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I've seen some pretty fancy modern scrapbooks. These are the ones assembled lovingly by detail-oriented fanatics, typically proud moms, using commercial tools and purchased colorful self-stick decorations to be sure each cherished photo is framed and ornamented perfectly. These scrapbooks are masterpieces, assembled all at once with a special occasion in mind, usually with all the love and pride in the world.
I have a scrapbook too.
Mine is different. Years ago I bought an empty scrapbook binder – it has greenish hard cover and construction paper pages that are faded. When I started in grade school I carefully taped artifacts and memorabilia onto the pages. In later years I started using the scrapbook more like a folder – just a place to insert odds and ends that told of memories from my formative years. Some memories received detailed attention with recorded provenance. Others were included at the spur of the moment, with less record of when or where or why. All of these artifacts are about me in one way or another, and they were assembled for a kind of purpose, but it is nothing like the pretty polished shiny mounted scrapbooks I've seen on the coffee tables of soccer moms.
My scrapbook is now in a large cardboard box in the back furnace room of my basement, 30 paces from here. I'm about to turn 53 and I know where it is, but I haven't looked through it for years. It's bulging and there are clippings hanging out. Nothing has been added since some time during college.
My scrapbook is all "true" but it isn't like a detailed HD movie of my life.
My scrapbook is much more interesting than that – it is an odd, almost inexplicable sampling of snippets of what it meant to be me. The artifacts tell different stories – some of the stories aren't even remembered.
If you were to page through my scrapbook, you'd encounter all kinds of different artifacts and memories that represent different kinds of stories about who I am, where I am from, who influenced me, and what seemed at the time to be worth saving. Some of the items are relatively factual – there are newspaper clippings with faded text and photographs. But there are other more wonderful things – movie ticket stubs from a forgotten date – programs from concerts – the cover of a matchbook from prom – a piece of a holiday costume – a snapshot from a school play. And then there are even more mysterious and intriguing things – a short poem scribbled on paper, inspired by young love – a printed flyer explaining the gospel message of Jesus – some hair in an envelope. There is a love letter that still smells faintly of perfume, and a trinket from a bachelor party. There is a ticket stub from a Queen concert, and an essay about the first and only time my father ever showed us how to fire a rifle. A picture of a faintly smiling teenager in a hospital bed is near a sepia photo of two young people posing in fake western garb. There is a music award certificate. There is the picture of a pet cat, long gone.
My scrapbook is all "true" but it's more interesting, more mysterious, more inviting than a detailed full-length HD movie of my life.
It's a collection about me. It's a collection by me. It's a collection of me. The stranger who pages through this loose and lively collection shouldn't expect neat order, consistency, chronology, or simplicity. No – this collection is more art than history, more music than science. I'm in there, but not digitally – it's an analog 33 rpm LP record, and its pretty scratchy. This is no DVD.
But it's me, and there is a message that pours out from these pages. It's just that you will never understand it all, or grasp the significance, until you get to know me. Looking at my scrapbook prepares you for someday seeing me – you get a tiny flavor of who you might know if you encounter me and get to know me face-to-face. The scrapbook is full of hints about me. My scrapbook is all "true" but its more interesting than HD.
The Bible is a scrapbook.
There – I said it: the Bible is a scrapbook – not an HD movie or DVD. The Bible is more wonderful and interesting and mysterious than some kind of instruction manual.
The Bible is more art than history, more music than science.
The pages of the Bible reveal snippets and pictures, stories and anecdotes, poems and ticket stubs, clippings, essays, and fragments of love songs. Sometimes we know why the poem was saved and from which play the program – sometimes we can only guess. Sometimes it doesn't matter.
Some of the Bible records an impression of history, some clippings, some recipes, some instructions, some lyrics, some receipts, some poems, some transcriptions of dreams, some hazy snapshots with no familiar people tagged. Some pages have first-hand accounts, but some pages are pieces of letters where most of the correspondence is missing.
The Bible is a scrapbook. It is like my scrapbook, full of remarkable fragments and anecdotes and smells and artifacts and pieces of larger things. It wasn't assembled with commercial adhesive corners and stickers in one sitting for one special occasion. It is just like my scrapbook – accumulating pieces of my life in mysterious and unpredictable ways.
Looking at this scrapbook prepares me for someday meeting someone else – I get a tiny flavor of him who I will eventually encounter and know face-to-face.
Studying my scrapbook is fun and frustrating and mysterious and intriguing – which parts must be understood with a calendar and cross-referenced to a yearbook or diary? Which parts are art and poetry and convey a heart rather than a mind? Which parts were exaggerated or angry or blurred, or tear-stained? What is missing from that blank page? Whose hair is that? Why is there a playing card tucked next to the obituary of a friend?
The Bible is a scrapbook.
It's worth studying carefully, cherishing, investigating. It's worth challenging the mystery of this epic scrapbook if only sometimes to meet another mystery. It's not easy. It's not an HD movie or DVD.
The Bible is special because it's the most remarkable scrapbook we've ever been given. Collected in different and puzzling and uncertain ways, it's the scrapbook we were meant to have.
It's the scrapbook I was meant to have.
11.15.13
