Friday, December 23, 2005

Dirty Jesus

Why not head down to the pub and talk about Jesus? Just strike up a conversation with a table of four who really weren't planning on doing much else than sharing a few pitchers?

Why not head to a bowling alley, ask some dude to bum a cigarette, talk about this weird story about a Samaritan between frames?

Why not play darts with these two guys and talk about a son who squandered everything, but not before he more or less told his dad he wished he was dead?

I'd wear my favorite frat shirt. I'd have buffalo wing sauce smeared all over my mouth. Maybe my jeans with the hole in the knee, and by the way that hole got there 'cause I wore 'em out, not 'cause I f'n bought 'em that way.

How would they react? Would they take me seriously? If not, why not? Would it be because I just wandered up to them to talk about God, or because I wanted to talk about God without wearing a collar, holding a Bible, donning a WWJD bracelet, with my hair combed neat on one side and nice shiny strut-in-the-name-of-God wingtips? Crap, hold on, we don't wear those bracelets any more...what's the cool Christian thing to do now...? I'm out of the loop on that. Who cares? This ain't a holier-than-thou contest. I'm meeting 'em where they are and don't mind being there myself, to be honest.

Or maybe we could keep doing what we've been doing. Offer people a cracker and a shot of grape juice and a lecture. We'll have to turn 'em away with that, man. Can't forget the organ. That stuff's racing up Billboard.

I once heard a guy talk about how the song 'One of Us' is just pop theology. God isn't just one of us, just a slob like one of us. Yeah, okay, I feel you on that. God is Something Else, no argument there. But then, what's the relationship like? What's the relationship like when we put our faith in a guy who was a carpenter (pretty low in the Roman system), born in a stable, had no real home during his ministry, died like a criminal outside the walls of Jerusalem, ate with the A-list of F-listers? He'd walk up to the doors of our church building and say, 'screw this, where's the nearest tavern? That's where my people are. You people and your sterile faith and practices, never wanting to get your hands dirty, never wanting to get a little smoke in your lungs. I called a bunch of guys whitewashed tombs once. I really don't wanna have to pull that one back out. Know what I'm saying?'

Have another beer. Ever hear of a place called Cana? Have I got a story for you...