The Case for Grace Student Edition: A Journalist Explores the Evidence of Transformed Lives
144
The Case for Grace Student Edition: A Journalist Explores the Evidence of Transformed Lives
144eBook
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Overview
Grace. It’s talked about a lot from church pulpits and often serves as the climax of testimonies, but what does it really mean? Is it really as simple as praying for forgiveness, or there more to really receiving grace? And what about grace and forgiveness toward others—and toward yourself? In this young adult adaptation of New York Times bestselling author Lee Strobel’s The Case for Grace, your questions are explored and answered from all angles, using Lee’s personal story of struggling to find grace for himself, as well as interviews with a wide array of people who were radically changed by God’s grace alone.
The wild party that is engraved on Instagram, which you pray future employers never find. The comment your friend made about you that went way over the line. The guilt you still carry for a mistake you made three years ago. Those things don’t magically go away or become easily forgotten. So when you hear about Christian grace and forgiveness, and how it’s a prayer away, that can be a little hard to accept sometimes. Even if that clean-slate grace would be a great thing to have for yourself, or toward the people in your life.
The good news is, you’re not alone in your struggle to “get” grace. Inside this book is an exploration of the hows and whys behind God’s amazing grace, as well as revealing stories from people who experienced that gift in remarkable ways—including people who believed they’d been forgotten, murders convinced they weren’t worth forgiving, and Lee Strobel’s own account of searching for grace his entire life. Because grace is available and can change your life, if you just accept it.
The Case for Grace Student Edition:
- Presents real-life stories and experiences from a diverse group of people who have experienced incredible instances of grace firsthand
- Tackles questions teens and young adults thirteen and up often ask and encounter, so they can better understand what grace really is and how it applies to their own lives
- Unpacks the Bible’s teachings on grace and applies them to today’s world
- Can also be used in the classroom, in group studies, or as part of a religious studies or comparison class
- Pairs well with The Case for Christ Student Edition, The Case for a Creator Student Edition, The Case for Faith Student Edition, and The Case for Miracles Student Edition
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780310736592 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Zonderkidz |
| Publication date: | 02/24/2015 |
| Series: | Case for . Series for Students |
| Sold by: | HarperCollins Publishing |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 144 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
| Age Range: | 13 - 17 Years |
About the Author
Lee Strobel, former award-winning legal editor of the Chicago Tribune, is a New York Times bestselling author whose books have sold millions of copies worldwide. Lee earned a journalism degree at the University of Missouri and was awarded a Ford Foundation fellowship to study at Yale Law School, where he received a Master of Studies in Law degree. He was a journalist for fourteen years at the Chicago Tribune and other newspapers, winning Illinois’ top honors for investigative reporting (which he shared with a team he led) and public service journalism from United Press International. Lee also taught First Amendment Law at Roosevelt University. A former atheist, he served as a teaching pastor at three of America’s largest churches. Lee and his wife, Leslie, have been married for more than fifty years and live in Texas. Their daughter, Alison, and son, Kyle, are also authors. Website: www.leestrobel.com
Rob Suggs has been involved in three successful children's Bibles as writer, illustrator, or both. He and his wife, Gayle, have two children and live in Atlanta, Georgia.
Read an Excerpt
The Case for Grace Student Edition
By Lee Strobel, Jane Vogel
ZONDERVAN
Copyright © 2015 Lee StrobelAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-310-73657-8
CHAPTER 1
The Mistake
It wasn't until my mother was dying that she confirmed what years of therapy had only suggested to me. I was a mistake, at least in the eyes of my father.
My parents started with three children—first a girl, then two boys—and my dad threw himself into fatherhood. He coached his sons in Little League, led a Cub Scout troop, went on family vacations, and attended gymnastics meets and graduations.
Then after a big gap came the unexpected news that my mother was pregnant with me.
"Your dad was ... well, let's just say he was surprised," my mom told me. We had never discussed this topic before. But as long as she was telling me about our family's history, I wanted some answers.
"Surprised how?"
She paused. "Not in a good way," she said, her eyes empathetic.
"He was—what? Angry?"
"I don't want to say angry. Frustrated, yes. Upset by the circumstances. This just wasn't in his plans. And then I talked him into having another baby so you'd have a playmate." That would be my younger sister.
This made sense to me. I had told my therapist about my relationship with my father. My therapist had guessed that my unexpected arrival had messed up my dad's plans for his future.
Maybe my dad felt that he had earned a break after raising three kids. He was doing well financially. I'm sure he wanted to travel and enjoy more freedom. What my mother said made sense.
Our family lived in an upper-middle-class neighborhood northwest of Chicago. My dad worked hard to build his business. He provided everything we needed—and more—materially. He was a faithful husband. He had a good reputation. He was loyal to his friends.
Still, my relationship with him was always frosty. Maybe I needed more affirmation than the other kids; I don't know. But by the time I came along, there would be no Cub Scouts, no cheering at my Little League games, no watching my speech tournaments or attending my graduations. I can't think of a single in-depth conversation we ever had. I never heard the words I needed most.
I learned that the only way to get his attention was through achievement. So I worked for good grades. I was elected president of my school. I served as editor of the school newspaper. I even wrote a column for the community paper. But I don't remember any words of affection coming from my dad. Not one.
My parents were members of a Lutheran church. My dad was a lawyer, and he gave the church free legal advice. But he was generally on the golf course on Sunday mornings.
I remember one time when I was a kid when the whole family went to church together. After the service, my dad drove everyone home—but he forgot to bring me. I can still remember how scared I was.
It was an accidental mistake, of course. But it was hard for me not to see it as a picture of our relationship.
FATHERS AND FAITH
Once when I was about twelve years old, my dad and I clashed over something. I felt guilty and ashamed afterward. I promised myself to try to behave better. I would be more obedient. Somehow I would make myself more acceptable to my dad. I don't remember what caused our fight that evening, but what happened next is still vivid in my mind.
I dreamed I was making a sandwich in the kitchen. Suddenly a glowing angel appeared! He started telling me about how wonderful heaven is. I listened for a while, then I said matter-of-factly, "I'm going there," meaning, of course, at the end of my life.
The angel's reply stunned me. "How do you know?"
How do I know? What kind of question is that? "Well, uh, I've tried to be a good kid," I stammered. "I've tried to do what my parents say. I've tried to behave. I've been to church."
Said the angel: "That doesn't matter."
Now I was staggered. How could it not matter? What else could I do? I didn't know what to say.
The angel let me stew for a few moments. Then he said, "Someday, you'll understand." Then he was gone—and I woke up in a sweat. It's the only dream I remember from my childhood. Now and then throughout the years it would come to mind, but I would always shake it off. It was just a dream.
As I got older, I found myself getting more confused about spiritual matters. When I became a teenager, my parents insisted that I attend confirmation classes at the church. (That's what kids in my church had to do to become full members of the church.) "But I'm not sure I even believe that stuff," I told my dad. His response was stern: "Go. You can ask questions there."
The classes were all about memorizing the Lutheran catechism; questions were not particularly welcome. I actually ended up with more doubts than when I started. I stuck it out because when I was finally confirmed, I'd be allowed to decide for myself whether to keep going to church—and I knew what the answer would be.
Back then I had no idea that a young person's relationship with his father can make a big difference in his attitude toward God. I didn't know that many well-known atheists throughout history had felt abandoned or deeply disappointed with their dads. I didn't know that problems with your father can make you less likely to want to know a heavenly Father.
When I was older, I became friends with Josh McDowell. His father was a violent alcoholic. "I grew up believing fathers hurt," Josh said." People would tell me there's a heavenly Father who loves you. That didn't bring joy. It brought pain because I couldn't tell the difference between a heavenly Father and an earthly father." Josh became what he called an "ornery agnostic." It took a long time for him to be convinced that Christianity is true.
For me growing up, I just knew that I had doubts. My teachers insisted that science shows there is no God. I became more and more skeptical about Christianity. Still, something was missing —in my family and in my soul—that created a gnawing need I couldn't even describe at the time.
Even after I became a Christian, I felt an unnamed longing. Then one day I realized what I was missing. I was still looking for grace.
One day I was driving down Northwest Highway in Palatine, Illinois. I can still remember exactly where I was. I heard something on the radio that flooded my eyes with tears. I didn't catch it all, but it was about fathers and faith and God and hope. The speaker was about the same age I was. But my childhood was great compared to hers. I could hardly believe how much horror and brutality she had suffered in her life. Still, I felt an instant connection, a bridge between us.
I had to track her down. I had to sit down and hear her story, one-on-one. I had to ask her my questions. Somehow I knew she held a piece to the puzzle of grace.
CHAPTER 2The Orphan
Have you ever felt unwanted, like you didn't belong? If you have, then you can relate—at least a little—to Stephanie Fast.
Stephanie has never known her father. She suspects he was an American soldier—possibly an officer—who fought in the Korean conflict that started in 1950. There's even a chance he's still alive somewhere. There's no way to tell.
I managed to track down Stephanie, the woman I heard on the radio. I flew from Denver to her home in the Pacific Northwest to meet her. I was eager to hear her story.
Stephanie was born in Korea—she's not sure just where. It might have been the region called Pusan; people have told her that her accent sounds like the people there. She's not sure exactly when she was born either, just that it was sometime around the end of the Korean War, when American troops and the South Korean army were fighting against North Korean and Chinese troops.
Stephanie's earliest memory is of a Korean harvest festival when she was about three or four. Relatives from all over had come back to their hometown. They decorated the graves of relatives who had died. They danced and played games and ate sweets. Stephanie had a beautiful silk dress just for the occasion.
But late one night she heard some of her relatives arguing with her mother.
"We've found you a good husband," an uncle was telling Stephanie's mother. "It's a chance for you to have a better future. But he only wants you—not the child."
The child. That's me, Stephanie realized.
Even at that early age, she knew she looked different from other children. Her hair and skin color were lighter. She had wild, curly hair instead of the straight, shiny hair her cousins had. And she had a crease in her eyelids that most Koreans didn't have. (Nowadays, a lot of Korean women have surgery to get that eyelid crease. It's considered beautiful today. But back then, it was just one more sign that Stephanie wasn't pure Korean.) Biracial children were a reminder of an ugly war. And no one wanted that reminder.
"My mother had a choice to make," Stephanie told me as she recalled that night. "For her, the choice was, 'Do I want a future? If I do, then I can't have this child with me.' There was a lot of arguing and shame and guilt. I remember my mom crying and holding me all night."
At some point, Stephanie's mother made her decision. She would send her daughter away. Within a few days, Stephanie was at the train station with a lunch and a couple extra sets of clothing. Her mother got her settled on board and put Stephanie's things on a shelf above the seat. She got on her knees and told Stephanie, "Don't be afraid. Get off the train when everyone else does. Your uncle will meet you when you get off."
Then she left.
As Stephanie told me this story, I tried to imagine a three- or four-year-old taking a train trip all by herself. "What happened when you eventually got off the train?" I asked.
For a moment, Stephanie didn't answer. She slowly shook her head.
"No one came for me."
BASTARD
Here was a child not much older than a toddler, alone in a frightening and dangerous place among people who were likely to reject her—a world without grace.
At first, Stephanie wasn't scared. She waited for her uncle. But eventually night fell, and the trains stopped running. The stationmaster told Stephanie to leave. When she told him she couldn't—that she was waiting for her uncle—he spat out the word tuigi.
If you've ever read Harry Potter, you know that Malfoy calls Hermione a mudblood. That's the kind of word tuigi (pronounced "teegee") is. It literally means something like child of a foreign devil. People use it to imply that a biracial person isn't as good as a "pureblood" person. People say it with hate, the way a racist in the United States would use the N-word.
Remembering the first time someone called her tuigi, Stephanie mused, "It's odd—I'm sure my mom must have given me a name, but I can't remember it. It was like that day I became tuigi—garbage, bastard. That was what people called me."
After the stationmaster chased her away, Stephanie found a cart and clambered into it. She gathered some straw around her and ate the food her mother had sent with her. She tried to go to sleep, but she couldn't. All around her were scary sounds: barking dogs, strange noises, rustling on the streets. She was frightened. But she trusted her mom, and so she hung on to the thought that her uncle would come for her.
When Stephanie got to this point in her story, I had a question I wanted to ask. But I wasn't quite sure how to say it. I hesitated. Finally, I asked, "Today as you look back, do you think there ever really was an uncle?"
She didn't flinch. "Honestly, I have no idea. It could be that she really was sending me to someone, but I made a mistake and got off at the wrong station. But in those days in Korea, it wasn't uncommon for mothers to abandon their children, especially if they were biracial. They would leave the children in train stations or other public areas."
"So, to this day, you don't really know whether your mother was really sending you to your uncle or if she was abandoning you?"
Stephanie looked down. "No, I don't," she said. Her eyes met mine again. "But I want to think the best of her. I have to, don't you see? I guess every orphan thinks of her mother as a princess. Still, she was under a lot of pressure; there's no question about that. Her whole future depended on it."
"I understand," I said. All of us, it seems, want to believe our parents have the best intentions.
BUGS AND RODENTS
Stephanie was basically on her own for two or three years. In the cities, charitable organizations were starting to rescue biracial children, but Stephanie was always in the mountainsides and villages.
"The first few weeks," Stephanie told me, "I cried for my mommy. I was always trying to find my way back to her. Maybe she would be over the next hill; maybe she would be around the next corner. If I saw a village from the distance, I would think, Oh, that's my village, and I would run into it.
"But it was never my village."
She quickly learned what it took to survive. She saw a group of homeless children crawl on their bellies into the fields to get some melons. She thought, I could do that. So every night, she would wait for the watchman of the field to fall asleep so she could steal from the farms and fields. As long as she didn't get caught, she could eat.
When she couldn't steal food, Stephanie caught grasshoppers and locusts. The rice fields were full of them. When she caught one, she'd poke a rice straw through its head. The next bug went on the straw, and the next, until she had a whole string of them. She'd tie the string of insects to her belt. By the end of the day, they were pretty much dried, and she'd eat them.
Sometimes she killed field mice. They would come out of the same hole at the same time every day. Stephanie learned to be really, really patient. When a mouse stuck out its head, she would grab it before it could go back down the hole. She ate everything—the skin, the ears, the tail.
Then winter came.
It was bitter cold, and Stephanie had nowhere to go and no food to eat. That first winter, she found a foxhole to live in. She gathered whatever straw she could find from the rice fields and brought it in to make a little den. She would go into the village when everybody was sleeping and steal what she could. Everything was a treasure. A tin can became her drinking can and boiling pot. She found nails and put them on the railroad tracks so the trains would run over and flatten them—they became utensils. She used one to gut the mice she caught.
Every once in a while, a kind woman would leave her kitchen door open, and Stephanie would curl up on the dirt floor by the stove and stay warm. But kindness was rare. Children picked on her because she was biracial, and farmers hated her because she was stealing from them. To everyone, she was a dirty tuigi. And when you're a little child and hear people call you that day after day, you begin to believe it about yourself. Stephanie believed anyone could do whatever they wanted to her because she was worthless. She was dirty. She had no name. She had no identity. She had no family. She had no future and no hope. Over time, she began to hate herself.
DOWN THE WELL
One day, Stephanie got caught stealing from a farm. The farmer seized her and dragged her to an abandoned well. Furiously, he lifted Stephanie up and heaved her into the well.
Stephanie panicked as she hit the water. She didn't know how to swim. As she thrashed and splashed in the dark, she hit a rock jutting out of the wall of the well just below water level. Clinging to the rough, slippery stone, she was able to keep part of her body above water. She screamed and screamed for help, but her voice just echoed back to her. No one came to help.
I'm going to die, she thought. And then, Yeah, if I just let go, I can die. Maybe that would be okay.
But she hung on. Hours passed before someone called down the well. "Little girl, little girl, are you down there?"
"Yes," Stephanie yelled back. "I'm here!"
She heard the clang, clang, clang of metal hitting rocks. Something hit her. Grabbing it, Stephanie realized it was a bucket on a rope. She hung on with all the strength she had left. Slowly, the person above pulled her from the well. Her savior—a grandmotherly old woman—half carried, half dragged Stephanie to a barn. There she covered Stephanie with straw to get her warm. Then she brought Stephanie some food.
The old woman told Stephanie, "These people, they will hurt you. But you must live. It's very, very important that you live."
Remembering those words now, Stephanie says, "As an adult looking back, I believe those words were prophetic. But as a little girl, I thought she must be telling me this because she knew my mommy. I thought she was suggesting that if I got up in the morning, left the village, and went over the next mountaintop, my mommy would be there."
But her mother never was.
THE WATERWHEEL
That wasn't the only time Stephanie heard those prophetic words.
Once again, she was stealing food—and she got caught.
"Got you, tuigi!" A farmer grabbed her by the neck. "We've got to get rid of her," he said to the other farmers who had come to witness the commotion.
"Yeah, she's nothing but trouble. Let's tie her to the waterwheel!" another responded.
They grabbed Stephanie by her feet and shoulders and hauled her to the waterwheel on the canal. They tied her, face up, to the wheel. Stephanie screamed as she felt her legs being stretched, and then she choked as the turning wheel carried her under water. Pebbles and sand filled her mouth and nose as she was scraped along the riverbed. She spat it out, screaming and cursing, when the wheel brought her back up above the water. Then, suddenly, the waterwheel stopped.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Case for Grace Student Edition by Lee Strobel, Jane Vogel. Copyright © 2015 Lee Strobel. Excerpted by permission of ZONDERVAN.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Introduction: My Search for Grace 11
Chapter 1 The Mistake 13
Chapter 2 The Orphan 17
Chapter 3 The Addict 37
Chapter 4 The Good Guy 51
Chapter 5 The Executioner 61
Chapter 6 The Street Person 75
Chapter 7 The Faker 91
Chapter 8 Giving and Receiving Grace 105
Chapter 9 The End (and a New Beginning) of the Story 115
Read It Here: What the Bible Says about Grace 119
Helpful Books on Grace 127
About the Author 129
Notes 131