The Pointy End of the Awl

When I was in the sixth grade, two of my best friends decided that they wanted to run away. They weren't looking for freedom from family, necessarily, so much as they wanted to try out their wings. It all began as a joke over the lunch table in the cafeteria one day, where someone asked a What if question -- which turned into a Maybe we should scenario, and before I knew it, one of my friends proposed the project. She would run away, and who would join her? My other friend accepted the challenge. They asked a few more of the girls in our class. 

I tossed the idea around in my head for a few minutes: The idea did offer freedom and the excitement of the unknown. But when it came right down to it, I knew I'd never want to leave my family, who I loved very much, even for the promise of adventure and excitement. 

So I squirmed and bowed out. My two friends took the idea and ran with it, though. For a while, another girl was going to go, too, but she ended up bowing out. 

I was the listening-in friend who watched these two girls bring maps to school (long before GPS) and mark out which states they planned to travel through. They made an inventory of food, money, and basic necessities. Canned soups began appearing in the locker of one of the girls; she'd show her little store to us between classes. They had an itinerary and a "launch point." Since they didn't have drivers' licenses, the only way they could get together to begin their journey -- without their parents' knowledge -- was from a school function, so they chose the same night as a school game night. They even decided on the time: They would leave toward the end of the game night, but early enough that they could get a good start before they were missed.

This planning period went on for a few weeks, and I was witness to most of it -- the trusted "silent" friend.

Those weeks were traumatizing to me, because it set up a test of my loyalties. I knew the sacred trust of "sisterhood." I was supposed to support these friends of mine, keep silent for their plans' sake, join them in their enthusiasm, wave them farewell when they left for their big adventure.

I kept that sacred trust for at least a week, maybe longer. But as time went by, and my friends' plans grew more cemented, I started asking the larger questions: What about their families? What will their parents say? Will they be safe? How long will they be gone? Etc. I knew their families well; I had spent time in both houses, and while no family is perfect, both girls were loved members of their tribes.

So finally, after a rather tumultuous inner battle, I approached my mom. I told her that my friends were planning to run away. She laughed at first -- because who takes such things seriously? And then when I began to describe the extensive plans and lists, she grew concerned. She thought it likely that it was all an imaginative endeavor and would probably come to nothing, but of course, neither one of us knew for sure.

The night of the school function, I had a good time playing whatever games were available, socializing, having fun. I knew this was "the night." Back in the locker room, I saw the bags the girls had packed. One of the girls opened hers up and showed the rest of the girls in the class all the things she'd brought: flashlight, batteries, bags of food, toothbrush and toothpaste, etc. 

I found my mom soon after and told her about it, and my mom's face went completely still. She disappeared, and I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind. 

After a while, I saw a bit of a heated exchange by the doors. Looking over, I saw my two friends and both sets of their parents. They were putting on their coats and leaving, and no one was smiling. All looked very serious, and they disappeared out the door.

On the way home, I asked my mom what had happened. "Did you tell their parents?"

She had, of course. And the parents had caught the girls actually walking down the school's driveway, disappearing into the night.

Initially, I felt betrayed by my mom. I'd told her those things in confidence, and when she'd passed on the information to my friends' parents, she had destroyed the "sisterhood" trust that I'd placed in her. 

Almost immediately, though, with an unusual wave of clarity, I recognized that I had told her so that she could intervene. I'd handed the problem over to my mom, realizing it had become too big for me. 

Mom pointed out the pain the girls were bringing on their family by their choice. Not being a parent at the time, not having experienced from a mother's point of view the totality of the love of the parent for the child, I didn't fully understand, but I did understand that my mom's voice shook as she tried to explain it to me, and my mom never cried unless it was something big.

She also talked to me seriously about the dangers of naïve twelve-year-old girls wandering through the night by themselves, seeking adventure wherever it could be found, and I started to see the ugly underbelly of what could have happened had my friends' plans not been interrupted.

Monday came, and I went to school, where, as I feared, I was touted by one of the girls as "traitor." I had broken trust. She would no longer be my friend; I had given away her plans, and consequently stifled her big adventure. Our friendship never recovered after that.

My other friend, I think, was quite a bit more repentant. I didn't hear anything from her about the situation, but she did play with me some weeks later. 

So at that point, I had a set of metaphorical scales. On one side of the scales was my loyalty to my friends. On the other, my loyalty to "what's best." I was caught in the middle: Do I speak up? Or do I hide what's happening? Do I make a stand for the bigger cause? Or do I hide in a corner and let what happens happen? In the sixth grade when peer pressure was ramping up, it was truly a difficult choice to make.

Why do I tell that story? Good question. 

Let's go to the book of James. 

I've been thoroughly enjoying diving into the Scriptures. Y'all, I love the Word of God, that is, Jesus, and I love the Scriptures that tell about Him. I hope you've been falling in love with Him more, too, as you've come along with me for this journey. I've enjoyed going through Genesis and Revelation, Acts, and Jonah, John, and Exodus. Now I'm going to dive into the book of James.

Today, I got stuck on the greeting in James 1:1, and couldn't get past it. It blew my mind.

James identifies himself in Line #1: "James, a servant of God and of the Lord Jesus Christ." He goes on to name the recipients: "The twelve tribes scattered among the nations," and to greet them: "Greetings." 

Look at who he says he is: "A servant of God and of the Lord Jesus Christ."

Some background: James is widely recognized as the flesh-and-blood brother of Jesus Christ, one of the sons of Joseph and Mary. He is quite possibly the oldest besides Jesus, since he's the first of four of Jesus' blood brothers mentioned in Matthew 13:55. 

Throughout Jesus' three-year ministry, James thinks his brother is a fraud. In fact, none of Jesus' brothers believed in Him (though the Word doesn't tell us what His sisters thought). John 7:5 says: "For even His own brothers did not believe in Him."

Jesus, as the oldest son, is responsible to take care of His mother, but when He is hanging on the cross, He hands over that responsibility to his disciple, John. "Dear woman, here is your son," He says to Mary, and to John, He says, "Here is your mother." 

For whatever reason, James -- the next in line for that responsibility -- has shirked his job, and reasonably, we can assume that it's because he refuses to believe that his own Brother... is God.

I get it. That's asking a lot. When you grow up with someone, you get to know them really, really well. You get to understand all their flaws and shortcomings. The problem is... Jesus doesn't have any flaws or shortcomings. He does, however, have a personality that maybe rubs against James' a bit, as well as a calling that blows. James'. mind. 

No. Way. Even after Jesus begins to do miracles and becomes well-known for them, His brothers still won't believe in Him.

So what changes James' mind? What would cause him to call himself a servant of God and of the Lord Jesus Christ?

In 1 Corinthians 15:6-8, Paul writes a list of eyewitnesses to Jesus' resurrection from the tomb. He wants the Corinthian church to know: Y'all, here's proof positive that Jesus lives! "[Jesus] was raised on the third day according to the Scriptures, and that He appeared to Peter, and then to the Twelve. After that, he appeared to more than five hundred of the brothers at the same time, most of whom are still living, though some have fallen asleep. Then He appeared to James, then to all the apostles, and last of all, He appeared to me (Paul) also, as to one abnormally born."

What does Jesus say to His brother when He appears to Him, alive instead of dead in the tomb where James has turned his back on Him and Mary, shirking his responsibility, leaving Him behind? 

There's no record of the actual meeting, just the fact that it happens, and whatever occurs in that post-resurrection meeting makes James go from silent bystander to Jesus' death to speaking out about Jesus' life. He goes from doubter to servant -- or, as the word is translated from the Greek -- "bondservant."

What's the Scriptural significance of the bondservant? 

Waaay back in Exodus (hey, I just got done with Exodus!), Moses was up on Mount Sinai receiving the covenant between God and the Israelite people. God starts, significantly, with ten commandments (the Decalogue), and then jumps into a description of a bondservant, found in Exodus 21:2-11. To summarize, a servant should serve his or her master for six years, and then the master is to set them free. However, if the servant loves his or her master and wants to continue to serve him, the master is to make the servant stand next to a doorpost, and he drives an awl through the servant's ear. This, a symbol of absolute loyalty, will stay with the servant forever, a lifelong reminder that he is in the service of his master.

It's a powerful metaphor of our relationship with our Lord. Psalm 40:6 says: "Sacrifice and offering You did not desire, but my ears You have pierced." I am Yours, Lord, for life.

Bondservants held responsibility to the family they served. They could not offer their services to anyone else; they were, essentially, their master's. They willingly laid their lives in their master's hands... for the number of years they walked the earth.

I am not advocating for slavery; please don't misunderstand me. I am recognizing that my life, I offer unconditionally, without holding back, to the Lord. My ears You have pierced. For life.

So when James greets the twelve tribes by naming himself "a bondservant of God and of [his flesh-and-blood brother] the Lord Jesus Christ," somewhere along the way, he has leaned against the doorframe and had the awl driven through his ear. He has offered his servitude for life. He has drawn his line in the sand.

Here is where I stand. I am His.

He's turned his back on the doubters, and he's accepted the much larger message his Brother has brought to humankind. He turns his loyalties from the small-scale picture to the big-scale picture, and... he does it for life.

What do we do with this?

Here's the deal: all of us are loyal to something. We all have an awl driven through our figurative ear. But -- who have we given the hammer to? Who have we allowed to drive the awl through our ear?

Ask yourself this, and try to be honest; this is an important question: Is my loyalty to the right or the left of the circumstances I see? Or is it to the One Who holds those circumstances? 

It's easy to declare loyalty, but when the hammer is in the hand and the awl is approaching... will you actually go through with the lifetime commitment? 

James, the brother of Jesus, was martyred in 62 A.D., put to death because he would not renounce his faith in the Lord Jesus Christ -- his flesh-and-blood Brother.

What kind of faith allows a person to do that?

One that has been at the pointy end of the awl.