The Man in the Cave

In 1967, Johnny Cash crawled into Nickajack Cave outside Chattanooga, Tennessee, fully intending to die. Years of amphetamine and barbiturate addiction had hollowed him out. He had lost his first marriage, alienated his children, and been arrested seven times. The man who sang for millions could no longer stand the sound of his own life.

Cash crawled deeper and deeper into the limestone darkness until his flashlight gave out. He lay on the cold stone floor, ready to let the cave become his tomb. But in that absolute blackness, something happened that he would describe for the rest of his life as unmistakable. He felt the presence of the Almighty. Not as judgment, but as a whisper that said he was not finished yet.

Cash began crawling. Without light, without direction, he dragged himself through the dark until he felt a faint breeze on his face — the breath of the cave's mouth guiding him out. When he emerged, June Carter and his mother were standing at the entrance. They had come looking for him.

This is what redemption looks like. It does not wait for us to clean ourselves up. It meets us on the cave floor. The God who spoke light into existence is not afraid of our darkness. He enters it, breathes direction into our disorientation, and places people at the mouth of the cave who refuse to give up on us.

No one is too far gone. No cave is too deep.