Monday morning revelations
(I wrote this back in October and never posted it. I was having a conversation with Dad last night about this very thing and remembered it.)
19-10-09
I was standing at the corner of Cornmarket a week ago and looking down towards Tom Tower. The light was flooding into my eyes and all I could see was a sea of heads bobbing in the light. And I started thinking about the eternality of the soul.
My, that’s a big thought for a Monday morning, you say. And it was. As a Christian, I believe every single person that exists or has ever existed is known and loved by God. More than that - I believe that every single person that has ever lived will live FOREVER. I mean EVERYONE. It’s easy to believe that Shakespeare and Mother Theresa and Hitler and Pol Pot are eternal - their shadows are long. It’s also easy to believe that our loved ones are eternal - they are so beloved, how could they not be? But what about every housewife, every elderly bachelor, every boy racer, every perma-tanned ladette, every baby who dies in infancy, every person you’ve ever seen on TV? Politicians, celebrities, bigots, racists, paedophiles, pornographers, Christians, Mormons, Muslims, Scientologists, atheists, the guy in the bank, everyone?
Dad and I were walking into Oxford to the CS Lewis Society the other night and we passed a man in a dark covered bus stop roaring with madness and drunkenness - the kind of noise that signifies a mind absolutely degraded by drink and drugs. This man was, like many on the streets of Oxford, more bestial than human. And as I passed it hit me with a blinding flash. To God, that man is unutterably precious. He loves this man, and me, and Richard Dawkins and the Pope, exactly the same. I may be nicely dressed and showered and in my right mind, but I and that man in his filthy blanket are exactly the same in God’s sight.
To my shame, it reminded me that in my dealings with others, I am dealing with eternal souls, people so beloved by God that had the guy who served me in the bank been the only person on earth, the incarnate God would still have died to save him. Or the madman in the bus stop. Or Paris Hilton. Or the humblest, sweetest little old lady who does nothing but potter in her garden and make biscuits for her neighbours. Or you, reading this. So, on those lines, it follows that he’d have died just for me as well. I find that very hard to take in. I realised the other day that all my life I’d thought “God would probably have died for just one of us,” but always saw that one as someone other than me. I mean, it's easy to believe that he loves everyone else that completely. But me? Just me? Now there's a thought.
19-10-09
I was standing at the corner of Cornmarket a week ago and looking down towards Tom Tower. The light was flooding into my eyes and all I could see was a sea of heads bobbing in the light. And I started thinking about the eternality of the soul.
My, that’s a big thought for a Monday morning, you say. And it was. As a Christian, I believe every single person that exists or has ever existed is known and loved by God. More than that - I believe that every single person that has ever lived will live FOREVER. I mean EVERYONE. It’s easy to believe that Shakespeare and Mother Theresa and Hitler and Pol Pot are eternal - their shadows are long. It’s also easy to believe that our loved ones are eternal - they are so beloved, how could they not be? But what about every housewife, every elderly bachelor, every boy racer, every perma-tanned ladette, every baby who dies in infancy, every person you’ve ever seen on TV? Politicians, celebrities, bigots, racists, paedophiles, pornographers, Christians, Mormons, Muslims, Scientologists, atheists, the guy in the bank, everyone?
Dad and I were walking into Oxford to the CS Lewis Society the other night and we passed a man in a dark covered bus stop roaring with madness and drunkenness - the kind of noise that signifies a mind absolutely degraded by drink and drugs. This man was, like many on the streets of Oxford, more bestial than human. And as I passed it hit me with a blinding flash. To God, that man is unutterably precious. He loves this man, and me, and Richard Dawkins and the Pope, exactly the same. I may be nicely dressed and showered and in my right mind, but I and that man in his filthy blanket are exactly the same in God’s sight.
To my shame, it reminded me that in my dealings with others, I am dealing with eternal souls, people so beloved by God that had the guy who served me in the bank been the only person on earth, the incarnate God would still have died to save him. Or the madman in the bus stop. Or Paris Hilton. Or the humblest, sweetest little old lady who does nothing but potter in her garden and make biscuits for her neighbours. Or you, reading this. So, on those lines, it follows that he’d have died just for me as well. I find that very hard to take in. I realised the other day that all my life I’d thought “God would probably have died for just one of us,” but always saw that one as someone other than me. I mean, it's easy to believe that he loves everyone else that completely. But me? Just me? Now there's a thought.