A Life Like No Other

A few weeks ago, our pastor preached on 1 Tim. 2:8-15. It was next up in our sermon series through that book. It’s a difficult set of verses, about submissiveness, quietness, and modesty. And the last verse in that chapter is the most perplexing: “Yet [women] will be saved through childbearing – if they continue in faith and love and holiness, with self-control” (vs. 15).

So our pastor spoke a lot about the value of women, which I appreciated. I knew he was trying to offset the fact that the verses before this one can come across as saying women are less competent or less important than men. But, as the mention of the word “childbirth” would dictate, he spoke in greatest length about mothers. He talked about the sacredness of being chosen to bring forth a life into this world and how only women were made to do this. And in a church where we raise our hands but rarely make other noise during the service, there were numerous, loud amens from the congregation. I felt small and lowly and worth-less-than.

If women will be saved through childbearing, what is the salvation for me? Of course this verse is not talking about earning our salvation through childbirth – only Jesus’ death on the cross could accomplish that. But in pregnancy and childbirth there is something beautiful and special and able to make us holy; something which only women experience. And I’m not one of those women.

It made tears leak out of my eyes and slip down my cheeks. My head knew that I was not excluded from God’s mercy and grace; that He doesn’t see me any more broken than anyone else. But my heart felt an  injustice there; an anger for the life I’ve been given.

Why do I always have to be the odd man out? Why do I have to be the one who has nothing in common with most women, who doesn’t even know how to introduce herself to strangers because the first questions they always ask are, “Where do you work?” and “Do you have children?” Why do I have to be in this church service, with these women who say “Amen” to this sermon with such passion that it cuts through me like a knife, piercing my heart the same as if they had been saying, “Crucify her! Crucify her!”

That Sunday was a communion Sunday and I groaned inwardly when I realized this. How could I give thanks when I was angry with God? How could I worship in this holy sacrament with a bitter heart? I prepared to let the bread and the juice pass by me for the first time ever.

And then I heard God say to me, “My life wasn’t like anyone else’s either. I didn’t fit in. No one could truly relate to me. There was literally no other like me. I lived a life shortened by a cruel, painful, and unjust death; I died even younger than you will. I didn’t marry or have children, and that was unheard of in my day. I know your heart hurts; I know more than any other how it hurts - I’ve walked this road before you. I am acquainted with all your pain.”

And so I could worship. I could thank Him for His body and blood, given for me. For coming to earth as a man, for being tempted like we are, for hurting like we do – and for doing it all to such an extreme that no matter what we’re facing, He can relate. Instead of not being able to worship, I worshipped even more to the one who is the balm of Gilead, who enters into my hurt with me, who took the worst pain of all so that I could be saved.

He has let me experience a little of His sufferings, so that I may know Him better and appreciate Him more. His ways are not our ways and sometimes they are beyond our understanding. But He doesn’t ask us to walk any path that He has not already walked. He calls to us from up ahead and offers His hand for us to join Him: “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light” (Matt. 11:29-30).