Grace, Not Grind

Grace, Not Grind: What Ephesians 3 Teaches Us About Mission

By Rev. Jane Herring

In Ephesians 3, the Apostle Paul isn’t just writing theology—he’s handing us a baton.

That may sound like a strange way to describe one of Paul’s most theologically rich chapters. But picture a relay race, where each runner sprints their stretch of track and then, with a precise handoff, entrusts the baton to the next. Paul isn’t racing for glory or to outpace his opponents. He’s running toward us—toward the next generation of believers—with something holy in hand: the unsearchable riches of Christ.

From a Roman prison cell, likely chained and in danger, Paul bursts forth not with anxiety but with joy. His tone in Ephesians 3 crackles with energy. Why? Because he understands that what’s been given to him is not just responsibility—it’s grace.

“This grace was given to me,” he says—not earned, not mastered, but given. And he knows it’s not his to keep. It must be passed on.

Grace Before Grind

Let’s be honest: church work can feel like a grind. Leading worship, feeding neighbors, managing budgets, updating bulletins, caring for people in crisis, all while trying to "do it better" than last year. It’s so easy for the church’s calling to be reduced to performance, pressure, or comparison.

But Paul insists that mission isn’t born from performance—it’s born from love. Grace comes first. Not strategy. Not efficiency. Not perfectionism.

The world is full of nonprofits that feed, heal, house, and tend to human need—often as well as or better than the church. But the church is the only body that does this work because her body is so full of Christ’s love, it cannot help but love others with whatever skills, resources, and means it has.

That love doesn’t begin with “having enough.” It begins with belonging. And belonging begins with Christ.

The Ministry of Every Member

Ephesians 3 reminds us of something vital: the priesthood of all believers. Every follower of Christ has a ministry. We don’t all carry the same baton, but we are all in the race. Not one of us is left out—not by birth, background, or brokenness.

Some of us are called to the ministry of Word and Sacrament. Others to the ministry of spreadsheets and casseroles and phone calls and folding chairs. Still others serve through integrity and gentleness in workplaces that may never set foot in a sanctuary. I think of sports commentator Ernie Johnson Jr., a gentle witness in a competitive industry. He doesn’t preach—he simply embodies what it means to be grounded in Christ.

Every single ministry matters. Even the smallest congregation is equipped to do the work God calls it to do. It must never, ever be diminished because its offering doesn’t look like another church’s. God isn’t grading on a curve.

One of the deepest griefs of my pastoral life has been watching people hurt and diminish one another because they value an outcome more than they value their relationships in the Body of Christ. This is not the way of grace. This is not the way of love. We can and must do better—not because of guilt or fear, but because love has already made us whole.

Knowing the Love that Knows No Bounds

Midway through this passage, Paul offers a prayer that stops me in my tracks every time I read it:

“I pray that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may have power… to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge.”

This is a love we don’t just understand—we are changed by it. We don’t just learn it. We live it. It softens hearts and strengthens spines. It makes room. It lifts burdens. It refuses to let anyone be forgotten.

It doesn’t make us less busy, but it gives purpose to our busy-ness. It shifts us from grind to grace.

And Now, the Handoff

Paul closes with a benediction that feels more like a new beginning:

“Now to the One who is able to do far more abundantly than all we ask or imagine…”

That’s not the finish line. That’s the handoff.

Even if you don’t feel spiritual enough, experienced enough, or certain enough—the baton has been passed to you. Not competitively. Not for gold. But for love.

You don’t have to outrun anyone. You don’t have to prove anything. You don’t have to get it perfect.

You are already beloved. And grace is already in motion.

So take your next step. With hope, not pressure. With love, not grind. With grace—always grace.