When I was a young woman–still in highschool–a beloved lady in my life accused, “You’re getting to be a fanatic.”
I hadn’t joined a group of extremists. I didn’t lock myself to a chainlink fence and protest nuclear weapons. I didn’t even promote a political community. What had I done? I chose Jesus. Really? No–He chose me. Even me.
Jesus didn’t mind my messy life. Like a tender father bending down to dust off his daughter’s knees when she’d fallen from her bike, Jesus picked me up. I love you. And I fell in love with Him, too.
At the time, my feelings were pricked. Fanatic.
Now? At least this dear woman saw something different in me. Could it be Christ had begun his transformation in my life? Did I talk about my First Love too often? I’m not certain.
I haven’t been called a fanatic for years, but I might not mind. These days people call it radical Christianity.
So…how do I live radically for Jesus? Do I sell all of my posessions to feed the poor? Do I beat my chest at the sin hiddend behind the walls of the “dance club” or sign a petition to protect an innocent life? Maybe. Those could be good things…important things.
But, maybe living radically where I am means serving my family with a servant’s heart. Maybe living radically where I am means loving that critical person I had trusted before. Maybe living radically where I am means trusting God with my children. Maybe living radically where I am means still loving Jesus.