The Worn Bible

It wasn’t too large of a town. Not small, but not very large either. One of those medium-sized towns that was well known if you lived in the area, but if not, it might as well have been some unimportant rural country town. Despite that, it had everything a town needed and then some. A selection of grocery stores, car dealers, private businesses, and of course, churches.

Most of the churches were actually on the same length of road. This road was, unsurprisingly, named Church Street. There was a fair share of churches that lined the sides of the street, Baptist, Orthodox, Presbyterian, Catholic, Non-Denominational. Church Street had it all.

It was in one of these churches on Church Street where an old man with graying hair and blue eyes sat in a pew towards the back. The overhead lights had long since been dimmed, most of what illuminated the room came from the bulbs that backlit the decorative cross hanging behind the pulpit.

The old man sat in the pew with his Bible open on his knee, the actual text and the notes he made in the margins with black pen were indistinguishable except for his eyes. He wasn’t reading the Scripture at that particular moment, though. Instead he was staring at the backlit cross that he saw every Sunday, Wednesday and any other day he walked into church.

The peaceful silence was interrupted by a rattling door slam. The old man glanced over his shoulder to see an unfamiliar stranger in a gray suit walk briskly down the aisle. The newcomer didn’t notice the old man at first. He stopped about halfway down the aisle and just looked around, his eyes scanning every detail.

The old man watched him thoughtfully for a few moments before asking, “Is there something I can help you with?”

The newcomer’s head snapped around, his dark-colored eyes studied the old man, as if he were trying to analyze his presence. He turned fully, and this was when the old man noticed that the newcomer had a black Bible in his hands.

“I didn’t realize that anyone else was here,” the newcomer replied, taking a few steps closer to the old man.

“There’s always someone here,” the old man said, resting a hand on his Bible.

The only indication that the newcomer registered the old man’s answer was a slight narrowing of his eyes.

“I thought people were supposed to dress up for church,” the newcomer said, inclining his head towards the old man’s outfit.

The old man glanced down at his clothing, weathered jeans that had seen better days and a plaid flannel shirt that was one of the nicer ones he owned, but it was missing two buttons and the sleeves were fraying.

“Well, I don’t think it matters as much what I’m wearing as long as I show up when the pastor preaches,” the old man paused to look at the newcomer’s sharp business suit, slicked back hair, and polished dress shoes, “Were you here this morning when the pastor preached?”

The newcomer forced a smile. “Ah, no. I wasn’t.”

“What’s the saying? Better late than never,” the old man gave an easy smile back and gestured to the seat next to him, “Go ahead, sit down.”

The newcomer hesitated, but took the seat offered to him.

“What’s your name, son?”

The newcomer frowned at being called “son,” he wasn’t that young, but answered anyway. “Scott Kelly.”

He didn’t ask for the old man’s name.

“What brings you to church at this hour, Scott Kelly?” the old man asked.

Scott didn’t answer the question. The truth was, he didn’t really know. If he was being honest himself, he would have said that he was looking for answers, for help, for anything to stop the gaping emptiness and incurable pain that ate away at him every day. But he wasn’t being honest, with himself or this man sitting next to him. So he said nothing.

Instead, he found himself staring at the open Bible resting on the old man’s knee. Lines and passages were sporadically highlighted, indecipherable handwriting filled almost every margin, the pages were yellowing with age, and he didn’t have to see the front of the book to know the outside cover was peeling and the binding was coming loose.

“Your Bible looks like it’s about to fall apart,” Scott commented.

“It’s been about to fall apart for a few years now,” the old man said, “I’ll keep using it until it does.”

“Why don’t you get a new one? There have to be thousands of Bibles that are printed every year.”

The old man didn’t respond immediately. He stared contemplatively down at his Bible before his gaze returned to Scott. He reached over to the black Bible that sat in Scott’s lap and opened it to reveal pristine white pages with stark black text.

“How long have you had this?” the old man asked.

“A few years, maybe?” Scott answered, somewhat caught off guard by the odd question. He couldn’t remember exactly when and where he got the Bible, just that it had been sitting on his mantle for quite some time.

“A few years,” the old man muttered, closing the Bible to feel the glossy finish and crisp edges of the front cover.

Scott cleared his throat, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

The old man returned to his original posture, giving Scott his personal space back.

“You asked me why I don’t get a new Bible,” the old man stated, still holding Scott’s Bible under his firm gaze.

“That’s right,” Scott confirmed, although he wasn’t sure he actually cared.

“The way I see it, if somebody went around the world and collected all of the Bibles that had never been opened in the past year, there wouldn’t be a need to print new Bibles.”

The old man paused, maybe waiting for Scott to reply or say something back. He didn’t.

“When was the last time you opened that book?” the old man asked.

The edges of Scott’s mouth twitched in annoyance at the question. That was all the answer the old man needed.

“Why are you here, Mr. Kelly?”

Scott considered how to answer. The reasons flooding his mind weren’t ones he wanted to share with the old man, but he felt compelled to respond.

“I don’t know.”

“Lookin’ for something?” the old man guessed.

“No,” Scott said, “I have everything I need.”

“Oh, really?” the old man said skeptically, “Forgive me, Mr. Kelly but I don’t think I believe you.”

“You don’t? And why is that?”

“If you had everything, you wouldn’t have walked through those doors. There’s something you want. Do you know what it is?”

“I have everything I need,” Scott repeated, as if he said it out loud enough times it would come true.

“I still don’t believe you.”

Scott laughed, a dry and humorless sound. “And why should I care what you think of me? You’re just an old geezer rotting in a church pew.”

“It’s not my opinion you should care about,” the old man replied.

For some reason, this statement silenced Scott. He didn’t understand exactly what the old man meant by it, but the implication seemed heavy.

“Mr. Kelly, if you died tomorrow, are you confident you would go to heaven?” the old man asked. It was a simple question really, but one that made Scott’s head spin.

Scott opened his mouth to respond, he wasn’t sure he would go to heaven, but it didn’t matter. Death was a far off threat that he didn't have time to think about. This old man should be more concerned with dying than he should be.

Something inside Scott broke. The dam of bitterness and anger holding back all of the pain and shame in his heart didn’t just splinter, it shattered, and years of pent up suffering consumed his mind and soul. It was sudden, and it was awful. He drew in a sharp breath as tears pricked his eyes. Tears? He couldn’t remember the last time he cried.

“No,” Scott answered quietly, “I don’t know.”

“Maybe that’s the answer you’re looking for,” the old man suggested.

The answer. Scott wasn’t even sure what answer he was looking for. Like he told the old man, he had everything he needed. What he didn’t tell the old man was despite having everything he wanted and needed, he felt as if he had nothing. An abyss of bleak emptiness gaped inside of him and he couldn’t figure out how to fill it. It swallowed everything. There was nothing else he could do. The exhaustion of trying to fill the emptiness inside of him was taking its toll, and it was getting harder and harder to wake up every morning.

“There is no answer,” Scott said. It was over. He was done. He was going to have to live with this pain and all consuming nothingness for the rest of his life.

“Oh, there is,” the old man said, “It’s sitting right in your lap.”

It took a moment for Scott to realize that the old man wasn’t talking figuratively, but literally. He stared down at the glossy black cover of the Bible that had become a decorative piece on his mantle rather than a book he was interested in reading.

“John three is a pretty good place to start, if you’re looking for answers,” the old man closed his Bible and tucked it under his arm

“I’ll consider it,” Scott replied.

The old man stood up, preparing to leave. Scott stayed seated.

“You should try coming when the pastor is here,” the old man suggested.

“I don’t know about that.” Scott didn’t know if he could face more people like this old man. Maybe that was why he came after hours when he thought nobody would be here. Maybe he didn’t want to confront the shame that was storming inside of him. Or maybe he was just a coward. He cringed at the last thought.

“Mr. Kelly, you've had that Bible for a long time. It’s about time you read what it has to say, don’t you think?”

Scott didn’t answer. The old man left, the closing of the door echoing through the empty room and Scott was left alone in front of the backlit cross with his Bible in his lap.

He opened the book to John chapter three.

And for the first time, he read what it had to say.