RUT's In A Word?

I’m so pathetically spoiled. No, not because I live in the greatest and wealthiest country the world has ever known; and not because I’ve been raised in middle class splendor. It’s not because of technology and the advancements of convenience which make my life so mobile, so slippery smooth-split-second synchronous; and not even due to the opportunities provided by Your grace Lord. All these things are “spoiling material” for sure, but that’s not why, really, I’m spoiled. The real reason for my pampered claim is simpler: in a word; the “word”.

Where did this incredible invention—graphic representation of thought—originate? Was it a grunt here, a burp there, suddenly transformed into pictures on stone? An elementary scratching that some primitive person decided looked like a sound? How did that representation of spoken language come to be a cipher in somebody’s imagination that could then be catalogued and repeated for others to recognize. What a mind-boggling advancement: Accident, or a calculated process? Inspired and imparted from… where or… whom?

The ancient Hebrews realized the miracle of the written word; so much so that they revered it as the very voice of… You. They would touch the scroll of the Holy Scripture with a finger and then place that finger to their lips, acknowledging the sweetness of the text itself—its tangible taste upon their hearts and minds; thus the psalmist captured it… with words… Taste and see that the Lord is good. Why would something as ordinary as phrases and sentences—no matter how poetic-cause such reverence, such delight?

The Hebrews cherished this thing I take for granted in ways I’m just starting to grasp. To them it became a living thing, a persona of such great power and importance that the “w” became “W” and it was no longer to be spoken as “a word”, but The Word. So powerful became The Word, that when spoken, a world and a universe to support it would come into existence. Matter created from spoken command? Dare we dream so large? You did.

That’s the coincidental secret few unravel—the word was “The Word” before Your people, were “Your Chosen”. And the persona…You… were so much a part of The Word, that the two were… are… inseparable. And so, when we screwed up a perfectly good paradise, You—who already knew what was, what is and what is to be—already had the solution prepared; an impossible solution for an impossible dilemma. You would send The Word to become tangible—as a human; a walking, talking, living, dying and resurrecting experience—to save us from being cut off totally from the gift of Your love.

Yet, as a habit, many don’t begin “word” with a capital. I confess, it’s hard for me to recognize You with the daily words that I casually absorb and dispense in my routine. Do I fully comprehend and appreciate this imperial gift I’ve been given—the ability to see and to hear and to breathe in and out and even to pen words that others can understand too? These markings are culture’s blood; society’s spiritual bridge (to be crossed or blockaded); They are Your intentional hand held out to pull us back from the edge of self destruction.

“What’s he gabbing about?” someone’s asking out there.

I’m beginning to realize Creator, just how treasure filled, is each word I read, write and regurgitate. Still, in this time and place, where media rules, I’m thinking there’s a danger of me becoming (more) lazy; living in this “Cliff Note” world, I find myself uncomfortably comfortable letting others digest my words, letting them form my opinions and conclusions, instead of absorbing the text first hand.

And that’s what I see happening not just to me, but to everyone surrounding me… we read in patterned pathways, RUTs of articulation that are so entrenched in our everyday existence, we dismiss their value and significance. No matter the language, whether English, German, Chinese, Hebrew or Arabic, we are forgetting that just a few short years ago, this privilege of reading and writing were exclusive to the aristocracy, guarded as a governing tool, then fought for and won as a public freedom… is it now so worthless, that I’m willing to cast it aside?

I’m trying Lord, really I am, to appreciate Your desire to connect to us… to me, utilizing the deepest metaphysical bonding agent ever conceived. I’m trying to slow down enough: filtering out the minutia; so that I can seek within each word—The Word, and then within its text, discover Your purpose for me.

I peer at the whispered echoes coursing through ciphered veins;
Its map helping complete my Trek to You
And as I navigate its system, I understand,
With out The Word, I cannot exist
With out The Word, I cannot touch You

I don’t know Adonai, my words are so weak, I know You’re capable of all things—I’m pretty sure You understand even my ranting, but does any of this make sense to anyone else? Does it mean anything for me to type this message out as I do; not just for communication with You, but to associate—word for word with others? Does scribing out this document bring me… us closer in some way to The Word—to You?


RUT On!

Mark A. Cornelius