Baggage

The news makes me sad.

With headlines like, “See angry wife toss love rival off cliff” or “Pot makes us better parents” or “Teen impaled by statue’s bull horn,” how could it not?

This is where you think I’m going to start going off on the media; which I’m not. It feeds us what we want to hear, whether we are willing to admit it or not.

And you know what we like to hear most of all?

You’re not as screwed up as you think you are. Here, get offended by somebody else. Get so entrenched in other people’s business that you can’t see your crazy forest for all the semi-dysfunctional trees.

That alone sells stories. That alone gets people elected. That alone is the reason Paula Deen can’t put 14 sticks of butter in macaroni and cheese anymore. That alone is the reason people feel the need to make their profile pictures equal signs or a stick figure family.

Most people would assert that we tend to hate on things we don’t understand; hate on people different than us. That’s not untrue; but I would go a step further and say that we also boycott people who look a lot like us; they mirror us so much in fact that we feel that an utter disregard is the only cure.

Our marriages are in disarray; let’s speak out against a movement instead; our prejudiced and judgmental past haunts us; let’s find the ultimate Southern poster child and humiliate her in front of America. Our children long for our attention; let’s instead get on “Team Breastfeed” or “Team Formula.” Let’s make new mothers and new fathers feel like they aren’t doing an adequate enough job.

I once heard a sermon on the movie “Lars and the Real Girl,” starring Ryan Gosling. If you rent it, don’t imagine “The Notebook” Ryan Gosling or you will be a tad disappointed.

I hadn’t seen the movie—so I was very nervous, like sweaty palms nervous—when the preacher stated that was his topic. It has an internet doll on the cover, for goodness sake.

But it was such a beautiful message—and the movie that I watched later that evening—was a marvelous display of what Christianity is supposed to look like. It’s supposed to be a group of people, aware of their own weirdness, surrounding people with a kind spirit even when they don’t understand; even when they don’t necessarily agree.

Because we all have issues; we all have things that could be smeared across a tabloid on us.

So let me start:

I have a really bizarre, full-out arm twitch that happens when I’m overly excited or nervous—I usually hide it via bathroom; I yell really hateful stuff at myself when I get lost; I occasionally leave rehearsal dinners because I hate impromptu speeches—they make me so anxiety-ridden I can hardly stand it; when I’m feeling fat, I eat everything in my kitchen cabinet. I use Google maps to navigate places I’ve been a million times. I lock myself out of my house at least twice a week. I once proclaimed to my husband, “You love the dog more than me!” and stormed out of the house in front of my whole family. I feel like a bad person because I don’t like Christian radio or books very much. I saw my first counselor the other day in an attempt to unwind the balls of yarn that are my nerves.

That list could go on for days. I, like you, don’t have to look any further than my own head for baggage to talk about. Embracing everyone’s weird isn’t the same thing as changing your beliefs; it’s not saying, “I’m comfortable with this.”

It’s saying—I’m going to stop ignoring my own junk mail while I simultaneously dig through your inbox messages.

Jesus doesn’t expect you to take a stand on every single moral conundrum that’s out there. He doesn’t expect you to single-handedly overthrow your government or research what people may or may not have done in the past.

But he does expect you to bestow the same grace, the same humility, and the same anonymity that covers your messy life to other people; and to realize that sometimes we react to our mirrored reflections rather than to our enemies.