The Man In The Book

HE COMES ALIVE IN THE PAGES OF THE BOOK, stories of old, spanning generations. There, amongst the “these” and “thous” is a man who walked and talked and ate and drank. Who lived. We meet His parents, His cousin. We spend time with His friends. We are invited on a journey, to travel from one century to another, through the images of His people, until there, before us, He extends His hand.

Around us is modern society, modern businesses, governments. Churches. We sit on padded pews, staring at millions of dollars’ worth of equipment. In some places. In others, we’re crouched before tiny screens admiring preachers in suits, blue jeans … lots of blue jeans. A soda in one hand, an ipad in the other, we scroll along soaking in His words and follow it with a baked potato and all the fixins’. If we can eat potatoes that is. Some can. Some can’t.

He comes alive in the pages of the Book. We fall asleep afterward, lulled into a stupor by bad news … stupid news … and cat videos. Didn’t they make the internet for cat videos? I think so. We’re caught up in our jobs, in our 9-to-5-ness, in the grands, or the rents. The next holiday approaches or our vacation at Mt. Sherma. We’ve rented a cabin, only not a tiny house but one of those grand jobbies which houses twelve. It’s a tad large but Uncle Robb is coming.

Uncle Robb is real. Touchable. Unfortunately. And our cousins can be counted on to mostly show up. Our bestie, she’s in for a road trip to the Shake Shop. These people we croon and call to after a five-minute prayer before we dash out the door and the reading of a parable which kinda made sense, they’re there and here with us.

But what’s real is often distracting to the actual Truth, and this man who comes alive in the Book, is alive in the flesh. Is alive on this earth and not just locked up in heaven, dancing around in a white robe and brown sandals. He’s not just hobbing up with the Father in the throne room while angels sing His praises. He’s in the trenches, at the bottom with those who fell there.

We find Him in our desperation. Without searching. By simply calling. We weep and cry and beg for mercy, and His compassion sweeps in. I’ve been there. I’ve heard His voice in the midst of my sorrow. I’ve joined His laughter, had Him say something unexpected simply to pick me up. And I cried with abandon for it and fell in love more than I thought I ever could.

He’s alive in the pages of the Book, alive in the stories, but worth every minute I take to turn all the things of life off, lay them aside, and give Him the time He deserves. And here’s the thing, the more I do this, the more I want to, the less that movie I thought I’d watch seems important anymore.

Because He’s alive in the atmosphere. He’s alive in my city, my state, my nation, but most of all, He’s alive in me. I can talk to Him, hear His responses, and feel His Presence. For that same power which raised Him from the dead and put Him in the pages, is here with me, too. And the voice of a Father, who He came and represented.

For God so loved the world that He sent His Son to save me and you. He’s in the Book. In the pages. In every culture that exists from east to west and top to bottom. But greatest of all, He’s here with me. He’s alive.

Photo by wisconsinpictures on Unsplash

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