re–
Gospel, Adam says solidly, from the passenger seat beside me, just the one intelligible word gliding in on a stream of sound from his throat. He does this sometimes when he really wants to say something, as if he needs to throw the word into some sort of sonic white-water rush, just to move it from thought to articulation.
Gospel, gospel, gospel.
Wait, what? I’m stunned, that word weighty, its own mini sermon to my ears, my heart.
Gospel, in ancient times a heralding word used to announce Rome’s emperors, a word literally meaning good news and used to call attention to the headline story, is a word Christ deliberately repossessed and redefined to overturn every other use before or after. When John the Baptist and Jesus and the apostles used that word, their objective, far from prim or merely introductory, was downright revolutionary. Christ claimed to be the news breaking through every kind of oppression, the truth we just can’t keep to ourselves, the King of Kings, and so, the word gospel eventually became synonymous with Jesus. The Word chose a word that, when spoken, now invokes the entire metanarrative of scripture, indeed, the power of God for salvation.
I release my grip on the steering wheel, coming to a full stop at a stoplight, flexing my fingers, opening my hands. These days, as I ask God to help my physical body receive what my heart and my mind already know, I try to respond to the truth in physical ways. Stop. Release. Open.
“Did you just say gospel?” I ask, reaching over to lightly touch Adam’s ear with my fingers. In his vernacular, this represents a painless and acceptable way to show affection, something that doesn’t over stimulate his central nervous system. “Gospel?”
He looks at me and grins, like a crazy, autistic preacher, says only, “yeah,” with a quick affirmative grunt, and then laughs like it’s all joy.
Gospel, Adam says again, still grinning wild, settling against the seat. Gospel. The day, reframed, from the perspective of God’s lavish love for us.
Breaking news! Good news! Amazing, wonderful news!
He’s my carpool herald, my own long, lean John the Baptist riding along on the way to school.
I chuckle, because of course that’s what I need, Lord knows, a tender arm pointing, right where I can see it, a gentle voice, speaking with simple power so I can hear.
Hey so, maybe you could use some good news?
Often when Adam repeats words and sounds, he does so to self-soothe, to quiet the frenzy of rushing sensory information with something that, for whatever reason, brings him comfort, in much the way that some of the rest of us repeat mantras or favorite verses or breath prayers when we feel overwhelmed.
Gospel, I repeat slowly after him, feeling the syllables on my tongue, my eyes focused again on the road ahead.
If ever there was a word worth repeating for comfort, gospel surely qualifies.
Stop. Release. Open.
I drop my shoulders, which seem to have climbed up around my ears again, rotating my shoulder blades back, remembering Christ in my body. That word, gospel, it restarts my heart, reminding me: I don’t have to strive to survive. I’m free to be dispensable and obscure, imperfect and messy, generous and creative and trusting. I can rest; I don’t have to concern myself with things too wonderful for me to know, because the gospel renews everything otherwise broken and torn apart, rewriting my story. I don’t have to play the hero. I don’t have to save the world, because that’s already been done. I can just be me—saved, rescued, redeemed, fallible me, driving my humble, beautiful, autistic son to school, one of many crowding the narrow road home.
Historically speaking, truth-speakers have always been somewhat unique, and, in the days to come, Adam will give other one-word speeches: Sin. Christ. Love. But today, his Word for me is gospel.
How beautiful are the feet of the messenger bringing good news, breaking the news that all’s well, proclaiming good times, announcing salvation, telling Zion, “Your God reigns!”
I can still feel Adam’s grin, even with my eyes glued to the road and the snaking line of pilgrims in front of me, can still hear the rushing joy, the grace, bubbling out of him, the sound of God’s voice and the river of His delight recreated and replayed again in my son’s unhindered laughter.
Gospel, gospel, gospel.
That word, that wild truth, his comfort and mine, all the day.
