Grace us, dear Lord,
For Thy tender mercy’s sake.
Let not the sin of the first Adam
Become our perpetual mistake.
Grace us, dear Lord,
According to Thy loving-kindness.
Let the love of the second Adam
Heal what is broken;
Save us from our blindness.[1]

A man was driving down the road when his car broke down near a monastery. He knocked on the door and asked, “My car has broken down. May I stay the night?” The monks welcomed him, fed him, and even repaired his car. That night, as he tried to sleep, he heard a strange sound. In the morning, he asked about it. The monks replied, “We can’t tell you. You’re not a monk.”
Years later, his car broke down at the same monastery. Again, they welcomed him. Again, he heard the same strange sound. This time he said, “If the only way to learn what that sound is is to become a monk, then tell me how.” The monks said, “Count every blade of grass and every pebble in the field beyond these walls. When you know the number, you may become a monk.”
Twenty-five years later, he returned. “There are exactly 24,000,000 blades of grass and 411,000 pebbles.” “Congratulations,” they said. “You are now a monk. We will show you the sound.”
They led him to a wooden door. It was locked. He was given a key. Behind it stood a stone door. Then a jeweled door. Then doors of silver and gold. One by one, they handed him keys. Finally, they gave him the last key. He opened the final door and at last discovered the source of the mysterious sound. Would you like to know what it was?
I can’t tell you. You’re not a monk.

Lord, have mercy.
How often we are like that man, so determined to count the blades of grass and the pebbles in the field of our souls, so intent on unlocking door after door, that we forget the one thing needful: grace. The tragedy is this: we attempt to construct our own salvation. We do not merely want to guide our lives; we want to secure them. We are tempted to believe that if we analyze enough, discipline enough, control enough, we can save ourselves. But temptation always disguises destruction. We are tempted to pull fruit from the branch in order to understand it. We are tempted to break things apart in order to master them. This was the way of the first Adam in the garden. Reaching. Taking. Falling. This was the testing of the second Adam in the wilderness. Hungry. Pressured. Offered power.

Will you turn stones into bread?
Will you throw yourself down?
Will you bow and rule the kingdoms of the world?
But the tempter never offers nourishment, only broken teeth.
He never offers flight, only broken legs.
He never offers glory, only separation from the Father.
The first Adam grasped.
The second Adam trusted.
“Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.”

Some of you come this morning like that man with the broken-down car, stalled at the edge of holy ground. You are welcomed. Fed. Cared for. Yet there is still a strange sound within you. A restlessness.
You are told: Pray. Worship. Read Scripture. Receive the Sacrament. Serve. These are not empty things, they are true and sufficient means of grace. Yet even these can begin to feel like doors we must unlock, mysteries we must solve. Still, we wonder: What is the sound? I can tell you, because you believe.

It is not hidden behind a final door. It is not discovered after a lifetime of counting. It stands in plain view.
There is a cross. And there is a man upon it. His name is Jesus.
The Son of God.
The second Adam.
Everything good and pure flows from there.
Grace is not constructed, it is received.
Salvation is not mastered, it is given.
Mercy is not counted, it is poured out.
There is no need to continue the search.
“Grace us, dear Lord.”

[1] The Rev. Jon Roberts