Today, during a slow time at work, we were talking about how we imagine Jesus looked.
"I kind of picture Jesus looking like B.," A. (from Canada) announced, referencing one of the brothers. We thought about this, me, G., B., and N.-- an English girl, two American girls, and our Israeli-raised boss. B. isn't overly tall; he isn't strikingly handsome; and he has an intense tan, almost a burn. He has dark hair and a stubbly beard-- like he doesn't have quite enough time to shave. His hands and arms are worn and strong from much work; his hair is a bit mussed; and he always, always, always looks like he's coming from or prepared for manual labor.
"I can see that," G. said, after the pause. "Especially sometimes, when he speaks."
"Yeah," B. (my roommate) chimed in. "And his eyes-- he's got his eyes going for him." I pictured his eyes-- green-brown, serious, observant, intense, yet kind and a little bit shy-- and mentally agreed with everything that was being said.
"Or maybe," N., my boss, suggested. "Jesus looked like Y. [B.'s brother]." A brief pause, as we considered this.
"Nah," G. blurted out. I considered the idea a little longer than she. Y. does have the stereotypical poet's face, how Jesus is often pictured. But I was forced to agree with G. Y.'s face and hands look not necessarily soft, but domestic, like they're used to indoor work. After all, he is a musician and music teacher, so it wouldn't make sense for his hands to be rough and calloused. But Jesus-- carpenter, hiker rabbi, friend of fishermen-- wouldn't have looked like that.
But B.-- yes, that image seems like a great possibility. He's not model-gorgeous, but neither was Jesus. In fact, Isaiah says that there was no outward reason we should have been attracted to Him. B. is a handyman, a manual laborer. He's someone who says, with sincerity, "I love talking about the Bible; it's the best," and doesn't make you think he's just trying to impress you. He doesn't draw attention at first glance, but he's the kind of man who smart girls look at and think, "That is what a good man looks like."
I thought about this as I grabbed a broom and headed out to sweep sidewalks and stairs. My only disagreement with this image, I thought. is that I think Jesus had a beard. And I so rarely see B. show intense emotion, like I imagine Jesus did..
Just then, as I turned a corner, B. himself came up the stairs and said hello and smiled at me and asked how I was and if I was working hard. As we talked-- just for a few minutes-- I forgot that I was sweaty and gross, that my clothes were all too big and very unflattering. I didn't worry about how I looked or sounded; I knew from B.'s first kind smile that my appearance didn't matter to him. For the few moments we spoke, he made me feel content and happy with life as it is . . . and he let me know that he knows it's not great, sweeping in this hot weather, but that he sympathizes and understands, and that besides-- it's not the end of the world.
I'm not trying to to convince anyone that I've met someone who looks like Jesus' twin ('cause that'd be weird, and besides, I don't know what Jesus looked like). In pondering it, though, I don't think it's necessarily B.'s physical characteristics that made us agree that maybe Jesus looked like him. It's the quiet, simple confidence and care that emanates out of even his smallest interactions with people. It is God, flowing through his life. It is, simply, the way he reflects the Face of Love.
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