The Bible is an intimidating book. It carries with it the weight of history and the authority of God himself. It comes in several dozen translations, from the overbearing King James to the simplistic New International Reader’s Version. The book sits on my shelf between my journal and a clip art book. The binding is giving out and the corners of the cover are bent and torn. Sometimes I try not to look at it. It sits there on my desk, the face of the binding staring back at me with its gold embossed letters. I know what it’s going to tell me, and I don’t want to hear it. So I look away. Other times I sigh, and with a sense of duty pick the book up and drop it in my lap, turning to the bookmarked page and reading my required chapter. The words ring empty and hollow in my ear. I’ve heard them so many times before. Sometimes the words sound cryptic and mysterious, and I can’t fathom their meaning. What was Jesus getting at? I shake my head and wonder if I’m supposed to understand. It’s a scary book to read. It drips with the truth, and even when I pause to think about what the point is, I know have an inkling in the back of my mind that it’s speaking directly to me. Yesterday I read it with a chuckle. For the first time in my life I saw the humor in a passage. Is the Bible allowed to be funny? What an oddly mysterious and wonderful book. Sometimes intimidating, other times enlightening, but always a heavy weight in my backpack. I’m not sure if I really know what I’m carrying around with me.