Whiskey. Christ. and Middle School Tours.

I'd like to get a drink with Jesus. That's my answer to the impossible question about choosing one person from history and having lunch with them in the present day. I know- a lot of people choose Jesus as their person, but I don't mean it the way they do, or the way I think they do. I promise. Jesus is less Christian than most Christians, thankfully.

I'm drinking diet coke, or coffee, by the way. That's my story. Diet coke. Coffee. Water. Skim milk, 2% chocolate milk mixed with skim milk. Repeat. Not in that order or all at once.

Jesus is the person, though, because he's been through it- life. Everything.

He's a political refugee. He's seen racial and religious persecution at its worst. His parents had to hide him to keep him from being killed as a child.  He spent a large portion of his life homeless, moving constantly. I can't imagine how displaced he felt, and desiring for a place to rest his head. Genocide. Wars. Evil. Everything that shouldn't be, Jesus has seen.

He was personally connected to God in a way that no other human in the world was, and he was still reviled, mocked, and disbelieved. Talk about being told you're wrong when you're actually right. Jesus gets it. Death? Yes. He's lost. He's seen loss. He's been spit upon, called mad, called demonic. 

He didn't force himself or his way upon anyone and was still killed because he existed. He let people kill him. He chose his response to his own abuse. The fact that he didn't have to bow to the authority at hand and garner approval is what caused all the upheaval. No one understood an identity like that. If he was king, why didn't he make the people admit it? He didn't have to. "Kill that!" They had to kill that. 

Jesus is intense, was intense- I imagine, and aware. Alive. The most alive, then and now. I'd imagine he can sip whiskey, or whatever he chooses to drink- the strongest choice. He can do it. I don't have to recreate hardcore. He gets it, and does it. Jesus knows desperation. He came to the world and even told them all he was not here to condemn it. He was here to be, just to be. To know. To see- the worst-of-the-worst. 

They didn't believe. They couldn't see.

This morning, the worst-of-the-worst for my son was his school tour being canceled at the last minute. That meant he didn't get to skip his Wit and Wisdom class to galivant with his friends, and their parents, and his mom,  through the halls of yet another potential middle school. He was so disappointed. Even ciabatta bread wouldn't cheer him up. Thankfully, I had some Hi-Chews to stash in his bookbag. 

For others, the worst-of-the-worst is realizing that working as hard and best as one can to build something safe and good that contributes to the world can actually create a thing that will destroy itself and everything around it, leaving its creator amongst the bloody gauze and spillage of the triage unit.  Are all those who've gone before and seemingly done so much better looking down in disappointment? I don't think we artists want pity, but we certainly didn't mean to make this, whatever it is. Oops. 

And standing beside us, at lunch with Jesus, is the thing that leveled it all- Truth. Nothing could kill that guy, not that we meant to try. Most think they're friends with him. It's just the whole acceptance thing, and denial, plus self-awareness. It gets messy and muddled, and Truth never taps out. Nothing and no one can make what is and what will be not be. We can't stop it. Truth is stronger than us. Truth can drink with Jesus, scotch and bourbon. We never even tried those. We're squashed between the barstools, just happy for Diet Coke on tap, remember? 

Jesus. Jesus handles Truth. He takes it, all of it. It killed him once. He drank it, and it killed him, and they both went free.

He rose again. What power. Everyone believes something, even if they believe nothing; that is something. To be is to believe. I believe Jesus rose again. That's about it; for the things I'll say I believe are much less these days than they used to be. 

I can't harness that power, sip the scotch. I'm on the mat with Truth, but it's barely a grapple. I can't be Jesus. I won't ever be. I also don't have to be. I can't believe I used to think I did. Truth can kill without leaving a mark. Rear naked choke. No chance to tap. So good that I don't have to try.

I don't cast out demons. I don't calm seas. I don't speak the words of God into people's lives and build churches. That's not my job. It never was. I don't do a lot of things I used to think we were supposed to do.

I do sit on benches though, with my gloves on, as the wind blows, after middle school tours are canceled, and I write with a pink ink pen, in a place I literally and metaphorically cannot believe I am. Mind-boggling. This life. Truth. All of it.

And I imagine Jesus, and his whiskey. It's what he prefers. He takes a sip, sits it down, looks me in the eyes. I meet his gaze. We're good, and that's enough.