Skip to main content

I Want to Know

I want to know the real Jesus. Not the super photogenic, passive aggressive, untouchable Jesus. I want to know the Jesus that had dirt under his finger nails and corns and calluses on his feet from walking every where.  Not the 6ft 2,  reverently sexy looking Jesus who never sweated, never stubbled his toe, never had gas or morning breath, never had a sore throat or a tooth ache. Not some candy coated Jesus, who walked around holding two fingers together for no reason, making crosses in the air and teaching Sunday school. 

I want to know the Jesus whose eyes were tired from getting up too early to pray; whose body was sore the next morning from building furniture and lifting sheep in his arms and bringing them back to the fold; whose hands were sweaty from lifting a prostitute off the ground; the Jesus who had tears and saliva stains on all his clothes from hugging the nasty people too tightly, who had body odor from casting out demons and raising folks from the dead.  I want to know the Jesus who grimaced at good people who got all the answers right and laughed at the dinner table with criminals.

I  could go on and on, but I guess at the end of the day, I want to know the Jesus who didn't want to be pushed around, scratched, scarred, "showered in spit"(thank you Brennan Manning) flogged, cursed at, lied on, beaten, humiliated, crucified and separated from his Daddy for my selfishness, white lies, lust, greed and profanity...but did it anyway because he loved me so much. I would rather know that Jesus and be terrified, than to be friendly with a Jesus that never existed. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Watching My Step

I've always had big feet. It's true. There was never a moment in my childhood when my feet were not an object of frustration and ridicule. And those "dogs" were all over the place, facing the wrong direction, tripping over themselves, tripping over coffee tables, desks, chairs, other people. It was embarrasing. Watching my step was a full time job. Since becoming a man, I've mastered my former oppressors (my size 14's) and you would hardly noticed my attention to detail. However, today, at 40, I'm still watching my step. With so much experience and success with walking and watching my step, I've discovered that the same is true in my spiritual life as well. I haven't always watched my step in life and of course, it resulted in me finding myself in all kinds of traps, snares and dead ends. I've spent years tripping over my sinful habits and walking down dirt roads that lead to nowhere. To no one's blame but my own. After experiencin...
1 comment
Read more

Day 19: Write in Someone Else’s Voice

The Coward The boy’s voice awakened the man.   He found shelter in the abandoned school, in what was once, his school, his office.   Eleven, twelve, and thirteen year old students once ran down those halls, hurrying to their classes, hurrying to his English class. Now since the incident, no children survived that massacre.   That thought made the man shake with fear until he drifted off to sleep.   So when the man heard the boy’s voice screaming “Help Me!, Please Help Me!”   it shook the man from his sleep.   The man laid still.   His heart pounded as he waited to hear boy again.   “Help me! Please Somebody!” The man heard the boy loud and clear.   He could not pretend it was some animal or dream.   He knew it was a boy. And it paralyzed him.   The man clutched his knees to his chest and tucked his chin.   He took slow deep breaths, silent breaths, hoping the boy would believe he was on his own, ...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Force of Divorce (Part 3)

If we as adults experience this horrific effect of the force of divorce, how much more do our children ache and groan from an unreachable wound? A wound that will fester and spread an infection, if at some point they never get healing. Even though I was blessed with my period of beforeness, the force of divorce crashed down on my little life, sending the foundation of everything I held as stable and true into a violent whirlwind. And I was one of the “lucky” ones, by the our society’s perspective. I was never physically abused by my father; never had to sleep under the bed at night for fear of what the night would bring. I was swept away in the middle of the night by my mother and a priest who rushed us to the airport. Somehow my dad caught up with us and I remember he had one of my arms and my mom had the other both of them pulling me in opposite directions. How about that for a visual of a broken family? My mother won the tug of war and I boarded an airplane...
Post a Comment
Read more