Friday, July 28, 2006

The Beauty of the Errant Bible

In the last few weeks, an old and very dear friend got in touch with me after 20-some years apart. At one point in our lives, we pondered the mysteries of God together, and through the magic of email he has picked up the discussion once again. His last email described his belief in biblical inerrancy, and in my reply, I had the opportunity to spin out a thought that I’ve long treasured but never articulated. Here it is:

It's funny, because I've had a very different experience with the whole idea of inerrancy. Somewhere along the line (couldn't really pinpoint when), I started letting go of the idea of word-for-word, everything-literal inerrancy, and for me it opened up a depth of the Bible that I never knew. All of a sudden, God could speak in metaphor, in poetry, in stories that didn't have to be factually true but still delivered a message that was truer than any fact (if such a thing is possible). I could start exploring who wrote this letter or that book, who they were writing to, and just what they were trying to say that maybe I missed the first time round. In some strange way the words became more alive to me. At this point, I couldn't say whether most of the Bible is factually true, but then it doesn't matter to me--because it's true nonetheless.

Here's a rather innocuous example: the Magnificat. Did Mary really utter those exact words? From one standpoint, it's kind of doubtful: illiterate peasant women just don't tend to go around saying stuff like that. But...whether she did or didn't, those words do reveal something wonderful about the character of Mary herself--and say absolutely amazing things about God: the God who turns things upside down, the God the prophets knew.

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

People From Another Country

This past weekend, while visiting my wife’s relatives, I picked up an article from the religion section of the local newspaper. The writer describes a young friend who is going to Mexico on a mission trip. What really grabbed me was her description of mission: “They are not vacationing but, rather, seeking to live with people from another country and lend a hand where asked.”

Initially this struck me because my wife and I are planning such a trip. We will stay in a South African monastery while she, an archivist, catalogs their library and helps establish their archives. Rather than have any specific goal, however, I relish the thought of simply “living with people from another country and lending a hand where asked.” When that happens, the other people set the agenda; we share, not our opinions or our ideologies or our cultural biases, but simply ourselves.

Whenever I read that one sentence from the article, I kept wanting to read it as “lend a hand where needed.” But that’s not as helpful. Needs are open to interpretation; I can decide what you need and try to provide it—and that won’t help. But when it’s “where asked,” I have to wait for you.

But does one really have to travel to be present to others like this? In a way, we are all “people from another country” to one another—people with vastly different perspectives, ideas, and values. So if each time we encounter someone, what would happen if we simply lived with them, remained present with them, and listened? Perhaps nothing would happen. Or perhaps we would be available just when they need us.