Vachon Imagined

When people quote Scripture, people applaud.

A familiar verse appears, beautifully stated, and suddenly the room knows what to do:

“Amen!”

Hearts. Fire emojis. Maybe a “Preach!” thrown in for good measure.

Everyone feels wonderfully aligned with God and, for approximately fourteen seconds, with everyone else.

And honestly, I understand it. Scripture can be beautiful.

But I’ve noticed something.

When I take that same Scripture and turn it toward the person reading it, when I start talking about judgment, slander, pride, shame, resentment, or sin as something happening inside us, the room gets considerably quieter.

Suddenly someone has to mow their grass, reorganize the garage, or throw knives in their eyes.

Crickets.

Maybe, if you’re lucky, a polite but timid emoji.

Because people feel sorry for the one person in the room saying, “Hey. You’re in that consciousness. Wake up.”

And I think that’s part of why so few people do it.

When someone is deep in judgment, telling them they’re judging isn’t exactly a welcome invitation to brunch.

Especially when they’re busy fixing or just seeing the judgment in everyone else.

Now you’re the problem.

You’re the one who’s wrong.

You’re the one causing division.

You’re the one who needs to work on yourself.

Which is fascinating when the entire point is simply:

Look at what is happening in you.

And if you think that’s dangerous to point out, ask Jesus. He could probably tell you a thing or two about how that conversation goes.

We are comfortable with Scripture when it remains outside of us.

We can admire it, quote it, agree with it, post it over a picture of a sunset, and use it to explain how everyone else should behave.

We can even make certainty out of it.

God is a man.

The Bible is all there is.

This is what God means.

This is the only way.

This is the answer.

Done.

Certainty.

And let’s face it—even the illusion of something can feel better than the truth itself.

Come on, people. We all have our comfort blankets.

Literal ones. Spiritual ones. Emotional ones.

Some of ours just happen to look like hostility, aggression, throwing, projecting, ghosting, controlling, or being right.

They may not look very comforting from the outside, but if they help us avoid what we don’t want to feel, they’ll do just fine.

Everybody has a blanket. We just don’t all call it one.

But something changes when Scripture stops being something we look at and becomes something that looks back at us.

Suddenly:

“Oh.”

That’s different.

It’s easy to read “Judge not” and say, “Amen!”

It’s much harder to ask:

Why do I judge?

What does judgment protect inside me?

Why do I need another person’s failure to make sense of my own goodness?

Why can I turn someone’s weakness into evidence that I am right?

That’s where Scripture gets uncomfortable.

It’s easy to condemn slander as something other people do. It’s much harder to notice the story we tell about someone when we’re hurt.

“She’s controlling.”

“He’s selfish.”

“She’s crazy.”

“He’s a narcissist.”

Suddenly we’ve built an entire courtroom in our heads and appointed ourselves judge, jury, and apparently God.

Amen!

Except now the verse is looking at us.

And we don’t always like what looks back.

It’s much easier to discuss sin abstractly than to say:

“I do this.”

It’s easier to point toward darkness than to discover that some of it lives in us.

That’s why quoting Scripture gets applause while living it can get quiet.

Recognition is different from agreement.

You can agree with “Love your enemies” right up until you remember you actually have one.

Then suddenly you’re thinking:

“Lord, perhaps we could revisit that particular verse.”

That’s where Scripture becomes personal.

And that’s what interests me.

I’m not interested in making Scripture impressive.

I’m interested in making it intimate.

What does love look like when I’m angry?

What does forgiveness look like when I still hurt?

What does judgment reveal about me?

What does shame do to a child?

What does freedom mean when I’m afraid?

What does sin look like before I give it a name?

These questions don’t always produce applause.

They produce reflection.

They produce silence.

And silence isn’t necessarily rejection.

A like can mean, “I agree.”

Silence can mean:

“Oh shit. That’s me.”

And that’s okay.

There is a difference between writing something people can applaud and writing something that asks people to look at themselves.

I think the second is harder.

But I also think that’s where Scripture becomes alive.

Not when we use it to stand above another person, but when we allow it to stand before us.

Not when we use it to prove we’re right, but when we allow it to reveal where we are still becoming.

Not when we admire the words from a distance, but when we have the courage to let them enter our own lives.

Because the purpose isn’t always to make someone say,

“Amen.”

It is to make them stop.

And look.

At themselves.

I, which is you, and back again.

No one outside of it.

No one separate from it.

One giant, happy (and dysfunctional) family.