still sins, flawed AND fully loved. Secure in an identity her failures cannot take away, she finds it easier, not harder, to admit when she has done wrong. Her sin no longer tells her who she is; instead, it reveals where her actions are inconsistent with who God says she is and who He is still making her to be. She can look to her Father rather than hide from Him, learning to live not as a daughter trying to earn His delight but as a daughter already loved.

Regardless of which pair of lenses she is wearing, the woman in the mirror has not changed. She is still the same person, created by a loving God. What changes is the way she sees herself—and therefore the way she moves through the world. As the newer glasses become more comfortable, she finds herself reaching for them more often. Through these lenses, she can see more clearly the new creation that is both already present and still unfolding.

And then I realize I have spent enough time studying the woman in the mirror. I once viewed myself primarily through the lens of what Christ had to save me from. I am learning to view myself through the lens of what Christ has saved me for—and who He says I now am. Perhaps these new lenses were never meant to keep me standing at the mirror anyway. Perhaps they were meant to help me see clearly enough to turn around and live.

*Credit for the "sinner saved by grace VS saint who sometimes sins" idea belongs to John Lynch, Bruce McNicol, and Bill Thrall who introduced the concept in their book The Cure (2011) on page 38.