That Saved A Wretch Like Me

It was the same spiritual classic we had sung a myriad of times. I belted out the last few words as it's familiar chords reverberated in my brain. I loved God, and church was almost always a pleasure. But for some reason, on this particular Sunday in this particular church, I actually listened to the words I was singing. Certainly I had seen them in print before, but I had never actually heard them. That was not the case today.
The song ended not to long after noon and our congregation was dismissed as it had been each preceding Sunday. I gathered my belongings and made my way towards the door, greeting many familiar faces on the way and wishing them a good day. Yet as I journeyed, I felt a resentment welling up inside of me. I did not know from where this came, for normally I left this place feeling revived and full for the week ahead. But not this day.
I hopped in my car and made my way home. Throughout the journey, I tried to squelch the feeling of resentment and insult with which I had been struggling. I thought of upcoming activities, of duties I had to perform, and even of the splendor of the spring season that was soon upon us. But nothing I did made that uneasy feeling submit. I was being poked by it, at first ever so subtly, but soon with a certain pointedness that demanded attention.
I arrived home and went about my business. I changed out of my Sunday attire and into clothes that were much more comfortable and allowed my form to flow freely. I prepared myself a sandwich, all the while having my ire raised over that which I could still not grasp. I sat down for lunch and raised my sandwich to my mouth, at which point I could no longer take the prodding.
"Fine," I muttered to myself as I slammed the sandwich back onto the plate. I was finished trying to push it aside, and knew what I had to confront. It was that song, that infernal song at the end of the service. From the moment the final note died until now, I had been choked with the feeling that those words were directed at me. It felt as though they were being used to repeatedly slap me in the face. They were the source of my indignation.
I stood up and walked intentionally towards my bookshelf. I scanned the books lined there until I found the one that held my tormenter. I yanked it from its perch and threw it down on the table. It had been some time since I touched this particular book, as the word "Hymnal" on the cover was shrouded in a layer of dust. Ignoring the obvious need to wipe it, I flung open the book and searched out that particular song.
Moments later I found my target. In typical hymnal script, bordered by musical chords that nobody but the actual musicians needed to see, were the words to that ancient rhyme "Amazing Grace". Those words that for some reason had so bothered me in service earlier were now staring me in the face, mocking and taunting me to take them in again.
I sat back down and began to read. As I went along, I became more and more enraged. I now knew why it was that I had this feeling deep inside of me. It was those words. They prodded at me, insulted me, and mocked me all the while knowing nothing about me.
"I know how to fix this," I said as I scanned the room. Finding what I was looking for, I snatched up a pencil and brought it to the page. "There need to be some changes here."
I started with the first stanza: Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me, I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see.
I started scribbling in the book. Grace cannot make a sound, I thought. How silly is that. And as for being lost, I might have been, but I found my way, I was not found. And I hardly ever remember being blind, but maybe that's a bit too literal for me. But I know for sure the guy who wrote this wasn't blind.
I continued to the second stanza: 'Twas Grace that taught my heart to fear, and Grace my fears relieved, How precious did that Grace appear, the hour I first believed.
I debated in my head again. Now this is getting ridiculous. Grace is going to make me fear and then take it away? That doesn't even make sense. And I doubt that I am going to see something so paradoxical as precious when I first believe. If anything I would flee from it.
I stopped after the third stanza: Through many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come, 'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far, and Grace will lead me home.
Well, I do agree that I have been through a lot, I thought. But I had to make it through a ton of that myself. Grace might lead me now, but it hardly has been there every time.
I scribbled and scribbled, crossing out certain words, underlining others, and circling still more. I engraved the paper with my thoughts, and when I was done I looked at my handiwork. There was a milieu of changes to that song that I had made, and I sat back, still unsatisfied.
That's when my eyes fixated on one word. On that word. The word that in my belly I knew was the crux of my pain. Wretch. I stared at it and it stared right back. It refused to relent, and insisted that it was right. But I knew better.
I was appalled. How dare they make us sing this in church? Are we all to acquiesce to the name calling that is in this simple song? Perhaps the author thought he was a wretch, and maybe everyone in my church considers themselves as such. For all I knew everyone who had ever sung this song looked at themselves in this light. But not me. I was many things, but I was not a wretch.
A wretch is an awful person. A miserable being. Contemptible. Hollow. Despicable. Enslaved to that which would corrupt the most wholesome soul. I would not call anyone this epithet, nor would I allow myself to be called the same. That was the point of my contention. That was the word I had finally heard after all those years of singing that song that brought my stomach into knots and unleashed a fury inside of me with which I was unfamiliar. If I was to be called such a thing from a centuries old jingle, then I was going to defend myself. I was going to defend myself with extreme prejudice.
I circled that word over and over again, digging deeper into the paper as I went. I began to think about the type of person that would call himself a wretch in a song, a song that unintentionally became one of the most famous in the Christian faith. What kind of person would insist himself such a monstrosity, then give all the credit for his change to the faceless duality of Grace?
I grabbed for my laptop and punched in the name of the author emblazoned under the song title. "John Newton," I whispered as I typed. As I read the entries on him, I found that this was most certainly not the guy who had an apple fall on his head.
As I perused the biographical data on this man I found that indeed he had times in his life where he could be considered an ultimately contemptible individual. He was engrossed in profanity, gambling, drinking, and most egregiously the slave trade.
But as I read further I found the seed of his conversion. In the middle of the night while on board a merchant ship off the coast of Ireland in the late 18th century, John Newton awoke to a horrific storm that ripped a hole open in the side of the ship. Water began to furiously pour in, and Newton was beside himself with fear. He was so overcome that he cried out to God to save him and the ship. Soon after, in what seemed to Newton to be a miracle, cargo within the ship found its way towards the hole and stuck there, plugging the gouge and allowing the ship to limp back to Britain. Newton attributed this to God - to Grace - and began earnestly studying and seeking the same.
"Luck," I blurted out as I closed the laptop. This Newton had based his entire conversion on a series of coincidental events. I was happy for him that he had come to God, but I realized this whole song, including the overuse of Grace and insistence on his own vileness, was based on a lucky break.
I finally took my pencil and drew a giant X through that contemptible word. I was going to have to find a replacement for it at a later time. It was imperative that I get my revisions to the pastor. If we were ever going to sing this song again, I was going to be heard on why it needed to be changed.
I stood up and walked to my office, searching out the pastor's email address. For the sake of the knot in my stomach, this could not wait any longer. I fumbled through some papers and notebooks, looking for that slip of paper where it was written. Finally I came across the church directory, and realized that I could find it in there. Relieved, I flipped open the book. But what I found was more than I could have expected.
On the inside cover, staring me back in the face, was a picture. It was a picture I had not seen in a long time, and how it got inside my church directory I do not know. The subject of the picture I knew well, and what it specifically captured is not important. Looking at it brought me great joy. But it also brought great pain. It was the epitome of paradoxical, showing me a time in my life of contentment and happiness but also reminding me of sorrow and pain.
But the picture was much more than a single remembrance. For as I gazed at it, my mind went wild. Within me was triggered a rush of memories, all seemingly insignificant or coincidental to the passing eye, but so much more than that. For in those memories, in those little things of life and major changes and adjustments, I saw a work there. In those things that guide us and make our path, I saw the Master's hand cultivating the road in front of me, even though many times I found myself in the midst of hardships, of toils, and of snares. As the film in my mind played, I saw that moment when I knew the power of God and trembled at the thought of how I was but an insignificant microbe to be squashed by His powerful hand, only to then realize that it was the same hand that would carry and comfort me the rest of my days. I saw in those moments of life how blind and lost I was, and how it was through the miracle of miracles that I had been found and made whole to see. And as the memories began to fade, I finally recognized that one day, happily, mercifully, this wretch would be led home.
Grace had made it's point. It was never my will that got me through the difficulties of life. It was His. I dropped the directory, and made my way back to the table. I sat down, pulled in the chair, and lifted my pencil once again. But this time I flipped it around, and brought the power of the eraser to bear on the page. Slowly I erased each blemish I had made, drinking in the unfettered words that now smiled at me across time. The knot in my stomach and the choke of anger were gone.
"This is just fine," I said to nobody in particular.