Jesus is Rising in My Oven

It seems I’ve become a Christian (again), with the Addicts Rehabilitation Center Choir and myself, circa 2006 lo-fi

It is Saturday afternoon and I’m baking bread for Eagle Harbor Church’s communion service tomorrow, the United Church of Christ congregation where I serve as “Office Manager, Etc.” This “etc” was earned by my predecessor, an incredible woman whose ministry is much larger than those three little letters convey. She is a deeply faithful Christian, which is to say, someone who strives to emulate Jesus in kindness, compassion and caring. She isn’t proselytizing or perfect. She is irreverent and anti-capitalist and spiritual in the best way.

I’m inspired not only by her faith but by the faith of the entire congregation. They are all a bit “etc”, each with a ministry that is organic and unlabeled, but true in its commitment to steadfast love and welcome. This was the sort of faith I was taught as a child, the sort of faith I learned again in my journey of sobriety. And these days I feel positively overflowing with the spirit of it.

You need to know that I’ve always loved Jesus. There’s no other way to put it. When I was a Catholic kid I believed in a Jesus that lived right alongside me, invisible like my imaginary friend Rachel except Jesus was real. It was me and Rachel and Jesus. We’d take the family dog on long walks in the woods of my grandma’s back acres, or climb the hills and sing Sound of Music, or hide under the covers in my bedroom and write poetry.

There were pictures of Jesus on the walls in just about everyone’s house growing up, alongside the photos of long-distance family. He was like Uncle Jesus living somewhere far away but always just about to visit. He’s with you all the time, they’d say. Talk to him and he’ll listen. In my imagination Jesus’ homecoming would be a Pizza Hut pizza party and everyone would get their own personal pan. At night I would write letters to Jesus and hide them in my pillowcase, thinking that maybe while I slept he could read them. Kinda like Santa Claus but better.

Jesus stayed with me throughout my life. Even after I left the faith of my childhood, even after I abandoned faith completely, I turned to my old Uncle Jesus and asked for his help. And without fail, he was there. And he didn’t even care if I called myself a Christian or not. When I was getting sober I prayed to Jesus to give me courage to go my 12-step meetings, to be with me because I couldn’t do it alone. Don’t hold it against me I don’t believe in you, I told him. Let’s put that aside for now. The idea of his steadfast loving presence gave me strength, and I carried this strength with me all through those early days of sobriety.

In the darkest times of my life I’ve felt that same loving presence even when I couldn’t name it. I’ve gotten down on my knees and bent my head at the feet of sacred heart statues and had nothing but my emptiness to share. And there he was again, bigger than my belief or disbelief, his sacred compassionate heart so large I could feel it. His reassuring voice in my ears.

Several years ago I worked as a trauma chaplain at Harborview Medical Center. I witnessed heart-wrenching injuries and deaths and started to despair at a soul level. It was difficult to witness so much pain. My heart broke completely.

One day, after several difficult visits with patients, I stood frozen at the door of another patient’s room. I couldn’t go in. I can’t do this anymore, I thought. It’s too hard. And then I heard the ARC choir singing in my head:

A clip from “Walk with Me” by the Addicts Rehabilitation Center Choir

I remembered I didn’t have to be alone. I imagined Jesus standing next to me just like those days on my grandma’s farm. And I could feel that familiar presence, the depth of love and compassion necessary to be present to people in grievous pain. If I couldn’t do it, Jesus could. After that he always walked with me. Every time I entered a hospital room and sat with someone who was suffering, he was there.

Every time I have faltered in my ministry, questioned my call or felt myself drowning in doubt and uncertainty, I have found myself in Christian spaces saying Christian prayers—at Eagle Harbor Church or at the United Church of Christ family camp—and I find myself again. It’s in my spiritual DNA. When I bake bread for communion I am reminded of my grandmother’s communion bread, the sweet taste of it as we gathered in her home for mass. This is my homebaked Uncle Jesus, passed along through the generations, where we are always welcome to the table. And when we eat together we share in a love that is so perfect it defies death. It is the Holy itself.

Everything I’ve ever preached is about this Holy, this same loving presence, call it what you will. The bread that is rising in my oven is just bread but the ritual transforms it. The ancient stories we tell of the man who was more than a man, who gave everything he had to give, is a story that is planted so deep in our myths and legends it changes us when we tell it. It is a sacred mystery.

And while the Christian community that I now call home is intentional about engaging with this mystery in particular ways—following the teachings of Jesus—no single religion owns the Holy. We can practice care and ritual and community in a myriad of sacred ways. Each one is a blessing.

May we all find that blessing this week, brought back to ourselves at a sacred table. May the presence of Peace and Love find us no matter what name we have for it. And may we give ourselves to it completely, unafraid.