At my church, people call me Jesus. It began over a year ago when I, along with Laura and several others, were recruited to portray stories of Jesus for Sunday scripture readings. It was done in a series of tableaus, and being exceptional in the art of standing very still (and one of the few who could commit to every single Sunday) I was cast as Jesus. Every week during the course of Lent I stood in front of the congregation portraying Jesus. It was only in body—I never spoke—but people made the connection. From then on, everyone in the congregation knew me as Jesus.

The acceptance of my portrayal went quite far. Several parents needed to have the difficult “that’s not really Jesus” talk with their young children. People would greet me as Jesus on Sundays. Some would cheer for Jesus on the church softball team (he’s horrible at softball, by the way). The process embarrassed me. It was a large role to live up to. And few seemed to know my real name.

On the other hand, I enjoyed the status it gave me. All of a sudden I was being noticed at church. People would go out of their way to talk to me. As someone who had always arrived late and left early, this was an experience that made me feel like an important part of the worship experience. I was somebody. I was Jesus.

Our society today is one made up of individuals—and I love it. I love that everyone is unique and has a special story to tell. I love having the freedom to choose what is right for me – what to do, who to be, how to live. It’s a way to make everyone feel special. We are separate, distinctively gifted, and all handcrafted by a creator to do different things. And being different we each get our own set of rules. I get to choose what is important to me. I get to decide between right and wrong. I get to define right and wrong. The world is relative, and it’s relative to me. I am the center, the hero of my story.

A week ago at a softball game a poorly thrown ball flew over the chain link fence and connected with Laura’s pregnant stomach. Hard. She went down immediately, and as I ran to her all I could think of was a devastating 16-week premature birth. The pregnancy had been going so well, and one freakish accident was ending it. I pictured my wife going into labor right there on the grass. I tried not to think of how small our son would look in this, his 24^th week of gestation. We hurried to the Emergency Room where Laura was propped in a bed and connected to monitors. They strapped something to her belly that would track the baby’s heartbeat. For hours we sat and listened to that little heart beating. 150 bpm. Now 162—a little high—does that mean anything? Back down to 142—relax. Like a bad metronome my son’s heartbeat rose and fell, and I just listened, helpless, waiting. They finally sent us home. No labor that night—just the sound of his tiny heart pumping away as strong as anything.

My son reminds me that I’m not Jesus. Not even close. Jesus healed the sick and drove out demons. He raised people from the dead. I am just another helpless, foolish piece of his creation. I am subject to both the beauty and cruelty of the world. I’m not the hero of my story. And I’m still coming to terms with that.

Matt & Laura Hubers

Laura (Bardolph) Hubers (’10) is wife to Matt, mother to Samuel, and copywriter at Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Company. She counts the day the Chicago Cubs won the 2016 World Series as one of the happiest of her life.

Matt Hubers (’12) lives with his wife, Laura, and young son, Samuel. He likes to spend his time playing board games, coaching high school forensics, and frolicking with alpacas. His dream is to write picture books.