The God Who Delights in Mercy: Beyond the Scoreboard

Psalm 121; Micah 7:18–20; Romans 3:21–31

Who is a God like you, pardoning iniquity and passing over the transgression of the remnant of your possession? Micah asks this question not in despair but in wonder. He does not dwell on the sin that required pardoning. He marvels at the Pardoner. He does not delight in anger forever, because he delights in showing mercy.

The Hebrew word here is chaphetz—delight, pleasure, desire. God does not merely tolerate mercy as a concession. God enjoys it. Mercy is not God’s second-best option when justice becomes impractical. It is the deepest expression of the divine nature. God delights in mercy the way an artist delights in creating, the way a parent delights in a child’s first laugh.

"To be a saint means to be myself. Therefore the problem of sanctity and salvation is in fact the problem of finding out who I am and of discovering my true self." —Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation

Paul’s argument in Romans reaches its crescendo here: the righteousness of God has been disclosed apart from law. All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God; they are now justified by his grace as a gift. Paul is not making a legal argument. He is describing a revolution. The entire system of earning, deserving, qualifying—it has been overthrown. Grace levels the playing field. There is no distinction.

This was scandalous in Paul’s day. It remains scandalous in ours. We want distinctions. We want to know who is in and who is out, who has earned their place and who has not. But grace does not operate on merit. It operates on mercy. And mercy, as Micah tells us, is what God enjoys most.

In the film Les Misérables, the Bishop of Digne catches Jean Valjean stealing his silver. When the police drag Valjean back, the bishop does not accuse him. Instead, he says he gave Valjean the silver—and then hands him the candlesticks too. But remember, the bishop adds, you must use this silver to become an honest man. The gift is not earned. But it is transformative. It remakes Valjean from the inside out.

Micah ends with an image of extraordinary beauty: God will cast all our sins into the depths of the sea. Not filed away for later reference. Not held in reserve for the next argument. Cast into the depths. The rabbis later added a commentary on this verse: And God places a sign that reads, No fishing.

Today, consider: do you believe that God delights in showing you mercy? Not reluctantly, not with a sigh, but with genuine pleasure? If Lent has become for you a season of self-punishment, Micah offers a corrective. The God we are journeying toward does not keep score. He casts our sins into the sea and smiles.

The rabbinical tradition has a beautiful concept called tikkun olam—the repair of the world. But the repair does not begin with grand gestures. It begins with the willingness to receive mercy ourselves. We cannot give what we have not accepted. If we are still keeping a secret ledger of our sins, tallying debts we believe God has not forgiven, we will inevitably keep ledgers for others. The casting of sins into the sea is not merely about divine forgiveness—it is about the freedom that comes when we stop diving back in to retrieve what God has thrown away.