In Search of a Bible Hero

Image © by Brian E. Faulkner

Image © by Brian E. Faulkner

​About a week and a half ago, the leader of my Thursday evening Zoom group that meets to discuss what it means to follow Christ suggested that each of us be prepared to talk about their Bible hero during our next get together. 

“Oh, yeah -- got that!” one person said right away, as smiles and nods around the screen suggested an easy, enjoyable assignment. I did not share their enthusiasm. Because I didn’t become a committed believer until more than halfway through my fifth decade, I missed hearing all those Bible hero stories. Which is why I was not looking forward to my part in our discussion, which happened last week.

After some serious pondering, I decided to present not one, but three Bible characters whom I admired -- a clever feint but also a wimp-out that became obvious when I saw how well the first presenter’s story was received by the group. He painted an engaging picture of having grown up on a farm where all members of the family were expected to share in the chores, with or without the strength of his hero, Samson. My friend was not as strong as his siblings but was expected to toss heavy bales of hay onto a wagon anyway -- and keep at it until the work was done.  Next came the heroes and deeds presented by other group members: Gideon, Solomon, Noah, Peter and Bezoleel, a stone and wood carver who apparently handled a hammer with such skill that he became a hero to one of the two carpenters in our group.

Then it was my turn. 

“I can identify with Peter,” I began, because he vacillated between trust and fear, an all-too-human trait, regardless of his budding faith. Then there’s Abraham, who, despite a few well-documented faith fissures along the way, presented the treasured son of his old age for sacrifice at God’s command, which could have resulted in a crushing personal tragedy had not the Lord stopped things short. I also mentioned Joseph, who got himself tangled in all kinds of mess after having been thrown into a pit and sold to some traders by his jealous older brothers, only to triumph over them years later in a way that blessed not only the brothers but their grieving father.
        
Which reminded me of my own father, who my brothers and I considered somewhat of a taskmaster growing up. Dad expected us to carry our weight -- inside and outside the house, including the yard. He also insisted we perform our assigned tasks promptly and well. Primary chores included shoveling snow, mowing the lawn, raking the leaves, planting, hoeing and weeding a tiny vegetable garden, taking out the trash, hauling heavy wood-framed storm windows from the basement in one season and putting them back in the opposite season -- that kind of thing. Had there been any hay bales that needed tossing around our suburban lot, we’d have been tasked with that, as well!

​Mom also got her chores in, by requiring us to dust the furniture every week, vacuum the rugs, make our beds, keep our rooms tidy and do the dishes EVERY night before being allowed to do anything else. The most dreaded chore of all was the annual spring cleaning, where nearly every horizontal and vertical surface in the house (including the windows) got attended to with mop, towel or sponge. We did a lot of the work, but Mom also pitched in. She tried to make it fun, while Dad puttered around in the yard and listened to the Red Sox on the radio.

The work our parents made us do was good work, but in no way did our performance with shovel, mower, rake or dish cloth approach, in any physical or spiritual way, that of a Bible hero (male or female; if we’d had a sister, she would have been right there working alongside us).  It was important work, work that -- even on so small a scale -- could rightly have been considered heroic because of the personal investment our parents sunk into us, guiding our gradually maturing lives through a process that without a doubt helped me become a more productive man. Instilling the desire and ability to work in a child (including two teenagers, one pre-teen and a little guy all at one time) is heavy lifting, but our parents made it happen. They taught us together. Mom cut us some slack, then Dad took it back.

I again am reminded of my dad when I think of my parents during their declining years. Mom wanted to die first because she didn’t think herself strong enough to take care of Dad should he fall ill. Because she had cared for elderly patients during her nursing career, she was all too aware of the limitations and frustrations that accompanied deteriorating health; she wanted no part of it and wasn’t shy about saying so. She also became frustrated when some professional caregivers didn’t do things as she would have done them and, unfortunately, appeared to find no solace in the “Faith” she dutifully had attended to throughout her life. But somehow, somewhere, non-religious Dad found a reservoir of untapped strength to care for our mother as her health worsened and then dedicated himself to this difficult, often demanding task day after day for a good long time.

Dad’s name does not appear in the Bible, and for all I know he may never have read a single page of Scripture. However, if heroes are people who display courage and the will to self-sacrifice for the good of another, our father qualifies in my book. His sacrifice was a gift -- to our mother and to us.

Even if it might not have seemed that way to us all those years back in the garden of life.

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