It does not appear that there is any limit to the ways in which we may misunderstand the Bible—whether in the number of misunderstandings or in the degree to which we misunderstand. Like humans themselves, human responses to the texts are all over the place, sometimes varying wildly, even on certain topics which carry a considerable consensus otherwise.
And I doubt that anyone this side of Heaven can account for the whole of this phenomenon. But I can tell you this much, for it is obvious: We would likely do much better if we were trying to understand what the authors of the Bible meant, rather than simply asking the ever-popular question, “What does this mean to me?“
Quite obviously, when you limit the field length for the incoming message, you are excluding messages that will not fit in the prescribed space. This means you’re probably assuming that any good message would fit in the box and any that won’t fit must be bad.
But this is all kinds of wrong.
Surely, God himself could tell you more good things than would fit in your little box. And you could argue that, for obvious reasons, you aren’t expecting God to be submitting an answer. But it seems you aren’t expecting that anyone else could have any wisdom that might exceed the limits of your box.
I suppose you could fill an ocean With the things I don’t know.
And I should explain that I say I suppose because I don’t know that for a fact But I confess it seems at least A reasonable stab at The aggregate volume of The things I don’t know— When attempting To be unbiased in response to My general experience in this world And my study of philosophy and cognitive science— Except that I must further confess For the record that I realize that an ocean May indeed be too small a basin To hold the things I don’t know.
It’s impressive the array of items that certain men Can produce on demand from another orifice While deliberating as to whether the words “I don’t know” should be permitted To escape their lips.
Gary Cooper plays Alvin York (1941) plowing his difficult mountain farm, where the rocks make it hard to plow straight furrows.
I’m reminded this morning of a great scene in the movie, Sergeant York. I believe it has one of the richest metaphors ever to make it to the silver screen—the kind we could sit and ponder for an hour and still not be wasting our time. And it’s a metaphor that comes up again and again in my own personal life, as I wrestle with the lessons of life that ought to have been learned better by now—about how problems left to fester end up costing us a great deal of strife until they are finally solved.
Let me set the scene:
Alvin York is a young and unruly subsistence farmer, plowing his poor family’s top land up in the mountains of East Tennessee. He’s using a mule and a turning plow, as had his father and grandfather before him. And even though we will watch Alvin clearing several watermelon-sized rocks from his family farm, there’s a very large rock in that field that he had been plowing around for many years, as had his father and grandfather before him. Alvin’s been a long-time hard worker, church-goer and songleader, even, but can’t break his bent for drinking and fighting. One day, at Alvin’s mother’s invitation, Pastor Pyle comes to see Alvin, hoping he can influence him to “get religion”. And the pastor makes use of that huge rock to urge Alvin to fight to improve himself. Here’s that favorite scene from the 1941 Gary Cooper film. (If you want to watch it a second time, you’ll have to refresh the page.):
Here’s a snippet from the dialog:
Pyle: See that rock, Alvin? (He points to a large boulder in the field.) You been plowing around that rock a heap of years. York: Sure have. Pyle: Did you ever think when you start plowing your furrows crooked, it’s mighty hard to get ’em straight again? York: I never thought on it much. Pyle: Well, it’s that way, I reckon—with other things besides plowin’.
I think that Pastor Pyle was right. It is that way with other things besides plowing. And now in my later years, I turn my attention to clearing as many of these “rocks” as I can from my field while I’m still alive. And it seems the way of this world to leave these things unsolved, even from generation to generation. But what if a person were to take a mind to clean up his own field?!
It’s quite a chore—quite a quest, even, and it seems such the right thing to do as I learn more and more just how big those unfinished “little things” can be.
Screen shot of the scene where Alvin and George York are removing a large rock from a field.
The one trainer swears up and down That if you know his fitness secret You can eat any food you like However egregious And that it will bring you no harm.
Because I trust you so much I will risk to admit to you— Even after my big pushback To your suggestion from yesterday— The possibility that deep down in my heart— Beneath those often-traveled levels Where the words play out And the feelings are felt And the plans are made— Down at that most distant part Where the very will of me resides— I am refusing to love What you have said I should love— And what I very well could have Loved by now— That I am in fact stubbornly Refusing to embrace it And to hold its hand And look it in the eye With a soft heart— In the way that bonds people Into the best of friends.
What is it— This new manna— This joy that comes Fresh with the morning Except on the very darkest of days— Which I cannot explain— And gives me a nudge To start all over again— Even when I had run out The night before And had little hope But for the morning?
