Older Than Jesus

Before we get started with this post, yes, I believe Jesus was/is/will be just as eternal as God the Father and God the Spirit, even though none of that makes any mortal sense. It’s a leap from a plane 30,000 feet up, and I believe it. With this post’s pontifications, I’m simply referring to the earthly body and life of Jesus. So, theological disclaimer over; hopefully I’m in the clear as I now free-fall through the clouds . . .

For years, I wondered what turning 30 would feel like: the year Scripture tells us Jesus began his earthly ministry (Luke 3:23). Then I wondered what 33 would feel like: about the age his ministry ended upon dying on a cross.

As a storyteller, I can’t help connecting my story with countless others I come across: face to face with other people, in film, in books, and yes, in Scripture.

To connect in a new way with Jesus upon reaching those particular ages of 30 and 33 had long felt significant; indeed, now on the other side of 33, it’s been quite a meaningful few years.

Growing up, Jesus always seemed so much older than me. Not like eighty or ninety or a hundred “old,” but when you’re only eight or nine, thirty years old feels a hundred years away.

But now to have lived the ages of 30 to 33, I have a new perspective on the life of Jesus. Turns out he was way younger — and way stronger — than I’d thought.

I’ve had a tumultuous three years; perhaps the most shaping three years of my life. Again, as a storyteller, I can’t help drawing parallels with Jesus’ thirties.

(Though I’ll be the first to declare I’ve failed countless times more than Jesus did in three years.)

I look back on my early thirties and see much of it entrenched in my own ministry efforts, both with YOB and the city of Asheville. I’ve gathered my own sort of “following” out of nothing, just as Jesus did, traveling around, sharing my story, and affirming folks from coast to coast that they are not alone in their messy dealings with faith and sexuality. With freaking life.

Some have followed me and furthered me more than they’ll ever know.

And some have turned away; to be fair, I’ve turned away from some, too.

I’ve not been rejected to the extent of death threats or, ultimately, death, but I’ve fielded many walkings away. In those instances I’ve felt something of the heart of Jesus as people left him, too.

My theme verses of the last few years both inspire and haunt me as I consider my continuing path forward:

After this many of his disciples turned back and no longer walked with him. So Jesus said to the twelve, “Do you want to go away as well?” Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life, and we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God.”

John 6:66-69 (ESV)

You know, if I ever got a tattoo, I think Peter’s five-word question would be a strong candidate to forever mark my body and my soul.

To whom shall we go? Declarative yet somehow also a little despairing all the same.

People walked away from Jesus because he didn’t match their expectations for what a “messiah” should look like. What a messiah should do. Even Peter himself didn’t quite get it half the time, pulling out swords and firing off his mouth when the way of Jesus always consisted of service and sacrifice.

I see Peter shrugging his shoulders with these five words: simultaneous disappointment and resolve.

Lord knows I’ve been swallowed in disappointment these last three years. Nothing about my story is as I’d have penned it. Following Jesus and leading ministries from 30 to 33 would have included a bunch more joy and triumph than what transpired.

But like. What else is there? Who else is there?

How on earth could I ever walk away just because this way isn’t the way I wanted it to go?

I feel stuck. But where else to be stuck than in the shadow of Jesus?

I look back on my last year in particular and can’t help feeling it matches some of Jesus’ own 34th year. Not that I, like, died horrifically or anything, but it was, fair to say, also my most agonizing year yet. COVID would have been enough to handle. Throw in my body’s self-collapse last spring, and the yearlong recovery effort, along with ongoing relational duress, and it was a year I never want to relive.

Now that I’ve turned 34, I have to wonder: what’s next? What do you do when you’re suddenly older than this Jesus who’s only always been older than you?

My whole life, Jesus has epitomized everything I want to be. A storyteller. A listener. A servant. A leader. A man. An older brother.

The older brother I’ve never had.

I’ve looked up to Jesus in similar ways that I’ve looked up to parents or teachers or pastors in that they’re simply older than me, wiser, more learned in the ways of the world with something vital to offer me.

It’s just . . . strange now. Different. Being older, and older, and only ever older, than the Jesus I continue to read about in Scripture. The Jesus who ran away from home. The Jesus who touched untouchables. The Jesus who drew crowds and escaped them. The Jesus who wept for his friends.

The Jesus who died for them . . . and his enemies, too.

This Jesus. Now younger than me.

He change the course of history in just 33 years. And now I wonder.

Where does my own story go beyond 33?

It’s daunting. This whole keep going thing. How much longer?

What future love will I encounter? What future love will I lose? What future acceptance and rejection will I face?

Reading about my now younger brother Jesus, I see that he had a knack for being present, wherever he was, with whomever he sat, regardless the betrayal, the rejection, the walkings away. Even knowing the separation to come.

How I long to be as present as he. For however long my own earthly ministry lasts. Wherever it takes me.

God grant me the patience.

God grant me the persistence.

God grant me the love as I age into this 35th year. And beyond.