It’s the tail end of winter. I’m sitting in one of those wooden-beamed ski lodges in the Sierra Nevadas. I am not a downhiller—probably never will be—so I’m being a good sport today, watching my family whoosh down the runs while I sit in the wussy lodge with my laptop and a fake ski cap. Veteran skiers with hi-tech goggles and marshmallow pants have been wandering past me all morning. If I really want to feel like a loser, I'll watch the Olympics later today. 

The outsider vibe feels familiar. I, a follower of Jesus Christ, have gotten used to watching the rest of the world do its risky things while I sit in the safety of the lodge. I’ve grown accustomed to observing breathless speed through a 9 x 12 foot picture window. If someone saw me in the hallway, he might think I belong here, with my appropriate Goretex pants and cute little gloves. But does he know I’m really a lodge-sitter, a mogul-shunner, a lover of sea level?

It’s faintly unsettling. Like using a laptop all day in a ski lodge or wearing jeans at the beach, loving Jesus in the middle of the world requires some awkwardness. Don’t get me wrong: I’m more than a little jealous in a superficial, junior high sort of way. I watch the sinners dangling from the chairlifts and wonder what the view looks like from the top. It looks so exhilarating. The thirteen-year-old snowboarders walking by have dismissed me as nothing more than a Driver Mom, just a lodge fixture. Is that what Christianity looks like to a downhiller eager for the Black Diamond rush?

I have a brief moment of schadenfreude when I notice one of the snowmobiling paramedics hauling some daredevil off the slopes. It’s good for my theology—and my ego—until I realize that 268 other skiers will go home happy and whole at the end of the day. I cannot say with certainty that lodge-sitting was the most exhilarating choice. I could say the same about Christianity on some days, although most of us try to compensate for our occasional jealousy by insisting that we are deep down happier than the rest of those sinner-losers.

Perhaps I’ve gone too far with my ski lodge = Christianity metaphor (it’s my writer's weakness). But here’s the bottom line for me as I sit here feeling like a pretender. When it comes to being a lover of Jesus in a world of haters, I’d better get used to feeling like an outsider. The gap between us is growing wider every day, and in America I’ve been used to blending in so easily. Next time I come here, I’m not going to fake it anymore. Forget the phony skiwear; I’m coming in my flip flops and Hawaiian shirt just to clear things up. It’ll be good practice for an occasional poser like me.