Miracles and Toilets

One idea I see confirmed throughout the Bible is that God interacts with our world on its own terms. Jesus did miracles, but he did not do miracles that prevented him from having to make practical arrangements, just like the rest of us, for his day to day physical necessities (see Luke 8:1-3).

One of the clearest examples of this is in the Christmas story in Matthew 1 and 2. Here is the point at which God enacts the greatest miracle of all time, the supernatural gestation and birth of the Savior of The World. Both Joseph and the wise men from the east are given specific instructions by angels in dreams, and there’s even a sign in the cosmos in a specially placed star. And yet, the evil king Herod, as so many before and after him, fought tooth and nail to keep his power seat secure, going so far as having all children two and under in the Bethlehem area killed. What a this-worldly thing to do.

But if someone is picking up the Bible for the first time with only a vague knowledge of the Jesus story and a few general assumptions about supernatural intervention in our world, it might be easy to expect a magic wand approach. This is, after all, one of the biggest supernatural interventions ever, why shouldn’t it include a miraculous moratorium on the ruthless attempts of evil dictators to maintain power and the infant corpses that result? If only as red carpet for the arrival of the Savior of the human race, couldn’t his birth and childhood have been a pain-free affair? Certainly there was enough anguish waiting at the opposite end of his earthly life.

But God works himself into this world on this world’s terms. Miracles are pin-pricks of light into our dark prison. The doors don’t fling fully open until the end. It seems that the Incarnation of Christ itself was the epitome of God’s method for working in this world and revealing himself to us. Jesus walked on water, but still got thirsty. He healed the sick and injured, but still had his own body broken.

It’s kind of like when you have some great spiritual epiphany and then have to go home and wash dishes.

The other day my 3-year-old dropped his racecar in the toilet. I was thankful he didn’t try to flush it, but not so thankful he had already used the bathroom. Afterwards I was thankful for rubber gloves. A trite analogy, I know, but it seems that God saving us required him reaching in and getting a lot of the filth of our world on himself before we could all be cleansed for good.

MM