You'll get there

In one of my classes at seminary, we're reading Exclusion & Embrace by Miroslav Volf. In a chapter about violence, Volf discusses the crucifixion. At one point, he comments that the disciples’ physical locations during the ordeal, in other words, their safe distance, is a good metaphor for a majority of believers’ lives. We believe Jesus is the son of God, and even all that that implies. But a rare few go so far as to live the life he demonstrated or die the death he died. Instead, we’re grateful that he rescued us, but we follow at varying distances.

Maybe we’ve heard of famous folks who gave everything, who took his life example and literally followed. Some call them saints. Some have called them Mother or Grandfather or nurse or neighbor or friend or “the helpers.” I’ve imagined before what my life would look like if I was totally sold out to the whole thing. Instead, many of us, or, more specifically, I, follow at a distance, and not for reasons that seem evil or even bad. My biggest reason is that I’m still unpacking a lot of stuff. I’m easing along, finding my way. I’m making some sense of things, asking, listening, trying to learn in community.

But another thing I do is live my old life while juggling the new one. I regularly, accidentally, and habitually serve other things instead of God and live other ways instead of a life fueled by love and justice. I’ll be honest with y’all, I inadvertently sort of worship human approval. I have since the day I was born. I give a lot of energy to it, spend a lot of time fretting about whether or not I made a fool of myself, whether I’m physically acceptable, how long it’ll be before I’m completely invisible to people, what others think when I walk into a room, share my ideas, teach, ask questions, keep house, mother, write, and dress myself. Thoughtful moments are spent considering it, almost in a prayerful manner. It is as if you are the gods. As if your opinions bring me worth. As anxious as I am about how this world perceives me, it may as well be king.

And that’s coming from someone trying pretty hard not to let that happen.

It’s the most natural thing in the world to live a regular life. Regular life is such an easy thing to serve and worship, and within it, our individual hangups or insecurities or greeds or whatever: they rule our actions. We can still be church members and people who donate to the poor. We can make our little efforts. We can even be really super duper nice. But what if I followed Jesus’s example? What would that look like? I’ve yet to honestly find out. And I think that’s what kept me from giving anything up for Lent this year. I thought, well, I need to give it *all* up God, and I can’t even give up cheese in spite of it hurting my belly so bad. How am I gonna give up the things of this world when I can’t even give up cheese?

In fact, sometimes, for this reason or that, though I am what most of you would call a fairly outspoken believer, while warming myself around a fire in a mixed crowd, I may not bother mentioning that I’m friends with the guy they’re hanging up on the cross. We might even deny we were in his crew at all if someone asks us right out. I mean who wants to start some kind of issue with strangers when it’s probably a waste of breath and could get us into trouble? Especially me: the people pleaser.

But take heart. There is hope--yes, in the part where the tomb is empty, of course. But also a while later. It's called Pentecost. It’s a really weird scene. It’s strange and wild and hard to imagine how one would respond if it actually happened to us. The coolest of the weird things that happen, in my opinion, is that people who spoke all different languages could suddenly hear their languages being spoken by Jesus’s disciples. It’s all really nicely symbolic, literary-wise: Jesus’s message is ready for the whole world, not just the inner circle! All languages. Cool imagery. Look what the people said:

“These men who are doing the speaking are all Galileans, aren’t they?” they said. “So how is it that each of us can hear them in our own mother tongues? There are Parthians here, and Medians, Elamites, people from Mesopotamia, Judaea, Cappadocia, Pontus, Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya that belong to Cyrene; there are people from Rome, proselytes as well as Jews; there are Cretans and Arabs. We can hear them speaking about the powerful things God has done—in our own languages!” That’s from Acts 2.

And then look what Peter, the one who denied while standing around that fire, said. (Peter was on a journey. Like I am. Like you.) Watch what the one who denied said to the crowd at Pentecost:

“The whole of Israel must know this for a fact: God has made him Lord and Messiah—this Jesus, the one you crucified.” Dang, man. DANG. Peter is done hiding in a crowd. He makes a big speech. Everybody feels like total crap at the end. “The people in the crowd were cut to the heart.”

Me reading the Volf comments about being the kind of person who watches Jesus’s example from a distance was a gut punch. The people in the crowd realizing they’d killed love got a gut punch. But the one that really hit hard for Peter was on the beach with Jesus after the crucifixion. Jesus had just told Peter he knew about Peter denying him. I bet Peter wanted to puke. I’d have wanted to puke. Then Jesus said something to Peter that I know sounds like really bad news, but was actually about the nicest gift he could have given. Jesus told him the future. “When you’re old, you’ll stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you up and take you where you don’t want to go. Follow me.” Peter was gonna be one of those rare people who lived the life Jesus demonstrated and died the death Jesus died, and Jesus just gave him a sneak peek. If Jesus could tell me I was gonna run the race well, that I was gonna be one of those people, in the end, one of those who had embodied love, you don’t know how settled that would make my heart. Nobody wants to be crucified. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about Jesus telling Peter, in so many words, “You’ll get there.”

Little by little lately, I’ve gotten up my courage. I’m not living that Jesus life yet. But I’m willing now to open the window when a strong wind blows through and I'll holler out to whoever will listen, “He’s risen. And I guess I’m done being quiet about it now.”