Domesticating the Lord of the Universe

I'm terrified that if my eyes are opened to see everything in the light of truth, I will also see that the way I see the Jesus, whom I claim as Lord, is but a dim reflection of reality.

"DJ." I might as well call him this, because effectively I've reduced the Creator and Master of the universe into a concept so small I've nicknamed him. Domesticated Jesus. It's a horrible name really, and my use of it hardly reflects his worth. But to say it, to write it here is so shocking that perhaps that's the point after all. What we're doing, unconsciously to a large part, is to bring down what is huge, wild, and untamable and repackage him so that we can function.

To come to grips with reality will mean I have to change, open my eyes, and come to terms not only with his greatness but also with my smallness, and that's the grind. Sin has done this to me, landed me in this spot, and so I'm vowing forever to fight this ironic switch, the one that's been with mankind since a snake convinced my ancestors that they could be like God. That switch, of course, is the essence of sin. I heard Louie Giglio explain sin as anything that makes a big God small and makes my small self big. And that is the definition of the "s" word: sin.

And in the process, I've domesticated the Almighty.

Tamed him. Advised him.

Put him in a box. Fenced him into a safe pasture.

Expected him to function like a divine vending machine.

I like that because I get to be in control, or at least sit on a deluded cushion of mental comfort where I've convinced myself that I'm in the driver's seat. The truth is, every time I come face-to-face with just a fraction of the reality of who Jesus is, I realize just how horribly weak my version of him has become.

And that sickens me. Shocks me.

And it should.

I've started writing this on a memorable day. It's Easter. A day we celebrate a God who became man, died, and beat death at its own game. I love Easter. At least for a day (or a few moments for some of us) the veil seems to lift, and we acknowledge with our lips that God himself is with us. Alive. Seeing all. With us. Desiring to interact with us. And not just to hear me speak. Intimacy purchased with blood spilled beneath a Roman cross.

Easter is a fitting day to begin a new project like this one because it carries with it the hope that reality may rise in my heart as certain as the Resurrection that we celebrate.

To even associate the name above all other names with a word like domesticated is offensive to the delicate Christian ear.

If this offends you, good. It should. I hope that my use of this distasteful title will shock me (and you) into a healthy pondering of just what we're doing in this life we've identified (perhaps too generously) as Christian.

So how have I come to associate a word like domestic with Jesus?

I'll state the obvious. Domestic. Tame. The unruly is gone.

Away with unpredictable behavior. Wildness is only used in the past tense here.

The first animals that were domesticated were done so for milk. Mmmm. Keep those cows contained. Train them to stay in line. Hold still … and give me just what I want. Every day. Twice a day in most cases.

We've trivialized him. Have you seen the milk commercials? The slogan "Got milk?" is emblazoned on TV screens and billboards, reminding us of our need for a nutritious beverage. Given our culture, perhaps the spillover was inevitable. I've seen the T-shirts proclaiming a spiritual parody of the ads: "Got Jesus?"

Wow. As if we can begin to compare our need of a Savior to milk.

If an animal is domesticated, it is here to serve me. My needs are central. Of course, this might not always appear to be the case at first glance. I once heard someone ask what an alien would think after landing on earth for the first time in the center of an American city park. Dog owners leading around their little precious fur-bearing gems and picking up after their every little indiscretion. The alien might ask, "Who has domesticated whom?"

Yes, yes, I can hear your protests, and believe me, they are my own. Jesus Christ cannot be domesticated! I understand that. And my point is simple. While Christ cannot be tamed, I have effectively done just that, but only in my head. I domesticate him in the way I think about him, letting him into my life, but only so far, until my control is threatened and, in effect, I send him back to his room.

When you domesticate an animal, you place limits on its location. You fence it in so that it can serve you. Have I not done this in my attitudes about Christ? Have I not invited the most holy, powerful, creative entity in the universe into my life and then relegated him into a slot so that he can participate in my life when it is most convenient to me or when I am hungry?

Some of you are offended already. It is not my purpose to spit on the image of Christ. My purpose is honorable; it is to exalt him, to find him as the grand treasure that he is and to challenge myself (and you along the way) to see him every day, to a greater extent, in reality.

To do that, I must peel away, layer by layer, the belittling mental images that have clouded my vision like a mature cataract blocking away the brightness of the sun's rays. If I tramp on the feet of God's family, it is with the hope that we may discover and savor the wonder of all that Jesus is.

If you are a Christian, my hope is to rattle the cage of your faith a bit, to challenge you to think critically about how much the Jesus you serve resembles the real deal, the Jesus of the Bible. I hope that you will think of this as a conversation with a friend, a fellow seeker, honest enough to ask tough questions. I am an imperfect fellow, stained from my own experiences, both good and bad. Think of me as a comrade in arms, nestled down with you in the same trenches of life, whispering together about some of the questions that have dogged humans from the beginning.

Here's my problem. I'm terrified of putting this down on paper. There. I've admitted it. I am painfully aware of my shortcomings, both spiritually and intellectually. How is it that I possess the boldness to proceed into waters that scare me and threaten to derail my own faith?

Because I think we all have a similar, yet unspoken fear. And we need to get it out and talk about it. Christians don't have to hide and pretend there is no disconnect between our experience and what we see written in the pages of the Bible. We read stories of miracles, see a man who commanded waves and wind (and they obeyed!), took authority over demonic spirits, spoke breath into the dead, and we wonder, Do I really know Jesus?

If I have to be transparent, I'll admit that I'm terrified that if my eyes are opened someday to see everything in the light of truth, I will also see that the way I see the Jesus whom I claim as Lord is but a dim reflection of reality.

This fear is what drives me onward. I want to know him.

I'm afraid that I can never do justice in describing or explaining the majesty, power, and perfection of Jesus. That's the nature of human discussions, I suppose. No matter how high above my own experience I reach, I'll never be able to adequately pen the qualities of a perfect God. And so even my attempts to expose how I have domesticated Jesus will do just that: I'm bound to domesticate him further—to wrap him within pages of description implies that he is small enough to describe. To have humans speak of him, to write of him, implies that we can in some way wrap the human mind around him.

Of course, that's impossible.

And that is, in part, my point. It's what I want to challenge myself to see, and you to hear. I want to raise my own awareness of my sinful tendency to make the big small and the small big.

This is the essence of my working definition. I am domesticating Christ anytime my behavior reflects my belief in a saving Christ who is too small to handle my day-to-day problems of worry or anxiety. I am domesticating him anytime I wallow in guilt because, in essence, the power of the Cross has been diminished in my thoughts. It has become insufficient to soothe my conscience.

Domesticating Jesus is so much more than just not recognizing his infinite power and falling on our faces in awe. He obviously doesn't reveal himself in his glory, at least not in his full glory, or I promise I'd never get out of a facedown posture (of course, I wouldn't survive a millisecond of his revealed glory, so even that statement is ludicrous). But I domesticate him every day in so many ways, in little things like doubt, anxiety, or fear about the future.

Not one of us on this side of heaven will ever really understand Christ in all his glory. But every one of us can make an effort to remove a few of the filters that have dimmed the true light and replaced it with something else altogether.

So pull up a chair, fellow traveler. Let's sit together to reason about a horrible thing that I've done.

I've domesticated the Lord of the universe.

Adapted from Domesticated Jesus by Harry L. Kraus Jr. ISBN 978-1-59638-185-8, pages 7-15, used by permission from P&R Publishing Co. P.O. Box 817, Phillipsburg, N.J. 08865 www.prpbooks.com

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