Hand-me-down Jesus

I grew up with a hand-me-down Jesus. He came with the Seventh-day Adventist family package: Saturday mornings rushing to Sabbath School, memorizing all 13 memory verses each quarter, Pathfinders with haystack meals every weekend, and of course, church school.

Family worship took place daily at 6:00 a.m. We would shuffle into the living room, rubbing sleep from our eyes as we sang hymns. Afterward my dad read to us, and then we would all take turns praying. Sometimes I followed along, but more often than not I would nod off or count how many times my stomach growled for breakfast.

These activities and habits added a certain structure and moral framework to life. Honestly, kind of like what I imagine people mean when they say someone “needs Jesus.” But to me, Jesus wasn’t a living person. He was more like a spiritual family heirloom, passed between me and my siblings like an old knitted sweater.

But it turns out that Jesus isn’t a hand-me-down. He isn’t something you inherit. Jesus is someone you meet.

Fear or Friendship?

From my earliest memories I have been actively involved in the church. Song service? Usually up front. Pathfinders? Perfect attendance. Memory verses? I knew them better than my multiplication facts. I was drilled in the doctrines. I knew the rules. I tried to live right. I even took the time to help those who were homeless and lonely. On the outside I was doing all the right things. But inside I was restless and afraid.

Knowing the doctrines and the laws of the church was good and true, and having the habit of daily devotion was valuable, but I didn’t yet know the Person behind them. Instead of seeing Jesus as my friend, I saw Him as the enforcer or as a checklist that needed to be fulfilled. I vividly remember from a young age desperately praying for forgiveness, not because I was sorry, but because I was convinced that literal lightning would strike me down on the spot.

My prayers stemmed from panic, not love. My faith was rooted in fear and facts, not relationship.

I remember the year all of my friends and classmates started getting baptized. The pastor would come to our Sabbath School class each week and go through the fundamental beliefs. I collected each sheet of green, blue, and pink and quietly reviewed them.

I thought there was no way I could commit to baptism. I didn’t understand everything that was taught, and I knew I was far from perfect. So, as each of my friends went under the water one by one, I held back. Part of me longed for what they had, but the larger part of me didn’t feel ready. And of course there was the other problem of standing in front of the entire congregation and shaking everyone’s hand at the end of the service. Truly an introvert’s worst nightmare!

At first I held fast. Peer pressure didn’t sway me. But eventually pressure from adults around me wore me down. One July Sabbath, when I was 13, I finally went forward. Down into the watery grave I went, and up again into new life, hair dripping and face sore from smiling as I endured the endless handshaking line.

I distinctly remember my mom leaning over and asking me if I felt any different now. I didn’t. It wasn’t the most spiritual moment of my life, but even then God was quietly at work, drawing me closer.

A First Glimpse of Jesus

Despite not choosing baptism out of heart reasons, I can honestly say my faith took a turn that summer. I recognized several miracles in the following months that started nudging me toward Jesus as I caught glimpses of His faithfulness. Still, my relationship with Him wasn’t deep. Though I was sincere, I remember it being more like an introduction and a polite “Hello, Jesus . . . have we met?” rather than a connection of the heart.

Knowing the doctrines and the laws of the church was good and true, and having the habit of daily devotion was valuable, but I didn’t yet know the Person behind them.

Six years slipped by, and I carried those glimpses with me. I believed I was walking with Jesus, and in many ways I was. But what felt deep to me then, I later realized, was still just barely scratching the surface. Then heartbreak came, sudden and crushing. It was the kind that knocked the breath out of my lungs and made me wonder how I would ever stand again. I didn’t want to.

And that’s when I met Jesus.

Not the hand-me-down version. Not the stern judge I had feared for so long. Not the “Hello, Jesus . . . have we met?” kind of acquaintance.

This time I met the Person.

In my inconsolable grief and desperation I opened His Word. And He used my desperation. The words leaped off the page as never before. Words I had memorized and heard hundreds of times suddenly came alive with meaning. They were living words, cutting me and comforting me at the same time.

That was the day my relationship with Christ truly began on a heart level. I fell in love with Jesus, and once you really meet Jesus, you cannot look at the world the same way.

For so many years I thought and was taught that Jesus was a rule keeper and stern judge waiting for me to slip up. He was a checklist of doctrines and a name to “pray in” so that the Father could hear me. But after meeting Him, I know Jesus is really my friend, my comforter, my salvation, my joy, and my constant companion.

The laws and doctrines that felt like weights I could never carry became beautiful to me. Not because they changed, but because I finally knew the Lawgiver. Even teachings that used to frighten me now gave me peace, because I knew the One who would carry me through.

A Relationship, Not a Handshake

Of course, no relationship grows from a single introduction without effort. I couldn’t shake hands with Jesus and say, “Hi, I’m Amanda. Nice to meet you,” and then move on. Relationships don’t work like that.

Meeting Jesus is continual. Like any relationship that thrives on intentionality, the one with Jesus grows through prayer, studying Scripture, and life experiences.

Every season of my life has given me more opportunities to discover who Jesus is. As a teen learning how to navigate right and wrong, He was my forgiver. In early adulthood, standing on my own two feet for the first time, He became my comfort. Later, as awkward encounters led to more meaningful interactions with Him, He became my steady friend. In the sleepless nights and failed patience of motherhood, I’m discovering Him as my strength and sustainer.

Every season has taught me to love Him more, know Him better, and depend on Him more fully.

From Borrowed to Personal Faith

In reflection, I have come to realize that while doctrines and laws can introduce one to Jesus, they cannot be a substitute for knowing Him. Church, memory verses, and having daily devotional habits are all good and important things, but until one meets Jesus for themselves, faith will be incomplete. Jesus preached in Matthew 7 that many will say, “Lord, Lord,” and list the mighty works they did for Him, only to hear Him reply, “I never knew you” (verses 22, 23). For so long I walked around not understanding that knowing about Him and knowing Him were very different things.

My story is one of moving on from borrowed faith to personal faith. From a hand-me-down Jesus to a Savior I have chosen for myself.

The funny thing is, I actually love a good hand-me-down. Clothes, books, even furniture! They carry a story, a bit of history from someone else’s life. Some of my favorite moments are reading my children books that I owned as a child, or seeing the same little outfit pass down to the next sibling. It feels like a thread stitching their childhoods together, and it’s incredible to me the memories one garment or book can hold. I never turned down a garbage bag full of pre-loved treasures, and to this day, you can find me rummaging thrift stores for a good find.

But faith doesn’t work that way. Jesus isn’t a family heirloom to be passed down. He isn’t a hand-me-down sweater one wears until it frays. He is the living Christ who offers each of us a brand-new garment of His own righteousness.

Jesus isn’t meant to be inherited. He’s meant to be known.