The Portrait of Jesus

Let's run an experiment.
For the next 60 seconds, imagine you're forbidden to tell anyone you're a Christian.
No Bible quotations.
No church vocabulary.
No defending doctrines.
You still believe it all.
You simply can't say it.

Now, if the only evidence someone had of your faith was the way you treated them...what would they conclude?

That's different from asking whether I know Jesus.

Much different.
You can know a great deal about Jesus and still give people very little reason to want to know Him.

So the question isn't whether I can describe Jesus. It's whether my life resembles the Jesus I describe.

Exactly.
And that's where 1 Corinthians 13 becomes uncomfortable.
We've often read it as beautiful poetry.
Today, let's read it as a mirror.
“Love is patient.^^”
Who is testing my patience?
“Love is kind.”
Who receives the least kindness from me?
“Love does not envy.”
Whose success is difficult for me to celebrate?
“Love is not proud.”
Can I admit that I might be wrong?
“Love hopes.”
Whom have I already decided cannot change?
“Love bears all things.”
Who has become too difficult for my love?
“Love endures.”
What happens to my love when I am hurt?

That's no longer about how Jesus behaved.
That's about how I behave.

Exactly.
A portrait isn't merely meant to be admired. It reveals something.
And here's the uncomfortable question for those of us who believe we have the truth:
What is the truth producing in me?

If knowing more truth makes me more patient, humble, gracious and loving, then truth is doing its work.
But if I become increasingly argumentative, suspicious and contemptuous of those who disagree with me, I need to ask:
Am I becoming more like Jesus—or simply becoming better at being religious?

That's a hard distinction.

It is.
Because religious activity can become impressive while love quietly disappears.
I can know Scripture, prophecy and doctrine—and still fail the person standing in front of me.
The question isn't only what do I believe?

It's
What kind of person are my beliefs making me?

Now put your phone down for a moment.
Look at the dark screen.
What do you see?

My own face.

Exactly.
Not the person you wish you were.
You.
And here's the good news:
God doesn't love an imaginary, improved version of you.
He knows exactly who is looking back from that screen—and He loved that person enough to give His Son.

Corinthians 21 says,
“God made Him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in Him we might become the righteousness of God.”

So I don't have to become lovable before God loves me?

No.
Grace comes before transformation.
I don't practice patience so God will finally love me.
I practice patience because, in Christ, I've encountered a love I could never earn.
I don't forgive so God will accept me.
I forgive because I've begun to understand the forgiveness I've received.
I don't become like Jesus to make myself worthy. I become like Jesus because His love has already found me.

So the portrait isn't merely a standard I'm trying to copy.
It's becoming a picture of what His love is producing in me.

Yes.
Think about Paul.
Ananias knew Paul's history.
Jesus called him a “chosen instrument.” — Acts 9:15
Ananias saw the history.
Jesus saw what grace could make of the man.
Perhaps love does something similar.
It doesn't pretend the past didn't happen.
It refuses to believe the past has the final word.

Can I see beyond what someone has done to what grace might still make of them?

So let's return to our experiment.
We weren't really taking Jesus out.
We were taking away our religious explanations about Jesus.
And when the explanations disappear, something remains:
how we treat people.

So ask yourself:
If I were not allowed to tell anyone that I follow Jesus, would the way I treat people make them curious about the Jesus I claim to follow?
Not perfect.
Not flawless.
But recognizably different.

Perhaps the goal isn't merely that we recognize Jesus in the portrait of love.
Perhaps the deeper miracle is that, through His transforming presence, His character becomes recognizable in us.
And that's the paradox of grace:
I don't become like Jesus so that He will love me.
I become like Jesus because I have discovered that He already does.