Who do you say ?

"But what about you?", he asked. "Who do you say that I am?" Peter answered, "You are the Messiah."

Let me start by saying, I in no way feel prepared to write this blog. I am not a scholar, a bible historian, a Jesus expert, a theology major, or a Sunday School teacher. I am just me. Just a woman who is trying to run the race God has set before her. I can feel it in my bones, in my chunky fingers with chewed up nails; I am supposed to write this.
I have prayed.
I have asked God to direct my words, my thoughts.
I have asked him to help me be as honest and open as He wants me to be so that maybe, just maybe, if you aren't sure of how to answer the question, "Who do you say that I am?" ... maybe I can help you.

My Life Group meets every Thursday night. In an email, the Life Group leader challenged us to come prepared to answer the question, "Who do you say that I am?" (meaning Jesus), but threw in a twist... Not only should we say who we say He is now .. but who did we say He was before?

Before, what?
Before.
Before you saw his face and recognized him.
Before you started attending church and life groups and women's ministries and food banks and became so involved with where you are going that you forgot where you came from.
Before.
When you were a hot mess... and I mean this in a bad way, not the hip, slang way it's thrown across a t-shirt. (And yes, I desperately want that t-shirt!)
Before.
When you woke up in a bed you didn't know, in a room you didn't recognize, with a person you couldn't remember.
Before.
When your past haunted you and no matter how fast you sprinted, it was right there, breathing down your neck, laughing at you, mocking you, tripping you and leaving you flat on your face with a black eye and bloody nose, unable to get up, unable to crawl away.
Before.

The room became instantly quiet as we all pondered the question. Jesus isn't messing around when he asks you - Who do you say that I am? It's not flippant. It's not easy. It requires an answer from your heart; from the very center of YOU.

When it was my turn, I began to cry.
Just like I am crying right now.
You see, some of my group, they weren't sure at all about who God was before,whether he was real or just some "big guy in the sky" their parents used to keep them in line, get them out of the house.
But I knew different. I knew God was real from a very small age. One of my most treasured memories is sitting on my Grammy's lap while she read me bible stories and would tell me, "Oh yeees DAH-ling," in her southern drawl, "my sweet, sweet Shannon, Jesus loves you so very much!", and she'd squeeze me tight into her squishness and I felt safe there. I felt cocooned.

And so when the bad things started to happen; when my grandpa would take naps with me, when I would be forced to climb up into his bed, when he would put a pillow over my face while i cried, when he would tell me after, "You better go pray now and ask God to forgive you ... You are a naughty girl." And I would believe him, because he was an important man at the church, an important man around town, He definitely knew God more than me,
and I....
I was just a small girl.

A small girl who believed God was real. A small girl who would pray and ask God to forgive her,
to help her, to save her, to make all the bad stuff stop.

A small girl who stopped believing God was good when none of her prayers were answered.


Who did I say God was?

I said if he was a man, if God was really this Jesus and this Jesus was God and God came as a man, I would never
ever
ever

ever.

The thought of asking a man to forgive me for my sins made me want to vomit in my rage.
If i could have torn off the skin from face with my own fingernails to stop hearing it, stop seeing it, stop feeling anything at all; I would have.

Who did I say God was?

Every foul word you can think of and more.



And now?
I am grateful to my marrow that he never struck me dead on the spot for all the abomination I felt and spewed and spread and draped myself in.

Something happens when we meet Jesus.
The real Jesus, not the one people use an excuse for their ignorance or hate or agenda or own moral code of living.

Jesus.
The one that wept when his friend died.
The one that got hungry when he walked in the desert.
The one that time after time, and woman after woman, showed compassion and love and gentleness and acceptance - quite unlike most of the men mentioned in those same stories, mind you. I think that's when I really started to like him.
Prostitute? He loved her. Adulteress? He loved her. Diseased and banned from society? He loved her. And then he healed her.
And with each and every one of these women, he faced a group of men and took a stand for her - not approving what she had done or what had happened - but stood for her, as a person deserving of respect and wholeness and love.
Jesus.
He made the playing field equal. Men were no longer superior because they had a penis.
Jesus.
Who was beaten, spit on, laughed at, mocked (who's going to help you now? If you are God - save yourself!), stripped, naked, exposed ...
Bleeding and shredded ... He hung on a cross and said, "My God, My God - why have you forsaken me?"

I used to look at people like they had lost. their. mind. when they would say Jesus understood everything I went through.

But in that .. in those last days when he was arrested and abandoned by those closest to him,
in those last moments while he hung there, exposed and humiliated,
in that last desperate breath full of agony and isolation,
I knew he understood. I knew he got it.

He had felt everything I had felt. He asked the same thing I did.

My God, My God, ... why have you forsaken me?

"But what about you, Shannon?"
Insert your name there.
Whoever you are.

what
about
you?

Who do you say I am?


I say Jesus is my Healer.
Every awful thing, every black spot, he has covered in His love and I no longer twist in agony from my past.
I say Jesus is my Man.
The very first man to wait until I said ok, the very first man that was gentle and asked permission, the very first man to not take my love and twist it inside out and hold it to my throat like a knife.
I say Jesus is my Redeemer.
I needed redemption ya'll. Just take my word for it.

I say Jesus is the Christ, the Messiah, God, love in human form, forgiveness, grace, mercy, and forever.
Jesus is forever.

But what about you? Who do you say he is?

Not what you have heard, not the rumors, not the jokes, not a news story, not what one group or another may say, who do YOU say?

I recently transferred Starbucks stores. The store I left, I loved so much. The store I went to - I heard awful things. About the store, about the manager, and I have got to be honest, it made it hard to be objective, to see, and meet, and get to know, without a preconceived notion. People talk trash.
Right?
I mean, we buy magazines that talk trash, we are glued to our trash talkin' tv shows and post about them on Facebook, laugh about them during pedicures. I've enjoyed an episode or two myself of TMZ and US Weekly and The Bachelor, ok? But let's be real - I don't know Britney Spears or Jennifer Lawrence or Drew Barrymore. I only know about them.

Take whatever you have heard about Jesus and throw it out of your brain, flush it down the toilet, set it on fire.

And then get to know him yourself. I'm sure every person reading this has had people say not-so-nice things about you to others.I know I have.
Imagine if no one ever took the time to actually meet you.

So, Go.
Meet Him. See who He really is.
And then answer.

It's the most important question you'll ever have to examine.
Reflect well.

XOXO


*For further reading and getting to know Jesus, I am including below where you can read about the stories of Jesus and the interactions with the women mentioned in today's blog.

John 8 - Woman caught in adultery
Luke 7:11-18 - Woman who's son died (not mentioned in blog - bonus!)
Luke 7:36-50 the Prostitute
Luke 8:40-55 Woman who was healed

hello ...

i love to write. it has been my dream to write a book. why a book? well it just seemed like the most natural thing to do. writers write books. But here's the thing - i am not a very good book writer. I am unorganized. I am a little scattered. And i have a tendency to get stuck. Some can write their darkest, set down their pen, and go eat a piece of cake. I write my darkest, throw my pen against a wall, and eat the entire cake. My mind can't say "see ya later" to the dark spot. It's like checking into a hotel thinking it will be a quick overnight and next thing you know, you are renting the room by the month. And we all know what those hotels look like. Say hello to sleeping with the lights on and not walking around with bare feet. You get it. So for now, the book is out. i have to admit, this really bothered me. I thought to myself, "Why God? Why did you give me this desire but not the follow-through? I mean, i feel like LOSER is stamped on my forehead." And then God answered me. I think he tried to answer me a long time ago but i wouldn't stop talking at him long enough to hear ... or maybe i thought i heard but dismissed the idea as not good enough. Weird right? Real writers don't blog. Do they? i have no idea. i am not sure what makes a "real writer" anymore. All i know for pretty certain, certain enough that i don't feel like i need to swallow a bottle of pepto to quell the queasiness, is this, this blog thing, feels pretty alright. So here i am. and here you are. Can i just say thank you for reading this at all? I know there are so many options, and not a lot of time. My hope is that you find hope in this. That it makes your day a little easier, a little brighter, or at the very least, that you feel understood. If you can ever read anything i write and think, "yessss" then that would make my heart pump a little faster. Isn't that what we all want? Just to be seen. What will this blog be about? I asked God that too. Remember i said i am a little unorganized? a little scattered? So expect that. It will be about life, and stuff, and everything. Some will be daises and butterflies... others will look like something from Coraline - dark and creepy with the distinct impression something is not right. But that's life. At least what i have seen so far. I love the daises and butterflies ... but i will face that dark. i will take hold of the creepy. and together we will stare down the things that just are not right. we will do this together. I'm in.