Road to Damascus

Acts 9:1-9

Meanwhile Saul, still breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord, went to the high priest and asked him for letters to the synagogues at Damascus, so that if he found any who belonged to the Way, men or women, he might bring them bound to Jerusalem. Now as he was going along and approaching Damascus, suddenly a light from heaven flashed around him. He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” He asked, “Who are you, Lord?” The reply came, “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting. But get up and enter the city, and you will be told what you are to do.” The men who were traveling with him stood speechless because they heard the voice but saw no one. Saul got up from the ground, and though his eyes were open, he could see nothing; so they led him by the hand and brought him into Damascus. For three days he was without sight, and neither ate nor drank.

There have been times in my life I’ve wondered “why can’t I have a ‘Road to Damascus’ moment like Paul?”  As if the only way to be able to verify or be transformed by my faith is to have had faith blind me like a thunderbolt, with Jesus’ voice calling me from on high, scaring me into submission.  I’m sure I’m not alone.  I know others have wished that God would appear so suddenly - so irrefutably - that faith made sense to everyone, including ourselves.

But as I read this again and again, each time I see that the transformation of Saul, who breathes threats and murder, to Paul, who blind is led by the hand after an awe-striking encounter with the risen Christ, isn’t one for the faint of heart.  It isn’t, perhaps, the kind of transformation we really want, is it?

Most of us won’t have that Road to Damascus moment – that thundering faith transforming event that changes us without question.  So it’s easy to miss or forget or overlook that despite the lack of dramatic flair, transformation is nevertheless what’s happening to us.

Bit by bit, moment by moment, as Luther said, Christ drives out the old Adam in us.  That old self becomes the new creation, drowning daily to sin in the waters of baptism.

It’s so faint, I admit I don’t always notice it.  Especially when in my ongoing brokenness I mess up yet again.

I’ve always had a tendency to love drama, so admittedly sometimes bit-by-bit gets frustrating.

And yet there are moments when that voice from heaven, usually soft and tender rather than thunderous, makes an imprint on my heart, and like Paul I fall to my knees and get a glimpse of that new creation.

Lord of thunder and tenderness, forgive my impatience.  And forgive my not noticing that amazing transformation you create both in me and in the world around me.  Help me to live into that transformation, growing each day into my true, whole self.

Amen.