When I was growing up, I fell in love with the church. It wasn’t until later that I really fell in love with Jesus.

In my formative years, church was the place to go to connect with your friends, learn about the Bible, and get emotional over the music. In youth group we always ended the night collecting as many hugs as we could and getting “filled up” to face the week ahead.

My understanding of Jesus was limited to a man who loved me so much that he died for me, and I felt the need to behave and be good in order to not disappoint him. This Jesus I first knew was often described as I imagined a hippie: the long-haired, sandal-wearing peacemaker. As I wandered the halls of the church my first memory of an image is of Warner Sallman’s Christ at Heart’s Door. Jesus stands before a massive wooden door, dressed all in white, impeccably groomed, almost glowing with light, with a fist raised mid-knock. Instead of feeling comforted or connected to this image, I often felt confused. Who was on the other side of that door? Why was he knocking? And why was he white?

Pair this image with having an older brother who wore his hair long and wavy, dark strands with blond highlights bleached from the sun. His light stubble and blue eyes often caught the attention of others, and people would often joke that he looked like Jesus. One time a stranger told him so, and my brother slowly turned his head and with all the seriousness he possessed replied, “I am.” Laughing at the absurdity, I rolled my eyes and thought to myself how my brother was far from perfect, and again, how Jesus wasn’t white.

When I was a teenager I wrestled with anger at the injustice I saw around me, with powerlessness at being bullied, and with the struggle to forgive the people who hurt the ones I loved. Yet the only images of Jesus I knew about were the ones of the clean, pampered, peaceful Jesus who seemed too perfect to ever get close to, or the bruised, bloodied, crucified Jesus who made me feel guilty for my depravity. Surely there had to be something in between.

It wasn’t until much later that I began to discover a Jesus who also got angry at injustice, stood up to bullies, and forgave even his vilest betrayers. This was a Jesus I wanted to know. This was a Jesus I could relate to, no matter when he lived or where he came from or what he looked like.

While scripture and stories play a huge role in our understanding of Jesus, the images that we are exposed to also have a profound impact on our understanding. The church I experienced seemed to only offer a limited understanding of who Jesus was because the imagery I saw and storytelling I heard didn’t always match up. Perhaps that began my search for something more…images that more fully portrayed who Jesus was, and stories that shared the full range of his character. That’s where I want to invite you, dear reader, to help me in seeking a more faithful image of Jesus. What was the first image of Jesus you remember seeing as a child? How has your image of Jesus changed as your faith evolved? What churches are getting it right in their artwork and imagery? Allow me to learn more by sharing what speaks to you.

When I was growing up I fell in love with the church…with the people, the music, and the feeling of connection I experienced in those walls. But it wasn’t until later that I fell in love with Jesus. Now having served in churches for over 20 years, I have learned how essential it is to first introduce people to Jesus, to let them fall in love with his story and character and the richness of his image. Once people fall in love with Jesus, their love for the church will follow.