Since I was six years old, I've known the story of Jesus feeding the five thousand. Same with the story of Esther, the story of Jacob and Rachel, and even the story of Jesus' very death on the cross. I learned and relearned these stories a thousand times in Sunday School, at various Vacation Bible Schools, at youth group, at youth rallies, etc. I learned them until my heart became calloused to their messages, and I regarded them as stories from the Bible and not much more than that. I was so familiar with them that they no longer held much meaning for me.
But now, as I have been reading through the Bible with more purpose, understanding, and maturity, I have discovered that no modern-day storybook can compare to the Bible in its collection of amazing stories. And I wish that it hadn't taken me half of my lifetime to see it. I think, maybe if I hadn't been inundated with these stories from all directions I would have learned to appreciate them for what they are: remarkable testimonies--in all shapes and sizes, involving all different kinds of people--of God's enduring love, justice, and deliverance.
Maybe it took me so long because I was accustomed to the stripped down versions of Bible stories that hardly did justice to the story's true message. Queen Esther saved her people by appearing before her husband, the king, unsummoned. What a brave servant of God! The end.
Anyway, I suppose it doesn't really matter now, because I've finally started breaking out of that apathy I was experiencing. And I certainly am very grateful for the way my parents raised me, and I wouldn't trade my upbringing for any other upbringing in the world. But a small part of me occasionally wonders how my attitude toward the Bible would be different if I hadn't grown up in a Christian home. If the stories would be more real to me, more awe-inspiring.
But now, as I have been reading through the Bible with more purpose, understanding, and maturity, I have discovered that no modern-day storybook can compare to the Bible in its collection of amazing stories. And I wish that it hadn't taken me half of my lifetime to see it. I think, maybe if I hadn't been inundated with these stories from all directions I would have learned to appreciate them for what they are: remarkable testimonies--in all shapes and sizes, involving all different kinds of people--of God's enduring love, justice, and deliverance.
Maybe it took me so long because I was accustomed to the stripped down versions of Bible stories that hardly did justice to the story's true message. Queen Esther saved her people by appearing before her husband, the king, unsummoned. What a brave servant of God! The end.
Anyway, I suppose it doesn't really matter now, because I've finally started breaking out of that apathy I was experiencing. And I certainly am very grateful for the way my parents raised me, and I wouldn't trade my upbringing for any other upbringing in the world. But a small part of me occasionally wonders how my attitude toward the Bible would be different if I hadn't grown up in a Christian home. If the stories would be more real to me, more awe-inspiring.
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