Holding Words-August 2023

I have owned two bibles since college.  Most mornings I start my day by reading one of them.

The leather-bound NIV study bible is the oldest of the two.  It is chock-full of notes and underlines, with questions scribbled on the margins.  I particularly like to read Paul’s letters from this translation because the precision of the words helps me relate to and apply the text.  Periodically, I will read some of those notes and realize that the person who wrote them no longer exists.  Along with some embarrassment comes a sacred recognition that this book has changed my life and marks my days from college to the present.

I have done the bulk of my bible reading of late with a Message translation that was given to me from a friend 20-years ago.  Eugene Peterson is the author in addition to being a hero of mine.  Sometimes I became so animated by the text or his notes on a passage that I’d scribble off a note to Eugene to thank him—we weren’t friends but a mutual friend had given me his address. Months later, I would get a handwritten note back from him thanking me for my encouragement.  The text became a conversation between me, the translator, and the Lord himself.  There are fewer handwritten notes in this book than my study bible from college, but still, when I hold it, I do so with reverence and gratitude for its impact on my life.

The same is true to a lesser extent, with other revered books in our library.  Although the convenience of e-readers has caused me to read a lot on from my tablet, when a book touches me, I try and buy a physical copy.  My preference is for a used hardcover edition with old brittle pages, a tattered cover, and a few written notes from the previous owner.   Versions of such books also feel sacred to me, like an old copy of Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair that requires me to hold it gently to avoid having pages spill out since the binding is in shambles.  Our copy of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass makes me happy when I pick it up.  I open its aged pages to read one of Walt’s crazy poems and break into a smile.

How a person holds a book can show you certain things about them.  Back in high school, the Younglife leaders used to pull out their rolled up New Testaments out of their back pockets before reading it to us. There was something about that casual approach that made the book seem relevant to me. Later in life, I remember a saintly man who taught a small group from the New Testament. I have no memory of the subject itself, but have not forgotten the way his large, calloused hands delicately turned the pages of the bible.  His love for the text was communicated in the way he held the book.

There is a story in the gospels where Jesus unrolls the scrolls from Isaiah from his hometown synagogue in Galilee.  He reads to the audience about good news for the poor before handing the large unwieldy scrolls back to the attendant.  Pausing with awareness of the emotions he would incite; he told the crowd that these words were being fulfilled in their presence.  As he stepped down, his enemies became confirmed in their opposition to him.  With these words, and others to follow, he had sealed his fate.

I wonder what we might have learned about Jesus from watching the carpenter handling the scroll that day.  Could his hands have trembled slightly, in anticipation of what lay ahead for him as he prepared to speak his commentary on the text?  Might we have discerned the irony he likely felt?  After all, Isaiah had received the same opposition from a nearly identical religious group that Jesus was now provoking.

Words can have that effect on us.  Particularly those found in my banged-up study bible or in my similarly roughed up Message.  The law contained in those books is described as “more real and lasting than the stars in the sky or the ground at your feet.”  That’s a powerful image.

I hope that when I hold these books, my hands reflect the love I feel for the words within them.  And deep gratitude for the way they have impacted my life.