Big Whoop! Who Cares?

Here’s a question for you: What makes you tick? What is the chief engine of your life? Forget coffee. I’m talking about your deepest motivations. The thing that gets you out of bed in the morning. Maybe you’re chasing a dream — a job that you want or a relationship or some sense of having arrived. Maybe it’s the approval of others or your reputation. Maybe it’s an appetite for more — money, sex, status, whiskey sours. Or maybe the urgency of life keeps you ticking. All the demands of work, family, chores, and errands run you like clockwork until your head hits the pillow each night. 

The driving force behind our behavior is fundamentally defective, of course. We are altogether out of sync with the way we were intended to work. Broken clocks unable to fix themselves. We may try to realign ourselves to God’s time, but we’re always off. This kind of self-regulation is what James Parker calls buzz management. “The thing about buzz management,” he writes, “is that you’re always getting it wrong. You overexcite yourself; you frazzle yourself; you’re bored, and then you’re anxious, and then you’re tired. There’s some kink in the wiring that you’re always trying to straighten out.” Of course, trying to repair an interior issue with an external solution is like detailing a car whose engine is overheating. To properly manage the buzz, one must look under the hood.

Jesus — the sun by which we set our watches — knows perfectly well how desynchronized we are. To him, all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid. He is like my friend’s therapist. At a recent counseling session, my friend was explaining how her insecurities were the driving force of her work ethic. “I don’t want people to think I’m stupid or lazy,” she admitted. She then expected her therapist to affirm her as smart and hardworking. To her surprise, her therapist said, “Well, you are stupid and lazy. Why do you care what people think!?” Likewise, Jesus refuses to dress us up in false affirmation. He sees us in the clear light of day. He can pinpoint the problem. “Yup, looks like you’ve got some faulty wiring and a dead engine,” he says. We grudgingly take out our pocketbooks. This is going to be expensive.

Except, there’s a surprise. There’s no cost. There’s no guilt trip about proper car maintenance or wondering how we could be so irresponsible. We expect him to drop the hammer. We assume that the levy of mercy will break, that justice will flow like a river and sweep us away to a watery grave. We close our eyes in anticipation, bracing for impact, flinching for the punch that we likely deserve. But then nothing happens. Nothing except silence. The eerie stillness finally beckons us to crack an eye open. And there, still standing across from us, is Jesus. He’s completely undeterred. There’s even a faint smile on his lips as if to say, “Yup … I’m still here …”

Sometimes the grace of God is something you receive, like a Christmas gift or a pearl of great price. It’s a hug from a parishioner or a song on the radio or a visit from a friend. It fills you up. It leaves you marveling at the wonders of God’s love. But just as often (if not more so) God’s grace is an absence rather than a presence. It is the punch of justice not being thrown. It is the seventy-year-old librarian, sneaking a flirty wink before discarding your overdue book fees. It is hearing the words “There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” It is a God who does not weigh our merits but rather pardons our offenses. 

Back in my twenties (i.e., back when 8 p.m. was a reasonable time for a concert to begin), I ran a music venue owned by my church called The Garage. We hosted The Lumineers, Car Seat Headrest, and a thousand other bands who never got famous. When the band was good, we would shoot a live music video somewhere around the church. Nothing like an old sanctuary or a musty vesting room for a good “vibe.”

One Saturday night, we shot a video in the church office, a charming, eighteenth-century brick home with soft lighting and antique furniture. When one of the cameramen wanted to get a better angle of the lead singer, he stood on a vintage couch that looked like it had previously been sat on by Thomas Jefferson. This particular cameraman was large framed. The frame of the couch was designed when people were generally smaller. So, as he took the step, fully committing his weight onto the cushions, you could hear the couch’s spine snap like a toothpick. 

I went home that night and rehearsed the speech I would give our minister the next morning. “Church property had been damaged. I was responsible. I am sorry. This won’t happen again.” The boilerplate apology of anyone sitting in a principal’s office chair. I got to church early to speak to him before anyone else arrived. 

For the record, my minister is a gracious man. On a technical level, I was expecting to be forgiven. But I was also expecting real-world consequences to be applied somewhere in the aftermath. Something along the lines of, “Well, Sam, I’m glad you told me. I forgive you, of course, but actions do have consequences and you won’t be able to film these videos in the church office anymore.” Lord knows it’s all fun and games until an antique couch is totaled.

I caught him as he was opening up the building and somberly told him the news. He was walking away from me at that moment, clicking on lights and unlocking doors at a steady pace. I was still mid-apology when he interrupted without skipping a beat. “Big whoop! Who cares?!” he yelled, the words echoing through the hall. He turned around to make sure I got the message. His wild smile assured that the matter was over and done with.

Big. Whoop. Who. Cares. Those four words felt like a conversion experience. That was the precise moment when the grace of God got personal. Was it even a possibility that I would think to exploit such a gracious response? To return to the scene of the crime and promptly break some more furniture? Smash a mirror, maybe, or tear down the curtains? No. That incident was fifteen years ago, and I still have yet to leave this church. I now wear a collar on Sundays, hoping to return the favor someday, waiting for a chance to shout those words at some young punk and set him free.

Once you get a taste of mercy and forgiveness, you will lose your taste for deservedness and payback. The world keeps people ticking through willpower and discipline and correction and turns them into the walking dead. The world is in the business of preserving antique couches. Unfortunately, when the couch breaks — and the couch will break — it will ruin you. God, on the other hand, is in the repair business. He has already dealt with the brokenness of the world. It hasn’t been fixed so much as been made new.

We bring God our crimes and misdemeanors like a bad dog delivering a chewed-up slipper. “Big whoop, who cares?” he says. Only because he cared so much that he was willing to be condemned in our place. On the cross, the matter of our brokenness was completely dealt with. In Christ we have been restored.  

All well and good, you might say, but what about the broken couch? Someone has to file the insurance claim, take it to the cabinetmaker, and pay the cost. Aren’t we the hands and feet of Jesus? Aren’t we supposed to do something with our one wild and precious life? Not to be a bummer but, chances are, the things you’ve done have gotten you into the big pickle in which you currently find yourself. The result of which is a broken couch. A couch that you do not know how to fix. 

So what? Is there no such thing as Christian responsibility? Not exactly. It’s just that, whatever responsibility means, it is in response to the relief that comes when hearing the words “Big whoop, who cares?” 

What exactly is the big purpose of life? To be forgiven. What is our raison d’être? To be loved by God. If there is anything that will make you tick in this life, it’s that.