Jesus, My First Friend

By Wayne Harmon

I have always been aware of Jesus’ presence in my life. I didn’t always know His name, but I was aware of an unseen friend who was always with me. I never felt alone. I didn’t have words for it then, but looking back I knew that when I was with Him I felt Love, Understanding and Patience.

He was with me when I played alone in the yard or in the living room playing with a little red car I had. There was just this feeling of love that always seemed to be wrapped around me. It wasn’t a feeling of safety or contentment. It was just a presence of love.

One day I learned that this friend had a name. His name was Jesus. I talked to him a lot. He didn’t answer me audibly, but I knew he was there. I was always aware of his presence.

As I grew up in church and Sunday School, I began to learn more about Jesus. Or so I was told. I just took what I was told as being true, because who would have dreamed that I would be lied to in church?

Wow. Was I wrong!

I wasn’t told about my friend whom I had known all my life. I was told about a man who came as God in the flesh, “born of a virgin” (whatever that meant), who lived a sinless life and died on a cross for my sins (whatever “sins” were), was buried and was resurrected after three days.

I memorized Bible verses, sang, “Jesus Loves Me”, went to Sunday School, attended church three times a week, attended Vacation Bible School for one week each summer and attended every service of every “revival” meeting the church held.

The Jesus they told me about was a sad, teary-eyed man who was constantly heartbroken over my “sins”. If I lied, I was hurting Jesus. When I disobeyed my parents, Jesus was sad. If I had “bad thoughts” (whatever they were), Jesus knew about it and was pained by my “sin”. When I was a “good boy” Jesus was less displeased, but I could do oh, so much better.

Oh, yeah, this Jesus had to be treated with reverence (whatever that was). Any time Jesus was mentioned it had to be with somber tones and a serious demeanor. Levity had no place in talking about Jesus. After all, I was just a piece of filth that He HAD to die for, and I had best not forget it. He wouldn’t.

As I grew older I began to listen to the preacher tell me about God. He was Jesus’ Father. He made everything and was the “Boss of the Universe”. He stayed on his “Throne in Heaven” (wherever that was), looking down on this disgustingly filthy world. He wasn’t just angry, he was boiling over with rage; “wrath” the preacher called it.

It was actually pretty easy to know what made God angry. Since the preacher was a “man of God” (whatever that meant), whatever pissed him off must also piss God off.

So, God threw a hissy fit over smoking cigarettes, drinking alcohol, going to movies, dancing, listening to rock music, wearing shorts and miniskirts, men having long hair and women having short hair.

Sheesh! What a thin-skinned, petty, whiny, insecure jerk this God person must be! Being totally honest with myself, I didn’t really like God. I was afraid of him, but I didn’t respect him, and I certainly couldn’t bring myself to love him.

I was also told about the Holy Spirit who supposedly lived inside me. Well, sometimes He lived inside me. If I went to a movie or a place that sold alcohol, or if I smoked a cigarette or listened to rock music then the Holy Spirit would have to leave me for a while, because he couldn’t be in the presence of “sin”.

I attended a “Christian” university where these same ideas about Jesus, God and the Holy Spirit were expanded. I was still just a “sinner saved by grace” (whatever that meant), who could never fully please, no, appease, God, but I still had to try, because not trying was worse than trying and failing.

After college I attended another church and even taught in their “Christian” school for a while. It was, “Second verse, same as the first; A little bit louder and a whole lot worse!”

And so it was from church to church.

I’m not talking about their “doctrines” or practices or even whether or not they cared for each other. I’m talking about what I was told, and in turn told others, about Jesus.

No one ever told me about that friend from my childhood.

A few days ago I met that friend again.

He is still filled with Love, Understanding and Patience.

He isn’t bothered by the lies.

He isn’t fretful or tearful.

He let me know that even though I had been lied to about Him, He has always known me and has never left me.

We had a nice reunion.

P.S. His Dad is a nice guy, too.

 

Copyright 2014: Wayne Harmon