Comment nous avons recontre Jesus?

"How did you come to meet Jesus?" This was our reflection for the first day of classes at Les Cedres in Massy, France, just south of Paris. After we read Luke 24 and the account of Jesus appearing to the disciples after his resurrection, I thought on this question and realized for supporters and friends who are keeping up with this blog, it's a good one to answer. Various theories and theologies abound as to how one comes to know Jesus--at one point, i.e., conversion; over a series of encounters that are inextricably linked to the person and work of Christ; through nature; through hearing Jesus' name; through Scripture; by the power of the Holy Spirit; by an entering into the presence of God and encountering Jesus there. I'm not particularly pluralistic in my thinking, but I do believe how one comes to know Jesus, to experience God's forgiveness, to have identity reborn is less important than that one in fact does. Otherwise, we get dragged down by the process and miss the truth of His Person. And last time I checked, God's middle name is both mystery and folly. Who are we to place his ways in a human box?! And so, to my story...

I remember clearly Kelsey Gardner running up to me during spring of our kindergarten year. "Last night I invited Jesus into my heart!" she excitedly shared. Well, that sounded interesting to me, and as a 6 year old familiar with Sunday School, communion (Mom and Dad had a BIG fight when he let me take it before I was baptized!), and sin, I knew what Jesus was about. So when Kelsey asked me if I wanted to do the same, I said of course. She was my best friend then and we both wanted to share everything. We plopped on the steps of the old science building at our school and she led the prayer. I was baptized later in the year alongside my other best friend, Erin "Jo" Holcomb. I met Jesus in prayer and alongside other people.

Often I've joked about needing a 12-step recovery program for Baptists. It was drilled into me that indeed I might be headed for hell if I didn't come forward for every altar call and if I listened to DC Talk. I, however, remembered my prayer with Kelsey and also didn't buy the argument (I actually remember all of this.) so when most of chapel went forward for a guilty confession, I stayed in the pew talking to Jesus there. I knew I messed up daily, that I wasn't always a good kid (even if my nickname was "goody twoshoes" until I graduated from high school), but I felt no need to respond to hyperbolic statements founded on cultural misunderstanding of the times. So too when there was a call to come forward to commit your life to the mission field like Corrie ten Boom, Amy Carmichael, Hudson Taylor, etc., I didn't. All the holy kids did, but I wasn't about to commit myself at 8 to serving God in another land. Thus, probably why I'm in France today...All throughout this time, I knew I knew Jesus. No revival preacher or skipped communion or missed altar call could convince me otherwise. I met Jesus despite my cynicism and despite everyone's advice.

At 12 I was flopped across my mother's bed thinking and praying. I have no idea why, but I told God this--God, I have my doubts. I'm not sure I'll always be the most faithful follower. If I stop to think about what I read in my Bible and what Jesus preached about himself, it makes absolutely no sense to me. I will have my questions, but, this Gospel, well, I'm in. And thus began an actual pursuit of knowing God, of searching out his Scriptures, and of thinking for myself rather than just rolling my eyes at the altar call (I really did, although I LOVED the story about Amy Carmichael.). The following year I began writing devotionals for Waco's homeschool newsletter and my entries were called "The Apple of His Eye." I got the biggest kick out of reading Scripture, praying, then writing about it for others; I still do in fact. That one year of being home-schooled became a crucial part of my knowing Jesus. I met Jesus in the Scriptures.

As I said, I was "goody twoshoes" in school. Made good grades, didn't party, went to church, liked church a lot, and after Mom and I recovered from our rough spell lasting two years, I was a decent daughter. Falling in line with this, I went on every mission trip that church offered...and then I went to Brazil for an even larger mission trip (again, I think the lack of response to altar calls played a roll here). While with time and education I have critiques now of that mission trip, I still recall it as significant, huge, and heart/life-shaping in fact. In Rio de Janeiro abject poverty starkly speaks of need on many levels, and I began to realize that if I was going to know Jesus, I was going to have to deal with this. And I didn't like it. During my junior year of high school, I tried to escape it. Joined Cotillion (a huge waste of my mother's precious resources), went to a party or two, slept in on Sundays or went late; I wasn't vehemently rebelling but was trying to forget what I saw and even the names I still remember, like Camilla--resident of Rio's dump at age 5, beautiful, covered in dirt, and I wonder often what she's doing now. I tried to forget until I was invited to a party early the next summer at work and when I was told what games they played and how it all went down, I went home and had another talk with God. "Lord, my soul hurts because of Rio. I hurt because I know I've hurt you this year. But, this is what I'm deciding today. If I'm going to follow Jesus, I have to live differently. And I'm going to have to see what he saw and feel what he felt. I don't like that but Jesus and his teaching is radical, Lord, and forgiving me all my sins is enough to keep him on that rough wooden cross for eternity and I don't want to make him hang there any longer. I'm not going to that party Lord, and if they ask me why, give me strength and patience to say why." They didn't ask...and as it turned out, I don't think I was actually missed. I met Jesus in Rio...and in acknowledging emotions.

It's been a couple of years since then, it's fall of 2002 and I'm a sophomore at Wheaton College. My ways are reformed, I'm headed to law school and foreign diplomacy, because if there's one thing that Camilla needs, it's someone who will remember her when we're doling out aid to the globe. Then Jesus got me again. Not that he didn't have me already--he did--but some of my terms were still running the show. Until I met Jesus in a couple of his disciples--Beth Dockum (now Hickey), Christine and Christine, and Elizabeth Smith. Beth was my RA freshman year and she thinks I'll change my International Relations major to Christian Education. I smile kindly--that's nice. She also thinks I should be an RA. That's also nice...I'll be in France studying though. Christine and Christine are my little sibs in Wheaton's new Big Sibs mentoring program--I love them dearly and we meet weekly. I love walking alongside young women in Scripture, prayer, and sharing. RA applications are out and Elizabeth Smith, Resident Director, tells me I should apply...that's sweet. How encouraging. I walk out the door to dinner. Then I check in with Financial Aid about studying abroad. As it turns out, Wheaton does not finance studying abroad unless you are a language major; I'm a minor if I want to graduate in four years. Dashed against the harsh walls of reality went my plan since 14 years old of studying in France. My tears caused a miserable onslaught of doubt and again I have a conversation with God. "Lord, France was my plan, but it's obviously not going to work. What is your plan? Have you closed this door for something else?" I apply to be an RA and am accepted and given the floor I requested. I also change my major to Christian Education (now, Formation and Ministries). I met Jesus in his faithful people.

My RA year continues to be one of the most influential years of my life. Forty-nine women to love on, listen to, cry with, pray for and with, bake for, dance with, to grow with...oh, and I should study too. Somehow that year I managed a full load of classes, RA life, part-time job, a few newspaper opinions, and the best GPA of my college career. It was grace but it was also this--I was doing what perhaps gives me the greatest joy. As I've shared with my mentor from that year on Kym Taylor, I have never felt so completely swept under the rug yet so completely alive in all of my life. And when you're alive, anyone will tell you, everything is better. But it was also a difficult year, full of confronting my weaknesses and self-doubt, comforting the hurting and lonely and angry, sleepless nights for the sake of brothers and sisters, and decreased social circuit. During the month of February, I could hardly make it between classes without stopping in a bathroom or in the Billy Graham Center chapel to cry. By spring break as preparations for an internship in France (see, God had other ideas) were underway, I was empty and remained on campus to sort through a tumbling stack of personal business set aside and finish all France work so I could focus on ending the RA year well. I remember the week after all the ladies moved out just laying on the hall floor weeping profusely, praying for them, asking for comfort for me, praising God for a year I never expected. How I ever made it to France I will never know. But I met Jesus in having great joy and life and by acknowledging mine and others' great need of him.

Do you ever have a moment when you need someone to release you? I mean, give you freedom to go, to be you, to make a change, to remain? I do and I've met others who do too. December 2005 I'm sitting in Warner Theatre somewhere between 12th and 14th Streets and D and E, NW, Washington, D.C. This is my dream! I'm taking in a performance of The Nutcracker as can only be creatively directed for Washingtonians, replete with Cherry Blossoms instead of Snowflakes, Davy Crockets instead of Russian dancers, Native Americans instead of Turkish contorters...and King George as the Rat King--and it's all free due to a Samaritan Inns night and the generosity of a house mate. Plus, I'm sitting next to another house mate and we're sharing it together. Except at intermission we've taken our bathroom breaks and are sitting there in silence, and I know; I know that my house mate more than anything else wants to go home...and I know I have to release her. I have no idea why, but I turn to her--are you enjoying it? Yes...pause...silence...Do you need to go home? Yes, I think I do, but please don't feel you have to leave too. I know you've looked forward to this. She leaves. I stay. And it was still magical. I felt like a child again, and the colors and design were unlike any the Joffrey has ever used; this was Christmas in DC!!! But I'll never forget leaving Warner Theatre. Children were exclaiming. Taxis pulled up and people piled in. Couples held hands. Friends debated where to go afterward. And I was alone, standing at my familiar bus stop in the darkness of winter night, feeling safe, knowing where I was, but completely alone. No one to exclaim to, which I'm given to doing often. No one to ask, what did you think of the artistry? No one to have a drink with after. And I realize. It's just me. I wasn't lonely, but I was alone. So I stood with strength at the bus stop. I boarded my midnight night train to home, and I placed my temple against the cool window for comfort. Then I slipped upstairs through the quiet house back to my bedroom and I talked to Jesus there. I sat at the foot of my bed and said, Jesus, I'm alone and I feel alone. So I need you to share the sweet moments of life with me. I need to share not only my pains but Lord, life is sweet and life is good, and I want you to walk alongside me and let me know that you're there and that you delight in what my heart and mind delights in too. Jesus, I don't know why now, why not sooner or why not later, but I need you to hold me, to say not only I AM but I AM HERE, WITH YOU. Jesus, the Nutcracker was great, and I'm sharing it with you! I met Jesus when I was alone.

I'm still meeting Jesus. I've moved a bit, and I'm growing weary. But every new city, new or old face, different church, each time I open Scripture, when I pray, when someone challenges me, when someone gives me encouragement or admonishment, when my life is rerouted and I find myself wandering streets just thinking, sitting in the airport people-watching, living amidst the joys and pains of others, or just my own--I keep meeting Jesus. And he continues to surprise me with his presence and lessons, exploding my world with his love and grace, teaching me to give as he gave and love as he loved, to see and be and establish his Kingdom. Jesus knows I'm far from perfect because he's been there for every single one of my moments--when I explode with expletives, when I lose all patience with what I consider nonsense, when I get violent despite my commitments not to, when I indulge my flesh rather than submit my spirit, when I let my mouth run off--he's not only there for the delights but for the wrongs I commit. But Jesus also knows I'm his, not because of me but because without apology he pursues me in so many ways. Around every corner, I keep meeting him there. As the song goes, "I am my beloved's and he is mine, His banner over me is love." Comment j'ai recontre Jesus? Oh, the ways are numerous.