Frankly, I felt ambushed.
I was minding my own business attending church in Arizona with my wife and our friends, Charlie and Kathy, when of all things, we were led in singing an old Sunday School chorus, “Jesus Loves Even Me.”
Words splashed on the screen, but few in the crowd needed them:
I am so glad that our Father in Heav’n
Tells of His love in the Book He has giv’n;
Wonderful things in the Bible I see,
This is the dearest, that Jesus loves me.”
The chorus goes on to testify:
I am so glad that Jesus loves me, Jesus love me, Jesus loves me.
I am so glad that Jesus loves me—Jesus loves even me.
A lump formed in my throat, amazed afresh at my own redemption: Jesus loves even me. But how could I—how could we—ever lose this sense of astonishment? Somehow, we do.
Like a fried egg gone cold, we get crusty around the edges. Over time, we convince ourselves that there probably is something of worth about the air-brushed lives we lead, after all. “Why of course Jesus loves me!” is our secret stance. “After all, I'm a reasonably decent person.”
Gone is the image of spittle on the face of Christ, and my phlegm the source of that humiliation. Gone the oozing bald patch on Christ's face, and mine the hand gripping His ripped out beard. Gone the spikes that pin his flesh and mine the hand grasping the hammer.
Worse, we engage in a spiritual cover-up, like a spiritual version of Photoshop. We conjure up pixels of self-righteousness and presume ourselves presentable. Yet Jesus sees it all, would forgive it all. More than that, He wants to love us. So He whispers His love again—sometimes in a simple kids' chorus.
I am so glad that Jesus loves me.
Jesus loves…even me.