Meditate at Eight: Ponderings (4/10/26)
- 2 days ago
- 2 min read
After settling in at a friend's house in Indy last night, I went to bed watching some clips from Les Misérables (my favorite musical, which explains why the music is still running through my head this morning). But there's a "feel-good" moment in the play that feels almost too predictable.
Jean Valjean, newly released from prison, is taken in by a priest who shows him kindness after so many years without. The priest offers food served on the finest silver, a comfortable bed, and a sense of dignity that Valjean hasn’t felt in years. And then, in the middle of the night, Valjean steals the silver and runs.
It’s not subtle. It’s not complicated. In fact, it’s exactly what you’d expect. You knew it was going to happen the minute the priest started showing him the silver!
Except the story doesn’t end there.
When Valjean is caught and dragged back, the priest does something completely unnatural and unreasonable. He says the silver was a gift, and then adds more, giving Valjean a pair of candlesticks he'd missed in his rush to make his getaway.
Grace, apparently, has terrible accounting skills. Or better yet, grace refuses to keep score.
This is the part of the story where we get a little uncomfortable. We understand kindness. We appreciate fairness. But this? This feels excessive. A bit over the top. Something we wouldn't do if someone stole from us. At least that's the way I feel.
Which is why it lingers. Because, of course, Victor Hugo intentionally made the "victim" a priest, a man of God, who refused to be victimized but instead chose to model God's grace. And when we see it on screen, we recognize this is what God's grace looks like.
Not earned. Not measured. Given. Excessive. Over the top.
Scripture puts it this way: “Where sin increased, grace increased all the more.” (Romans 5:20). That doesn’t mean sin is ignored. It means grace is greater.
And, of course, the saga of the silver doesn't end there. Valjean is haunted by the priest's act of mercy. It stays with him, unsettles him, and, in the end, reshapes him. That single act of grace becomes the turning point of his entire life.
Maybe that’s how God's grace works. As a quiet presence that follows us. Nudges us. Refuses to let us remain who we were.
Lent is over, and we've celebrated the resurrection. Now what? It's tempting to move on quickly, to return to "normal" church, and to settle back into routine. But grace has a way of lingering longer than we expect.
Like a pair of candlesticks we didn’t earn. Like a mercy we can’t quite explain.
And maybe the invitation this week is simple: Let's not get into too big a rush. Sit for a while in God's grace. Let it continue its slow, subtle work of reshaping you.
Prayer: Gracious God, thank you for mercy I haven't earned and cannot repay. Let your grace stay with me, shape me, and gently change me. Teach me to live as one who has received far more than I deserve. Amen.
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