I don't cry often. In fact, I remember the last time.
It was less than a year ago, which means my son was 11. We were at an AC/DC concert. Just as they took the stage, the lights dimmed, everyone stood up, and Cole stood in the chair next to me so he could see. He put his arm around me to balance. Angus Young's guitar was plugged into 19 Marshall amps. When he crushed the first chord, the stadium shook, and the fillings in my teeth moved just a little. I looked at Cole's face. It was bright with smiles. He looked so much like the beautiful smile of his mother. And I got all teary-eyed.
And then there was today.
It was twenty years ago that I sat in my first Greek class at ACU. I have read the Greek New Testament, the Septuagint, and even some classical philosophy with some of the brightest minds in the world. But today was special.
You may already know this, O faithful bloggerland reader, but just in case you don't: My friend Edward Fudge and I meet at IHOP and read Greek. Today we started Revelation.
If I let my daughter introduce you to Edward, she would tell you that he's famous. He writes books, and wears a cool hat. She would be more diplomatic about Edward's history than I would. I would be more likely to tell you about all the crap from church people he has had to put up with through the years for defending women, children, and Episcopalians. He has written extensively on controversial topics like hell, immortality, women, children, and Episcopalians. But nothing he has written or said to me thus far has made an impression on me like our reading time at lunch today. It is probably too early to say, but it is quite possible that it may have been one of thinnest places between heaven and earth that I have ever experienced, one of the most moving moments in my lengthening relationship with God.
I remember the last time I felt the way I am feeling right now. I was standing on the shoreline of the Sea of Galilee all by myself. Praying. Washing my hands and face in the water.
And then there was today.
Edward finished his bowl of fruit, and I finished my eggs and steak and hashbrowns and pancakes. (I was hungry, okay; I ran three miles this morning.) We pushed the dishes aside and wiped a spot on the table to set down our Greek New Testaments. Edward changed his glasses, and we began reading.
When we get together, we take turns verse-by-verse. First we read out loud in Greek; then we read the verse again translating as we go. Sometimes like today we will get inspired by a comparison to another passage. For instance, Revelation 1 uses the same word about Jesus that the hymn in Colossians 1:15-20 does: "The firstborn." We get excited about such things. You've never seen anyone geek out quicker than a couple of theologians doing textual analysis.
But then something happened, and I never saw it coming. Edward was reading Revelation 1:17. I didn't think anything of it at first, especially because he had been coughing occasionally during lunch. But as he came to the last few words of the verse, his voice trembled. Then he was silent. He forced himself to finish the verse, but it was strained. He was crying.
We sat quiet for a moment.
I broke the silence. "What gets to you about that?" I asked.
He explained as tears streamed down his face about Jesus' encouragement to "Fear not."
That's when I started crying.
Like I said, I have read Greek with some of the brightest minds in the world, but none more sincere than Edward. Never have I been so moved reading Scripture as I was today. It ranked right up there with the birth of my children, and the way I often feel when Jennifer walks into a room. You might even say that as Edward translated verse 17, I felt the palpable presence of the Almighty.
Revelation 1:17 - "And when I saw him, I fell at his feet like I was dead. And he placed his right hand on me saying, 'Fear not! I am the first and the last...'"
Maybe you were able to read that without tearing up. But I don't know if I will ever be able to again.
