North America —
A year ago our family adopted a scrawny black and white kitten we named Chopsticks. Soon that kitten grew into a cat, and, in this case, into a ferocious hunter of mice, moles, rabbits, and chipmunks. I usually try to sneak Chopstick’s prey away from her and release it into the bushes before she kills it. My wife and I love the fact that she keeps the mice out of the house, but we aren’t crazy about finding mangled carcasses.
And that brings us to one particularly warm summer evening. I was standing on our doorstep enjoying a mug of coffee. The sun was low in the sky, and shadows from the trees stretched long and lazy over the grass and flower beds. And then the scream of a chipmunk pierced the air.
(Oops. Sorry. That was more hyperbole. It was more of a quiet little squeal. And it didn’t really pierce the air. It barely reached my ears. But it did catch my attention.)
I saw Chopsticks batting a chipmunk back and forth between her paws. I gave a shout and ran toward her. Chopsticks grabbed the chipmunk and ran. And so began a race across the yard between a cat with a struggling chipmunk in its mouth and a grunting bald guy trying to run without spilling a mug of coffee.
I ran Chopsticks into the ground behind the walnut tree in the backyard. She growled at me as we played tug-of-war over the chipmunk. A few seconds passed, and then I won the contest and pulled the chipmunk away. Chopsticks snarled, jumped up, and then finally darted off.
I turned my attention to the chipmunk. Holding it gently in the palm of my hand, I rolled it over, and then … AND THEN . . . the little guy bit me. Sure, it wasn’t much of a bite; I barely felt it. But it drew blood. And that’s where my problems started.
I carried the chipmunk into the house. I thought the kids would want to see it before I let it go. But when my wife Nicole saw it and heard that it had bitten me, she took charge.
“It could have rabies,” she said. “You don’t know. I’m calling the emergency room at the hospital.”
“It’s just a pinprick,” I objected. “Don’t call the hospital.”
She ignored me and picked up the phone. And get this! The guy on the other end of the line said, “Yep, you’d better come right in! It doesn’t matter how small the bite is. You need to come in.”
Two and a half hours later, I was sitting on a bed in the emergency room waiting to be seen. By this time the tiny drop of blood on my hand had dried up and fallen off, and I was having trouble finding the site of the puncture.
Still, two hours sitting on a hospital bed gave me plenty of time to think. I started thinking about how that little chipmunk bite was a lot like the original bite of sin. The chipmunk reminded me of the original encourager of disobedience, Satan. And the idea of rabies reminded me of death.
Following this weak analogy further, I speculated that the commands of common sense (For example: Don’t pick up a wild chipmunk, especially one that is terrified and injured) are similar, in a small way, to God’s command for Adam, “Of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat.”
Of course, a major difference was that there was no way to know whether the chipmunk was carrying rabies, while Adam knew that disobedience to God’s command would bring death.
Additionally, common sense is based on general principles; God’s command is absolute. Still, as I thought about it, I realized that just as one small bite from a chipmunk with rabies would bring sickness and death, Adam’s one small bite of disobedience was sufficient to bring death. It was not the size of the bite that mattered; it was the simple occurrence of a bite.
This little incident with the chipmunk also reminded me that even the smallest bit of sin could bring dire consequences that demand immediate attention. It reminded me that any rebellion is a bad thing, regardless of the apparent size of the act.
So, there I was sitting on a hospital bed, considering the bite of sin, when the doctor entered.
“Hey there,” he said. He was a young guy, with a boyish face, hair like straw, and a fiveo’clock shadow. “So you’re the guy who got bit by the chipmunk!” He laughed like he had just told the funniest joke in the world. “Honestly, you don’t need to be here. Chipmunks around here aren’t known to carry rabies. I’m just going to discharge you.”
As I left the hospital, I glanced around and saw a bunch of hurt and hurting people. They may have escaped the ravages of the savage chipmunk, but none had escaped the bite of sin. And, unlike the bite of the chipmunk that might be safely ignored, the bite of sin cannot be ignored. I remembered that every single person there, apart from the life—given by Jesus Christ—would experience the progression from spiritual death to eternal death. It was a sobering thought.
Fortunately, there is a cure for the bite of sin—the Good News of Jesus Christ! And people don’t have to wait a long time in a hospital emergency room to get the cure. That wait ended 2,000 years ago; the price has already been paid in full.
Later that evening, I thanked the chipmunk for reminding me of the importance of the Gospel and its proclamation, and then I released him, far, far away from Chopsticks. He scampered away, and, do you know what? He never said thanks.
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