It’s been almost twenty years since it happened, and I still chuckle when I think of it.
We had lived in Lebanon, KY., only a couple of years when some of our friends invited us to the Easter pageant at Southeast Christian Church in Louisville, Ky. We traveled in separate cars, but we ate together and then had seats as a group for the event.
We were anxious for production to begin when the character playing Jesus stepped on stage. One of our group, a single lady, leaned forward and pointing Jesus, said in a voice loud enough for others to hear, “Jesus is not bad looking, AT All.”
The next week, I called her, pretending to be one of the staff members at Southeast. She didn’t answer, so I left my message on her voicemail.
“Some in the audience overheard you talking about how good-looking you thought Jesus was, and they found this quite disturbing. We checked the names on the reserved seats and found your information. We want to visit with you about your comments. We are concerned about you and would like to visit with you personally. Could you come in for personal counseling? We believe you need help.” Then I left a bogus phone number.
When she first heard the message, she raised her eyebrows, shocked that they could find her and that someone had turned her in for her “Jesus comment,” since she was only joking.
It took her several weeks before she figured out the caller was me, and for years, she kept my message whenever she needed a good laugh.
I think about that episode now and then, usually around this time of year.
Sure, my friend and I were teasing, but it does make me wonder: are we attracted to Jesus?
Of course, I’m not referring to an actor playing the part of Jesus, whether it be “Jesus” in a local production or a Hollywood movie actor, like Jim Caviezel, (“The Passion of Christ”). The truth is, I have to guard against imaging a Jesus of my own desire.
Before I know it, I’ve created a Jesus in my own image, or at least one who fits into my realm of “likes.”
It’s dangerous, for it means I am seeking only what I want in a “Savior.”
My attraction to Jesus can devolve into a lust for the exaltation of myself. Like the crowds who thronged to Jesus, I, like them, might be tempted to abandon Jesus if I don’t get from him what I want. Then, at that moment, my desire has become a lust. Oswald Chambers pegged it when he said, “Spiritual lust causes me to demand an answer from God, instead of seeking God Himself who gives the answer.”
Judas apparently wanted a “Social Justice Jesus,” or at least that’s what Judas wanted others to think.
The religious authorities wanted a “Manageable Jesus,” that is, one they could control with their own set of rules and regulations.
The crowd at Jesus’ triumphal entry during Passover (the Christian’s Psalm Sunday) wanted a King Jesus to rule them, until suddenly, they didn’t, and then they either fled or showed up to watch his crucifixion.
What Jesus do you want? A Republican Jesus? A Democrat Jesus? A Life Coach Jesus? A Work-A-Miracle-For-Me-Now Jesus?
The Jesus we read about in the gospels doesn’t always seem attractive. In fact, he doesn’t seem at all interested in doing whatever charismatic leaders do to gather a following. He does the opposite: he tells us to come and die, deny ourselves if we want to follow him.
The “self” is a hard character to let go, to deny, to let die. But as Dietrich Bonhoeffer, German Lutheran pastor and theologian who was executed at Flossenbürg concentration camp, said, “When Christ calls a man, He bids him to come and die.”
But if we want to know Jesus, to take him into ourselves, our “self” has to go. There’s no room for two with Jesus.
And I somehow find that very attractive.