Why I Wouldn't Recognize Jesus

The Jesus I know is not one who I would recognize.

He doesn't choose to be in the spotlight.

And when he catches someone in a scandalous place, he compassionately loves.

He hates for people to carry burdens.

He takes a lot of walks. A lot.

He smiles at children and loves to hang out with them. He blesses them.

He is like the craziest lawyer I know. He has memorized the entire Torah just for the purpose of exposing its emptiness. For the purpose of knowing the law so he can find a way through it to show grace. He is the defense attorney, the judge, and the prisoner all in one. He loves to turn a story on its head.

He hung out with all the wrong crowd. The people with the worst reputation... He liked them the best.

He chose the poorest people to be his parents. And the most annoying people to be his disciples. I'm sure he was constantly rolling his eyes about their shenanigans. One time he found them arguing about who was the best. Seriously.

He spent his days teaching, loving, healing, hiking, fishing and marveling.

As a weary parental figure, he found that he needed times to get away. So he escaped to the lake. To catch his breath. To pray. To converse with the Father. And then he came saw his squabbling, hungry people on the shore, eager to tattle on one another; he had compassion.

He didn't hate government.

He didn't put anyone in their place unless they really needed it.

He used his power for good. The ultimate superhero.

He allowed himself to be poor and hungry and tired. He didn't elude suffering; he engaged in it and showed it how to turn into redemption and power and life.

People said a lot of lies about Jesus. They still do. Because no one understands how a deity so steeped in human history would have chosen to live in such conditions.

I have tried to not believe in Jesus. But the stories of his humility and power and simplicity and trust bring me back to the mystery.

I have tried to make marriage my god, but Dan is not strong enough.
I have tried to make wealth my god, but it has no floor; it's a pit.
I've tried to make image my god, but I'm too weary to hold up the mask for long.
I enjoyed a season of life where I chose to be a victim, but my healed heart could not wear it.
I've tried to be the kindest, most honest person I can be, but I am by nature a woman of wrath.

So I come to lowly Jesus. And the bizarre stories of him with his comrades who walked great lengths to tell simple stories of love to ordinary people.

I long for him to snap, to go "gangster" on someone snarky, to crack the whip on crimes.

But his annoying faithfulness continues. And beckons.
And stirs the mystery of Christ in me.