Not Without Dramatics

In an undergraduate class we were both taking as an elective, my friend gave a presentation on death by crucifixion. As a pre-med student, her description was precise, technical, sterile. Even so, a couple students stood up and left. Halfway through, the professor walked out. My peachy skin felt sensitive to air itself, and I got a little seasick, but I stayed out of some sense of duty.

She was specifically describing the torture of Jesus. Since the class was composed mostly of Christians, it's no wonder we became uncomfortable. We were all emotionally attached. Having a professor walk out on a presentation he is supposed to be critiquing is a bit of an oddity, but understandable.

Whether or not you are attached to the victim, though, crucifixion is a formidably disgusting process. It is nasty. Even if you think Jesus was a liar, or a lunatic—even if you think he never lived—you would not have made it through that presentation without twitching or getting uncomfortable.

The crucifixion of Jesus makes me uncomfortable every day. Every day I wake up to a bloody mess. A bloody mess is what it took to save my soul and (what I hope is) billions of other souls from an eternity of pain and loneliness. This makes Jesus an unspeakable gift, but also a speak-able one. You have to talk about it, eventually, even if it knocks the wind out of you for a few minutes, or a few years. 

Christianity—this relationship that I have with God—is a gift. I try to be meek&mild, and grateful, in response, but sometimes I am the Hydra. For every question Christianity answers, I ask two more questions. Generally, they are the same questions, over and over and over.

Liar, lunatic, or Lord? Liar, lunatic, or Lord, liar lunatic or Lord liarlunaticorLordliarlunaticorLord?

And, Jesus aside, what about God? What if he is distant? What if he created us and left us?

God does answer that question. Thousands of years ago, he, speaking through a prophet, proclaimed "I will punish the men who are complacent, those who say in their hearts, 'The Lord will not do good, nor will he do ill.'"

Do not believe he is a God who created us and left us and will let us alone to do our own thing; whether "our own thing" is messing things up; or partying it up; or being a decent human who adopts a highway and a blind dog and a baby with special needs.

He is watching and he demands all. The death of Jesus requires a response.

The question—words we often put in Jesus' mouth—"Will you follow me to the ends of the earth?" requires a response. And my answer, personally, is of course. But what about the other questions? "Will you follow me to Jerusalem? To Judea?" Will I follow him...out of my bedroom and down the stairs to the kitchen table? That is harder to say.

I mean, I am following him to the kitchen table, but not without dramatics.

This semester, fighting complacency, I picked up a couple jobs—a fate that was extremely hard to accept. I am now an employee of Liberty University. In other words, my grave is now 8 feet deep, instead of the usual 6. This school sucks you in.

I'm just a graduate writing tutor, and paid very poorly, but I desperately needed a stepping-stone job, and this fit the bill. It is also allowing me to work from home during a semester of crazy family schedules. I'm able to do school, make a handful of cash, and be available to turn on a dime and help my younger sisters with their school, or make dinner, or transport someone or something somewhere.

And that's it.

That's all I do these days.

So when God asks, "Do you love me more than father, mother, brothers, sisters, or farms, and would you leave them for me?" I am at a loss.

Because I love him more and I would leave them—have left them all in the past—and yet, he's not letting me (?). Last year, he literally led me back to the farm I had left, to live with my grandma. What is up with that?

So in my mind, as I struggle with God and the life I've been given, the question has almost become, "Mattea, do you love me enough to stay home?"

When I am not curled up in a ball of fear, I do crave adventure. Give me plane tickets. Give me slums and snotty noses, give me a little black dress partying in a penthouse in The City—the lows and the highs, you know? Give me cobblestone streets and tracts to hand out in the pouring rain with numb fingers. Give me shantytowns and contaminated water. Give me darkness and give me light.

But don't give me the gray that is my community.

The truth is, occasionally Jesus told people to stay. He occasionally said, "No, don't come with me. Go home to your family." So I can't wage war with him on the fact that I'm stuck at home, as if that's something he said would never be the case.

I act like I'm stuck here forever. Honestly, next semester might find me in Africa or Asia or Europe or South America. The applications are out there. But, you might also find me at home. If that's the case, I want to be prepared for it with an open heart. To love God so much that I will stay for him.

The future aside, if it is not already clear, I need an open heart right now. Right now, I am staying. The passion of Jesus must change me and make me uncomfortable enough that I face home and community with joy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

My dad had this hefty construction-grade wheelbarrow for 30 years, the kind that was too heavy even without anything in it. He had a faded bumper sticker on it from a local air hanger that said "I'd rather be soaring." Wouldn't we all. But sometimes, you have to haul concrete, dig post holes, and keep the home fires burning.

Sometimes, your God has to take on the form of a man and suffer for you. And it changes your life. But you are not sure it has changed you enough. You're not sure if you are coming or going or staying. So you put your head on the table and weep a little. And then you get up and go back to what you were doing.