THE ANATOMY OF A PERFECT SPEECH

The silence in the small dorm room was maddening. John Calvin sat at his desk with his head in his hands for a long while before finally raising it and wearily rubbing his fingers across his eyes.

How do you compose a speech of this magnitude? He asked himself in frustration.  How do you share the gospel with people who think they already know it but in fact are completely clueless about it? How do you move them as you have been moved by the beauty of Christ on the Cross?

Calvin threw down his pen and stood up. He felt like he was about to go stark raving mad.

He made his way over to the window and looked out at the cobbled street below while sifting through mental images in search of something that might spark an epiphany.

He dredged up the image of a cold winter’s day in the Place de Greve as he stood shivering among the gawking bystanders. The great bell of Notre Dame clanged loudly and rhythmically in the background, like an ill-timed funeral dirge summoning Parisians from every quarter of the city to witness the awful spectacle about to take place. And then he saw the prisoner.

Accursed heretic. Carrier of the vile and wretched disease that was infecting all of Europe with its foul stench. Protestant. Lutheran. Whatever it is they were called.

Calvin watched in stony silence as the man mounted the small wooden platform behind the executioner. He looked young, close to his own age.

Pavane. That was his name.

Calvin studied Pavane’s face for signs of terror or distress but there were none. Instead, he willingly allowed himself to be tied to the stake and stood there calmly, eyes averted to the sky. The executioner walked off the platform, lit the torch and touched the flames to the neatly piled wood that formed a pyre around the feet of the young man. With a soft whoosh, the wood caught alight and soon the flames were licking greedily at the young heretic.

Calvin’s blood froze as the stench of burning flesh seeped into his nostrils. His mind screamed in terror as he watched the young body slump forward and fall headlong into the raging inferno. He was still rooted to the spot long after the crowd had thinned and only a few stragglers remained. Pavane’s serene face was seared into his mind. How did he have such peace?

The next image his mind brought up was of a musty and dimly lit dorm room. He was seated on the floor, leaning against the door while his cousin Pierre paced agitatedly up and down the length of the small square space. They were debating religion. Pierre Olivetan was an obstinate Protestant and at the time Calvin was an equally obstinate Catholic. Neither of them was willing to give an inch. The argument was fierce.

Finally, Olivetan wheeled on him and jabbed a trembling finger in his direction. “There are only two religious systems in the world John” he ground out through clenched teeth “you either believe that you can save yourself by your own good works or you believe what the Bible plainly teaches” he paused to suck in a deep calming breath.

“And what exactly does the Bible teach?” Calvin broke in icily.

“That man is to look for salvation solely by the free grace of God” Pierre countered in a controlled voice.  “John” he continued “don’t you see that?”

“Enough!” Calvin snarled leaping to his feet “ do you really think I have lived in such complete error all my life? Do you really think that the great Church of Rome is wrong?” without waiting for a reply he yanked open the door and angrily motioned for Olivetan to get out.

After he had left Calvin shut the door with a resounding thud and then sank down against it. His life had reached a crossroads. And the entire moment hinged on two simple words.

Free grace.

Calvin snapped out of his reverie as his mind clamped shut around those two words. The source of Pavane’s peace and Olivetan’s fire. Suddenly everything was crystal clear. He knew what needed to be said.