As I sat there during service, I got so used to my little rock. I knew which grooves on it fit which fingers and I could roll it around and know. But I also kept saying to myself over and over “It should be bigger”. And it really should. Backpacks of rocks. The program leader in me imagined different ways we could get people to record and load their sins into some carrying case for a week. But that wasn’t important.
By the time it was time to give up the rock, and I knew it was coming, there was almost a bit of sadness in me. Oh I knew that it represented my sin and that it was a joyous occasion to cast it away. But maybe it was the part of me that tries collecting souvenirs (read rocks and shells) from everywhere I go that wanted me to hold onto it. And how appropriate of an analogy it was. As much as I knew it was sin and it was bad, it had grown on me. There was an odd and warped kind of comfort associated with having it. Just like I had grown comfortable with flirting around a particular idol. I had it sought it thinking it was harmless but this week more and more I realize…it needs to stop. As I held that rock, waiting for the line to subside, I kept repeating to myself “it’s better. you know it’s better.” I’d known it last September. I’d known that the Lord himself was better. I’d known it this September and somewhere in between..it got muddled up and I got used to it. A plastic, disposable cup and a piece of matza you know you’ll eat doesn’t feel as nice and tangible as a rock. But you know it’s better. I knew it was better.
And as the plastic cup has been disposed of, the matza attacked by acid in my gut, and the rock probably returned to some place outside, the real challenge comes. to know it’s better.
The Unforced Rhythms of Grace 