Armchair Jesus

I love how we followers of Jesus aka Christians talk about "they," the "world," or the "lost."  We have such confidence.  I love our certainty.  From morality to science to eternal destiny, we got it all figured out.  Our arrogance I mean our self-assurance often reminds me of that guy wearing the team jersey who's a little too old and a little too out of shape but is evidently the most brilliant sports mind in America.  You know the one who is wise beyond his years, experience, and waistline.  Ignore the fact that the height of his athletic achievement involved a red rubber ball and a P.E. teacher.  He's watched enough games, listened to enough sports-talk radio, and managed enough fantasy teams to have a bust in a sports hall of fame.  Play the game?  Why when you can just watch it on tv and eat hot wings all the while.

As I write this a friend of mine is attempting to fall asleep (more like hovering between conscious despair and drug-induced fugue) in the psychiatric hospital he was admitted to a few hours ago.  It only took a month maybe two for his life to come fully unravelled.  His struggles and his traumas are deep-rutted...deep enough...rutted enough that life just ain't worth living.  Armchair Jesus he's desperate for your Christian bookstore cliches.  If only he could be objectified or categorized by you.  Surely there's a book, a sermon, or a Bible verse that could pummel him with judgement.  What would Jesus do?  Nay!  What would Armchair Jesus do?

I think it's time that we who claim to follow Jesus look into our own battered and broken souls and find the humanity that lives in all of us.  I think it's time that we who claim to follow Jesus leverage love instead of legalism.  I think it's time that we who claim to follow Jesus put down the remote, peel off our personalized jerseys, rise up from our armchairs, and pick up a cross.

Making Room

Space.  Just a little bit of space.  Is that asking too much?  Yes I know you know with untold, eternal certainty, but please just a little space.  Some of us don't have your certainty.  Some of us have doubt.  Some of us have failure.  Some of us have scars.  I know you know.  I'm sorry if my doubt threatens you.  I'm sorry if my failure flies in the face of your "faith."  I'm sorry if my scars are too ugly for your holy eyes.  I'm sorry if I'm too human.

I've got it.  Put me in a box.  It'll make you feel better.  You can manage my space.  Just enough room to survive but never thrive.  Go ahead squeeze me in: gay/straight, democrat/republican, Christian/Muslim, white/black, citizen/immigrant...more boxes please!  Wait...don't forget the labels.

I know what your thinking, "Give you space?  You must be out your @&$!?&$ mind!  There's only room for one pilgrim's progress - MINE!"  Sorry I keep forgetting.

Space just might be the final frontier in a world full of boxes.

Knocked "Right" Out

Have you been crushed?  Have you had that moment when the "truth" was crushed out of you?  Maybe I should rephrase.  Has life hit you hard enough and long enough to knock the "right" right out of you?  There is something beautiful about people who have been so broken they no longer feel the need to be right.  Maybe it's their eyes wrinkled by pain not age?   Maybe it's their presence seasoned by countless midnights alone, without hope, cursing the night to sleep.  Maybe it's their well-worn honesty that can't help but admit "I got little figured out and a lot to learn."  There's a peace around such people; an ease, a space that let's you breathe.  Some of us have been holding our breath for ages. It ain't easy breathing with all these masks on.