The Writers of God

I stared in wonder as my guide led me to the massive library. It seemed to go on for miles and miles. As he led me through the door, I questioned him, “Who owns this library?”

“The author and the finisher of our faith,” my guide answered, “He is also the author  of every book in the library.” He opened a book. “This book holds the story of a beautiful lady who followed the call of God, surrendered everything she had, and dedicated her life to serving God.” He opened another book,     “This book contains the story of a ten-year-old child who died of cancer.”

I ran my hand across the spines of the books. Every book had a different cover and title. Their titles had a very special meaning that described the life of the main character. The cover was unique in the way it represented that person’s story. It told if the story was sad, or if it was happy. It told of the mighty forces of God conquering the evil forces of Satan. Each book told a unique story of one of God’s saints. Every story was different, yet they all told of how the love and  forgiveness of God can prevail over the evil hold of the Devil.

As we walked deeper into the library, I noticed tall, beautiful figures writing. Some were sitting at tables, others were standing with their book in one hand and a pen in the other, but they were all writing. “What are they writing?” I asked gesturing toward the writers.

“They are writing the stories of saints still living,” replied my guide, “those saints who are not yet finished on earth; God still has awesome plans for them.”

“What are their stories?” I implored, “may I hear them?”

“Some, but not all,” replied my guide, “this writer over here” he gestured, “is writing the story of a young man who overcame his fears of what others think of him and is now using his resources and talents that God has given him to impact the world in such a way that others will know that God reigns. And that young writer over in the corner, is just finishing the story of a young lady who was martyred because of her love toward our Savior.”

My guide told me stories of young people, old people, happy people, and sad people. He told of those who are laughing and of those who are crying. Every single person was absolutely amazing and had a unique story. Every single story showed the love of God shining through darkness. I cried when people were rejected and shed tears of joy when they overcame that rejection and showed others God’s love.

As we approached the center of the library, I noticed a cluster of distinguished  scholars standing around a large book. “That book,” said my guide, “is the most precious book in the library.”

“Why is it so precious?” I questioned my guide.

“In it is written the story of our Savior,” offered one of the students, “It is the story of the One who came to earth and offered himself as a sacrifice that we, who have broken God’s commandments, might live. Without this story, there would be no other story. This story is the beginning and the end of every single story. All the stories you have just heard are built around this book. That is what makes it so important.”

“That is the truth,” agreed my guide as he led me once more toward the seemingly endless sea of writers.

As we passed through the writers of God, I paused next to a table where a young writer was busy writing. His laughing eyes glanced up at me just a moment when I asked my guide, “And who’s story is he writing?”

My guide grinned a little as he answered, “This young writer is writing your story.”


The Whipping Post

     I sat there in my jail cell, shackled to the wall with heavy chains. I was a notorious criminal; I had broken every command in the land and now I was paying the price.

     I heard the sound of heavy chains dragging along the cold ground as the guards hauled another prisoner to the whipping post. I shuddered as his eerie screams echoed down the long corridor. I knew I was next. My shoulders sagged at the thought of the agony I was to endure. I knew I deserved it.

     My head jerked up at the sound of the guards outside my cell door. As I was roughly jerked to my feet and led down the dark corridor, I began to protest loudly.

    “No!” I cried, “You can’t take me. Just leave me alone!” I began to fight the guards with the last of my fleeing strength. It was no use. Their strong hold never weakened as they dragged me down the corridor.

     Finally giving up, I allowed them to chain me to the whipping post. Arching my back, I listened for the sound of the whip whistling through the air. Gritting my teeth, I prepared for the stinging pain, but it never came. Instead of the whip whistling through the air, I heard a kind voice next to me. In the place of stinging pain, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.

    Glancing up, I saw Him. The Man who had tried to befriend me for so many years. The Man who I turned my back on. The One who I scoffed and taunted day after day. I looked away, ashamed that He should see me like this.

     As He unchained me, He commanded the guards to chain Him in MY PLACE.

     Bewildered, I staggered back. Did He not see these filthy rags I wore? Did He not see the whip in the guard’s hands? Did He not remember everything I had done to Him? Did He not know of all the crimes I had committed?

     As the whip whistled through the air, He looked into my eyes and I began to understand. As the whip came down on his back, sobs began to rack my body and I crumbled to the ground. As His mouth opened in an agonizing scream, I realized that He did see. He saw it ALL. He saw the filthy rags I wore. He saw the chains on my feet and the jail cell I sat in. He knew of all the sin I had committed. He knew it all, yet He took my place at the whipping post.