“A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out.” — Isaiah 42:3
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
There
are times I wonder how Jesus ever survived religion. Not the one He embodied
with compassion and clarity, but the one that gathered around Him like a fog,
twisting His words and smothering His spirit until the light of His presence
grew dim in the eyes of the people who needed it most. I have known that fog.
I’ve walked through it, searching for the Jesus I read about, only to find
rules, judgments, and personalities that left me colder than before.
It’s
a hard thing to admit that religion can obscure Jesus. But it does. It did for
me.
The
Jesus I first met was the one religion wanted me to see—stern, demanding, easy
to disappoint. He was a Saviour with crossed arms and a clipboard, always
evaluating, always just a little disapproving. You could follow Him, but don’t
fall behind. You could not speak to Him unless it was to send your prayer to
the Father.
I
tried. I really did. For years, I tried to be what I thought He wanted. But
something never quite fit. The people around me seemed to speak fluent
judgment. There was always someone being talked about in whispers, someone who
had slipped, or questioned, or simply didn’t “toe the line.” In the name of
protecting purity, they cut people off like diseased limbs, leaving hearts to
bleed just out of sight.
And
yet, buried beneath all that—somewhere in the pages of the Gospels, and in the
moments when I dared to trust my own instincts—I began to glimpse another
Jesus. The Jesus I never really knew.
This
Jesus didn’t cross the street when a sinner approached. He leaned in. He looked
into eyes everyone else had turned away from and saw something worth loving. He
touched the untouchable, dined with the rejected, called names not to shame but
to welcome.
This
Jesus never shunned anyone. He never handed down labels or rankings. He didn’t
tell the leper to clean up before coming close. He didn’t tell the woman at the
well to fix her theology before having a conversation. He didn’t sideline the
disciples when they were clueless or self-important or afraid.
And
He never spoke behind people’s backs. If He had something hard to say, He said
it with love, in person, and with a kind of dignity that made even rebuke feel
like grace.
I
think of Zacchaeus, the tax collector perched in a tree—reviled by his own
people, written off by the religious establishment. Jesus didn’t just spot him.
He saw him. Not as a category, but as a man with hope still flickering
behind his eyes. “Come down,” He said. “I must stay at your house today.” No
lecture. No conditions. Just love that saw the image of God even in a crooked
man.
That
Jesus—the one obscured by religion—is the one who changed me.
The
more I learned of Him, the less I could tolerate the culture that claimed to
represent Him. A culture where surface judgments stood in for discernment.
Where men played gatekeeper to grace. Where doctrine sometimes mattered more
than decency. Where the “church family” could fracture at a moment’s notice,
and those who left were spoken of in pitying tones, as if leaving the community
was equivalent to leaving God.
But
Jesus never did that. He never gave up on anyone. Even the ones who shouted for
His crucifixion—He prayed for them. “They don’t know what they’re doing,” He
said. And I believe He meant it. I believe He still does.
That’s
the Jesus I’ve come to trust. The one who understands weakness, who knows
betrayal, who isn’t shocked by failure, and who sees beauty in the bruised and
the burned out. The Jesus who tells us that the last will be first, that the
meek will inherit the earth, that the kingdom of God belongs to those who never
quite fit in anywhere else.
The
Jesus I never knew is the Jesus I cannot live without.
And
so I follow Him now—not through the corridors of religion, but in the quiet
choices of love, mercy, and humility. I find Him not in rulebooks, but in
kindness. Not in sermons that shame, but in stories that heal. Not in
exclusivity, but in open arms.
He
is still obscured sometimes. There are days I must fight to see past the noise,
the pride, the institutions that bear His name but not His spirit. But He is
there, showing us the Father and how to worship his Father and his God. Always
there. Loving. Waiting. Trusting us to find Him again—not in the image others
have made of Him, but in the truth of who He is.
Obscured by Religion
“A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out.” — Isaiah 42:3
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
There are times I wonder how Jesus ever survived religion. Not the one He embodied with compassion and clarity, but the one that gathered around Him like a fog, twisting His words and smothering His spirit until the light of His presence grew dim in the eyes of the people who needed it most. I have known that fog. I’ve walked through it, searching for the Jesus I read about, only to find rules, judgments, and personalities that left me colder than before.
It’s a hard thing to admit that religion can obscure Jesus. But it does. It did for me.
The Jesus I first met was the one religion wanted me to see—stern, demanding, easy to disappoint. He was a Saviour with crossed arms and a clipboard, always evaluating, always just a little disapproving. You could follow Him, but don’t fall behind. You could not speak to Him unless it was to send your prayer to the Father.
I tried. I really did. For years, I tried to be what I thought He wanted. But something never quite fit. The people around me seemed to speak fluent judgment. There was always someone being talked about in whispers, someone who had slipped, or questioned, or simply didn’t “toe the line.” In the name of protecting purity, they cut people off like diseased limbs, leaving hearts to bleed just out of sight.
And yet, buried beneath all that—somewhere in the pages of the Gospels, and in the moments when I dared to trust my own instincts—I began to glimpse another Jesus. The Jesus I never really knew.
This Jesus didn’t cross the street when a sinner approached. He leaned in. He looked into eyes everyone else had turned away from and saw something worth loving. He touched the untouchable, dined with the rejected, called names not to shame but to welcome.
This Jesus never shunned anyone. He never handed down labels or rankings. He didn’t tell the leper to clean up before coming close. He didn’t tell the woman at the well to fix her theology before having a conversation. He didn’t sideline the disciples when they were clueless or self-important or afraid.
And He never spoke behind people’s backs. If He had something hard to say, He said it with love, in person, and with a kind of dignity that made even rebuke feel like grace.
I think of Zacchaeus, the tax collector perched in a tree—reviled by his own people, written off by the religious establishment. Jesus didn’t just spot him. He saw him. Not as a category, but as a man with hope still flickering behind his eyes. “Come down,” He said. “I must stay at your house today.” No lecture. No conditions. Just love that saw the image of God even in a crooked man.
That Jesus—the one obscured by religion—is the one who changed me.
The more I learned of Him, the less I could tolerate the culture that claimed to represent Him. A culture where surface judgments stood in for discernment. Where men played gatekeeper to grace. Where doctrine sometimes mattered more than decency. Where the “church family” could fracture at a moment’s notice, and those who left were spoken of in pitying tones, as if leaving the community was equivalent to leaving God.
But Jesus never did that. He never gave up on anyone. Even the ones who shouted for His crucifixion—He prayed for them. “They don’t know what they’re doing,” He said. And I believe He meant it. I believe He still does.
That’s the Jesus I’ve come to trust. The one who understands weakness, who knows betrayal, who isn’t shocked by failure, and who sees beauty in the bruised and the burned out. The Jesus who tells us that the last will be first, that the meek will inherit the earth, that the kingdom of God belongs to those who never quite fit in anywhere else.
The Jesus I never knew is the Jesus I cannot live without.
And so I follow Him now—not through the corridors of religion, but in the quiet choices of love, mercy, and humility. I find Him not in rulebooks, but in kindness. Not in sermons that shame, but in stories that heal. Not in exclusivity, but in open arms.
He is still obscured sometimes. There are days I must fight to see past the noise, the pride, the institutions that bear His name but not His spirit. But He is there, showing us the Father and how to worship his Father and his God. Always there. Loving. Waiting. Trusting us to find Him again—not in the image others have made of Him, but in the truth of who He is.