This photo assaulted and delighted my eyes this morning on my facebook feed. As I squinted over my coffee and oatmeal at the psychedelic light of Christ, I couldn't help but laugh out loud. I have a secret attraction to the gaudy, the tacky, and the over-the-top. Although you would not guess it from my regular-mom clothes and hairstyle and the neutral tones on the walls of my house, I really want sparkles, glitter and shiny mirrors. I hope to someday fill an entire room with velvet Elvis paintings, sparkly unicorns etched on gilded mirrors, and shiny images of the Blessed Virgin surrounded by neon rays. I fantasize of idle days spent combing through flea markets and rummage sales for the tackiest, gaudiest, silliest pieces of incredible art to hang in that room. I am going to show it to every visitor as if it’s the most precious treasure in the world and pretend that I absolutely LOVE it. So, to the tacky, sparkly, psychedelic Jesus, I say,“Yes, please!”
One of my favorite movies, Talladega Nights, has a hilarious prayer to various images of Jesus. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, but just in case you don’t, here are some of the exchanges.
“I like to picture Jesus in a tuxedo T-shirt. 'Cause it says like, I wanna be formal but I’m here to party too. I like to party, so I like my Jesus to party.”
“I like to think of Jesus like with giant eagles wings, and singin' lead vocals for Lynyrd Skynyrd with like an angel band and I'm in the front row and I'm hammered drunk!”
When it comes to church, I’m a pretty straight-laced, high-church Episcopalian, who was raised as a contemplative Mennonite. On the surface, I don’t go in for displays of Holy affection, yellin’, shoutin’, speakin’ in tongues, or any other embarrassing activity from which people tend to drop the ‘g’. So, why does a closeted part of me love that tacky, over-the-top JEEEE-sus? I think because it keeps me from taking things too seriously.
Someone wise once told me that Christianity is embarrassing. It’s embarrassing to bow down to a humble God, one who became a impotent baby, who hung out with dirty, low-class people and offended social sensibilities, who broke the rules, and who did the unthinkable--who surrendered to those in power, who died. That’s pretty embarrassing. We clean it up, with pretty churches, robes and vestments, stained-glass windows, contemplative music, and liturgy. Those things lead us to the majesty of God the Father-- I love them. But sometimes, God the Father is not enough; I still need the regular-guy-transcendent Jesus who sits with you when you’re stuck in the snow-bank, or when you’re recovering from a bad night of drinking, right there in the middle of the torridness of life, loving you when you’re screwing up royally. I need to be reminded of the lowness of Christ, so I acknowledge my own lowness and the lowness my fellow man. We are all in this together, dirt, sequins, sparkles, tuxedo t-shirts and all.
I need the Jesus who gets dirty, who hangs out with the rednecks, the strippers, the kids in the projects, the LGBT community, the soccer-mom, the homeless, the drunk, and the hipster (yes, even hipsters can have Jesus). I need to be brought face-to-face with the ridiculousness of a god-made-man who is there for all of us. Once in awhile, I need it in pulsating rows of light coming from a sparkly, shiny, melodramatic painting. Thank you, psychedelic Jesus!
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