Do Me Like Jesus

This isn’t going where you think it’s going. There’s a story at the very end that the broken-hearted among you may really need to read right now.

Trust me. And follow along:

I’ve loved Black gospel music all my life. I used to sneak into the church across the street from my Uncle John’s house at choir rehearsal time in the evening, just to be able to hear them sing the same songs over and over and over again.

But there are two types of gospel songs that always sort of mystified me. The first, which I may have mentioned before here, is the one in which both female and male virtuosos sing, sometimes playfully, other times prayerfully, that “cain’t nobody do me like Jesus.”

Yeah. Cue the snarky Beavis and Butthead snicker. “Heh, heh, heh, do me like Jesus.”

Sorry, wise guys. In Black street language, that just means nobody treats me like Jesus. As in, “Why you wanna do me like that?” which means, “Why would you treat me that way?”

Those songs testify that no one can do what Jesus does for you. That He is the only one who can save/love/treat you the way every person deserves to be saved/loved/treated.

And then there are the straight up love songs. No, really, they’re songs that trip you up. Some guy or some woman singing about somebody they can’t live without, who loves them like no other, fulfills all their needs.

They croon like, say, Luther Vandross or Gerald Levert. Or wail like Mary J. Blige or Aretha Franklin. So R & B that you’re stunned to hear, “Lord,” or “Jesus” or “Father” somewhere later on in the song.

I found a “combo” song by Marvin Sapp that almost illustrates both genres at once. He gets to the “Jesus” part pretty quick, though:

Now, I love this style of gospel, too. Very much. My mother didn’t approve, but I think the second genre, especially, is a very clever “bait and switch” tactic that might get someone to listen long and deeply enough to be intrigued about this Jesus they’re singing to that way.

I just didn’t, until very recently, understand the sentiment. The depth of it, or the transformative power of the love they’re singing about.

My logic ran, “Jesus is dead. Great guy, but…long gone. What can He possibly do for you that would make you yearn for Him like that?”

And then, one day, out of the blue, I had a series of what are sometimes called “conversion experiences.” Stuff that doesn’t “compute.” Things you can’t believe you’re seeing right front of your eyes and cannot explain. I won’t discuss them. You can’t.

It’s why I never argue with a serious atheist or even a receptive agnostic to change their minds. Until it happens to you, you cannot understand it. And even after you’ve seen it, you never get over the shock and disbelief. Or the awe, which is that finally hooks you.

But even after my baptism this year, there were things about that “relationship” we’re supposed to create with Jesus that didn’t work for me. He was still…not here. I didn’t know how to talk to Him. Didn’t understand how to work a prayer. I’d heard Him called “the perfect bridegroom,” but I couldn’t figure out what that meant except that nuns “married” Him. And that seemed rather odd, frankly, still.

I did feel as if He was there sometimes. Okay, most of the time. I’ve always been a “spiritual” type, I just avoided attributing the miracles in my life to that particular Source. Until He chased me down and signed His name to a few.

And then recently, something happened that clarified the whole deal in about three days. A bad “relationship” with a mortal man—a “bait and switch” many women have experienced. Great sales pitch, fantastic first date, lots of attention for a few days or weeks and then…radio silence.

The plans made, dreams dreamt–gone. That grateful, grinning suitor, running like hell to whatever hidey hole he escapes to over and over again. Sondheim wrote a song about it:

I felt like at this age I should’ve seen it coming. But these guys are good. And by the time they get to be my age, they’re masters.

At first, like thousands of women on talk shows and relationship forums and such, I felt betrayed. Wanted to know “Why me?” and “What did I do wrong?” and had all the usual reactions. I did, unlike many, resist the temptation to call or text and demand an explanation. But it was really hard.

And I kept talking to my new Friend about it. Almost blaming Him. Feeling abandoned and betrayed by Him, too. I agreed with Teresa of Avila, who is reported to have said to God, “If this is the way you treat your friends, it’s no wonder you have so few!”

And then, grace. And a “voice” that explained, “Beloved (He calls everyone that), I’ve taught you what love feels like. I’ve taught you how a man should treat you. Any man who doesn’t do you like I do–let him run.”

And I said, “Ah HA!” And laughed out loud.

This was a test. This was only a test. I’m a newbie. I need to be shown, not told. My new Friend once asked one of his disciples, “Do you love me?” three times, to see what he would answer. But also to make sure that disciple really thought about what that meant and why He was asking.

It was more like, “How much do you love me?” And “How much have you learned from loving me?” And also, “Are you ready for the changes that loving me will mean?”

You fall in love with Jesus, he hands you a cross. Lots of crosses. But you rise up on the third day, like He did. Like I did, too. Three days, exactly.

There’s another miracle coming. Maybe not right now. Maybe not even the one I’m hoping for. He does what He thinks is best.

And nobody does it better.

Photo credit: Pixabay, public domain