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Max Lucado explains grace this way in his book In The Grip of Grace pages xii-xiii:


Surely God is impressed with my garments, I often thought. Occasionally I strutted into his presence so he could compliment the self-tailored wear. He never spoke. His silence must mean admiration, I convinced myself. But then my wardrobe began to suffer. The fabric of my trousers grew thin. My best works started coming unstitched. I began leaving more undone than done, and what little I did was nothing to boast about. No problem, I thought. I'll work harder. But working harder was a problem. There was ahole in my coat of convictions. My resolve was threadbare. A cold wind cut into my chest. I reached up to pull my hat down firmly, and the brim ripped off in my hands. Over a period of a few months, my wardrobe of self-righteousness completely unraveled. I went from tailored gentlemen's apparel to beggar's rags. Fearful that God might be angry at my tattered suit, I did my best to stitch it together and cover my mistakes. But the cloth was so worn. And the wind was so icy. I gave up. I went back to God. (Where else could I go?) On a wintry Thursday afternoon, I stepped into his presence, not for applause, but for warmth. My prayer was feeble. "I feel naked." "You are. And you have been for a long time." What he did next I’ll never forget. "I have something to give you," he said. He gently removed the remaining threads and then picked up a robe, a regal robe, the clothing of his goodness. He wrapped it around my shoulders. His words to me were tender. "My son, you are now clothed with Christ" (See Gal. 3:27).

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