A couple weeks ago, during lunch at the summer school program where I work, some students were arguing over the best weapon in Fortnite. They threw around some obvious contenders, machine guns and flamethrowers and so on, but then, out of nowhere, one kid who had just been silently looking on at the whole conversation spoke up and said, “Pastor Bob says that the most powerful weapon of all is Jesus Christ’s forgiveness.”
That’s been my go-to anecdote when someone asks me about my summer, though it’s not exactly an all-purpose tale since I tend to end it differently based on who I’m talking to. If they’re not too religious and they take the kid’s unorthodox weapon of choice as a punchline, I wrap it up with something like, “And what was I supposed to say to that? Of course, the whole lunch table went silent until someone listed off another favorite Fortnite weapon, and we all went on like nothing had happened.” But if I’m talking to the more religious type (generally of the older, crankier, anti-Fortnite persuasion), I give an alternate ending: “And what was I supposed to do? I’m a government employee for this summer, so I can’t exactly go tell the kid that he’s exactly right. But I still wanted to give him some credit for saying something like that. I let it pass, though, and the conversation moved on.”
Neither of these stories are untrue, exactly. They just use the kind of omission essential to any story, because if I told you both stories at once, the kid as the punchline and as the hero, it wouldn’t make any sense, even though that’s how I felt in the moment. I saw it as I would if I were another Fortnite-obsessed kid at the table (an identity I’m not too far from, even if I’ve never gotten stuck on that particular game), half pitying the altar-boy’s poor social skills, half resenting him for ruining the fun with his God-talk. But also, isn’t what he said wonderful? Not to be anti-gaming, but when other boys were talking about the most effective methods of killing, this one child put a word in for forgiveness. Not some popular and easy virtue, like righteous anger or justice, but forgiveness. The opposite of violence. Isn’t that just wonderful?
This story and its different tellings has been on my mind for the past couple of weeks, and so has Jesus. You’d think He’d be on my mind a lot more often, being the center of my faith and all. But, if you grow up going to church six times a week, singing hymns of praise and hearing the story over and over again, Jesus sort of becomes taken for granted. Do I love Jesus for saving me for my sins? Sure. I also love the sun for providing our planet with a gravitational anchor and oxygen for keeping my brain and vital organs alive.
Ironically, I think that doubt is essential for any real love of Jesus, otherwise He’s just something large enough to be forgettable. Luckily, Grinnell is an excellent place for doubt. I had a long conversation with another Grinnellian last night about whether or not Christianity was any different from Greek myths. I argued that, even if Jesus wasn’t the son of God, Christianity is still more real because at least Jesus was a real historical person (there’s actually quite a bit of evidence for this, though I sold off all the books from religious studies courses that would’ve let me back up that claim). But, even though my atheist Grinnell friend didn’t point this out, I’d argued myself into a corner. Because, if you consider Jesus as a historical figure, His godhood seems immediately suspect. Why him, and not the billions of people who came before or the billions who came after? Why should Jesus be a man if, as I believe, men and women are equally made in God’s image? Why Bethlehem? Why the apostles? Hell, if God is all-powerful, why did there have to be a human sacrifice to end the olds laws and offer forgiveness? Why not just forgive, free of charge? There have been so many religious leaders through the years, why pin my hopes on this one in particular?*
These inconsistencies have ended the faith of many smarter people than me. But I think, if you table these inconsistencies, the real beauty of the narrative begins to emerge. Jesus’s story, in my opinion, is that hardest to appreciate when it encompasses the whole world, and most powerful at its most human, its most particular. What often scares me about atheism, or more grim interpretations of Christianity, is the unfeeling, mechanical nature of the universe. But, in Jesus, we can see a God who knows what it means to be human, who weeps at the Garden of Gethsemane and lashes out in anger at the merchants in the temple, who relentlessly spoke out against the government and the church and pretty much everyone. A God who, if not sinning, comes awfully close to the least attractive of our human impulses. And yet, unlike most other cultural heroes or deities, he never kills anyone. He never even hurts anyone. He damages some property and offends nearly everyone (and lets a demon kills some pigs once), but never fights. That’s especially powerful when you consider that nearly everyone wanted Jesus to be violent savior, Judas most of all. I find it ironic (in a more sad than funny way) that so many Christians expect Jesus to kill everyone they disagree with in the second coming, when that’s exactly what the most famous traitor in the western world wanted. Instead, Jesus offers forgiveness and love. Mystery and pain and confusion and commandments that make us squeamish come with the package, of course, but forgiveness and love at the bottom of it all. If no one really knows where the universe came from or who controls it, then the only way to pick a god is with your gut, and I wouldn’t choose anyone or anything besides a fellow human who knows our pain but still doesn’t cave to our violence.
I forgot which kid in summer school said the thing about forgiveness being the best weapon in Fortnite, but I need to remember and find him and tell him he’s right. Screw separation of church and state, I’m only under the fed’s thumbs for one summer anyway, and this is worth it.
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* Of course, I’m overstating things for dramatic effect. I’ve been working through these questions since elementary school, as any pastor who’s been burdened with me can tell you. That conversation did open up a lot of question I’d forgotten about, though, so it still was important.
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