I have a small handful of personal reasons to continue following Jesus after nearly 30 years. One of the more compelling reasons is this: People just can’t stop disagreeing about him. About who he was. About what he did. About the why behind it all. About what any of it means or doesn’t mean. Honestly, if there’s someone creating this much chatter and this much heat for this long, I just want to hang around him.

Discussion and disagreement about Jesus have been going on since he walked on the earth. Which makes me think that maybe that’s all part of the plan: Keep people talking. Jesus himself left so many questions unanswered, so many things ambiguous, that I just have to believe that it was at least a little intentional.

If you start to feel like you’re repeating yourself when explaining your encounter with God, that’s ok.

We humans learn by repetition. The more you repeat your story, the deeper the Spirit’s work will go into your spirit. And the more often others hear it, the more likely they are to believe it and begin to desire such an experience for themselves.

Repetition also comes out of love. It’s why we have reruns. It’s why we create playlists and highlight reels. It’s why we re-read books or poems. Some things are simply worth enjoying all over again.

Tell the story. Your story. However remarkable or unremarkable it may seem. However tame or messy. However ordinary or exotic. Just tell it. Because it’s not just your story; it’s also Jesus’ story. And the story of whoever else happened to be involved. And it even has the potential to become part of your hearers’ story. Your story is so much bigger than you.

Such stories are worth telling and retelling because they spark imagination in cold and dark souls. If it could happen to you, then it could happen to anyone. And one day some hopeless anyone will need to hear a real-world reason to hope.

When God makes you whole, you will simultaneously be more fully yourself and wholly different. Recognizable, yet unrecognizable. You, yet not the expected you. The person whom others have always known, yet also someone surprisingly different.

Each of us has a false self that overshadows our true self. The false self is, however, not 100% false. What makes it believable is that there is at least a hint of your true self. When God heals you of your false self, you may be somewhat unrecognizable. But you’re still you.

When Jesus healed the blind man, his neighbors didn’t recognize him—a foreshadowing of his own resurrection.

Even as he heals you. Discomfort is often the raw material of wholeness.

Like spit made into mud and then pasted onto your eyes. Like being told to go wash in a pool that you cannot see the way towards. Like the tentative responses of those from whom you ask directions, who aren’t sure if they should say anything about the mess on your face. Like the moment you splash the cool water on your face and rub your eyes, awkwardly focusing your vision for the first time. Like the brightness of the sun that blinds you in a more shockingly beautiful way than the darkness ever had.

The Gospel of Comfort is no gospel at all.

Is different from working in the light. Doing something for God is not the same thing as doing something in God. In my experience, both in my own life and in observing others, it’s quite easy as a Christian to work for the light while living in the dark.

Doing just about anything in the dark is hard. At best it will be shoddy work. At worst someone might get hurt. Even the smallest flicker of a candle can make all the difference. The brighter the better, of course.

Yes, you’ve got problems, but you are more than a problem to be solved. Yes, sin may very well be behind your visible brokenness, but your brokenness is not an opportunity to play the blame game. Yes, you were born at a disadvantage, but that doesn’t mean your future is as dim as your vision has been.

No. Your story must be told differently. The way Jesus tells your story.

If you’re trying to contribute in any meaningful way to the world, there will at some point be an angry mob picking up stones to throw at you. You’re going to say or do something that someone without any self-control or human decency doesn’t like. It’s not cowardice to protect yourself from them.

Walk the other way. Hide. Smile and nod while proverbial lay sticking your fingers in your ears. Turn off your ringer. Block the DMs. Don’t read the comments.

Minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years—these are necessary human constructs that help us navigate our world. But they do not control or cause or even determine anything. They only measure our experience.

As a wise philosopher once put it,

“People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint, it’s more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly… timey wimey… stuff.”

Doctor Who

That said, we can expect certain things to happen “on time,” as it were. The sunrise and sunset. Birthdays. The weekend. High school graduation. Album release dates. And such is the purpose of time—to help us measure what has already happened, and then help us measure our expectations for the same or similar events in the future.

Not from the outside. Self-congratulation is suspect. You cannot pin praises to yourself and expect them to stick. Making a big deal about yourself will eventually end up proving how average you are. You can think the world of yourself, but it’s wisest to keep that to yourself.

Self-promotion is the drug of our age. Seeing ourselves staring back at us through filters and frames is intoxicating. Literally. Every like and comment gives our brains a little hit of dopamine, and furnishes our soul with another fig leaf to hide behind.