He spoke- gave speeches and sermons and commands- but Jesus taught by telling stories. Wherever He went, he gathered the crowd and told them these parables. These stories that told beautiful lessons and had characters and settings and actions. These stories that were able to get people to understand even just a fraction of what He wanted to get across.
And Paul. He wrote letters. When he was bored in prison, he took out his scroll and he started writing. Letters got him through it. He wrote because that was all he had. He wrote these letters that people still read today- that hold so much in so little words. He wrote and he wrote and he wrote, and he never got tired of it.
And it means a lot. That the Bible was first written down before it was typed. That it’s a story first and foremost. A story that defines billions of people, past and present. A story that changes lives, that never contradicts itself, that contains hundreds of hours of work, that has been translated into so many different languages.
And I stare at hands that are unqualified. I look at them and ask “Why me? Why this?” God places such an emphasis on the written word- such an emphasis on thousands of pages, designed to get into our thick heads that He loves us. It makes me want to shove the pencil away, rip up the pages, ask Him to send someone else.
And suddenly I feel like Moses, standing before God saying that he can’t speak. I feel like Jonah, running opposite the city that God called him to. I feel like Mary, saying “How can this be?”
And I wonder if any of the authors of the Bible fought that calling. I’m picturing David, writing the Psalms in the shade of a tall tree while the sheep slept. I see Paul in prison, shackles around his feet yet still growing the church through his words. I see Matthew, writing by candlelight as the other disciples got settled in for the night, frantically trying to get every one of Jesus’ words correct.
