Jesus made all the difference

By MARY JANE HOLT
Contributing Writer

I knew when I wrote last week's column that somebody would call me on it. My caller questioned why I would talk about every religion and not just Christianity. It's a fair question, I suppose.

I came hard to Christianity. Long and hard. I had grown up in the church and been very active. I began teaching Sunday School, while I was still in nursing school, at age 18. I took my class of younger teens out every Monday night to visit the sick and shut-in, primarily at the local nursing home.

I tried to do lots of right things, and a few wrong ones for which I quickly repented. Those wrong ones were the reason for my second baptism at age 23 (the first was at 16). I figured that first dunking must not have taken.

It took much courage when I was around 30 to admit that something just wasn't right in my heart. I had tried to walk the walk, and talk the talk, but the truth is I just did not believe the Jesus stuff.

It irritated me to no end that he was called the "only begotten son of God." I knew that I was God's child, too. Had known it since birth. I was totally turned off by all the bickering, fighting, and yes, even killing that had gone on over the centuries in the name of Christianity.

I had only shared my feelings with one other person prior to the age of 30. That person was a gay friend in Albany who told me I was not being reasonable. He asked me, until it all became clear to me as he was sure it eventually would to just hold on to the fact that, historically, Christ did exist.

Then about ten years later I shared my feelings again with the most godly woman I ever personally knew. My revelations didn't seem to affect her. I don't think it ever occurred to her to pass judgment on me. Her faith was beyond exemplary.

A two-year friendship with her, during which I attended a weekly Bible study in her home, would change my life forever. It was at her dining room table that I first began to really study the Bible with an open mind. We began with the Book of John, that fourth book in the New Testament, often called the Gospel of Belief.

I'm not sure when the truth began to reveal itself. I enjoyed learning about a Jesus to whom age, race, ability/disability or financial/political status seemed to mean nothing. He was all about the heart. I loved reading of how Christ touched, literally touched and healed.

Actually, during a deep tissue massage last week by Trudy Dockstader at the Georgia Rehabilitation Center, I wondered aloud if those references to the way Christ touched and healed actually meant massaged and healed.

But I know better. I'm not saying Jesus never actually massaged the tired shoulders/backs/bodies of his friends, because I think he could easily have done that. He certainly washed their feet. I have just come to believe that He touched in whatever way was necessary to effect the healing that was needed.

By the time my Bible study hostess died somewhat unexpectedly, I had been sufficiently exposed to the unconditional love of Christ for me that would truly heal my soul and change my heart and life forever.

During that first 30 years, when I pretended to be a Christian, I was no different from any works/performance oriented follower of any faith. I was caring and being cared for. I was giving and receiving. I was doing unto others as I would have them do unto me. It was a good way to live. And the world would be a better place if just the professing followers of all religions would follow such principles.

Certainly, it was Jesus who has made the difference for me that all my good works could not make, but like I said last week, there are many great religions and many good, well meaning people among those faiths who are committed to making the world a better place. I can no more judge them than my friend, in whom I first saw the unconditional love of Christ, could or would judge me.