by Max Lucado
He placed one scoop of clay upon another until a form lay
lifeless on the ground.
All of the Garden's inhabitants paused to witness the event.
Hawks hovered. Giraffes stretched. Trees bowed. Butterflies paused
on petals and watched.
"You will love me, nature," God said. "I made you that way. You
will obey me, universe. For you were designed to do so. You will
reflect my glory, skies, for that is how you were created. But this
one will be like me. This one will be able to choose."
All were silent as the Creator reached into himself and removed
something yet unseen. A seed. "It's called 'choice.' The seed of
choice."
Creation stood in silence and gazed upon the lifeless form.
An angel spoke, "But what if he ... "
"What if he chooses not to love?" the Creator finished. "Come, I
will show you."
Unbound by today, God and the angel walked into the realm of
tomorrow.
"There, see the fruit of the seed of choice, both the sweet and
the bitter."
The angel gasped at what he saw. Spontaneous love. Voluntary
devotion. Chosen tenderness. Never had he seen anything like these.
He felt the love of the Adams. He heard the joy of Eve and her
daughters. He saw the food and the burdens shared. He absorbed the
kindness and marveled at the warmth.
"Heaven has never seen such beauty, my Lord. Truly, this is your
greatest creation."
"Ah, but you've only seen the sweet. Now witness the bitter."
A stench enveloped the pair. The angel turned in horror and
proclaimed, "What is it?"
The Creator spoke only one word: "Selfishness."
The angel stood speechless as they passed through centuries of
repugnance. Never had he seen such filth. Rotten hearts. Ruptured
promises. Forgotten loyalties. Children of the creation wandering
blindly in lonely labyrinths.
"This is the result of choice?" the angel asked.
"Yes."
"They will forget you?"
"Yes."
"They will reject you?"
"Yes."
"They will never come back?"
"Some will. Most won't."
"What will it take to make them listen?"
The Creator walked on in time, further and further into the
future, until he stood by a tree. A tree that would be fashioned
into a cradle. Even then he could smell the hay that would surround
him.
With another step into the future, he paused before another tree.
It stood alone, a stubborn ruler of a bald hill. The trunk was
thick, and the wood was strong. Soon it would be cut. Soon it would
be trimmed. Soon it would be mounted on the stony brow of another
hill. And soon he would be hung on it.
He felt the wood rub against a back he did not yet wear.
"Will you go down there?" the angel asked.
"I will."
"Is there no other way?"
"There is not."
"Wouldn't it be easier to not plant the seed? Wouldn't it be
easier to not give the choice?"
"It would," the Creator spoke slowly. "But to remove the choice
is to remove the love."
He looked around the hill and foresaw a scene. Three figures hung
on three crosses. Arms spread. Heads fallen forward. They moaned
with the wind.
Men clad in soldiers' garb sat on the ground near the trio. They
played games in the dirt and laughed.
Men clad in religion stood off to one side. They smiled.
Arrogant, cocky. They had protected God, they thought, by killing
this false one.
Women clad in sorrow huddled at the foot of the hill. Speechless.
Faces tear streaked. Eyes downward. One put her arm around another
and tried to lead her away. She wouldn't leave. "I will stay," she
said softly. "I will stay."
All heaven stood to fight. All nature rose to rescue. All
eternity poised to protect. But the Creator gave no command.
"It must be done ... ," he said, and withdrew.
But as he stepped back in time, he heard the cry that he would
someday scream: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" (Mark
15:34) He wrenched at tomorrow's agony.
The angel spoke again. "It would be less painful ... "
The Creator interrupted softly. "But it wouldn't be love."
They stepped into the Garden again. The Maker looked earnestly at
the clay creation. A monsoon of love swelled up within him. He had
died for the creation before he had made him. God's form bent over
the sculptured face and breathed. Dust stirred on the lips of the
new one. The chest rose, cracking the red mud. The cheeks fleshened.
A finger moved. And an eye opened.
But more incredible than the moving of the flesh was the stirring
of the spirit. Those who could see the unseen gasped.
Perhaps it was the wind who said it first. Perhaps what the star
saw that moment is what has made it blink ever since. Maybe it was
left to an angel to whisper it:
"It looks like ... it appears so much like ... it is him!"
The angel wasn't speaking of the face, the features, or the body.
He was looking inside—at the soul.
"It's
eternal!" gasped another.
Within the man, God had placed a divine seed. A seed of his self.
The God of might had created earth's mightiest. The Creator had
created, not a creature, but another creator. And the One who had
chosen to love had created one who could love in return.
Now it's our choice.
From In
the Eye of the Storm
Copyright (Thomas Nelson, 1997) Max Lucado
