I remember as a child forming a personal relationship with the alphabet on letter at a time. I had 26 flashcards, and one by one I’d memorize the name of the letter on each card. ABC formed the simple first triad, DEF the almost as simple second. G was the last letter of my last name, although for some reason it always reminded me of my father. Since the most dynamic and flash characters seemed crowded at the end, I’d work backwards at times from ZY and X – a triad so exotic its members rarely, I was told, appeared in words at all. As a memorization device for each letter presented itself, the seemingly infinite catalog of symbols grew smaller and more manageable, and began to collect meanings, my own invented meanings as well as those apparently shared by the rest of English speaking America.

Over the course of my learning, a pattern emerged. The names of the letters always resembled their sounds as they occurred in a word. The letter T was called T because it made a T sound, as in CAT or HAT. The letters Q and U almost always appeared together and made Q and U sounds as in QUIET and QUIT. But suddenly I encountered the problem of W.

This letter not only defied explanation, but it also presented myriad contradictions. Why was it called W? It made the sound wah, not the sound W. W wasn’t even a sound, it was a description of the way the letter looked. If we were going to call this one W, why not call it instead double v? Why not call it M upside down? For that matter why not call X two crossed lines, or O circle? W contradicted the pattern. Furthermore, it was the only letter which contradicted the pattern. Thus I found it impossible to remember.

As I stared at the flashcard W. I knew that a problem had arisen for which logic and reason provided no solution. Three choices presented themselves. I could rename W in an attempt to bring it more in line with the other letters. This was the pedantic option. I could initiate a lifelong boycott of W, and all words containing it, to protest the inconsistency. This was the rebellious option.

The third choice was the most practical, but also the most frightening. I could accept W, and change myself. I could alter my notion of the alphabet. After all, what value in there in relentless consistency. Isn’t the alphabet more interesting with one letter that refuses to conform to the pattern of the other 25? I could go on building words, and one day even sentences and paragraphs, using W as though it were just another letter, but all the time remembering its difference. An unfolding took place inside my body. I knew then the third choice was the road that lay ahead for me, and also I had some inkling of its consequences. I must become W.

Grace doesn’t fit the pattern. Never has, never will. I had to lead a bible study last night about grace, focusing on Ephesians 2:8 and 9. I’ve done this bible study dozens of times, but last night, let’s just say it bombed. To be honest, understanding, receiving, and living out of grace is a challenge. Nothing in the world is like it. It’s just like the letter W. As I think about grace, a problem arises for which logic and reason provided no solution. Three choices presents themselves. I can change the qualities of grace in an attempt to bring it more in line with other ways of life – a quasi blend of wage grace. This is the pedantic option. I can initiate a lifelong boycott of grace, to protest the inconsistency. This is the rebellious option.

The third choice is the most practical, but also the most frightening. I could accept grace, and change myself. I would alter my notion of God and the universe. I pray that you would accept grace, that an unfolding would take place inside your body. The third choice is the road that lays ahead of you, and you must understand the consequences of this option. Epic must become grace.