I Found Jesus

On this Easter Sunday I must confess that I found Jesus.  I didn’t mean to.  I just sort of stumbled upon him at the post office.  He was on the ledge of the window . . . just standing there . . . smiling.  So, I picked him up, shoved him into my pocket, and thought to myself, “I found Jesus!”  I thought it was funny.

“I found Jesus.”

 

The understanding is that when a person finds Jesus that person is “saved”.  They got salvation.  They’ve punched their heavenly ticket.  They’ve got the golden insurance policy.  They are “saved”.  In the mind of the “saved” they have won this spiritual version of Where’s Waldo.

 

This being Easter Sunday the story of finding Jesus is being heard once again.  After his crucifixion Jesus is hurriedly placed in a tomb as the Sabbath begins.  The tomb is sealed until the Sabbath is over and then the body can be dealt with.  Of course that is women’s work.  Returning to the tomb at the end of Sabbath the women discover the tomb is empty except for a pile of burial cloths and a couple of angels hanging around shooting the breeze.  The angels tell the women that Jesus is not there.

 

The women ask, “Where have they taken Jesus?  Where is he?”

 

 Thus begins the spiritual version of hide and seek with Jesus—where’s Jesus?  Been looking ever since.

 

But we know that there is an encounter with the risen Jesus.  He even tells the women to go and tell the men.  At least that is one version of the story.

 

Lots of irony in that story.  For starters it is the women that are chosen to reveal the news about Jesus.  Women!  Of course, the men don’t believe them.  Imagine that!  They wouldn’t take the women’s word for it.  Nope, Peter and another disciple had to run to the tomb and see for themselves.  I think they were from Missouri.  Mary, being a person of grace, should have stuck her tongue out and given Peter the old “Na, na, na, na! I told ya!”  Mary was better than that and didn’t lower herself to masculine standards.

 

Where would we be on Easter morning if it weren’t for the women?  Despite their major role in the story, we—the so-called “faithful”—have relegated the women to a secondary and minor role.  Sadly, they have been fighting that battle ever since.  Without the women we’d all be wandering around uttering and muttering, “Where’s Jesus?  Where’d he go?”

 

The other ironic part of the story is that Jesus never left us.  You would think we’d believe Jesus and take him at his word when he tells us this.  After all, its in the King James version of the Bible in bold red letters.  Didn’t he say to his disciples: “And behold, I am always with you, to the end of the age.” (Matthew 28:20) Plus, take his name.  In Matthew’s version of the “birth” story we are told that his name is going to be “Immanuel” or “God with us”.  Of course, Jesus is the Latin form of his Hebrew name of Joshua.  It means “God is salvation” or “God saves”.

 

I believe that whatever you want to call the spiritual being, higher power, God, holy, or creator . . . well, it is with us.  Always with us.  On the Christian side of things that is what the scriptures say.  God is with us.  Always with us.  Through thick and thin . . . good or bad.  The Holy is always with us.  So, how in the world did we lose Jesus?

 

Thankfully I found him last week.  He is standing on our dining room table, hiding behind a candle.  He will probably be there until one of the grandkids finds him while they are visiting.  Then we’ll have to haul that kid off for a baptism . . . after all, that is what you do when one “finds Jesus”.  Or he could disappear off the table and end up in one of the junk drawers.  The wife doesn’t like clutter on the table—even Jesus.

 

Easter should not be a celebration of “finding Jesus”.  It shouldn’t be a gathering of surprised faithful who exclaim that they have “found” Jesus—again.  After all the years you’d think we would remember that he is with us.  What has it been now?  Well over 2,000 Easters?  You’d think the surprise would have worn off by now.  Jesus isn’t lost.

 

We are the ones who are lost . . . or are forgetful.  Jesus is with us.  Always with us.  We are the ones who seem to forget . . . his witness, his words, his actions, his presence, his life.  We are the ones who forget where we have placed him—especially in our lives.

 

Jesus is here.  Open your eyes.  More importantly . . . open your hearts.  Then you will see.

 

In the smile of a loved one.  In the cry of a baby.  In tears of grief.  In a broken promise that crushes the soul.  In the laughter of children and friends.  In cries of fear as the bombs rain down.  In the persecution of the innocent.  In the lost who have no homes.  Those who have been ostracized and pushed to the fringes.  Those who are seeking justice . . . seeking peace.  The lonely, confused, and searching.  Those who welcome the stranger.  Those who feed the hungry . . . clothe the naked . . . free the captives . . . who sooth the pain.  Who sits and listens. In a hug.  In life.  Jesus is everywhere.

 

There was one Easter.  It was more than enough.  All the others have been re-runs of that story.  Each year it is told one more time . . . one more time in the hope that it might finally be accepted and lived.  That we might get it.  That we might live it.  Then there would be a new story.

 

Maybe that it the “real hope” of Easter!

 

Yup, I found Jesus.  He was never really lost . . . we were.

 

I Tried

Evangelical.

I tried.  I really did.  In the end it just wasn’t for me.

 

On my spiritual journey I jumped into the “church” during my sophomore year of high school.  The family had just moved from a long tenure at the Air Force Academy in Colorado to a “real” military base—Offutt Air Force Base—in Bellevue, Nebraska.  Though used to moving, this was a big move for me.  From the familiar to the unfamiliar . . . mountainous beauty to the drabness of the plains.  I was the newcomer . . . the stranger in a foreign land . . . the fish out of water . . . and I felt lost.

 

The desire to belong and be accepted is a powerful motivator.  On the school bus one day I was invited to church by a kid I viewed as “popular”.  Not being a dummy, I jumped at the opportunity to go to church with this individual on the promise that it would be fun and that there were lots of cute girls.  I took it in . . . hook, line, and sinker.  Caught by the need to belong and the raging hormones of a teenage boy.

 

Thus began my foray into the evangelical world.

 

Primarily it was through the youth group that I experienced evangelicalism.  The youth group was fun and there were a lot of cute girls.  In youth group I learned about the Bible, “saving souls”, and sharing the “good news”.  We sang a lot of cool songs, laughed a lot, ate a lot of pizza, and had a good time.  We lugged around our Bibles wherever we went outside of school.  For some reason our Bibles never came out of the locker except at lunch time.  We were called upon to save the world and keep humanity from descending to the depths of hell.  We were, though I did not know it at the time, evangelists.  Actually, with 20/20 hindsight, evangelicals.

 

I enjoyed the youth group.  Other parts . . . well, I wouldn’t put them on a list of favorite things to do.

 

Worship services were long.  The preacher/minister dragged on and on telling the congregation about the wages of sin.  At times it was real fire and brimstone kind of stuff.  Sometimes it was downright apocalyptical, end-of-the-world sort of stuff.  It seemed that the whole world was going to hell in a handbasket and we—the faithful had to hand on until Jesus returned.  Which I was told would be soon.  There wasn’t a whole lot of “love” preached except for those repentant who woke up, smelled the roses, got into line, and were “saved”.

 

It must have gotten my attention because I finally confessed my sins, sought forgiveness, swore I would repent, and expressed my desire to die to the old and be born again in the grace of Jesus.  In hindsight I am not sure how honest that whole exercise really was.  As I said, worship dragged on and on.  At the end of every service there was an altar call for people to make their confession of faith to join the church or to share a witness story of Jesus’ presence in their lives.  Until someone came forward the congregation would sing the altar song over and over!  The preacher was always certain that there was someone who wanted to spill the beans and sign on.

 

Now remember . . . Jesus Calls Us . . . over and over.  I am not sure if I made my confession of faith because I honestly felt it or because I just wanted that hymn to stop.  God only knows, but I like to think that God was happy when the singing stopped.  Yes, I heard Jesus the first time . . . but isn’t it a little pushy on the 16^th time?  Or maybe it was from the pressure of those members of the youth group who kept asking me when I was going to be born again.  Could have been the constant pressure I felt from the pastor who kept telling us that he knew that Jesus was working on someone’s heart to confess . . . all the while it felt like he was looking and talking to me.

 

I guess something inside of me snapped.  I confessed.  I was saved.  I was born again.  In all honesty it felt good to get that weight off my shoulders.  It was replaced with the burden of being evangelistic . . . of “witnessing” . . . of going out into the world to share the “good news” and making new disciples of the world’s abundant heathens.

 

It was an introvert’s worse nightmare.  I sucked at it from the very beginning.  The first time we did it as a youth group they dragged us to the bus station in Omaha.  How do heathens travel?  Where else would they be?  The bus station of course.  They dumped us off with the evangelical survival kit . . . our Bibles and a whole bunch of Bible tracks.

 

Bible tracks . . . you know what I am talking about.  They were little illustrated booklets—holy mini-comics—that told the salvation story of some wicked lost prodigal who had fallen among the sinners of the world.  The devil made the person do it.  They were pawns in the hands of the devil.  In these stories there was always some miraculous conversion in which Jesus saved the sinner at his or her worse.  It would have been more “real” for me if they had one about having to sit through a 16-verse altar call in church.  That seemed more “real” to me than what we were handing out.

 

In all of this the goal was to bring people to salvation.  Give a track, strike up a conversation, and save a soul.  I couldn’t do it.  Too introverted, plus it felt dishonest and based on a whole lot of guilt.  To me there didn’t seem to be much about what mattered most—love.  I did it once and never again.  If I was given Bible tracks to distribute, I typically left them in places where someone might find them.  I flunked the “evangelist” part of being evangelical.

 

I should have known I wasn’t a good match for the evangelicals when I finally got my own Bible—The Living Bible.  It wasn’t the King James version.  It was almost blasphemous . . . it wasn’t God’s word.  No, it was a paraphrase.  But I tell you what . . . it sure was easier to read and understand.  The King James was like stepping into a foreign land in which everyone spoke a language I had never heard.  It was Shakespearean while the Living Bible was good ol’ English that I could understand.  I was rarely asked to read from my secular Bible at youth group.

 

There is much about the evangelical church that was not congruent for me though I could not put my finger on it at the time.  It is a patriarchal structure and system.  Women are not valued equally as the “children of God”.  No, men are the driving force and blessed of God.  I never like the way that all the important tasks and leadership roles—even in youth group—were saved for the men.

 

I did not appreciate the way that they looked down on those who were not “saved” or “born again”.  They were heathens . . . even my family who put up with this evangelical fever I had at the time.  They were on the other side . . . lost forever.  Again, it just didn’t quite add up for me.  It just didn’t feel right.

 

People who were different.  My brothers with disabilities . . . they were a burden to endure.  They were “less than” . . . not among the “chosen” as demonstrated by their disabilities.  A mark of sin.  It was never said directly, it was implied.  They were not the children of God.  They were not embraced for who they were, but as something of a charity case.  I’m certain, with 20/20 hindsight, that the belief was that my brothers. Were a price to be paid for sins somewhere in the family tree.  I couldn’t buy that.

 

Diversity . . . there was none.  It was about as homogeneous as white bread.  Though it was never said, I could feel it.  If you did not fit the mold, you did not belong.  One of my best friends at that time was black.  Though he went to church with me several times, he started refusing.  Told me that he didn’t feel welcomed—tolerated, but not welcomed.

 

I really tried.  I really tried to be evangelical.  But I just didn’t have what it takes.  I just didn’t fit.  I was never comfortable.  Never thought I fit in.  Too extroverts for an introvert.  It was too dogmatic.  Too rigid.  Too regimented.  Too patriarchal.  Too controlled.  I flunked the evangelical test.  I just did not have what it takes . . . I have a brain.  The brain is a terrible thing to waste.

 

I was an evangelical for a little over a year.  My father got transferred and we moved again.  I moped around for several months when we settled in.  My mother got tired of it and suggested that I hoof my way down the church at the end of the street.  So, I did . . . it was a fork in the road, and I took it.  It was not evangelical.  Nope, far from it.  I never looked back and never felt better.  But that is another story for another time.

 

Honestly, I did try.