Christ Has Rizzin
I am fully aware of how unappealing this title is. Here we have another 30-something millennial who is trying to appeal to the younger audience while still connecting with their own. I have a select few terms from the generation below me that I use in my daily life. Rizz is not one of them but something about these three words together has kept me laughing all day.
I have nothing but good memories from my first job. Sure there were some bad times but it’s safe to say that the reason I am a functioning adult is because of them. There is something so special about your first taste of the real world and I’m constantly reminiscing on that time. There is no amount of money in the world that could pay me to go back but I digress.
The reactions I get when I tell new people that I volunteered and later worked at a Jesus Camp are typically the same. Small chuckles followed by furred brows. The dramatics of confusion have gotten more and more annoying. I don’t understand the shock. Who’s to say a gal like me can’t be into our good ole Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?
Yes, I enjoy an occasional night where I galavant around New York City drunk off a few vodka sodas and a couple hits of a weed pen until four in the morning. Kissing strangers in dark corners of dive bars is a pastime I rarely say no to. I cuss..a lot. More than any person should and not just because I’m a lady. Saying the Lord’s name in vain is second nature to me. And anybody who tells you they don’t love gossip is lying. My favorite thing that Gen Z has done in the last couple of years is turning the word gossip into something more positive sounding. I give you the rebrand to the word yap.
But, despite those shortcomings, I don’t think I’m that bad of a person and it shouldn’t be such a shock that my first employer had a lot to do with the big guy upstairs’s son. I am kind. Mostly positive. I try not to judge others. I volunteer time and money when I can. My intentions are good and I love the ones close to me. I do things I don’t want to do when I know it’s right. Isn’t that what Christians are always preaching about? And listen I am fully aware vanity is a sin but I promise you my spiel about being a good person served a purpose. Humor me, please.
I think the reason people I meet think I preach about not believing in organized religion or it’s all a crock of bullshit is because I don’t go to church. And I don’t preach church.
Instead, I look outside my window that faces the beautifully crafted Catholic church across the street. Every day I’m in awe of the building. They just don’t make them like that anymore and it breaks my heart. The big front doors are dark and so intricate with their craftsmanship. The priest told my parents they were a gift from Italy. It was on that one Father’s Day I convinced my parents to come visit me in New York. I wanted to get the fact that my brothers weren’t around off everyone’s mind. We had a nice day in the city. Church followed by a delicious Greek brunch. That’s what the Troponas do after a mass. Normally it’s after we honor a dead relative. But I thought it would be an okay way to spend the day. Ironically enough this church has the same name as the church my mother’s family goes to in New Jersey. That’s how everyone knows I’ll stay safe in the big scary city.
I see a different priest these days in his robe greeting patrons three times a Sunday and twice on Saturdays. The colors he wears are always so vibrant and the embroidered parts are so detailed. Sometimes I think I should start going consistently and develop relationships with the parish as a whole. Maybe one of the nice older ladies who sit in the front has a son, nephew, or younger brother they can set me up with. Maybe there’s a nice boy my age who holds the collection basket. Bringing home a boy who goes to church would up my rankings in the spot for my grandmother’s favorite grandchild for sure. Despite my good intentions I continue to go once a year on Ash Wednesday and tell myself I’ll do better come Sunday. I never do but hopefully, my Catholic guilt makes up for it.
All that is to say I do love Jesus. And I’m not saying it in an overly positive way nor am I being sarcastic. When you get past all the clutter he was a pretty cool dude. He was involved with some great stories with some decent life advice. Told even better ones himself. Dare I say…I fully respect him and what he’s all about. He was the world’s first nepo baby and liberal as they come. Jesus would have loved me! Sinners, rebels, and non-believers were amongst some of his greatest companions. One of his best friends was a prostitute for his sake! I bet she was a hottie, too. And rumor has it they may or may not have hooked up once or twice. There is nothing I like more than a friends-to-lovers storyline.
There is one thing I have been avoiding admitting regarding my admiration for the Messiah. And I am not one to be embarrassed about my opinions and I am not saying that’s the case here. But, that said, I have a lot to explain.
Jesus was a babe.
He was an absolute no doubt smoke show. Long luscious hair and a toned body. He was tall and so strong! Lest we forget the whole carrying of the cross thing. And he HAD to have been good with his hands. Jesus was a carpenter and that means his fingers were nimble. We all know that his olive skin is the most accurate portrayal. No way someone executing that much confidence and rizz as the kids say is as pale as some of the pictures and figures out there. Tall, dark, and handsome. Just how I like ‘em.
Not only did he have movie star good looks but he was also so kind! A true gentleman who gave to the poor, helped the sick, and truly loved everyone around them. They just don’t make men like that anymore.
The first time I realized this I was probably about five years old. My brain couldn’t comprehend what was being said on the stage. Afterward, we would go home and eat dinner. I was hungry, bored, and just wanted to entertain myself. The church I grew up going to was built in the early 2000s. It has this modern look to it that is extremely cold and not welcoming. We often went to mass at 5PM on Saturdays. That being said, during golden hour it’s gorgeous. That was when I noticed him. The hunk up above.
I was hooked. Mesmerized. He was so beautiful! Whoever made that statue I want to shake their hand. It was this life-sized replica of Jesus being sacrificed on the cross under a beautiful stained glass window above the altar. The way they got every defined muscle just right. Think Brad Pitt in Fight Club. The ideal of a man.He even looked like there was dirt on him and sweat dripping down his chiseled body. So hot. I would spend the hour just staring and picture our life together. I’d make up stories about the handsome man with long hair and six-pack abs.
You never forget your first crush. Especially one that loves you back no matter what.
