Once upon a time, before we were Monkfish Abbey, before we were even ThPM, we were a church plant. There were more of us then, maybe 30, and we were exploring other ways to do and be church. Israel was a worship director at the time and he and his friends had marvelous ideas. They would put together these things called “worship infusions” and there would be music, and art, and chill zones, and experiential prayer (though we didn’t know it was called that at the time.) There was a core group amongst those thirty folks who thought we would just do worship infusion every week. So we hosted one, which I think we called a Jesus Cafe (or something like that) and it doubled as an information night for the rest of the 30 and a fistful of guests. We wanted to give people a little bit of info on postmodern church (a little bit of info being all we possessed at the time.) We lined the walls with different pictures of Jesus, copped off the internet. Each picture had a thought provoking question below it. (The Che Guevara Jesus didn’t go over real well…) We played music and let people mill, and I think there was some sort of art table and groovy images projected onto a sheet. People ate muffins. There was coffee….and hackysack. I loved it. I mean I was in love!

Unfortunately it kind of fell flat. People either didn’t get it, or they down right hated it, or they just didn’t think it would appeal to people. After that night, our group rapidly dwindled down to eight. At the same time we realized it was exhausting to do a night like that. It took tons of energy to think it up, design it, gather supplies, and set it up…only to tear it down in an hour or two. Whatever our little community was going to be, it wasn’t going to be a postmodern church plant. We just didn’t have enough alt.worship energy in us, and we really didn’t want to spend all our time producing church services.

Funny thing is though, the very thing that people disliked, or that made people feel the most uncomfortable is the thing that has stayed with us, three years later. We still use those Jesus pictures, mounted on black foam board, the thought provoking questions now peeling free from their glue stick bonds. We dig them out at various times throughout the year, and this year, at least for me, they are a staple for our Lenten practice.

You see, most the time I’m not really sure who Jesus was. I mean, there are so many aspects of him. He responds lovingly to kids. He’s harsh to his disciples. He rages in the temple. He gently heals lepers. He’s one big oxymoron wrapped up in 2,000 years of Midrash and bad art.

Really, I’d just like to spend time with the guy you know? I do, after all, call him my brother and friend. I look up to him as a teacher. Most days I even think he’s God (much to the astonishment of some of my outside-of-the-bubble friends.) So it would be a good idea, wouldn’t it, to hang with him…all the bits of him…even if it’s hard, even if it’s confusing?

So I’ve taken out our box of Jesus-y images and unpacked them. In my office I have a hand painted screen which Neil painted. (I adopted it from a supply closet at the big church.) The grey side of the screen is out now, for Lent, and it says “draw near.” In front of the screen, there is a table draped in black. On the table there is a candle with an icon of Jesus, open handed, arms outstretched. Next to the candle there is a little three dollar easel from Ikea, and on it there’s a picture of Jesus. I pick one each week, but the others lie in a stack on the floor. Anyone can come in here and think about Jesus. Meditate. Write. Be. It’s a rare week that someone takes me up on the quiet space in my office, and I don’t really know if anyone other than me will ever feel like kneeling in front of this tiny Jesus-y altar. But I like that it’s there. I like that these pictures have stayed with us. I like that our journey is not an isolated series of broken starts and stops, but a long chain of responses to what is percolating in our hearts.

I like being Jesus-y. I would have to believe.