Hubby was reading his bible and the study book that his men's discipleship group is going through when I came downstairs after a brief nap. (I might have slept more than Small Fry, but that's really neither here nor there.)
He cocked his head and looked at me. Crap. I know that look. He's about to ask a difficult question.
Sure enough, I'm right. "Why does God make it so hard to reach him?"
I turned from lighting some tealight candles. "Well, perhaps it's not God who makes it so hard, but us."
"Why is God so far away, then?"
"Same thing...maybe we're the ones who are far away, not God."
He sighs. It's a few minutes before he asks his next question.
"Why is God so insistent on not letting us use the sense we most rely on--sight--to know that he's there? Everything depends on our sight for us. Or for men, at least." I opened my mouth, then closed it as he went on. "I don't mean trees and stuff."
"Maybe to prove to us that we don't have to see him to know he's there," I said, thinking of my best friend JJ, who has to take darn near everything on faith, and without sight.
"Then why didn't he make us all blind?"
I throw up my hands in frustration. "I don't have answers to these questions!"
"I know you don't," he says, backing off. "It's just that people worshipped idols because it was easy to remember to do so, because you could always see them. And yet, we're ordered not to. Why does it have to be on faith? Why can't he show us himself? Why is it that we can only see his back, like Moses?" He pauses. "That must have been some butt."
We both fall silent.
Several minutes later, he says something. "Maybe this is my answer."
I look over, and Small Fry is sitting next to the end of the couch, reaching up her little hand and trying to match it to Hubby's, where it's hanging off the arm of the couch. She giggles up at him, and stretches her fingers, trying to make the size of her hand match his. She can't, but that doesn't discourage her from pressing her hand against his, from taking delight in the fact that his hand is bigger than hers. And that, no matter how many times she tries, his hand is always bigger.
Perhaps, I theorized, this is the relationship God wants to have with his children.
Most idols aren't bigger than us (Nebuchadnezzer's 90-foot-tall statue notwithstanding). Idols don't press back and tickle fingers and they're not warm to the touch.
Right there, in my living room, THAT's what God wants. For us to reach out our hand to his, knowing that his is bigger. Just like Unca D's is bigger than Small Fry's, and that ultimately equates to how Unca D can't be messed with. How Unca D can flick the monsters and giants on the nose or the forehead, and they run away. (Auntie J doesn't do this nearly as well, it seems.)
How big of a hand does God have to have, in order for us to have the security that our heavenly father has things under control? Shaq's hand is bigger than mine, but I don't know that I'd trust my life to Shaq. My basketball game, maybe. But my life?
God's hand has to be bigger. It has to be all-encompassing. It's the hand that the world spun out of.
It's too big to be contained by our small world, our small minds.
But just big enough to hold our hand in his when we need it.
He cocked his head and looked at me. Crap. I know that look. He's about to ask a difficult question.
Sure enough, I'm right. "Why does God make it so hard to reach him?"
I turned from lighting some tealight candles. "Well, perhaps it's not God who makes it so hard, but us."
"Why is God so far away, then?"
"Same thing...maybe we're the ones who are far away, not God."
He sighs. It's a few minutes before he asks his next question.
"Why is God so insistent on not letting us use the sense we most rely on--sight--to know that he's there? Everything depends on our sight for us. Or for men, at least." I opened my mouth, then closed it as he went on. "I don't mean trees and stuff."
"Maybe to prove to us that we don't have to see him to know he's there," I said, thinking of my best friend JJ, who has to take darn near everything on faith, and without sight.
"Then why didn't he make us all blind?"
I throw up my hands in frustration. "I don't have answers to these questions!"
"I know you don't," he says, backing off. "It's just that people worshipped idols because it was easy to remember to do so, because you could always see them. And yet, we're ordered not to. Why does it have to be on faith? Why can't he show us himself? Why is it that we can only see his back, like Moses?" He pauses. "That must have been some butt."
We both fall silent.
Several minutes later, he says something. "Maybe this is my answer."
I look over, and Small Fry is sitting next to the end of the couch, reaching up her little hand and trying to match it to Hubby's, where it's hanging off the arm of the couch. She giggles up at him, and stretches her fingers, trying to make the size of her hand match his. She can't, but that doesn't discourage her from pressing her hand against his, from taking delight in the fact that his hand is bigger than hers. And that, no matter how many times she tries, his hand is always bigger.
Perhaps, I theorized, this is the relationship God wants to have with his children.
Most idols aren't bigger than us (Nebuchadnezzer's 90-foot-tall statue notwithstanding). Idols don't press back and tickle fingers and they're not warm to the touch.
Right there, in my living room, THAT's what God wants. For us to reach out our hand to his, knowing that his is bigger. Just like Unca D's is bigger than Small Fry's, and that ultimately equates to how Unca D can't be messed with. How Unca D can flick the monsters and giants on the nose or the forehead, and they run away. (Auntie J doesn't do this nearly as well, it seems.)
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| I yuv Unca D. |
How big of a hand does God have to have, in order for us to have the security that our heavenly father has things under control? Shaq's hand is bigger than mine, but I don't know that I'd trust my life to Shaq. My basketball game, maybe. But my life?
God's hand has to be bigger. It has to be all-encompassing. It's the hand that the world spun out of.
It's too big to be contained by our small world, our small minds.
But just big enough to hold our hand in his when we need it.
