Jesus Tattooed Me

We tell the stories of how we ”got through it.” But what about the cry of our hearts in the midst of it. The heart musings cultivated in moments of quiet thought and reflection. Moments of anguish and pain. Moments of merciless nothingness. The moments we wrap ourselves in lies so deep and soft that we shun truth as if it were sand paper of the roughest grain. We are beings of will and marrow, with spirits of independence and stubbornness unrivaled in all of creation.

Of our own making, we have chosen to design a society based upon judgement and fear. All born out of a will desiring to be what it inherently cannot be - God. Choosing to be broken. Choosing to be lied to. All we’ve ever sought is control, with deception lying at the core of our lust for it. We choose to be lied to, for lies are safe and familiar. They insulate us from the jarring impact of truth and what our cultural sensibilities recoil at hearing.

As I write these words, though, I scorn them. I recognize my own anger at being called broken and sinful. What archaic nonsense. What absolute, utter nonsense. I didn’t choose to be part of any of this. I want to be left alone. I chose to be me, living my life free from God, the devil, or any other fear mongering, grace propagating, religious manipulation. I want no part of it.

But even as I sit here quietly, willingly ready to slash my own thoughts, I can still separate my hurt from what I inherently and honestly know to be true.

Feelings aside, as valuable as they are, I know God has not abandoned me. I know I am loved by Him. I know He has not forgotten me. And I know that He exists.

Yet, what we know to be true in our mind’s eye is often worlds apart from what our heart experientially, intrinsically, and unshakably confirms.

As much as I want to say “God” is all an elaborate hoax for manipulation and control, I can’t deny what I’ve experienced. And although I wrestle with and maintain deep skepticisms of the modern religious institutions and programs of the west, I cannot deny God.

I had a dream the other night. As vivid as I can recall. Jesus was tattooing my thighs. He was white, which I remember even in the dream thinking, “Jesus, should you not be more Arab-looking?” We laughed and joked. He was so incredibly likable. He put me completely at ease with His light-hearted banter as He showed me His designs for the tattoos. On my right thigh was a design for beautiful geometric diamonds, colored almost a translucent purple. It was breath-taking. And on my left thigh was a Don’t Tread on Me snake, cut into sections, and a small eel having its place atop the outside of my hip. It hurt, and I squirmed as He worked, but I was never scared. I knew I could trust Him. And what’s even more humorous now is that when I looked at the finished design on my left thigh, I remember thinking, “oh, this is pretty good, but it’s not that good, given that Jesus did it.” But before I could give Him my “constructive criticism,” I awoke. And given the jovialness that I remember in the dream, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if He just laughed and smiled at my critiquing His tattooing skills.

I still can’t shake the vividness of how pleasant His presence was.

And what’s more, I wasn’t chided for not believing; not being a good Christian girl. I was just loved and delighted in.

In the months since I’ve stopped going to church, praying, or actively seeking God’s presence, this was an unexpected and frankly un-ushered experience. But I would be disingenuous to say that it was all “just a dream.” Yes it was a dream, but I cannot deny its vividness. My imagination is not that active.

I’m not a changed woman, and am still very much “going through it.” I remember telling a friend that I hoped to get to a point where Jesus no longer offended me. And what I can say now is that there was not an offensive bone in the body of the man who so lovingly cared for me in that dream. If that is who Jesus is, I would love to love Him.