 My grandson has a custom-painted parking spot at La Porte High School. Student parking is a massive deal there — the seniors get to paint their own spaces before the year begins, and the spot isn’t handed out for nothing. Getting that parking spot ready was no small project.
Before he could paint his own design, he had to cover last year's artwork with fresh primer, measure and tape out his layout, and then carefully paint each section. There were multiple trips to Home Depot for primer, brushes, rollers, tape, and just the right shade of paint. There were conversations with the paint department about what would hold up on sun-baked asphalt. There were sections that had to be repainted because the lines weren't straight enough or the color coverage wasn't right. And there were long hours under the relentless Texas sun, kneeling on hot pavement while sweat dripped into his eyes. By the time he was finished, he had invested real money, real effort, and a good deal of perseverance into a parking space that, for the moment, sits empty. But he finally got it done. The spot looks terrific. That reserved, paid-for space is teaching me something about grace I didn’t expect — and it starts with the very word painted across it: “NOT FREE” in plain letters, secured and paid for. Watching him sit on a spot he can’t even use yet got me thinking about a phrase theologians love: costly grace. Grace is free to us. It was never free, period. And that distinction is at the heart of two things Scripture keeps separate: the gift, and the growth. Justification: The Gift of the License Imagine a teenager walking into the DMV, nervous about the written test and the road exam. You’ve studied hard and practiced driving, hoping you’re good enough to pass. But when you step up to the counter, the worker smiles, hands you a brand-new license with your picture on it, and says, “Congratulations. You’re a licensed driver in the state of Texas.” You’re confused: “Wait, I haven’t taken the tests yet. I haven’t proven anything. How can I be a driver?” The worker replies, “You don’t have to. This license is yours — not because you earned it, but because it’s been given to you. You are a driver, right now.” That moment at the counter is justification. God declares you righteous, not because of anything you’ve done, but because of what Jesus has done for you. Like my grandson’s spot, marked NOT FREE and yet already his, the cost is real — it’s just not paid by you. The spot is secured before you even bring a car to the lot. It is a gift, freely given, and it was expensive. Sanctification: Learning to Drive the Car The DMV worker doesn’t stop there, though. They hand you a driver’s manual and say: “This will guide you for the rest of your life. Study it. Take care of your car — it’s how you’ll make the journey.” That’s sanctification. You’ve already been given the status of a driver, but now you’re called to grow into what that means. You don’t study the manual to keep your license — it’s already legally yours. These practices help you live out the freedom and responsibility that come with the gift. The first time you merge onto the highway, you white-knuckle the wheel, miss your exit, and nearly sideswipe a minivan. The manual says “signal before you turn,” but in the moment you forget. That white-knuckle terror is sanctification — learning to live into a reality you already possess, badly at first, but persistently. You don’t lose your license over a bad merge; you just get better with practice. This is the classic Lutheran distinction between Law and Gospel. The Gospel is the license — pure gift, no conditions. The Law is the manual and, later, the rearview mirror: not a threat to your status, but a guide that shows you where you’ve been and orients you forward. Confusing the two is where most of our theological trouble starts, whether we collapse grace into a reward for good driving or treat the manual as optional once we’ve got the card in our wallet. The Mirror and the Cop Once you’re on the highway, reality sets in. Sometimes you follow the rules perfectly. Other times you speed, run a light, or forget your turn signal. The Law meets you on that highway in more than one way. Most days, it’s the rearview mirror — showing you exactly where you went wrong, what’s coming up behind you, helping you correct your course. The glance isn’t always comfortable; a mirror doesn’t flatter you, it just tells you the truth of what happened back there. But some days the Law is the cop in your rearview, lights on, pulling you over. The ticket stings on purpose. It names the violation plainly and won’t let you talk your way around it. And the Law is also the posted speed limit and the lane markings — the guide that was there all along, telling you how the road is meant to be driven even when you’re doing everything right. Mirror, cop, and guide are the same Law doing three different jobs: showing you, checking you, and directing you. Here’s the vital distinction: none of it — not the mirror, not the ticket — touches your license itself. The DMV worker doesn’t come back to take it away. You remain a licensed driver because your status never depended on your daily performance. Even so, the Law does real work in all three forms — it curbs, it convicts, and it points you back toward the road you’re actually meant to be driving on. (Sure, you CAN lose your driver's license for cause, but that's another blog for another day.) Roadside Assistance The road isn’t a solo track. As licensed drivers, we’re not just cruising past the stranded. That’s roadside assistance — not waiting for the broken-down to find a tow truck, but pulling over to hand them a full tank. The DMV worker puts it this way: “Don’t forget about others out there. Some are stuck, out of gas, or lost without a map. When you see them, don’t just drive by.” That’s the calling of evangelism and mission. We go meet people where they are rather than waiting for them to find their way to us. The Ultimate Not-Free Parking Like a custom-painted space marked NOT FREE and waiting anyway, God’s grace secures our spot long before we have the wheels to drive into it. The price was paid — just not by us. We are justified by a gift we didn’t earn, and we spend the rest of the journey learning to drive in a way that honors the One who gave us the keys. So here’s the question for this week: where are you still trying to earn your parking spot? You already have the license. Now all my grandson needs is the car to park in it. That’s a heavier lift. I don’t think he’ll have it before school starts. Maybe not even by graduation day. But the space — not free, paid for, and entirely his — is waiting anyway. Sometimes God prepares the place long before we're ready to occupy it. Rev. Dr. Steve Stutz Ordained Lutheran Pastor · Intentional Interim Minister · Certified Spiritual Director La Porte, Texas · Houston Area [Contact] · [LinkedIn] · [The Marginal Note on Substack]
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