There Adam lay.

He was perfect. From his full head of hair to his big toes, he was a sculpture tooled by the creator.

Yet, there he laid—a lifeless body.

Then the Lord God . . . breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.

Adam sat up, then stood up. God’s breath added Adam’s soul, and he was alive.

Not bad for a trial run, but Eve—wow! She too received God’s breath.

Much later in history God gives an illustration to the prophet Ezekiel. God is ready to make His point. Israel is dried up and dried out. God is not on the most sought after gods list.

God opens Ezekiel’s eyes to see before him a valley of dried bones. He speaks and Ezekiel prophesizes. Bones begin to rattle. Bone links to bone as skeletons form. Like an Indiana Jones’ movie run backwards, tendons, flesh, and skin appear on bleached-white skeletons.

There the army laid—lifeless bodies. Each soldier dressed for battle was perfectly still. Then, God’s breath entered and the entire army rose up and stood at attention.

The New Testament changes the scene to a garden. In a dark, sealed tomb lay the body of Jesus. A crucified body—dead—nail holes—a slashed side.

On Sunday, God’s breath enters and the living, risen Jesus bursts into the morning sun. God’s breath gives life.

My question is, “Since it is God’s breath that makes me a living soul, when did His Holy Breath enter my body”?

God formed my body over nine months.

You knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.
My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. (Psalms 139:13-16)

While in the womb, my mother’s lungs sustained me. Hooked to a human breathing machine I awaited release into life.

No thought process existed. There was no trial and error learning. There was no memory. I loved no one. Rebellion was absent. There was no language. All my body could do was form.

The same psalm (139) tells me, He created my inmost being. Isn’t my inmost being my soul? Without my soul, I am nothing.

Here is what I am thinking:

God spent my womb time forming my house. My soul was not yet present. No one was at home.

However, once the doc cut the umbilical cord, held me downwards by my legs and popped me on the rear-end, I cried out clearing my lungs, breathed in God’s breath, and became a living soul.

I was now me—free from dependence upon my mother’s heart and lungs.

Is it possible that’s my real starting line?

Is it possible that’s where my soul started its journey?

Is it possible that’s where life began for me?

The more important question is, “From start to finish, what will I do with the life entrusted to me through God’s breath”?

Stay tuned. – Gary J. Sorrells