Not only did John Wimber talk about taking risks, he also helped popularize the phrase “naturally-supernatural.” To be naturally-supernatural is to make present the Reign of God in down-to-earth ways, like praying for someone without using weird religious language that leaves them needlessly confused. And being naturally-supernatural is a further part of our practice of hospitality.[1]

As we create space for others, we inhabit a middle ground in which we don’t shy away from spiritual things. We remember, for example, that people of peace are probably attracted to us because of our spirituality. But at the same time, we attend to their sense of safety, posturing ourselves in a way that they feel included, not excluded, by how we talk about God. Even as we are generous in sharing our stories of faith or in how we pray for others, we don’t pretend that we have all the answers. We use normal language to describe spiritual life, and we listen to and learn from the stories of others. 

My friend Alex Absalom talks about the difference between being “religious-weird” and “Jesus-weird.”[2] Religious-weird is confusing or off-putting. It’s often marked by legalism or over-the-top excess in how we talk about God. It may be colored by an orientation toward being right but without the empathy, compassion, or emotional vulnerability that communicates Jesus’ presence. It is often branded with insider language, what some people call “Christianese.” 

Generally speaking, I consider the off-putting message of manipulative televangelists to be religious-weird.“Sow your miracle seed [translation: give my ministry money] and God will give you unending miracles.” Often, at the heart of religious-weird is some sort of formula that’s ultimately rooted in The Human Paradigm: if you “do” faith right (“sow your seed,” for example) you’ll be able to make God bless you. Religious-weird, at its extreme, turns God into a gumball machine and faith into a formula. Thus, religious-weird is ultimately not primarily rooted in empathy or relationship. I have been in many situations in which it seemed that the pursuit of the gifts of the Holy Spirit were more important than the Holy Spirit Himself, or where “spiritual” people were so arrogant that they had little room left for love or compassion. Pride is a covering for insecurity, and so is being religious-weird. 

“Jesus-weird” is different. It’s primarily relational, so that even when it’s uncomfortable or outside the norm, it’s still welcoming, an invitation to a spirituality anchored in love.

A few months ago I had to have a vulnerable conversation with one of my neighbors (also a person of peace) that began with me saying, “Okay, so I may be making this up, but it seems to me that you are mad at me.” Both my friend and his wife sort of blinked and looked at each other, because they had been pretending everything was okay, even though I could tell it wasn’t. It feels strange and a bit scary to engage in a conversation like this when everything in my play-it-safe ego screams, “Avoid emotional vulnerability!” But Jesus asks us to do uncomfortable things. My friends responded well to my bringing up the unspoken conversation, and I think they did because they sensed the love behind it, even though it was uncomfortable. Real relationship in Jesus’ name will always demand fierce, honest conversations, and that’s hardly ever comfortable. It’s weird, but it’s Jesus-weird, which is always good (even if it’s weird). When love is present, weird doesn’t feel weird, even if it feels uncomfortable. God-breathed compassion is always stronger than our human discomfort. I always tell people, “If people get that you love them and care for them, you can say anything, even if it’s hard, and it will be okay.” 

After all, Jesus asked people to do all sorts of unusual—and no doubt uncomfortable—things. He took great risks for others, putting them in uncomfortable situations, like spitting into the eyes of a blind man and even praying for people who weren’t healed.[3] When Zacchaeus had Jesus over, I’m sure it wasn’t totally comfortable for ol' Zach to have Jesus look deeply into his eyes, knowing that Jesus knew the deception that lay behind them. But it was also natural, done over a meal, a shared experience that was a normal part of their daily life. 

We get to pursue being naturally-supernatural—being Jesus-weird—for the people in our lives. It’s a posture of hope that we embrace as we seek to take risks in love. If you are focusing on caring for the person in front of you as Jesus was, you will be empowered to take risks in order to love well. When we talk about being “Jesus-weird,” we are ultimately talking about growing in empathy and compassion. 

Compassion can’t grow within us through our willpower alone, but we can open ourselves up to God through unhurriedness, prayer, and any other spiritual practice so that the Holy Spirit has space to work in our being, bringing forth the fruit of love.[4] This is what The Slow Life and The Grounded Life are all about. And really, a bit of weirdness is a welcome relief from the routine tyranny of the everyday-expected, because who wants life to be boring?

My wife and I were recently standing in our driveway when our neighbor Cindy came outside. We started chatting about the neighborhood and about her son’s new motorcycle and all the sort of wonderfully mundane stuff that neighbors get to talk about in our slow, sunset-infused cadences. In the course of our conversation, Cindy shared that her foot and ankle were really bothering her, and she was going to have to go see the doctor. I said to her, “Could we pray for your foot? I know this might sound strange, but we’ve seen all sorts of people get healed or feel better when they are prayed for.” I felt a bit nervous, wondering how she would take this. But she just said, “Sure, sounds good.” We placed our hands on her shoulder and prayed a very simple prayer: “Jesus, thank you for Cindy. Thank you for how you know and love her. We pray now that her foot would be better and that you would bless her richly in your love.” Or something like that. She said, “thanks,” and we kept on talking about mundane, everyday stuff. 

Even though she wasn’t instantly healed, I’m hoping that our willingness to pray for her communicated love and care, and that it perhaps touched her heart, even if the prayer didn’t heal her body. This is the posture Becca and I want to live into: we want to take risks in how we love, just as Jesus did. Like him, we want to become naturally-supernatural. 

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[1] See ‘Chapter 10, The Slow Life: Hospitality.’

[2] See, for example, a sermon given at Long Beach Christian Fellowship:

http://www.lbcf.org/sermon/luke-on-discipleship-naturally-supernatural/ [6/20/17]

[3] John 9:1-12, Mark 6:5. 

[4] Galatians 5:22.