Missing Jesus

Today I wept.
I wept like a baby as I sat in my bed, listening to David Crowder. That’s nothing new. The powerful vocals and lyrics of the Texan worship leader and popular Christian rock star can bring even the most staunch agnostic to tears.
But as I listened to his universally loved tune “How He Loves,” I cried not just because the music swelled and the lyrics soothed; I cried not just because the words made a broken man filled with faults, feel as though he was worthy of love; I cried because I miss my friend.
I cried because I miss Jesus.
I don’t doubt there are those of you out there for whom on its surface this sounds profoundly silly. That’s okay.
I don’t doubt there are those of you out there who, because of my supposed politics and causes for which I fight, you may think, “You never knew Jesus based on the causes you fight for.” You probably have no sympathy for my tears. That’s okay.
I don’t doubt there are those of you out there, who although have never (or no longer) ascribe to a belief in some magical, mystical grandfatherly type sitting on a throne in the clouds, you nonetheless are compassionate souls, you are friends, and because I cry, perhaps you do too.
And I know for certain, there are those of you out there who know precisely what I’m talking about. You’ve cried the same tears. Perhaps you too, miss Jesus.
But what exactly am I missing?
Am I missing the feeling of joy that comes from the worship band playing just the right Crowder or Chris Tomlin song?
Am I missing the clever, creative, and comical ways my pastors could recount an innocuous anecdote about shopping with 4-year-olds and somehow tie it into a profound and poignant lesson about trusting in God?
Am I missing the lights and glitz of the Easter celebrations and Christmas concerts?
Am I missing the laughter and companionship of close knit small groups with fellow parents on similar spiritual journeys?
Perhaps I’m missing the bright smiles, free coffee, skinny jeans, hipster haircuts, and fashionistas that greeted me every Sunday morning?
Am I missing the quiet, introspective moments in the mornings I used to journal?
Am I missing Alpha dinners and discussions with “seekers” asking questions about God and Jesus and my ability to provide confidence and assurance in my faith as I share all the best apologetical arguments from Augustine to Zacharias?
What does it mean, really, to “Miss Jesus”?
If I’m honest, I do miss all those things. It’s been years since I’ve attended a church that felt like “home.” I miss all that came with it.
But I’m starting to come to the realization that maybe missing Jesus has a different meaning. Perhaps it means I’ve been looking for him in the wrong places, and in essence, I’ve “missed” him.
I don’t know that Jesus would go to the churches I’ve attended. Not necessarily because their theology was wrong, but because the people Jesus served wouldn’t be at those churches. They were outside, down the block, sleeping on the street while 20, 30, and $40,000 cars and gas guzzling HUVs drive past to fill already overly-filled parking lots.
Don’t let my sarcasm and cynicism serve as some kind of finger-pointing judgment. I point to myself as being just as big a transgressor at not entirely living the kind of life the Jesus I worshipped said I should live.
I miss Jesus in a number of ways. I miss him in the loss of certainty and confidence I once had. I miss him in the loss of connection to fellow believers. And I “miss” him in the ways I continue to engage in vapid social media debates; I “miss” him in every homeless soul I walk by without at least acknowledging their existence, even if I don’t give them money (I am trying to do more of both.)
I wept this morning because I honestly don’t feel God. I haven’t for years to be honest. I don’t feel loved by Him. But I’m no longer sure that what I felt before was Him in the first place. I’m also not sure it wasn’t Him. I’m just…lost.
I think pastor, speaker, teacher, and Vox Podcast host Mike Erre put it brilliantly in his recent “Open Letter to the Spiritually Homeless”. Mike writes:
We are uncertain and unsettled about what was handed down to us as the gospel truth. We are profoundly sad, and angry and lonely. We just don’t fit in, no matter what church we attend.
And yet…yet we are still fascinated by the beauty of Jesus the Nazarene. We are pulled between the comfort of certainty and the risk of mystery; between cynicism and faith; between hope and despair.
There is a rising chorus of voices that is shouting to the world that Franklin Graham, Robert Jeffress, John MacArthur do not speak for us. We seek to dissolve the unholy alliance of the Christian faith to partisan politics, unjust policy, and compassionless leadership.
Honestly, I could copy and paste Mike’s entire letter, but I encourage you to read it yourself, or listen to him read it on his latest podcast episode.
I am part of the “spiritually homeless” to which Mike writes. I am a man whose faith has been undergoing a deconstruction long before Donald Trump and his empirically anti-Christian leadership entered the White House and was so enthusiastically embraced by American evangelicals.
I can no longer worship and believe in the American evangelical idea of what it means to “follow Jesus.” There are men and women with over half a dozen letters after their names and decades of theological study who can’t agree on this topic. Who am I then to be so confident and proud in whatever I believe?
But I know that like Mike wrote, I am still attracted to this Jesus of Nazareth and what he taught. I want to believe in the spirit of what I think he stood for—love, passion, patience, compassion for the poor and lost, and forgiveness. You may say, “You don’t need to believe in a make believe God or follow a make believe Jesus to do that. That’s just being a decent human being.”
Perhaps you’re right. What do I know?
But there is something there. I know it. I’ve felt it. I can’t explain it. Jesus was radical in so many ways. Following him is scary. If it doesn’t scare you, I submit you’re “missing” him too.
But that which I’m missing, in the sense of loss, is a gift. A gift I long to hold again.
I may never attain it again. And if I do, I’m almost certain it won’t feel like it did before.
But I have to believe it’s worth striving for. Even if I’m the only one who truly understands why.
I may miss Jesus. But on my journey to find him again, I don’t have to miss the mark for what he stands for.
And as I so frequently like to say, invoking the wise words of yet another spiritual nomad, Jules Winnfield, “I’m tryin’ Ringo. I’m tryin’ real hard to be the shepherd.”
