Scary Jesus

I had already been to 4 ATM’s in the past hour or so. I had pulled out nearly half of what I needed, but now I feared my debit card would be deactivated by my US bank just like the last time I suspiciously attempted drawing money from all over the third world nation of Uganda. I decided to ditch the automated option and go for a real live teller.

Entering the bank, I spotted a long line of about eight formed in front of teller number one, with only one other person being served at counter two. Since I’ve gradually come to reason more and more like a real Ugandan, I elected to push past the imposing queue and stand just behind the nearly discharged client, to the silent dismay of line #1. One customer verbally objected towards a lady behind a nearby desk who reminded him of the African system of obtaining service: position yourself in the foremost pocket of empty space and don’t allow anyone to crowd in front of you.

I turned to the obviously very important business man (judging from his impatient demeanor, fancy suit, and large wad of shillings in his sweaty palm) and offered to let him go in front of me, though the gesture was somewhat a reversion to my Judaeo-Christian American ways. He gladly obliged, but as he began to fill his deposit slip the teller came open and he begrudgingly motioned me forward. My time had come. I slipped my debit card before the lady, requested $XXX.XX and waited as she called the verification number.

As she took long to ascertain the sad fact that my debit card really wouldn’t work today, the restive man breathing down my neck began frantically scoping the room for his options. He spied counter number one’s prestige position beginning to open and practically begged the young lady in line for her privileged pose. Her response shocked me and I had to restrain myself from laughing out loud. “You shouldn’t cross the lines, sir. Jesus sees you and will follow you home today.” Not only was I surprised by her casual instruction of the man in the supposed ways of the Lord, but I couldn’t believe her view of my Good Shepherd.

The woman must have received her doctrine from her own abusive father or possibly a local church that taught her about paying her dues to the detriment of enjoying fellowship with the Master. Her statement made me feel like Jesus was the boogeyman or Santa Claus, watching my every move, taking it down, and standing ready to smite me or withhold something good. I’m so glad Jesus isn’t like the gods of Uganda: good to you when you’re good to them. Terrifying when you cross them or fail to sacrifice. I’m so pleased that Jesus’ loving favor is unconditional, unfaltering, and more certain than the sunrise. I’m so glad that when I tip over in my chair my Father doesn’t reach over and slap me, but lovingly sets me straight and faithfully teaches me again.

I wouldn’t like to worship scary Jesus anyway.