February 18, 2016

The Thirty Year Old Virgin

No, it’s not the second instalment of the franchise which began in 2005 with the release of The Forty Year Old Virgin.

Come to think of it, perhaps there’s something there.  By number four in the franchise (the year 2030 perhaps?) we might have the hilarious The Ten Year Old Virgin, especially if the disgraceful public sexualisation of our children masquerading as information and education campaigns contains apace.

But I digress.

gl3g7qtk_400x400

Steve Carell: The fifty year old version 

I want to talk about a thirty year old virgin.  And not some mealy-mouthed, unsure of himself slightly geeky loser thirty year old virgin.  I know, crazy right?  After all if you’re a virgin at thirty then something has gone horribly wrong.

Anyway this thirty year old virgin is a really gifted bloke.  He is also a compassionate bloke.  A man who follows God.

He’s saved people on the brink of death.  Whenever there’s a tragic situation he’s often there to help in word and deed.

He also hangs out with the people who would never darken the door of a church, the “sinners and tax collectors”.  In fact, he not only hangs out with them, he eats meals with them, cries with them, and shares his life with them at cost to himself.

And he’s no Sabbatarian.  On the days that the people of God regularly gather to hear the Word and be taught, he is often absent, because he’s off healing the sick, or spending time with those people who’d never be seen in church.

More than that:  When those so called “sinners” have their relationships and sex lives crumbling around them, they don’t think, “You know what, I can’t tell him about this, he’s a thirty year old virgin.”  No, he’s the very bloke they talk to.  And not just him, but a bunch of his friends who have gathered around him, with the same aim of reaching the sinners and tax-collectors.

Funnily enough I have heard – and it’s on record – that the self-righteous don’t like him that much, this thirty year old virgin.  One in particular, who he’d been trying to help, vilified him by saying that he’d missed the theological mark by a long way, a long, long way. Unlike them of course.  Unlike their crew who had ticked all the boxes that the self-righteous like to tick amongst themselves.

And the response of that thirty year old virgin to that slight?  Sorrow and prayer.

What makes all this good stuff possible in a thirty year old virgin?  He follows Jesus. “Wait?  Don’t you mean he IS Jesus?  That’s what you meant to say, right?”

Nope.  He follows Jesus, that other thirty year old virgin.

My mate’s just a regular Aussie, a footy playing bloke who happens to work in the emergency services. A thirty year old virgin who wants to be like that other thirty year old virgin Jesus. Who wants to live like Jesus, love like Jesus, and give up his life for Jesus, because that’s what that thirty year old virgin Jesus did for him (give or take a year or three of extended virginity).

Why does this matter?  Here’s why.

We live in a culture, and now, sadly and increasingly a church culture, that claims unless people are able to have the sex they want with the person they want, they are somehow less.

That unless they have the possibility in the future of sex with the person they want,  they are somehow less.

They are less informed, less capable, less emotionally developed, less able to engage with people confidently and selflessly. Less able to lead a fulfilled life.  Less capable of knowing who you truly are.  Less satisfied. Less, less, less, less, less.

And it’s a damned lie.

And I know of at least two thirty year old virgins who would tell you so.

 

Written by

stephenmcalpine

There is no guarantee that Jesus will return in our desired timeframe. Yet we have no reason to be anxious, because even if the timeframe is not guaranteed, the outcome is! We don’t have to waste energy being anxious; we can put it to better use.

Stephen McAlpine – futureproof

Stay in the know

Receive content updates, new blog articles and upcoming events all to your inbox.

Loading