Dear Anonymous Reader,
There's a verse in the bible that speaks of Jesus as the author of our faith. Like most, I envision Him sitting before a book that is my life, and I immediately know that such an image is as far from the truth as anyone can get.
Because it isn't about me. I don't have my own book. I don't believe He sits there in whatever infinite study Heaven contains and writes a book dedicated to my life alone.
But then again, He's God. Maybe He has the time (C.S. Lewis thought so).
Instead, if we're still using the book metaphor, I see Him sitting before a massive book, something so titanic in scope that even the words written within its pages couldn't describe just how mind numbingly big it is. It contains every life, every interaction, every piece of that infinite puzzle that makes up eternal history.
And there, on page seven billion and twenty-seven, somewhere in the margin, is a blotch of ink. It's a liquidy, iron, charcoal-black drop, and it's slightly smeared, as if His hand brushed over it while finishing a sentence on the opposite page.
I mean, could God do that? From whatever pen He uses (I imagine one of those old, feathery fountain pens that you have to dip into the inkwell every few sentences), could some stray, divine, story-creating ink randomly find its way into the outlying margins; a genuine, seemingly misplaced speck of writing material?
(Now, I understand some of you are already pouncing on this page theologically (I am, too), spitting accusations of how that isn't how God directs our steps. Then again, I don't care. They're my thoughts and my virtual paper, so hush up and let me finish.)
And if so, can that splotch of black turn into a person's life? Could it be my life? Could there be millions of these splotches riddled throughout the book that is God's story of His creation: those of us long dead, those of us dying, and those of us yet to come?
Have I been thrown by the Father into the margins? And if so, and even if I'm smeared by His hand, even if I'm separated from the rest of the story, from the paragraphs of all those lives intertwined, does that mean I'm just as seemingly insignificant?
Or does He purposefully place these blotches of ink? Is He still working, even when I don't understand it all? Is He still writing me in, somewhere, even when I feel thrown to the side? Are the words that have created me, breathed life into me, taking shape inside the margins, even though I appear accidental?
Thrown by the Father. Those words hammer themselves through my prefrontal cortex like an obstinate drummer. So many of us find ourselves thrown by the Father into lives that, at the time, don't make any sense whatsoever. We're abused, confused, misplaced, and alone. We struggle not through existence, but for existence. In a society that's constantly changing, we wonder where, and if ever, we fit in.
Thrown by the Father: the question of relevance.
Thrown by the Father: the question of purpose.
Thrown by the Father: our question of love.
In the same way, I see a man hanging on a tree. From his hand, nailed tightly to the bruised wood, a drop of blood falls. It lands in the margins below, but its purpose is overwhelming and undeniably eternal.
That drop in the margin begins to take shape.
And sometimes, I wonder if it's me.
Sincerely,
-Sean
