I Killed Jesus

It was a warm spring day, where an impossibly bright Colorado sun hung in a forever blue sky. We had egg-shaped chocolates in baskets, and a colored egg hunt planned for after church, that made the service seem to last even longer. The only thing better than our Sunday meal was my brother and I finally playing one on one football in our backyard afterward. Winter was over, and the day stood as proof of the glories of life and spring. Rebirth and renewal. 

When my brother and I were done playing, we came inside and sat down with my parents in front of our TV. They were well into a movie about Jesus of Nazareth and how wonderful he was, how he helped feed people and spoke of loving each other. It was one of the white-robed versions of Jesus, where he had piercing blue eyes and spoke in a haunting and distant sort of tone the whole time. From his cadence it was difficult to tell if Jesus was lost in thought or a little bored, but as they showed the miracles he performed and the love he embodied, my heart melted, and made it that much more inexplicable and horrifying when they began to torture him.

By the time they were tearing the flesh off of his back with a whip I was completely undone. Snot and tears were flowing as they hoisted him up on the cross and his frail and beaten body took heavy breaths to plead for the forgiveness of the people murdering him. The thought that it was my sin that put Jesus on that cross was an avalanche of guilt and sadness that I was not able to navigate. Even though I knew the story, and the fact that he would rise from the dead, the reality of the depths of his suffering on my behalf devastated me. After the movie I sat with my parents and wept while asking Jesus into my heart, and for the first time understood how miserable and guilty I was for sins I had yet to commit.

As I got older, my childish naïveté  gave way to stubborn teenage arrogance and a very real disgust of guilt being used to manipulate me, or anyone, into doing or thinking what someone else wanted me to. With the absolute blessing of having seen the presence of true love and compassion in my parents and grandparents and a few others, it gave me the authority, in my mind, to refuse what some people told me I had to accept as fact. By the time I was in my late teens I felt that religion was a form of manipulation and subsequently something that I wanted nothing to do with. My unwillingness to allow guilt to be a motivation prevented me from accepting the aloof, white-robed, blue-eyed Jesus that I was first introduced to. 

I’m not sure when it happened exactly, but at some point I decided that I would have nothing to do with guilt whatsoever.  Why bother? Guilt is like worry. I have never heard of it being used in a positive way, or doing anything truly beneficial. So under the driving pressure of religion and culture, I rejected it outright and looked to remove anything in my life that had even the slightest connection with it. If I thought about something and it made me feel guilty, I either asked myself why it did, or I stopped doing it, or both. I wanted to do life how I chose to, and not out of guilt. 

One of the most unforeseen results of trying to remove manipulation from my life, along with hardships endured along the way, is becoming more keenly aware of true authenticity and genuine love, and that being all that matters. The more I desired to be loving, the less I wanted anything to do with guilt. In an act of Divine irony, while pursuing genuine kindness, I was brought right back to Jesus. This time I was not there because I was ashamed of who I am or will become. I am there because of love and the desire to have it permeate my life like it did with Him. 

With the miracle of being able to release that initial guilt, I am now able to have a new love-filled relationship with someone who embodies compassion beyond my ability to understand, but enjoys hanging out and teaching me anyway.