Man of Kindness

part 2 of 2 – see previous post House of Kindness

I’m snuggled up behind Jesus, as close as I can get to him without interfering in the tense confrontation being carried out on the other side of his body. His stance is wide to hide me, but relaxed. His voice is calm. I’ve finally figured out that where I am right now is the best place to stand in any conflict. To put him between me and hate; anger; fear.

It doesn’t make it any less frightening though, the way this situation feels. Little zings and shocks of adrenaline are coursing through my veins at the violence I can practically taste. It coats the air around us with all the bitter tang of explosive hate – the kind that can quickly result in bodily harm, or soul damage.

The man Jesus healed not more than a couple hours ago is hiding behind the group, having led them here out of fear of their condemnation. I peek out at him from behind Jesus’ shoulder, my eyes narrowed in frustration and anger. Wanting to scream at him over the injustice of it.

Jesus isn’t looking at him, his focus is on the religious group that’s facing him. I know the betrayal stings even if he doesn’t show it. Even if he knew it was coming. Nothing has happened yet, it’s only words so far, but the way the group of men are staring at Jesus, the hardness in their eyes, makes me tremble. If Jesus wasn’t standing here, blocking them from me, I’d flee. It’s how I feel in most conflicts. Like a wild animal trapped by a predator – ready to lash out and run. These men are already more than half ready to kill Jesus – all they need is for him to do or say something in front of the crowd that gives them the right justification to stay holy while they do it. The only thing holding them back is their fear of the crowd that favours Jesus, the people that follow him wherever he goes to see what he’ll do next. Their reputations are at stake. And to any person in power that is a powerful ultimatum that can motivate them to do horrible things.

Jesus has broken one of their many rules of the Sabbath – he’s even encouraged others to do so. He told that man he just healed to pick up his mat and walk. It doesn’t matter to them that it was for the good of the man he healed. It doesn’t matter that Jesus was healing someone, restoring them to the way they were meant to be. It only matters that he flouted their authority, showed the crowd that the nitpicky little rules they’d piled up on the Sabbath didn’t matter next to his desire to make us whole – to rescue us from whatever cage we get stuck in.

My attention keeps sliding away from Jesus, getting snared by the men I want to rail at. For weeks we’ve come back to this story, again and again, as I get caught in my own hatred of what these men are doing. They think they’re in the right as they persecute him for not following the rules … and they’re the ones who’re supposed to be representing the character of God. It makes me want to rage. To name call and sling accusations of self righteousness, of pride, of all the worst things religion can do to a person.

But that’s not why I’m here in this story.

I’m here to be with Jesus. Watch what he does.

It’s like a mantra I have to keep chanting in my head. As much as I want to flee, I’m equally tempted by all that violent, chaotic emotion – drawn to it – wanting to put my own control over it, prove myself against it, show that I’m better than them.

But every time I play this story out, every time I step in front of Jesus to protect him – to take on those men and lecture them over their failure to show God’s love, I lose sight of Jesus. I get so embroiled in the need to show them they’re wrong that I find myself donning their robes, becoming part of their group (unwilling though I am to be one of them), until all of a sudden I’m standing beside them and find myself looking straight at Jesus. And it horrifies me to see myself looking into his face from the other side. It breaks my ability to be in this story with him, paralyzes me in place so we have to start over.

So this time I keep myself behind Jesus, reach out a hand and press it against the back of his warm tunic and let myself feel his heart beating. He knows I’m here and he lets me in to what moves inside those beats. My eyes slide closed as the sun beats down on us. As the crowd whispers and stares around us, half of them rooting for him, half of them not. As I feel the sorrow welling up in him.

And beneath my hand I feel the determination to hold his ground, to bring freedom to this place of cages. To show this world who he is. The willingness to rip himself open for them makes me inhale shakily, makes me afraid for him, makes me wish I could be as strong as he is – to be vulnerable even in the hate that flows towards him, trying to smother him, trying to push him out. Every beat I feel against my palm thumps with an ache – a longing that none of these, his supposed followers, see him, believe him. Not even the man he healed. Tears slip down my cheeks at his ache. At his grief. At his knowing and loving both the man who betrayed him and these that hate him. I let myself feel his compassion towards them both. I let myself see his understanding of the fear that motivates them, that blinds them. Jesus doesn’t look to his side but I can feel him note that his friend Judas is there too, not too far away, watching, not seeing either.

He’s talking to the leaders as I huddle behind him, as I cry silently at all the emotions going on inside him, as I struggle to align what I feel with what he feels. His voice is deep and sure and so full of authority the men don’t interrupt him. That I start to calm, just a little. He doesn’t get defensive. He doesn’t start name calling. He doesn’t do what they would do and try to make them feel small, feel guilty, feel judged. They might feel those things anyway, but it’s not because he’s trying to condemn them.

Instead he tells them who he is. His voice is full of love as he claims God as his father – something that makes them bristle, while simultaneously lightening his voice and face. He gets animated and a smile enters his voice as He talks about how much his dad loves him, how much his dad trusts him. He’s earnest as he tells that solid wall of hate how he’s only doing what his dad does because he’s watching his dad at work. He says many things in an easy manner about where his authority comes from, about what testifies to his sincerity. He’s not bragging. He’s just being honest. He mentions John and Moses with affection in his voice, how John spoke of him, how Moses wrote about him. He challenges these men who’ve memorized the old texts, who think it’s those texts that save them, to look for him there.

I am astonished as I listen to him. Struck by the contrast between this encounter and the one that just played out. He spoke a mere two sentences with the man he healed. The man who was lost in pain and suffering. He merely acted and didn’t explain anything. He stayed anonymous, let his actions speak for him. The man didn’t even know his name – the two of them strangers to each other. And now, with these leaders, the ones who’re looking to trap him, the ones who are full of ego and pride and what seems to me like false spirituality; he’s speaking a torrent of words, explaining everything, reaching out for some understanding all the while knowing they’re coming for him. Why?

As I stand behind him, safe in his shadow, I struggle to understand. Is it because he is outwitting them? Because he’s poking at them with their own knowledge – using their own arguments against them? Is it because there’s a hidden doubter in that group who wants to find him?

I don’t know why. I don’t know why he’d waste his time with these men who I know will stay hard and will kill him – torture him and let hate guide them. These men who stand for principles and rules instead of people. But what I do know is this:

Jesus isn’t cynical like me.

Even as his voice grows grimmer and he tells these men straight to their face that he can see their hearts aren’t holding onto the love of God – even as he tells them that he knows they won’t see him for who he is – he’s still holding out a lifeline; extending an invitation; uttering a challenge that they start looking. Maybe he knows that later, after it’s all done, one or two of them will look back and realize just exactly who they were looking at when they spit in his face. Maybe it’s just in his nature to offer himself, maybe he loves them anyway, maybe he can see each one of them as individuals, knows their entire lives, sees the lost part of their hearts, rather than this mob of false religion, this wall of rigid hate that I see.

All I know is that I’d rather be like him than let myself become hate, even by accidental zeal to be in the right. That fighting anger with anger will only blind me to where he’s standing. And that I am so very grateful he’s willing to stand in front of me, be my shield, keeping dragging my eyes back to this story again and again until I get it. Until I let go of my need to stop these men and turn my eyes to him instead.