I just finished a Creative Writing class at my local community college, and it was one of the sweetest gifts Iโve given myself since losing my Jimmy.
I loved everything about it. I loved my teacher. I loved the work. I loved my classmates.
We came from wildly different places. Our group was a true melting pot of different ages, races, careers, orientations, identities, and beliefs, but week after week, as we wrote and shared pieces of our real lives, something lovely happened: we grew to genuinely care about each other.
We cheered each other on, championing both the stories we heard and the courage it took to share them.
We allowed ourselves to be known. We embraced vulnerability and banished pride, choosing the kind of authenticity that doesnโt allow strangers to remain strangers for long.
Even though our class has ended, we are planning to keep meeting for writing sessions, because it seems weโre not ready to lose what we found there. And Iโm so glad.
I learned so much in that class, but there was something else that became unmistakably clear.
Nearly every one of my classmates carried a negative view of Christians and the Church.
They werenโt looking for reasons to be offended, by the way, but the harm they experienced at the hands of those who claim the name of Jesus left them not only offended, but opposed.
Opposed to those who judge first and love last. Opposed to those who make acceptance feel transactional. Opposed to those who speak of belonging but practice exclusion.
So when I listened to their stories of the wounds, the disapproval, the subtle (and sometimes overt) rejection, I didnโt feel defensive.
I felt grief.
I would never diminish their pain. It marked them.
I would never diminish their pain because Iโve lived it.
Like my classmates, I bear the scars of injuries inflicted but never acknowledged. Consequently, I cannot ignore the question that lingers:
If, after living my entire adult life above reproach and for an audience of One, I could be so easily discarded by His representatives, what does that mean for those who donโt โcheck the right boxes?โ
What does that say to the ones who are already unsure, already hurting, already wondering if they belong?
What version of Jesus are they encountering through us?
By the end of the class, my classmates clearly cared for me, but their perception of โChristiansโ likely remains the same, and I understand why.
Because for too long, the loudest expressions of Christianity have not been marked by grace, but by judgment. Not by compassion, but by condemnation. Not by humility, but by emphatic certainty. Not by deep grief over injustice, but by clear approval of it.
It is behavior antithetical to the Christ they claim to follow.
I have come to see, as Iโve surveyed more collateral damage than I can name, that people rarely reject Jesus because of who He is, but because of how He has been represented.
Jesus said people would know us by our love.
Well, if that is the measure, then many simply have not seen enough of Him in us to recognize Him at all.
I have always been struck by the words of Gandhi: โI like your Christ, but I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.โ
That sentiment is still alive and well.
And maybe this is the part we canโt keep skimming past:
Christians are often known far more for what they are against than for who they are called to love.
How very unfortunate.
What a gross misrepresentation of who Jesus was and is.
I am so grateful for my class. I wonโt soon forget the writing, the laughter, or the camaraderie. Neither will I forget the clarity that was mine because of it.
It reminded me that the most compelling testimony isnโt what we say about Jesus, but how we represent Him and extend His extravagant love to others.
If we err at all, may it always be on the side of love.
โBy this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one for another.โ
๐๐จ๐ก๐ง ๐๐:๐๐
๐พ If you have been wounded by those who represented Jesus poorly, please know this: their failure to love you well is not a reflection of your worth. I may not know your story, but I believe you. You deserved to be treated with far more love than you were shown. โค๏ธ My DMs are open.