I stumbled into my office still wiping sleep from my eyes, still trying to remember how to walk, post-unconsciousness. I dropped myself into a chair and sorted out in my head what I needed to accomplish. But my brain hadn’t quite caught up to my ambition yet. It was telling me I should be happy it got me to the chair, and that I should let it be for at least another five minutes out of respect. So I called up Twitter. But I couldn’t move past the first two tweets. I realized how tired I am of some religious stuff.

The first thing I’m bored of is other Christians telling me what to think. Every Christian has an opinion on God’s opinion. You want to know what Christians think God thinks about anything? Google it. Cremation, money, your sex life, dating, and even your diet. And few of them agree. I mean, there are three views on hell, five views on sanctification, four views on justification… It’s not that I’m not interested in these topics. I really am, actually. It’s that almost all of these guys tell me I’m a heretic if I don’t see their view as the plain reading of Scripture. It makes me want to give them a plain view of my butt (but that wouldn’t be very Christian of me).

I’m also tired of picking sides. It’s not just red or blue politics, or even Christian and non. It’s this denomination, and that denomination, male and female, black and white, bible versions, high church or low church. Some of these are super important issues, and we should blood our heads beating them against the walls built against them. But when everyone thinks their opinion or stance is the only acceptable version of an opinion or stance, and I get ticked because they can’t see that it’s obviously mine that’s correct, I get tired.

There’s just not much that’s worse than a Christian who thinks he should have a platform. I’m aware that I fall into that category on some level just by writing this. Some level, I’m certain, Dante described somewhere: Decently educated religious folks who see themselves as ordained to spread the true truth. Whenever I get like that—and it’s way too often to admit—I like for God to remind me about Jesus.

That’s the path I’m supposed to follow. The Jesus way. Upside down and crazy.

To be clear, I do not enjoy it at the time. It’s a painful and annoying reminder that, frankly, does damage to my brittle ego. I’m off blustering again about putting on the full armor of Chad, and there’s Jesus shrugging off his godliness. The creator of every Tom, Dick & Venus, becoming a single cell. Born in the usual traumatic way. The God who spoke and giraffes happened became a baby who could neither control what food went in, or where and when it came out. My ego is gnawing at me like a sewer rat because I’m worried enough people won’t read my stupid blog, and God humbly takes on the form of that which he formed with his own hands—a lump of living, thinking clay like me.

That’s the path I’m supposed to follow. The Jesus way. Upside down and crazy. But I’m over here thinking maybe I’m the special one—the one trustworthy enough to not have to be quite as humble and servant-like. I’m special; a little ahead of you other guys. Surely he wouldn’t have given me such an active desire to share my righteous truth if it wasn’t his will. But, no. Jesus is all: touching the sick and loving sinners. And, seeing him as he is—again—brings me to my knees.

I’m tired of being right all the time. I’m sick of trying to fix you. So, I’m going to move toward the way of Jesus. Trust me, it’s not going to be pretty. I’m not going to be a shining example, and it will probably take the rest of my natural life to even get a decent start. But I’m sick of pretending I’m your mother. I’m not too happy that you believe you’re mine either, but I can’t do anything about that… except love you anyway.

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