But then something happened. A bigger kid than the big kids used his strength to give me my ball back.
There I stood, basketball back in hand, with an important choice.
What do I do with this rescued basketball?
Do I go to the other end of the court and start shooting baskets alone? It’s my ball. This would ensure that I was able to be the center of the game. I could once again escape into my imaginary world where I was both Michael Jordan and Charles Barkley in an epic battle.
But something told me that when the bigger kid gave me my ball back it somehow was no longer my ball. It’d been transformed somehow in that moment. Was it our ball now?
The only other option I could see was to reject the rescue and give the power back to the bullies. “It’s alright you guys can play…I was enjoying just watching and playing with this worm over here in the dirt.” That’d be a lie. But it feels like the safer option. I guess sometimes it’s more comfortable being the victim than it is to risk being an active participant.
That’s the way you think when you’ve been told repeatedly that you are “less than”. A bigger guy stepping in to give you your ball back doesn’t immediately fix those things. Deeper work is required. His initial rescuing action doesn’t automatically communicate that you’re worthy of rescue. So it’s understandable if you give the bullies the ball back.
At the time these were the only two options available to me. I want to change the story and make myself a wise sage at a young age—one who chose a third option.
I didn’t.
If my memory isn’t too blurry, I think what I chose was a little of both. I started by playing alone but that option, I quickly realized had been shattered. Alone wasn’t a thing anymore. So, I capitulated. I gave them their ball back and went and played something else. I thought myself noble for letting them make my ball their own.
It wasn’t noble.
The noble option would have been to use the basketball the way it’s meant to be used. Basketballs are meant to bind. To build community. A basketball used correctly will value the 3 point shooter, the rebounder, the tall one who plays closer to the basket, the passionate defender, the passer.
That rescued basketball held power. But I used it on myself. And then I gave it to a group of bullies to use it on themselves. The rescued basketball wasn’t really rescued until it was used for the right reason.
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I’m sharing this story because I have an image in my mind this morning.
I’m picturing a group of women who’ve been battered and broken by men using God’s Word as a club. They’ve taken her Word and pushed her to the sidelines. But it’s worse. This Word has been used to abuse her. Making her sit on the sidelines is bad enough—but this would be like throwing a basketball at her face repeatedly. And then using the Word to tell her not to mop up the blood but to let it dry as she sits on the sideline and watches the boys play.
And I’m picturing Jesus stepping in and telling the bullies (dare I say us bullies?), “Give it back to her!!” The Word isn’t meant for those things. “Give MY Word back to her!”
I think that’s what Jesus was doing with that woman caught in adultery. I don’t know what he was writing in the dirt but I know that he was giving her life back to her. They were using God’s Word to pick up stones and wreck her. He was using God’s Word to restore and redeem her. He always used God’s Word how it was supposed to be used.
I also know that when Jesus was doing battle with the devil in the wilderness, and Satan was using the Word to try to manipulate Jesus, Jesus was also giving us the Word back. He didn’t capitulate. And He did what you’re supposed to do with a rescued Word—rebuild community.
I’m grateful that there seems to be a movement afoot where Jesus is stepping in and saying “Giving it back to her!” And when she is holding it in her hand, I’m hoping she realizes that third option.
But it’s her rescued basketball to use now.
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Photo source: here
