Plymouth Magazine-Summer26-DIGITAL - Flipbook - Page 18
How I Finally Understood Jesus
By Judy Olson
The somber religion of my childhood in the Reformed Church
in the U.S. required that we sit quietly and listen to long
sermons and solemn hymns. It never hinted at the comfortable
conversations I have with the Holy Spirit, or the way I whisper
“Thank You!” inside my head dozens of times each day when life
surprises me.
and recite from memory all 126 questions and answers in the
Heidelberg Catechism), I learned about the Holy Trinity:
God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. I mostly understood God—
someone up in heaven who saw everything we did, just like Santa
Claus, except he was very stern, not jolly. My idea of God has
significantly evolved since then, but that’s another essay.
I’d had an epiphany when I was four, after I’d heard the term “the
Word of God” many times while trying to sit still and be quiet in
church so that my father wouldn’t pinch my earlobe really hard. I
finally figured out the mysterious word of God.
The Holy Spirit was a little more difficult: Jesus’ spirit, the
Comforter, a guarantee, and a seal. I absolutely didn’t understand
the seal part. I spent several years picturing the Holy Spirit as
silky black with flippers. I learned that the Holy Spirit inspires
faith and gives us wisdom and understanding. Here’s how I
understood it.
I’m wearing my favorite black corduroy skirt with suspenders
attached by silver buttons and a blue-white blouse with elbowlength sleeves and puffy shoulders (all sewn by my mother).
I’m sitting on a long, blonde wooden pew between Mom and
my brother, leaning my head on Mom’s shoulder, swinging my
legs forward and backward, side to side, “accidentally” kicking
my brother. Then it hits me. The preacher says, “Hear this from
the Word of God,” and suddenly I know what that word is. I’ve
solved the mystery. I stand up, climb up on the pew, then stand
on it, shuffling my shiny black patent leather shoes (not really
leather).
I tap my mom’s shoulder and whisper in her ear, “I know what
the word of God is!” She holds my legs still, shushes me, and
indicates that I should sit back down. I don’t sit because this is
just too important to keep to myself. I whisper again, and Mom
realizes that I’m not going to give up.
“What?” she almost hisses.
“It’s love. The word of God is love,” I say.
“Okay, then. Sit down.”
And I do.
Coincidentally, the refrain of the next hymn is, “God is love.
God is love. Come, let us all unite to sing, God is love.”
When I was in 3rd grade Sunday School, I remember learning
about the basic principles of John Calvin’s theology, represented
by the acronym TULIP. The T stood for total depravity, a belief
that all humans are sinful and totally deprave— a hopelessly bad
state, as I came to understand.
I resisted this doctrine because I found it impossible to believe.
My mother was not totally depraved; Grandma Meidinger was
not totally depraved even if she did yell often; Miss Minder, my
second-grade teacher, was not totally depraved; my older brother
and Mrs. Schmitz, the mean first-grade teacher, might be, but I
wasn’t even sure about that.
I couldn’t reconcile a God who is love with a God who saw
Mom, Grandma, my teacher and me as hopelessly ruined.
A couple of years later when I started Saturday Catechism School
(1:00 to 4:00 pm every week—24 of us learned to understand
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The Holy Spirit is a lot like Aunt Florence was. She loved me, was
always kind to me, explained calmly why I shouldn’t do certain
things (like standing on my head when I’m wearing a dress),
hugged me often, and always defended me when I found myself
at odds with my older brother and her rambunctious sons, who
took great pleasure in taunting me. So, I found it easy to talk
to the Holy Spirit. Still do. I go outside, usually on my balcony,
and just talk inside my head. And…I get responses, sometimes
immediately from a voice inside my head, sometimes later in
something I read, a voice on the radio, a song that I hear, or
during a conversation with someone.
Then there’s Jesus, the part I never really understood. I loved the
Christmas story and the mountaintop teachings. The somber
ending when he suffered unbearably during a cruel crucifixion
but still wanted God to forgive the people who did that to him
because “they know not what they do.” (I’m pretty sure they did,
but I’m willing to defer to Jesus). The resurrection when he rose
from the dead, said he would always be with us even though he
left for heaven, and whose blood atoned for all of our sins.
I couldn’t understand how shed blood saved anyone. When
Dad shot our dog Soxy for wriggling into the coop and killing
the baby chicks, Soxy’s shed blood didn’t bring a single chicken
back to life. Personally, I think the most amazing part of the
Easter story is when Jesus rose from the dead, shocking the heck
out of Mary Magdalene and eventually the disciples, except for
Doubting Thomas, who wanted to stick his finger in the holes
in Jesus’ hands. Only God knows why. I reasoned that anybody
could bleed and die, but resurrecting—now, there’s a miracle.
I tried my whole life to understand fully the “died for our sins”
part, while, to me, showing us how to treat other people and that
we live beyond dying seemed like the really important lessons.
In fact, often when I sit outside having a conversation with the
Holy Spirit, I’ll apologize to Jesus because I feel like I’m leaving
him out: “I’m really sorry, Jesus, but I just don’t really get you,
so it’s hard to talk to you. I want to but I don’t understand. I
hope you’ll forgive me for not being able to see you the way most
people seem to do. I’m glad you’re always around, though. If
there’s a way to help me understand, please, feel free.”
