When Church People Act Like Jesus

The power of love when we don't see ourselves as lovable

One Sunday at a church I served as pastor, a woman I will call “Angie” showed up. It was clear that she had been shredded up by hard living.

Angie explained to greeters that she was in recovery from a drug addiction, to which the needle streaks and scars on her arms bore witness. She was less than thirty-days sober. The people at rehab had encouraged her to “add religion” to her life, because religious involvement strengthens the odds against relapse.

On her way into the service, Angie dropped her two sons off at the nursery. When she returned, a woman I will call “Jane” broke some bad news to her. Angie’s two boys had picked fights with several of the other children and broke some toys. Humbly, Jane said to Angie, “I’m so sorry to tell you all this, but I thought that as the boys’ mother, you would want to know.”

Impulsively, Angie responded by screaming, “SHIT!” in front of a room filled with children and parents.

What happened next sunk my heart. First, silence. Next, a humiliated, a burning blush rising to Angie’s face. Then, Angie taking the “walk of shame” from the nursery and out the door, forlorn and beaten down—no doubt for the ten thousandth time in her life—by the shame and regret and familiar feeling of failure.

Our church would easily recover from this nursery incident with Angie’s boys. But would Angie? Could she bounce back from the shame that she carried out the door—the shame of a struggling mother who took a risk, went to church, and cussed our loud in front of all those children?

Jane had an idea. What if she could reassure Angie in the same way that the angel of the risen Jesus reassured the once-demon-possessed Mary Magdalene and the thrice-betraying Peter? What if, some two thousand years later, the resurrection and empty tomb could be re-enacted with life-giving, shame-reversing, community-forming words delivered not by an angel, but this time by Jane the nursery worker?

Jane sent a letter to Angie that read something like this:

Dear Angie,

It’s me, Jane, from the nursery at church.

I’m writing to tell you all is well at church. No harm done! And the broken toys? We needed to replace so many of them anyway.

But what I really want to do, Angie, is thank you. Thank you for how you wore your heart on your sleeve. That meant a lot to me, because I am often tempted to hide the messy things that agitate my heart.

Thank you for being honest instead of pretentious. Your refreshing transparency got me thinking—what better place to struggle out loud than church?! You reminded me of how Jesus wants us to show up raw and real with him and each other.

I hope to see you again. I especially hope we can become friends.

Sincerely,

Jane

Angie returned to church the next Sunday. Having limped out the door the previous week, she returned with a spring in her step that said, “These are my people, and I want their God to be my God, too.”

Her people we became. And our God, the resurrected One, became her God. As her newfound faith grew over time, Angie would attest that she was what Francis Schaefer called a “glorious ruin,” an unfinished work in progress toward her ultimate completion in Christ. Aren’t we all? Her presence in our community was a gift.

And then, two years after cussing out loud in the nursery, Angie became the nursery director for the church.

There you go! Happily-ever-after, right?

Yes and no.

Several years later, having relocated to a different city, we received a call from the church. The message was short and heavy. Angie, having been many years sober, had relapsed. Tragically, the relapse was fatal and she died from an overdose.

Angie reminds us that trusting in the resurrection is more than a mere intellectual endeavor. Without resurrection, there would be no hope for Angie or for us. If Christ is not risen, we are to be pitied, and are still in our sins (1 Cor 15:19).

And yet, Christ is risen.

He is risen indeed.

Because Christ is risen, we know that Angie fell asleep on a lethal high, but awakened clean and sober in the presence of Jesus. She fell safely when she fell hard into the arms of her risen Maker. From the first moment that she placed her trust in Jesus, Angie’s judgment day had been moved from the future to the past. At her lowest, most demoralizing moment, she was no less secure and loved.

This is why Jesus came into the world. He lived, died, rose again, and will return with a bold pronouncement that he loves us, and has never stopped doing so.

He loves us at our best, and he loves us at our worst. He loves us when we feel good about ourselves, and he loves us when we feel like trash.

Jesus is as drawn to us in our doubt, regret, shame, and fear like a swarm of flies is drawn to a cow pie. This may sound irreverent to some, but is it? Did not Jesus Become filthy in order to get close to us in our filth? Did not Good Friday happen before Easter Sunday? Did not the putridness of a short term grave precede the sweet scent of eternal life?

In a word, yes.

Jesus Christ loves to redeem and restore. He loves to welcome sinners and eat with them. He did not come to convert bad people into good people. For him, that’s a vision far too small. Instead, he came to make dead and dying people live abundantly and forevermore.

For Mary Magdalene, Peter, Angie, and all who trust in the resurrected Jesus, what remains is a future with no more death, mourning, crying, or pain (Rev 21:1-7), not to mention no more addictions, no more relapses, no more overdoses, and no more funerals. In that day we will be like Jesus, and will see him as he is (1 Jn 3:2).

After C.S. Lewis saw Jesus in the Great Story behind every good story, he wrote a series of children’s books called The Chronicles of Narnia. The final book in the series paints a beautiful and compelling picture of what is to come.

In the following excerpt, Lewis imagines what it will be like for Christ’s family of sinner-saints on the first day of the life that is to come, which we call the resurrected life. Referring to the Christ-figure and lion, Aslan, Lewis reminds us that the highlight reel of even the very best earthbound stories will pale in comparison to our resurrected future. Take a deep breath, let your imagination be awakened by the words, and know that Jesus didn’t rise up only for Mary Magdalene and Peter. He also rose up for you:

“As [the resurrected Aslan] spoke, He no longer looked at them like a lion; but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them. And for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily-ever-after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures…had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.”

There it is. A happily-ever-after story that is also an echo of the ultimate, truest Happily-Ever-After Story:

“The myth that is also a fact.”

Next time you hear somebody cuss in church, remember Angie. What’s more, remember that her story is your story too.