In his book Abba’s Child, Brennan Manning recounts the story of a man who decided to live a life of solidarity in an old, corrugated iron tank, furnishing it only with the necessities of life and a crucifix he hung on the wall. The man lived a humble life, but with one hardship: every morning and evening scores of bullets would rip through the walls of his tank. He would duck low to avoid being hit; however, he was, on occasion, inevitably wounded. Eventually the holes in the walls were so many that the wind and rain would blow into his simple tank. He cursed the marksman who riddled his walls with bullets.

As time passed, however, the man learned to use these bullet holes for positive purposes. He would gaze out one hole and watch people pass by. He’d gaze out another and see a child flying a kite. Through another he’d watch the clouds in the sky, the flight of birds, flowers blooming, the moon rising at night. As he observed life outside the tank, he began to forget himself.

One day the tank could no longer stand the forces of nature and the puncturing bullets and it collapsed to the ground. The man walked out, and saw a man with a rifle standing outside. “I suppose you will kill me now,” said the man coming out of the tank. “But before you do, I would like to know why have you been persecuting me, when I have done you no harm?”

The man with the rifle laid down the gun and smiled gently. “I am not your enemy,” he said. And the man who walked out of the tank saw that there were scars on the other man’s hands and feet, scars shining like the sun.

“The lives of those fully engaged in the human struggle will be riddled with bullet holes. Whatever happened in the life of Jesus is in some way going to happen to us. Wounds are necessary….The unwounded life bears no resemblance to the Rabbi.” (Brennan Manning, Abba’s Child)

I am so often the man in the tank, cursing the bullets that rip holes through my walls. Why another hole? Another wound? This wind and this rain frustrate me so, and oh, blast that marksman’s gun. Lord, caulk up these holes, make that marksman vanish. Stop this hardship.

I grow weary of the bullets and want to slip on my bulletproof vest. Perhaps wearing this vest inside an iron tank will protect me. No more wounds. Not a one.

But then He reminds me: It’s through these holes that you grow. Through these holes you find new good, a better good. Through these holes you see the sun and the clouds and a flower in bloom and the full moon waning to a crescent and waxing back again. It’s through these holes that you forget yourself until all you know is Me. And it’s by those holes that you begin to resemble My nail-scarred Son, the one spurned and avoided and wounded by the world’s sin. It’s by those holes that I makes you who you are, a child more like your Savior.

So I gulp in lung-fulls of air as my rusty old, broken down, bullet hole riddled tank falls to the ground in pieces around me.

And there He is.

And He allowed the bullets because they allowed me to see pieces of Him in the world outside my tank. And when the holes became too many, when my walls fell down and my tank collapsed, I soaked in the sunlight and the clouds and the flowers that I had only previously seen through those tiny holes. And I could finally see Him. Standing there with scars gleaming on his outstretched, grace-giving hands.

And my wounds seemed minuscule compared to His brightness, compared to the peace and the calm and the absolute joy I feel next to Him. And for the first time I have no want for a bulletproof vest or an iron tank because I am with Him and I am safe.

So I bask in this peace and I accept those wounds. I no longer ask for justification from Him, because I realize these wounds made me who I am.

And they brought me to Him.