One day I decided to sneak away from my brothers and sisters, and explore the cellar of my grandparent’s old farmhouse. We had finished a soccer game, and I grew bored of sitting in the shade of the giant maple tree. I slipped into the house, and down a short, narrow hallway. The basement door let out a loud squeak when I pulled it open.
My grandpa’s warning rung in my ears. “You kids stay out of the cellar.”
Knowing I was disobeying grandpa felt wrong, but at the same time, a tiny rush of excitement sweep through my chest. I was sure there was something down there worth seeing, but couldn’t imagine what it might be. I stared down the dark, narrow passageway. Cautiously I descended. Each rickety, wooden step creaked under the weight of my foot, as if the stairway was trying to warn me.
“Go back,” was their message that rang in my ears, but I worked up the courage to continue down.
When my lungs drew in the stale, damp air, I paused.
“Maybe I should turn around,” I thought to myself. But being a curious boy, I pressed on.
Flicking the light switch on, ignited the dim, orange glow of the lightbulb that was probably older than I was. The little light that it projected, barely reached into the far corners where the dingy stone walls came together. At the bottom of the stairs, I studied my surroundings. Not surprisingly, the space was scattered with everything old and forgotten. A broken table with worn out chairs, dust-covered pottery, and a stack of wooden crates were just some of the items scatter about the place.
Nothing of interest caught my attention, so I slowly worked my way to the far corner of the cellar. In the eerie shadows, I discovered some weathered, old boards leaning against a tall, ancient shelf. It seemed to me that the boards were placed there to hide something. Peeking between the cracks, I could make out various object stored on the shelf. I moved the boards aside to get a better look. Thick strings of cobwebs cover the contents of the shelves.
My eyes scanned the rows of shelving for anything of interest. On the very top shelf, I discovered a curious metal box. It was about twice the size of a shoebox, with a hinged lid, like a treasure chest. Some of the dark, gray paint had been worn away, but I could still make out some black lettering that had been painted on the front. Standing on my tiptoes, I could just reach the old box. My fingers rubbed away some of the dirt and dust that covered the box, revealing three letters, S-I-N.
“Sin?” I whispered out loud. “What could that possibly mean?”
Now I absolutely had to find out what was in the box. With both hands, I grasped the side of the box and tugged. The heavy box refused to move from its resting place. Then I gave it a hard jerk, but instantly regretted it. The box lurched forward off the shelf at an awkward angle. As I stumbled backward, holding it over my head, the lid swung open, and all its contents poured down on my head. I was horrified! The slimiest, black goo that I ever saw, covered my head, and oozed down my face and shoulders.
I’ve smelled unpleasant things before, like cow manure, sewage, and rotting meat, but nothing came close to the vile stench of the black slime. My stomach instantly revolted, and emptied its contents there on the floor. I attempted to wipe the slime away with my hands, but it just spread, as if it was attracted to my body. In a panic, I darted for the stairway, down the hallway and out into the yard.
When my brothers and sisters saw me, and smelled the appalling stench, they scattered in all directions. The commotion and screaming caught the attention of my grandfather, who had been working in his garden nearby. He came straight for me and grabbed me with both hands. The blackness oozed between his fingers, and attached itself to his hands.
His presence was reassuring, and my panic subsided a little. I knew he smelled the rancid odor, but his face showed no sign that he was effected by it.
“I’m sorry. I know I wasn’t supposed to go into the cellar,” I cried.
“There is only one way to clean you up,” said grandpa. “Come with me.”
By now, my mind was in a daze, so I simply followed his instructions. He brought me to his workshop and began mixing some sort of detergent in a bucket. With my eyes gushing with tears, I could not see what it was. Grandpa soaked a towel in the bucket, and began to work the towel over my face. The task was far from easy. He fought the slime until a bead of sweat dripped from his forehead.
It seemed like hours before I was finally rid of the sticky mess.
“That should do it,” said grandpa. Then, even though I didn’t deserve it, he put his arms around me and gave me a special grandfatherly hug.
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***
I remember a Bible tract from many years ago. It depicted unsaved people with black patches all over their skin and clothing. The tract showed some people bowing at a cross, and God cleaned the blackness away. I can still picture the cartoon images, and I still remember its simple message.
After pondering how awful sin is, I can’t help but think about my casual attitude toward it, as if was just a minor annoyance, and that God can simple brush it aside when I mutter, “I’m sorry.”
If anyone reading this is truly burdened with their sin, I don’t mean to make you feel worse. However, I believe most Christians don’t really grasp the seriousness of sin. Jesus paid a high price to cleanse us from the gooey, slimy, noxious sin that we find ourselves in.
Read 2 Peter 2:20 – 22, find the adjectives that Peter uses to describe sin.