In this model, grace becomes a reward for admitting how
unworthy we are. It is made available only because Jesus paid a price in our
place, satisfying divine justice. We are told that we do not deserve it, that
we are hopelessly sinful, and that only by clinging to the cross in faith can
we receive God’s mercy. This version of grace may seem generous, but it remains
transactional at its core—a divine exchange, dependent on a legal
framework of crime and punishment.
But what if grace is something far more profound than
forgiveness for wrongs? What if it is not rooted in our unworthiness but in our
true identity—our forgotten origin in the divine? What if grace is not a
rescue from wrath, but a reawakening to what has always been true: that
we are beloved, that we are one with God, and that our very being is saturated
with divine presence?
To reimagine grace is to step beyond the courtroom and into
the living heart of the cosmos. It is to realize that grace is not a response
to sin, but the foundational nature of reality itself. Grace is not God
changing His mind about us; it is God revealing that His mind has never
changed. We were never unloved. We were never truly separated. The veil of
shame and unworthiness was only ever in our perception.
In this reimagined view, grace is transformative, not
permissive. It does not merely pardon—it awakens. It is not the suspension of
judgment; it is the healing of illusion. Grace is the divine light shining into
the fog of forgetfulness, calling us back into alignment with our original
nature: children of the divine, carriers of the Logos, bearers of the image of
the All.
The early mystical Christians, especially those whose voices
resonate through the Gospel of Truth and Gospel of Mary, did not
see grace as a legal pardon, but as a liberating truth. The problem was never
guilt—it was ignorance. Sin was not rebellion, but error—a
forgetting of the divine source. In this context, grace is not God choosing to
overlook our sins; it is God restoring our vision, clearing away the fog
so we can see ourselves and each other rightly.
This is why Jesus speaks of knowing the truth and being set
free. This is why he forgives sins without requiring payment. This is why he
eats with outcasts, touches the untouchables, and welcomes the unworthy. His
grace is invasive, not reserved. It meets people where they are, without
condition. It transforms not through fear, but through recognition—recognition
of belovedness, of dignity, of eternal belonging.
The parable of the prodigal son illustrates this reimagined
grace with striking clarity. The son returns rehearsing a speech of
unworthiness. He expects judgment, perhaps servanthood. But the father
interrupts him with a kiss, a robe, and a feast. He never stopped being a son.
The father doesn’t say, “Because you repented, I now forgive you.” He says,
“You were dead and now you live. You were lost and now you are found.” This is
grace: not a reward, but a revelation.
In the older paradigm, grace is limited. It has boundaries:
theological, denominational, and often moral. But in the reimagined vision,
grace is limitless. It flows through all things, touches all people, and
transcends the distinctions we so often use to divide. It is poured out on all
flesh, as the prophet Joel foresaw and Pentecost affirmed. The Spirit is not
given to the deserving, but to all who breathe. Grace is not something God
withholds until we meet the conditions—it is the ever-present gift waiting
for us to open our eyes.
This redefinition of grace also changes how we understand
transformation. In legalistic systems, we are told to behave because God is
watching—or worse, because hell awaits. But in the path of grace,
transformation arises from love, not fear. When we see how deeply we are loved,
how intimately the divine indwells us, we begin to live differently. Not
because we are afraid, but because we are free. True grace liberates
the soul, breaks the chains of shame, and sets us on a path of joy.
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