In the tradition of the different Biblical perspectives of Jesus and the continued tradition of the saints who have gone before me, I’m writing about where I think Jesus lives today. I’m writing about where I find Christ shine through most in the world, through the vulnerable, through society’s “least of these” lens, through people who have gone through hell for being truthful and loving to themselves in spite of the world’s hatred for them. I want to thank Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, and Paul for their varied depictions of Christ, of their differing perspectives and their differing opinions of Christ. I want to thank all of those whom I have read or encountered who have helped me see Christ differently and therefore have drawn me closer to the Christ found in Scripture and to the Christ found in all of creation: Paul Young, Katherine Sakenfeld, Edwina Sandys, Kwok Pui Lan, John Howard Yoder, Alice Walker, Katie Manning, Jeff Eaton, and Ruth Huston.
I met Jesus at a quaint indie coffee shop in the burbs yesterday. She looked so out of place. I loved it and hated it. I felt uncomfortable by her presence and so overwhelmed by her beauty, her love for herself, her daringness to meet me in my own comfortability. I felt ashamed. Why couldn’t I travel to her side of the tracks? My own damn white middle-class privilege keeps me from meeting Jesus where she feels most comfortable. Damnit. Next time. Next time I’ll go find her and stop making her meet me on my turf.
“Hi darlin’,” she says to me and smiles over her coffee.
“Hi Jesus,” I smile at her dark skin, her chocolate brown eyes, and her strong jawline. She is the most beautiful human I have ever laid eyes on.
The white couple sitting next to us look uncomfortable. I can’t decide if they’re more uncomfortable by her blackness or her transness.
She’s growing her hair out in a big afro. It’s divine.
“Girl, stop staring”
“Sorry, Jesus. Your hair is simply amazing.”
“Why thank you,” she puffs up the bottom of her afro with a proud look on her face. “But that doesn’t get you off the hook.”
“What hook?” I ask, guiltily.
“For not coming to my home today.”
I look down, ashamed. “I know.”
“And don’t you be playing the victim, here. You know you aren’t the victim. Get your head up.”
I look up and stare her straight in the eyes. She’s smiling, but her hard eyes tell me she’s not having one bit of the pity party I’m throwing for myself.
“Okay,” I say, not sure what topic to broach first.
“How’s the transition going?” I ask, hoping I’m not being too invasive.
“It’s going. Most people don’t question me anymore. I had some woman the other day ask if I was a man or a woman. I told her I was a woman, but that it wasn’t any of her damn business. She looked like she didn’t believe me. So I asked her if she wanted to see my lady bits.”
I gasped and laughed at the same time, “No?!”
“Oh yes. Respectable people,” she does air quotes around respectable, “want to control your every move, but are scandalized when you call them out on it. They’d rather keep people down, keep you underneath and behind them than acknowledge your equalness, but they want to do it in a subtle way. They don’t want to seem like an outright racist or bigot. They don’t understand they’re caught in a system that encourages them to be so.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your apologies, mister. I want your heart and your mind and your actions to be different. I want you to stand up for me and for my people.”
I feel myself bristle at her term ‘my people,’ offended and sad she doesn’t include me in ‘her people.’
“Oh, stop it.” She snips.
“Stop what?” I ask defensively, trying to hide the emotions on my face. She can see right through me.
“Feeling sorry for yourself. You know you’re my people, too. But, you also know I’ll always take the side of the oppressed, of the ones who aren’t protected by society, by the laws of the land, by the Church, which by the way is supposed to follow after me. But, somehow, they keep moving out and building buildings away from all the people I’ve chosen to surround myself with. And you know, sometimes you’re the one I’m defending, but usually I’m having to defend others against you, you know that.”
“I’m trying to know that and I’m trying to change that.”
She softens a bit, “I know that, honey. But, you still have a long way to go.”
“I know,” I say, trying to not throw a pity party for myself, but also trying to feel rightfully repentant for my actions, but mostly for my silence and non-action in the all moments I should have spoken up and done something.
“Girl, let’s go for a walk and get out of this,” she looks around eyeing all the people staring at her like she doesn’t belong, ”place. Let’s hear the birds talk to us and see the trees waving back.”
I smile. I love the way Jesus talks about the birds and the trees, like they’ve got hearts and souls they’re trying to share with us.
“Sounds good,” I smile as we trade the stuffy coffee shop for the refreshing breeze and blue sky.
Photo above is the sculpture Christa by Edwina Sandys.
Timothy Burge-Lape 