There is enough in me (an absurd excess, to be truthful) that fancies a miracle for me to agree with Flannery O’Connor when she writes “…it is the virgin birth, the Incarnation, the resurrection which are the true laws of the flesh and the physical.”
I can’t muffle the resounding Yes in my soul when I read the ancient Story of the God Who Rescues. I can’t quiet the Amen of a family rescued from a flood that led to a people rescued from a bloodthirsty tyrant that led to a nation rescued from exile that led to a claptrap band of nobodies rescued from the death of sin that led to an uncountable multitude rescued from the lie that first imprisoned us.
I believe in the Resurrection of Jesus, because I can’t help but believe. The Story is true. I am certain of it. It’s too good, too right, too replete with love for it not to be. He is the God Who Rescues, the God Who runs, the God Who scoops us up into His arms and says, “I love you. I love you. I love you.” He is the God Who kneels and washes, Who laughs and dances, Who weeps and comforts. He is the law of the flesh and the physical.
The Story is true.