Nora's Bible
One of the favorite volumes in my library is a tattered Bible that once belonged to Aunt Nora.
Nora wasn't a blood relative, but as long as I can remember she shared in all our family celebrations. When she died, my grandmother saw to it that her Bible was given to me.
I noticed immediately that Aunt Nora was not the type to keep her Bible hidden away until Sunday mornings. Virtually every page was littered with red pencil underlines and notes written in the margins.
The fore and aft blank pages were cluttered with pithy comments and sayings, notes taken from her reading, or sermons she had heard. As I read them I imagined the immense depth of her spiritual life in comparison to my own.
One poem in particular caught my eye. I don't know its origin, but the effect on me was dramatic and unexpected. I'm a little embarrassed to tell you that it choked me up to read it.
I read the simple words, imagining myself a frightened bystander at Jesus' execution. Blood stained his hands, feet and side. A pool gathered at the base of the cross. Moments before he had breathed his last. The crowd dispersed, but I remained, pondering the surreal image before me.
Here I sit in wonder, viewing
Mercy's streams in streams of blood;
Precious drops, my soul, believing,
Plead and claim my peace with God.
Here it is I find my heaven
While upon the Lamb I gaze.
Love I much? I'm much forgiven:
I'm a miracle of grace!
To some, the scene of Jesus’ death is pathetic and horrifying. But to others, it is a picture of hope and forgiveness. For his blood was a holy stream -- a stream of mercy -- which secured peace with God.
"Love I much?" the text asks its reader. "I'm much forgiven," it replies. "I'm a miracle of grace." More often than I’d like to admit, I can relate to that.
Jesus dined with a respected religious leader named Simon. Although an invited guest, he had been treated with contempt. Common Jewish courtesies were omitted: no foot washing, no soothing oil, no welcome kiss.
During the meal a woman of dubious reputation entered uninvited. Inching quietly toward Jesus, she was suddenly overcome by love and gratitude. In moments his feet were washed by her tears, kissed by her lips, anointed with her oil.
The host was offended at this unseemly display of affection, particularly given the woman's history. "If this man were a prophet, he would know what kind of woman she is," he whispered.
In response, Jesus said to his host, "He who has been forgiven little loves little." And to his admirer he said, "Your sins are forgiven. Your faith has saved you; go in peace."
Like most of you, we will gather around the Thanksgiving table this week. The day will be filled with family bonding, food preparation and consumption, football viewing and poring over newspaper ads.
Occasionally, like Simon, Jesus becomes an afterthought, a forgotten guest. This year, like the woman, I plan to sneak in quietly, oil in hand. From somewhere in heaven, Nora will be smiling.
Nora wasn't a blood relative, but as long as I can remember she shared in all our family celebrations. When she died, my grandmother saw to it that her Bible was given to me.
I noticed immediately that Aunt Nora was not the type to keep her Bible hidden away until Sunday mornings. Virtually every page was littered with red pencil underlines and notes written in the margins.
The fore and aft blank pages were cluttered with pithy comments and sayings, notes taken from her reading, or sermons she had heard. As I read them I imagined the immense depth of her spiritual life in comparison to my own.
One poem in particular caught my eye. I don't know its origin, but the effect on me was dramatic and unexpected. I'm a little embarrassed to tell you that it choked me up to read it.
I read the simple words, imagining myself a frightened bystander at Jesus' execution. Blood stained his hands, feet and side. A pool gathered at the base of the cross. Moments before he had breathed his last. The crowd dispersed, but I remained, pondering the surreal image before me.
Here I sit in wonder, viewing
Mercy's streams in streams of blood;
Precious drops, my soul, believing,
Plead and claim my peace with God.
Here it is I find my heaven
While upon the Lamb I gaze.
Love I much? I'm much forgiven:
I'm a miracle of grace!
To some, the scene of Jesus’ death is pathetic and horrifying. But to others, it is a picture of hope and forgiveness. For his blood was a holy stream -- a stream of mercy -- which secured peace with God.
"Love I much?" the text asks its reader. "I'm much forgiven," it replies. "I'm a miracle of grace." More often than I’d like to admit, I can relate to that.
Jesus dined with a respected religious leader named Simon. Although an invited guest, he had been treated with contempt. Common Jewish courtesies were omitted: no foot washing, no soothing oil, no welcome kiss.
During the meal a woman of dubious reputation entered uninvited. Inching quietly toward Jesus, she was suddenly overcome by love and gratitude. In moments his feet were washed by her tears, kissed by her lips, anointed with her oil.
The host was offended at this unseemly display of affection, particularly given the woman's history. "If this man were a prophet, he would know what kind of woman she is," he whispered.
In response, Jesus said to his host, "He who has been forgiven little loves little." And to his admirer he said, "Your sins are forgiven. Your faith has saved you; go in peace."
Like most of you, we will gather around the Thanksgiving table this week. The day will be filled with family bonding, food preparation and consumption, football viewing and poring over newspaper ads.
Occasionally, like Simon, Jesus becomes an afterthought, a forgotten guest. This year, like the woman, I plan to sneak in quietly, oil in hand. From somewhere in heaven, Nora will be smiling.