So I Go Now: Following After the Jesus of Our Day

By Jeff Jacobson

"I see him riding in on a Harley, the Jesus of my day. His hair is long and wild from the wind and it looks like he's been on the road for a while. But his eyes are still bright, and he smiles when he sees me. I guess he travels light because his saddlebags are mostly empty..."

Take a ride with a man who is forced to discover what a modern day Jesus would do; where he would go and what he would wear. Would he have tattoos, and if so, how many? What type of people would he hang with, and what might cause a scandal if he were doing it right here and now?

Experience a journey on the back of a Harley - a ride where faith and fiction collide with the non-fiction that sustains it; where imagination becomes wonder, and wonder itself leads to action.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Feb 8, 2007
• ISBN: 9781412203296

Jeff Jacobson

Jeff Jacobson lives near Chicago with his famly and a whole bunch of pets. He teaches fiction and screenwriting at Columbia College, Chicago. He's a fan of hard-boiled novels, heavy metal, movies with lots of guns, good whiskey, bad monster movies, mountain biking, Krav Maga, and needlessly violent video games, among other interests.

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© Copyright 2006 Jeff Jacobson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

The Message by Eugene H. Peterson, copyright (c) 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group. All rights reserved.

Note for Librarians: A cataloguing record for this book is

available from Library and Archives Canada at

www. collectionscanada.ca/amicus/index-e.html

ISBN 1-4120-8659-0

ISBN 978-1-4122-0329-6 (eBook)

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CONTENTS

PART ONE

The Fiction That Began It

CHAPTER 1     II The Jesus of My Day

CHAPTER 2      Maybe a Car Would be Better

CHAPTER 3     Flickering Bits of Celluloid

CHAPTER 4      If He’d Even Look for John

CHAPTER 5      He Puts My Face in His Hands

PART TWO

III That Low Harley Wave

CHAPTER 6      Maybe Even a Dollar

CHAPTER 7      The God of the Foreigner

CHAPTER 8      A True Apprentice

CHAPTER 9      The Scandal of It All

CHAPTER 10    What Exactly a Lifeguard Does

CHAPTER 11    That Very Backward Living

CHAPTER 12    An Anonymous Choir of Lovers

PART THREE

II We Don’t Live Two Thousand Years Ago

CHAPTER 13    The Well Drink Specials

CHAPTER 14    Through the Crook of an Arm

CHAPTER 15    There’s a Muddy Line

CHAPTER 16    I’m Some Kind of Junkie

CHAPTER 17    There’s a Summoning

CHAPTER 18    Imagery Becomes Wonder

CHAPTER 19    As Vast as He Is

CHAPTER 20    Of Metal and Mufflers and Shiny Parts

CHAPTER 21    A Ceremonial Sort of Way

PART FOUR

II The Eyes of The Cherished

CHAPTER 22    It’s Just Her Way

CHAPTER 23    I Dare Not Blink

CHAPTER 24    The Rapture of the Season

CHAPTER 25    Puddles and All

CHAPTER 26    There’s a Big Boy Here

CHAPTER 27    This is No Ordinary Sugar

CHAPTER 28    A Commodity for Children

CHAPTER 29    In the Daddy Cage

CHAPTER 30    The Ones Who Had a Notion

CHAPTER 31    A Love There is No Cure For

PART FIVE

II This Warfare We Engage In

CHAPTER 32    My Hands Apparently Hog Tied

CHAPTER 33    An Imaginary Conversation with Jesus

CHAPTER 34    And Consecrated Corners

CHAPTER 35    This is Hallowed Ground Now

PART SIX

II We Are Not The Author

CHAPTER 36    We are No Mere Label

CHAPTER 37    In This Language I Speak

CHAPTER 38    Everything Unfettered and Free

CHAPTER 39    In the Wake of this Love

ACKNOWLDGEMENT

AUTHOR’S NOTE

It occurs to me as I look back on these writings that I was, in fact, navigating my way through something of great personal consequence. What you’re about to read developed into a journal for me-one of a certain journey with a view from the back seat of a ride; one of history and of the trajectory formed in its wake. And, the very One whose waist I wrapped my arms around, well, he rode me quite decidedly into the sunrise of a spiritual awakening.

As you’ll see throughout this wandering and perpetual novel, inspiration was found in the usual places: through family, friendships, frustration, and, yes, even through abundant examples of failure. This was indeed a heavenly game of connect the dots, played well beyond my limited human capacity, my cramped perspective and my feeble expectations.

This is simply a story about how I started to get it, by way of imagination and undeniable circumstance; each chapter authored in no small part by Another.

By the end, I hope that you’ll get it too.

Peace to you and yours. Enjoy the ride.

-Jeff

PART ONE

II The Fiction That Began It

CHAPTER ONE

II The Jesus of My Day

I SEE HIM RIDING IN oN A HARLEY, THE JESuS of my day. His hair is long and wild from the wind and it looks like he’s been on the road for a while. But his eyes are still bright, and he smiles when he sees me. I guess he travels light, because his saddlebags are mostly empty.

In a cloud of dirt and dust he calls me over. I’m not sure what to do; yet, I’m drawn to him, so I go. As I get closer, he puts his hand on my shoulder and he promises me a great adventure. I believe him, but I ask him to wait. I need to take care of a few things because my plate is full.

When he hears this, his strong hand grabs hold of the clutch and he races the engine. He tells me that now is the time.

And it feels like a dream and maybe it is, but I drop it all on the ground—everything—because I want to die to the details. And then I get on the back of his Harley and we ride.

I’m not sure where we’re going, but it’s in the direction of my church and this makes sense to me. he’ll, of course, want to stop in, walk around and say to me well done. But then he doesn’t. We ride right on by, and I think he even speeds up.

We stop to get gas, and he spends a long time with the man who owns the station. The man wears a turban, and they’re laughing and talking, and I’m irritated because it’s hot and I want this great adventure to begin.

We’re ready to go with a full tank and the open road ahead of us. But before long we turn into the parking lot of a strip club. I’m embarrassed and look around to see who might catch me here. Then he talks about the sick and the healthy and who needs a doctor and now I remember.

It’s broad daylight, but we wait in the parking lot for them to come out. When they do, he walks over to them while I lean against the bike. The sun hits their eyes and he asks them for directions, and soon they’re laughing and talking and maybe this is a good time for all of us to grab some coffee together. And, so, that’s what we do.

Later we ride right by a large convention downtown with city leaders and it’s crowded, and the air is thick with power and influence. Our reflection beams off of limo windows as we navigate through. No one notices him and I’m angry and shocked, but he doesn’t seem to care.

I’m taking my life into my hands as we ride deeper into the bowels of the city. It’s getting dark and this is gang territory, and I’m scared; but then I remember who I’m riding with. Before long he finds them and he’s mingling, talking, listening. He’s not looking for the healthy, but I keep forgetting that.

And it might just be my eyes playing tricks on me, but each time he stops and mingles and talks and listens and puts a hand on a shoulder, he looks like he fits in. He laughs deep and hard and I’d swear he’s known them forever. And I suppose he has.

So it goes, day after day. There’s a widow who’s lonely and a refugee who is lost. There’s a man much less lovable than I am who is dying. Each day there are children-lots of children who are wide-eyed with wonder. He talks about how they paint the world with broad brush strokes and trust the ground they walk on without question. He reminds me that their faith overlooks the details. This makes sense to me.

He stops from time to time along the side of the road and asks me if I get it. We talk and talk, and he listens. He tells me that the great adventure is not so far down the road but all around me. Then we get back on and ride because he says there’s not much time left.

We talk about what it would be like for me to get my own Harley.

Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly (Matt 11:28-30 The Message)

CHAPTER TWO

II Maybe a Car Would be Better

AS WE SAY GOODBYE FOR THE TIME BEING, I tell him that I get it. The time for talking is over, so now I just need to go.

I’m much younger now and it’s just natural that I’ll continue riding and paying attention and caring and loving, but then I remember that I don’t know anything about Harleys. Or any motorcycles for that matter. I think they’re all incredibly unsafe, especially on my own, and the whole clutch thing confuses me. Maybe I should get a helmet.

Maybe a car would be better.

So, each day the sound of that Harley engine, even without much of a muffler gets more and more distant. I decide to opt for the safety of a car, and why shouldn’t I?

Pretty soon I get on the road and I’m looking for the not so healthy and I realize that I don’t have time right now. And I forgot milk for the morning. Also, it’s getting dark again.

As I said, I’m younger now and the first Bush is President. I’m new to marriage and my car is working just fine, thank you. Indeed, I’m right, it is much safer, not to mention more comfortable.

I have a college degree and that serves me well. I’m able to land a job. I join the countless others who occupy a cubicle and smile and pay taxes. I recall that not too long ago I made the decision to go and do and ride as he does. I said I would follow him, but really I only follow other cars into the parking lot where I work and the parking lot of the big church where I sit my rear end in a seat. I listen and grow and sing as I find my spiritual gifts because I’m supposed to, I guess.

And then countless trips to the church are followed by countless Monday mornings to the job. It starts to define me and becomes my means to an end.

There are lots of friends with cars just like mine and jobs just like mine, and they go to churches just like mine. Whether we admit it or not, we circle our wagons closer and closer each year. We believe that he’s happy and quite pleased with us and is pointing proudly to our circle. But he’s not even paying attention because the wagons are together so tight that he can’t get in. Not even on his Harley. But we always find room for other wagons that look just like ours.

The sound of his engine is almost non-existent now.

Pretty soon there is a child: my son. Then there is diversion and frustration and wonder and suffering and infertility. And a loss of hope. I’m supposed to be learning about God’s faithfulness and timing.

After five years of this, there are two more boys, at the same time. People ask us if twins run in our family and we say they do now. Then there is a fourth: a girl. (A princess.) I should be satisfied now as my car turns into a minivan.

I mention all of this not because I want to talk about my kids, but rather to identify a time period. It was during this time period that he didn’t come back. I read about him riding with other people and how they spent time together with the least of these. But he never came back to visit me. Or maybe he wanted to, but I invited him to the wrong place, so he never showed.

I’m having trouble remembering now what it was like on the back of that Harley.

So, instead, I spend my time using the spiritual gifts that I mentioned because I’m sure that I can at least help others find him. Some actually do. This makes me feel better for a time, but I’m still restless.

I sin a lot during these years: sins of impulse and sins of caving in. Through my shame I think that he’s about as far away as a person can ride on a Harley. I crave to know this man, and I just want him to return.

so, I do what any other maniacal writer who drinks too much coffee would do. I write a play about him. Not just any play, because the whole point of this is that I want him back. And since he’s not coming, I do my very best to create a play about what it might be like if he did come back. It’s like an invitation of sorts.

I do remember him asking me if I get it, but obviously I didn’t get it. This time I will get it right.

In my play I’m careful not to take away from what he was, mind you, because it was done and it only needs to be done once. I’m just curious. I want to know what he would do and where he would go and what he would wear. Would he have tattoos, and, if so, how many? I want to know who he would hang with and what might cause a scandal if he were doing it in my day in my town.

And if he did come to my town in my day, would he choose me for a disciple?

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AND SO THIS PLAY IS BEGINNING TO TAKE shape. I have to write about this and take artistic license and believe that I already know the answers, because by now I’ve forgotten what it was like to hear the roar of that engine and not worry about a helmet for a little while.

I have to write as if I know him. Everybody expects me to know him because, well, why shouldn’t I after all these years?

This play I write is about a director who wants to put on a play about Jesus. And so he does, but he fails miserably three times in a row with his choice of the actor to play Jesus. One doesn’t look quite right. The other doesn’t sound quite right and, well, you get the picture. So, he dismisses his Jesus actors one by one and is about to give up on his play altogether when Jesus himself comes to audition. He arrives on a Harley and his hair is windblown.

It’s important to note here that my fictional director is forced to produce