Millions are asking the question of Albert Einstein, “What’s the matter?” According to a news report this week, the late scientist declared that the Bible was a “childish” book. Mr. Theory of Relativity is no relative of mine. His observations may weigh more than a tanker full of crude oil to some, but to me they don’t hold enough water to baptize a butterfly. The bidder who will fork over $10,000 or more for the letter containing his opinion will own nothing more than a handful of spiritual speculations that are as dependable as a politician’s promise in a primary election.

Einstein may have shed light on energy and matter but he was in the dark about the Bible. It isn’t the best-selling book of all time because it is a chalkmark of childishness; it is a best-seller because it is the foundation of faith. Mine, for instance. I’ve lain beside the stagnant stream of death. Nothing of science could quench the parched banks of my doubt. But there, in the cabinet next to my hospital bed, was a Bible–which became to me a cool spring of courage and hope, trickling life-giving droplets into my spirit with every reading. It was–and is–the voice of God personalized in words and sentences and paragraphs, speaking commanding and yet calming truths over hell’s threatening taunts. God doesn’t put His Word on the top shelves so only the superior can look at it. He puts it on the lower shelves so those who suffer can reach it, even on their knees.

Psalm 18:30 (NIV), “As for God, his way is perfect; the word of the Lord is flawless.”