Jesus

We are all going to hell – every single one of us.

Every single one of us is damned. Every single person on the face of this awful, beautiful earth is damned and going to hell . . . and to the movies; and out for supper; and on vacations; and to the mall; and surfing the internet; and riding bikes; and . . . knitting . . . as the fiery handbasket flames fed by our practical atheism lick the seats of our ignorant pants.

Or maybe I should speak for myself.

Don’t get me wrong. I mean all of this in the best way possible – as a benchmark, a reality check, an existential cattle prod. We are all teetering on the edge of the abyss, hanging by a thread . . . and happily munching our breakfast cereal. We’re goners, I’m tellin’ you. Finished. Done.

That is, without Christ. That’s what we say, isn’t it? That’s what we believe. Jesus “the X-factor” Christ.

But who is this Man? Who is this manifold variable in the fantastic algebraic equation of life? What strange and impossible redemptive algorithm wipes clean the lawbreaking mathematical slate of our existence?

It’s a divine mystery and always has been. It’s really ungraspable, the ultimate calculus.

What, after all, is Jesus to me? What has he to do with me and my workaday life? Is it all based on imagination? Is Christ what I imagine him to be?

If I am to be honest, I find my relationship to Christ – with Christ – constantly changing. So many attributes, so little time! King, Shepherd, Word, all in a man younger than I am. What did he know? What did he really know? What do I know? Am I truly willing to die for this person, this being?

I’m bothered by Joseph Smith and the Mormons. I’m bothered by L. Ron Hubbard and Scientology. I’m bothered by Muha— well, best not to say it. But if religions so blatantly false attract such eager hordes of enthusiastic devotees, how are we different? How is our story superior to these other salvation narratives so transparently fictional?

Is this how the story of Jesus appears to unbelievers? Fictional? Impossible? Mythical?

Stories are relative. They can be truth and they can be nothing. The written word is creative (like a double-edged sword). The parables of Christ, some say, are fictional. True as true can be, others claim; used as examples. Who’s to say? What is truth?

It’s all a joke if it weren’t for one thing – historical reality. Literal historical reality. My faith lies not just upon the teachings of Christ – though these are the very bread and meat of my existence – but on the fact of Christ himself in bodily form. His deeds. His death. His life.

If these facts are true – and the weight of historical evidence says they are – then my life is with him, whatever age I might be and however I see him in relationship to my changing understanding as I mature in years.

I don’t know him, can’t know him . . . But I know him.

Faithful Skeptic attends a Mennonite Brethren church and likes his chocolate eggs with a sharp redemptive tang.