Rejected

Of all the things that I'm afraid of (and there are many), the one that dominates the list is a fear of rejection. It's a pretty unoriginal fear, I'll admit. Since the beginning of human history I am quite sure we have always guarded parts of ourselves- our bodies, our hearts, our minds- from each other. Because we believe that if anyone came close enough to see, really see, who we are, they would leave. 

Too many of us have had that fear confirmed. We open up shyly, cautiously– afraid of being too obvious, but more afraid of a life spent bottled up and preserved. Our hopes, our fears, our doubts spill out and we hold our breath, wondering if it was worth the gamble. 

And sometimes our courage is met with openness in exchange. This is the basis of every friendship, every romance, and every successful partnership. 

But other times we are met with indifference. An icy stream that reminds us that we were always right to fear exposure. That we should have stayed home. 

We can't always predict which way it will go. Humans are, and always will be, an enormous risk. 

“Humans are, and always will be, an enormous risk.”

In my church tradition we observe the Lord's Supper every Sunday. A loaf of bread and some little cups of grape juice. A reminder of Christ's body and blood, broken for us. 

Nearly every time, as I hold the bread between my fingers, I am stopped short by the thought of Christ's humanity. 

A body. Blood. The sensation of touch, of taste, of laughter. The rawness of being alive and able to be hurt.  

Christ's divinity has never caused me a second thought. His miracles, His wisdom, His absolute divine perfection. A figure who is not of the same world I inhabit, but entirely beyond it. 

But Christ's humanity baffles me. What does it mean to be human? To feel what humans feel? 

My working definition of Jesus is usually one of glowing, untouchable otherness, but I don't think that's right. Or at least it's incomplete. 

What if the Lord of Creation felt rejection just as painfully as the rest of us do? He certainly had experience in that field. He was rejected as a liar or a lunatic in His hometown. He was on multiple occasions driven out of towns by murderous mobs. One of the men in his innermost circle of trusted friends betrayed His trust for money. And while He was being led to a public execution, one of His closest confidantes denied that he had ever met Him because he got cold and scared. And to top it off, Jesus knew, He knew, that He was going to be rejected. There was no 50/50 chance that Judas might turn out to be trustworthy– there was only the matter of how long he would stick around before he stopped pretending. And while Peter was still violently insisting that he would follow Jesus to death, Jesus correctly predicted that he would do the exact opposite. 

So how could Jesus choose to open Himself up, again and again, knowing fully that He was going to be let down and rejected? Isaiah prophesied that on this earth He would be "despised and rejected.. a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief." He knew all of this. And still He brought them in and taught them, lived with them, shared everything with them. He loved them. How? 

Truly, I don't know. But I know this– that there is value in letting people in.  I also know that when I'm struggling to know if I can trust someone, He can empathize. And when I'm hurting because I guessed wrong, He understands. And He will give me the strength and confidence I need to trust anyways. 

“For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses, but we have One who has been tempted in every way, just as we are– yet He did not sin. Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.” - Hebrews 4:15-16”