Talk To The Man From Nazareth

“Do you think there’s anything after this?”

The question came from a man in another bed just across the oncology ward. My Dad, in his own bed, replied:

“Yes, I do.”

“So you’re a believer then?”

“I am, yes”

I think the answer came as something of a surprise to the man. Over the days that he and my Dad had been in the same hospital ward, they had formed some connection over football, books, talking about the places they grew up. But now, in the quiet of the room, with the sound of beeping machines, the deeper questions came.

“I just don’t know if I could believe in something like that, after everything the church has done. I’d like to believe there’s something more, but when I think about all the terrible things in history that Christians did…”

“That’s true” my Dad responded. “But there’s only ever been one perfect man.”

A short pause and a noise of agreement from the other bed.

“Just talk to the man from Nazareth”.

When I think back on that conversation, I’m struck by how simple my Dad’s response was to the man’s comments. My Dad was a pastor, he spent many years of his life reading, studying scripture, preaching at the local church - I’m sure he could have thought of 100 things to say in that moment, explained the full message of the gospel, but it really came down to “just talk to Jesus”.

Some days, I relate more to the man in the other bed - full of doubts, fears, questions - hurt by people who claimed to be following Jesus. Watching scandal after scandal, moral failure after moral failure happening in the church, feeling disappointment after disappointment from people who performed holiness and called others to a standard they weren’t even keeping. I look through history at the atrocities done in the name of Christianity that I think we’re still feeling the effects of, and even today I feel increasingly unable to relate to the kind of messaging I see from other believers endorsing people and ideas that seem a thousand miles from the sermon on the mount, and the Jesus that I see in the pages of the Bible.

It saddens me that so many friends are falling out of church communities hurt, depressed and excluded. It saddens me that non-Christian friends feel like they’re not “good enough people” to go to church. It saddens me that when I invited my gay friend to come to my concert in a church he asked me “will I be safe there?”. It saddens me that sometimes I hesitate to mention I’m a Christian to people I meet, not because I’m ashamed of following Jesus but because I feel like I’ll be automatically assigned pre-conceived ideas of what that means, based on how the church have been presenting themselves. Sometimes I wonder if his heart is breaking for the way his name is being represented today. I know this can sound very self-righteous, and I know I’m just as broken as anyone, but I suppose I’m a little burnt out from the people who pretend they’re not. The ones who seem to make grand boasts and claims like they’ve got it all figured out and know better than anyone else, rather than opening their heart to show that we’re all walking wounded and looking for a saviour. We’re all just in need of some grace, some love and some hope.

I could go on and on but I don’t feel like that’s the point of what I’m trying to say here. My Dad isn’t around to talk about these things to anymore, but if he was, I imagine I would get a pretty similar response: “talk to the man from Nazareth”.

Because in the middle of all this noise and confusion and hurt is this man whose words feel like the purest water. In a culture that feels like a scramble to the top and a race to build your own platform, I see a man who came for the last, the least and the lost. When I open up that book I read about a man who flipped the tables of the religious, hung out with everyone that was shunned and rejected by society, drew doodles in the sand while people waited for him to judge and condemn, called out hypocrisy, and lived a life of pure, self-sacrificial love and compassion.

Some days trying to navigate the cultural landscape and all the nuances of church and community feels like a mammoth task, increasingly I’m find my answer to be “I don’t know” - but I do know that this is a man I want to follow. Regardless of anything else, I don’t know a better example to live by. I don’t know a better person to look up to and to try to be like. He’s so kind, gracious, gentle and yet fiercely passionate and strong too. His heaviest words were for the gatekeepers, and anyone who would stand in the way of someone coming to God with what they have. The message was clear: it doesn’t matter who you are or what you’ve done - the door is wide open, the table is prepared, and anyone who wants to come has a seat. I don’t think I know anyone else who loves on that level.

Still, I kept wrestling with the fact that I can’t just be on my own little journey - it’s easy to say we love Jesus but don’t like the church. But the trouble is, Jesus loves the church. It’s his plan and his design. His bride. And it’s pretty hard to follow him and not catch some of his heart for the church too. Yet, I still struggled to find an expression that didn’t just bring up all the same old feelings. That was until I went to Berlin.

A couple of friends invited me out there to share at a creative conference but also just to extend my stay and spend time together. We had a great time exploring their city, trying amazing coffee, checking out beautiful stores and strolling along the river in the sun. We had deep chats across the dinner table and shared stories. Then, on a Monday night, they opened their house for friends to come to their living room, and with cups of tea in hand and biscuits on the table, we spoke to Jesus. We sang songs, we prayed out loud, we had moments of quiet - and in a way I felt like I was getting a little glimpse of what it meant to be the church.

If the simplest version of my own faith journey is talking to Jesus, then this felt like the simplest version of a faith community - we talk to him together. There was no room for ego, or performance or spiritual showmanship in this living room, but I got to hear people speak to Jesus, and I got a glimpse of what he’s been speaking to them too. That’s when I finally started to understand the verses like:

“And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another…”
Hebrews 10:24-25

and

“…be filled with the Holy Spirit, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among yourselves, and making music to the Lord in your hearts.”
Ephesians 5:18-19

The whole experience was surprisingly very healing, and just continued to spark my thirst and desire to find the real thing. I’ve always been one to crave authenticity, and to try and find the genuine and reject the superficial. Just this evening I was thinking back to a song I wrote 8 years ago called “Something Real”, and I think it’s been a song that I still hold on to as one of the deep desires of my heart.

Lyrics:

Lead me out into the open space
Let me hear Your voice and see Your face
Sometimes life is found in moving slow
It’s in these valleys where the flowers grow

So take me to the place where mercy never ends
I don't want success, I want to be Your friend

I'm done with impersonation, imitation
I want something real

So to everyone out there with questions like me, I hope you find some time to talk to him. The only one who was ever perfect. I hope you find living rooms and tables full of people who are trying to do the same, and I hope you know you have a seat.