Rebel With A Cause: In Memoriam

"Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels.

The troublemakers. The round pegs in square holes. 

The ones who see things differently. They change things.

People who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, 

are the ones who usually do."

- Apple, Inc. 

Please indulge in some of my creative writing inspired by Sister Peggy's class today. I think you might enjoy it :)

They'd call me little miss sunshine; in grade school, it was little miss perfect. So what if I had my shoes always tied, my socks always pulled up, my skirt always at my knee? I was far from perfect, but everyone had this idea of me as a goody-two shoes. I was lucky if I could ever find two shoes in my room. My favorite color is yellow, but it used to be purple. I was shy once, believe it or not, never, ever speaking up until spoken to. I obeyed my parents, my teachers, the authorities as a perfect little girl should. I never got into any trouble, except once I whispered to a classmate after the lunch bell rang and I got a five minute reprimand. I went to church every Sunday with my family, folded my hands in silent prayer and listened intently to the readings. I fought with my sisters on occasion, but I never did anything crazy like run away from home. I kept with the good crowd. Then I met him. 

Maybe it was the biker beard or the grunge look he sported, I'm not quite sure, but his eyes were deep brown. Normally, I wouldn't find myself even looking in the direction of someone like him, but his eyes drew me in. It was like he saw straight to my soul. I turned away. It felt like I had met him once before and so as I walked down the street, I turned back for a second glance. Hoping that he would be gone as if he were a mirage, I looked. He hadn't disappeared, however, he was staring back at me as if he knew I'd turn back. I shook my head in disbelief and gave a shiver of getting the creeps. Try as I might, I couldn't get his face out of my mind. 

The next week, I walked past the same spot where I had first seen him but he wasn't there. I began to believe I had never seen him. But as I turned the corner onto a different street, there he was, sitting with a homeless woman on a piece of cardboard. They were both drinking a cup of hot tea and trying not to get snowed on as another winter storm was blowing in off the river. I stopped a few feet ahead of them and stared. He looked up, his eyes meeting mine again, and everything about me froze. When I regained control of my body, I ran in the opposite direction. Who was he? And why on earth was I somehow attracted to him?

As I walked through the streets of my city, I began to hear whispers about him. They called him J. They whispered about him running away from home at a young age; he was only twelve. His parents convinced him to come home but he kept to the story that someone else made him run away. People thought he was crazy. They blamed his untraditional birth. He wasn't born in a hospital or even with the help of a midwife. He was born on the side of the road while his parents were on the way to his dad's hometown. He was different, they all said. 

Every day, on my way to classes, I would see him somewhere knew and he always gave me the same look. I wasn't intimidated anymore, I guess because I had always been the different one, too. Instead, I was intrigued by his so called friends: the drug addicts, the alcoholics, the homeless, the prostitutes, the desolate, the outcast. He called them friends and I always found him sharing a cup of tea with someone cold or alone. 

The whispers continued. I heard that he used to be the life of the party. One time, at a wedding, he made sure there was enough wine for everyone to celebrate all night long. Another story I heard whispered was that he brought enough bread to feed a whole crowd of people. How did he even know how many people were going to be there? He used to live by the sea, but he found his way here. No one knew where he lived except that on occasion, he would gather a few of his friends at a sidebar and have a meal. More often than not though, he frequented the "badlands." 

I was enamoured by his "rough, grungy look," but more so by his eyes. Suddenly, I found myself falling for this man who had a negative running track with the authorities. Once I saw him stop a group of people ganging up on a poor woman. He protected the woman without even knowing her name. When the crowd dispersed, he hugged her, and promised her a cup of tea. I watched as he walked into the closest coffee shop and I hurried over to the woman. 

"Who is he?" I asked.

"I have no idea. But he saved me. To me, he's my savior."

I saw him walking down the street toward the woman and me. I tried to turn to leave but before I could, he offered me a cup of tea. I thanked him and once again tried to leave. But he said that if I wanted to drink the tea, I had to sit with him and woman. I tried every excuse possible but he simply said, "Give it up. Follow me." He smiled and I smiled in return. Together, the three of us shared a piece of cardboard on the side of the street and spoke about God. 

He walked me home that night, right to my door step. But as I was turning the key to enter my apartment, he disappeared before I could thank him. The next day, I saw him in the park with a group of people, people I'd have normally passed right by if I didn't know this man. But the truth was, I didn't really know him. Not yet. I stopped and listened to him speak about the coming of the kingdom. He kept speaking as the authorities came to break up the gathering. Try as they might, they couldn't stop him. This happened multiple times and I found myself becoming a follower of this man. He spoke about all types of justice and authorities tried over and over to silence him. The more they tried, the more he spoke out. 

Gradually, I got to know him. Each time he would walk me home, he would tell me to give up my lavish life and go with him. I didn't know where he lived. I didn't know if he had a family. I didn't know. Each night, he gave me a choice: follow him or enter into the apartment for another night of easy living. Each night, I chose the lavish lifestyle and he went away sad. I couldn't love a man who caused so much trouble. I simply couldn't follow this man who ate and drank with the outcast, who led demonstrations on social justice, who had a record with the authorities, who had rumors spread about him. I simply couldn't. I couldn't ruin my reputation. 

"You've got to stop following him," my roommate said to me one night.

"It's like you love him or something," another said.

I denied it. I stopped walking down streets I knew he frequented. I stopped going to the coffee shop where he stopped for tea. I stopped passing the park on the way to classes. My roommates told me that following this man was dangerous, that I would find myself arrested or worse, dead. I was scared but there was something that, after a week of going out of my way to avoid him, I had to go back. 

I couldn't find him anyway. I asked the women on the streets, but they knew nothing. I asked all his "friends" disregarding any reputation I may have had. I realized that I had fallen in love with this man. Me, little miss perfect, miss goody two shoes, little miss sunshine. Yes, I had fallen in love with him. But I didn't get the chance to tell him. I had lost the opportunity. Sobbing, I walked home that afternoon; it was a Friday. As I walked, I was distracted by the noise of a rioting crowd. I ran to it as only a goody girl gone bad could. I pushed and shoved my way through to the front, tears dripping down my face still. And that's when I saw him. He was being publicly humiliated. He had been arrested, he had had a trail and now was on the way to his execution. 

"What did he ever do to you?" I screamed, running to him. 

The authorities held me back. I fought. 

"I love you," I whispered. 

"Careful, little girl. Or you'll be next," an authority warned me as he led me back to the crowd suddenly feeling bad for the little girl whose only friend was this troubled man.

As I was sobbing, a woman suddenly wrapped her jacket around me and handed me a tissue. 

"I understand," she whispered and kissed my forehead. She held my arm as we walked with the crowd to his execution. 

I did not know this woman, although I had recognized her as another face from the crowds of his followers. I watched with a heavy heart as they prepared him for his execution. 

"He will never know how much I loved him," I said to the woman next to me.

"No, my dear, he knows. Trust me he knows." 

That's when we both heard him tell us, "Mother, behold your child. Child, behold your Mother."

"You're...you're his mom?" I questioned.

Smiling, she nodded her head, yes.

"Oh, how convenient that I meet his mother on the day of his death." 

"I told you he loved you. He never stopped speaking of you."

I blushed, not understanding what she was saying.

"He knew this was going to happen. He came so that it might be so. But you are his follower, one who loves him. You must go and do as he did. Do it in memory of him. His name was Jesus."

I guess every good girl falls in love at least once with a rebel...at least my rebel was a rebel with a cause. 

      Every so often, I engage in writing prose or poetry giving Jesus a modern day story. Jesus, in His day, broke the rules, rebelled against society, cured the sick on the Sabbath, ate and drank with the sinners, etc. He had a band of rebellious followers, some men and some women. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have been Mary Magdalene or another one of his women followers. But, I'm a child of the 21st century and thus, I have to rebel in different ways, in memory of Jesus.