Mudshot Eyes

Ah, yes… the Holy Bible. The very mention of it stirs up a wide variety of responses. Some think of archaic language and dust-covered black leather, a book for another time. It’s an irrelevant set of religious writings that have some good advice, but no significant value for today.

Others remember their Sunday School classes from their younger days, growing up in church.  Memories involve the great stories of the Bible such as David versus Goliath, Noah’s Ark, and the life of Jesus.

What rarely comes to mind are the stories of betrayal, sex, violence, and intrigue.  It’s a dynamic book, “inspired by God,” as 2 Timothy says.  The Greek word for inspired is theopneustos, or “God-breathed.” Depending on our view of God’s character, it may be surprising that such scandalous topics are breathed-out from God. Doesn’t God want us to avoid stories that involve sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll? Apparently not.

At no point in the Bible do we ever find that a topic is being avoided. No issue is off-limits. The reason? Nothing is off-limits to a God who refuses to be separated from the real experiences and emotions of life.  Whether it be an addiction, strain in a relationship, or worry over a big decision, God is habitually getting his hands dirty to plant transformation and hope within our mess. The first four books of the New Testament chronicle this very characteristic, seen in the life of Jesus.  Those stories were about real people with complex problems who were touched by a loving, interested Savior.

Now that I think of it that way, it’s nice to know that I could have been a Bible story, too.

Today’s post is by guest blogger Krista Barmer, a brilliant writer who happens to be my wife.

“You are the anti-curse. Death going in reverse.” ~ Derek Webb

There’s an Asian woman who walks around our apartment complex when the weather is nice, like it was today, this first full day of Spring. In front of her, she pushes a gadgety black wheelchair that carries her son. I’ve studied them many times from my driver’s seat, slowing to a near stop to respectfully pass them. I studied them today.

His face, as always, was blank with retardation. Drool traced the line of his jaw and had dripped onto his t-shirt. He sat slouched, his tall and robust body curved like an S, his legs dangling just off the footrests. He could be my age, or close to it. And, if he was, he might be a writer or a singer or reader who would cross my path and we would chat for a minute about Steinbeck or Billy Collins or Sting’s Labyrinth at the local bookstore while waiting in line on our tea and coffee. But, we won’t; he only has the mind of an infant.

And she, mom, stands barely five feet tall. With all her petite strength, she pushed this hulking, dead-weight child: her lower back arched, shoulder blades pinched, knuckles white, palms wet. Her leg muscles contracted with definition. But it’s her face that told the stories. Too many stories. Determination has formed her jawline. Courage and constance have carved her cheekbones. Tenacious-ness has lined her brow. And some kind of longing I don’t understand now (and maybe never will) has colored and crowded her eyes.

I watched them today, this holy & good Friday, a day to remember necessary death and imperishable sacrifice, lifesaving atonement and finished work, a broken Saviour, a satisfied Father. I watched this mother and her son and asked, “Why?” knowing full well it was the wrong question. Knowing full well that it was good to grieve this loss because He has wept all our tears with us. Knowing that where there is death and veil and mess, life and fullness and beauty lie in wait. They wait for the third day. And for the anti-curse.

(This article first appeared at Pendrops, Krista’s blog)