I was raised in a church that had no problem scaring the devil out of its flock. Sunday nights were set aside for confession. Public confession. Picture the actual naming of sins. And sinners, too, for that matter.
We had two choices: either skip sinning or skip church.
For the record: I skipped a lot of church.
The God I met there was a confusing deity, loathe to strike you dead, but always willing to do so if the sin called for it. If possible, Jesus was worse. Jesus was the hand-wringing son, the hapless groom with cocker spaniel hair who couldn’t keep his sheep under control so he had to carry them around everywhere on his shoulders.
I might have gone on forever fearing the Father and ignoring the Son, but life drove me to the Bible in search of something, anything to explain this God that I could not love but could not leave either.
My sons were victims of violent crime. I was the victim of violent crime. During the years that followed, I lived in the book of Job. That was where I met God the Father who fights for his kids.
And later, during the divorce that followed, I met Jesus, the son that’s neither helpless nor hapless nor blonde. He is a strapping friend with an infectious laugh, the type who, as soon as he shows up, rolls up his sleeves and gets to work fixing things.
One reason it took me so long to discover Real Jesus is I avoided the reading Bible. I used to try and consume it as if it was a book. A novel with a million subplots and characters all mixed together and a timeline that is not anywhere near consecutive. And don’t get me started on all those Blahblah-ites. Anyway, it wasn’t working for me until I decided to approach it like a puzzle or a code. I figured out the Bible uses types and foreshadowing for the same reason Jesus used parables (and I used bribery with my kids) - as a way of telling a story within a story all the while trying to hold the attention of a two year old.
The Bible can be distracting, frustrating, even downright confusing at times. But then one day you’re reading along and click the light comes on.
It happened to me a couple of years ago in Genesis. I was reading about Adam rescuing his bride and it occurred to me: Hey, Jesus has a bride too. (Light bulb comes on) Given to him by his father. And hey, like Eve, she’s got a problem with fruit.
Suddenly, I became an onlooker, watching Jesus stand at the same crossroads where Adam had made his famous choice, facing the same decision: Live forever in heaven with his Dad or make himself like his bride and become one (dying, rotting, decaying) flesh with her.
I found myself secretly rooting for the bride. I can’t help it. I always go for the underdog.
Pick the bride, Jesus. Pick the bride!
And surprise! He picked the bride. Not like this is a revelation or anything. I mean, we all know how that turned out. Score for the church.
Stop.Think about that for a minute...
He did what?
I think this is where we have all (and if not all, at least I) have lost the ability to marvel. It’s like we hear that and we think, ‘Whatever. It was all predestined.’ And we miss the weight of wonder.
I don’t think it was that easy. I don’t believe Jesus had a contract with God that said, “You go down there and play the hero. It’s all rigged anyway, so even though it’s going to get tough, just remember when you get back I’ll have the lights on and dinner on the table.” I don’t believe the plan of salvation was a stage, arranged to make Jesus appear heroic when in reality he knew all along he had a clause in his contract that protected him should things go badly.
I don’t think there was a backup plan. Like Adam, Jesus had to go solo, banking everything against the character of his Dad.
His bride or his Dad? Thirty three years with his wife or eternal life with God? Sweating over a chisel or kicking back in heaven watching Earth Tivo?
It was his life or, well, let’s get down to the nitty gritty here - mine.
He could have chosen another bride, you know. A prettier bride. A more faithful bride.
And yet, he picked me.
And yet, he loved me.
And yet, he didn’t abandon me.
Jesus gave up everything he knew, everything he had, with no money-back-guarantee. He walked out of heaven and into Mary’s womb, not knowing if he’d ever see heaven’s gardens or his Dad again, because he had to rescue me, his aging, unfaithful bride.
Often, I think back on my date with Jesus. How almost vulnerable he sounded.
I love you. And even if you break my heart every day, I’m not going to stop loving you. I’m never going to leave you.”
Divorce literally breaks your heart into little bitty pieces. My mom told me once it was as if a tornado had swept through my house and smashed every single picture of family onto the floor. And now I was standing there, holding a broken frame, trying to put the pieces back together. I remember she said, “Even if you succeed, it won’t be the same. You can’t unbreak it, honey.”
I thought I would die from the pain.
Now, take that kind of heartache and multiply it exponentially because Jesus has fallen in love with every person ever born. And every time he does so knowing they will break his heart. Over and over again.
He’s either crazy or totally committed. But I know this, he’s the kind of hero I want to worship.
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