What He Was Willing to Touch
A leper begs to be made clean — and instead of healing him from a safe distance, Jesus reaches out and touches the untouchable. That one choice quietly overturns a word most of us were sure we understood.
A leper begs to be made clean — and instead of healing him from a safe distance, Jesus reaches out and touches the untouchable. That one choice quietly overturns a word most of us were sure we understood.
Words are only one of the languages we speak. A look at symbolism as the bridge between words and reality — and at one symbol, death, sounding the same note at every level, from a garden to the Holy of Holies.
Before the tree, Judas went back to the temple — and the men who held the key of knowledge handed him a wall instead of a door. A look at the key that opens or locks, and whose hand finally holds it.
I catch myself reaching for the verse, the correction — the thing I know that they apparently don’t. A look at the danger Paul names: knowledge puffs up, but love builds up.
Close one eye and the room goes flat. Reading and study are the two eyes we bring to the Bible — and the depth is in the two together, not in either alone.
To “observe” the commandments has quietly come to mean perform them. But the word means to watch — to see. That single shift is the difference between a mask and a mirror.
Why is it called the tree of the knowledge of good and evil — and not, simply, the tree of death? Two trees at the center of the garden, and their names don’t match the way you’d expect.
You can know a voice on the phone before a single word means anything. What if Scripture could be heard the same way?
Concordances and lexicons: the right tool for one job, the wrong tool for another. One Greek word — epithumia, rendered both “desire” and “lust” — shows why.
I picked up the first English dictionary, printed in 1604, and couldn’t read half of it. One word stopped me cold — and it’s all over the Bible.