The Skinny, Sad, Dirty Jesus Who Wouldn’t Even Look At Me.

Disclaimer: Reader, please be aware that this article contains a retelling of child abuse, a self-harm attempt, and the incredible story of how it was thwarted.

I will be turning 68 this year. Which means I have lived almost 25,000 days on this crazy planet. Yet only three of those days had an impact so profound that everything changed. They were decades apart. All three contained what I like to call “moments of clarity.”

You know the phenomenon when the world seems to just pause, and everything around you fades. Then something spiritual happens…be it good or bad. It’s like a “time out” when God has your full attention.

Why do I believe in God? Because of three unique days. The first one came when I was only 8 years old.

Day 1: When I Met The Skinny, Dirty, Dead Jesus.

I hated kneeling on the old, worn kneelers in St. Thomas Moore Catholic Church. The pews were wooden, rock-hard, and well-worn. Because I attended their school as a child, my khaki uniform pants frequently found themselves looking for a spot that still had padding left. I was small. The back of the pew hit just below my chin. My folded hands assumed the prayer position and rested on the hymnal slots. The priest went through the familiar ritual of a Catholic mass: stand up in this part, sit down in this part, and say the right words at the right time in unison. That’s when I noticed Jesus for the first time.

Behind the altar hung a giant crucifix. Hanging on the cross was a weak, frail, battered, and bloody Jesus. His head, adorned with a crown of thorns, hung forward because he had been killed. His ribs showed. He had no muscles. He was naked except for a loincloth. Blood poured out of his side.

And nails were driven through his hands and feet. His eyes were closed, but his face looked sad. Defeated. The singing and chanting somehow faded that day. There was no smell of incense or flickering rows of lit candles. There was only his face. I stared at it for what seemed like an eternity. I couldn’t stop looking at that melancholy expression carved out of wood. I wished he would look up and see me…notice me. But he didn’t. He just hung there.

That’s when it hit me: no wonder he couldn’t protect me and my sisters from child sex predators. He was too tiny, too frail, and too powerless to do anything about it.

Every week, a black car with an older man would pick us up from a home daycare where my single working mother left us. He would take us to a location where they would do despicable things to other children and us. They would film it. They broke us in ways I thought could never be fixed.

When the car showed up, my sister and I would try to hide in the bushes on the side of the house in terror. We asked God to save us. But he didn’t. I couldn’t understand why? I was only five. My sisters were seven and ten. We did everything they told us to do in Catholic school. We were being good. I occasionally asked my mom for a dollar so I could light a candle. Surely Jesus would help us if I lit a candle. But he didn’t. What was happening?

I finally understood that day in the only way an eight-year-old could. Jesus didn’t let that happen because he hated or ignored us. He couldn’t stop it. He was weak, powerless, and dead. He was like me: a victim of powerful evil abusers who did whatever they wanted to whomever they wanted to abuse.

Nuns told us Jesus was a glorious, powerful King of Kings. But he looked just like me: a person broken beyond repair. I didn’t hate Jesus. I wasn’t angry or bitter. He became real to me that day in a very dysfunctional and misunderstood way.

We had something in common. I wouldn’t walk away from Christianity looking back in disgust. Instead, I would look forward, seeking the “real power” in this world. The dark lord behind the abuse. The hidden god who had the power to hurt children and kill Jesus. And years later, I would be indoctrinated into the church of Wicca.

Day 2: It Was A Good Day To Die

I was a genius. I had been quietly planning my own demise for quite a while. How could I make the pain stop and leave this world with my wife and kids well provided for? My insurance policy would leave them quite a nest egg. But there was a clear “suiclde clause” included. And I needed to beat the system to ensure a payout.

Gunshot? Nope. Too traumatic and messy. Poison? Nah. Hanging? Too dramatic. And then I hatched the perfect plan.

Note: I didn’t really want to die. I just wanted the pain to stop. I had an addiction that wouldn’t cease regardless of how many 12-step meetings I attended or “Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse” sessions I joined.

I kissed my wife and kids goodbye. And hopped a flight from Texas to Denver. I drove to Winter Park to spend the night. In the morning, I would search for the exact spot to “accidentally” drive off the side of a mountain and plunge to my death. It was the perfect plan: a dumb Texan going too fast on a winding road without a guardrail in Rocky Mountain National Park. All I had to do was leave skid marks, so it looked like I tried to stop.

This is when the day started getting weird. I woke before the sun came up and had my last breakfast. As I was standing by my rental car preparing to leave, the sun broke over the top of a mountain to the east. A single beam of light hit me in the face. Nothing else around me was lit up, just my face.

How did the sun “just happen” to rise between two mountain peaks and hit my face like a spotlight? I closed my eyes and basked in the warmth for a minute. I felt a peace like I never felt before. And that was my sign.

Above 10,000 feet, the trees disappear. It is called a tundra. I found the ideal mountain with an S-shaped curve without a guard rail. I stood at the edge. The drop was at least a thousand feet. Perfect! I backed the car up to get a running start. I needed enough speed to make it look like I was out of control. I put the car in drive, about to mash the gas pedal.

That’s when a voice so strong, so powerful, the kind that could speak the stars into existence, spoke to me. He said, “Stop!”

I put the car into park, opened the door, and walked up to the top of that mountain. It wasn’t far. I sat there weeping and angry. I wanted to die. Why did Jesus stop me? Does he like to see me suffer for decades? I didn’t understand.

I bought this jacket in the Ski Shop of the Viking Inn. I wanted to look good when they found my body. It is still referred to as the “Suiclde Jacket”. I keep it so I never forget what God did for me.

I sat on the ground. There was a quietness I had never experienced before. It was a spooky, deafening quietness. And then Jesus showed up.

It sounded like a gust of wind that I could hear far away heading my way from my right. I could see for miles. But I saw nothing. The rushing sound was out of place, like it didn’t belong. It was getting louder as it approached closer and closer. It seemed like it was going to go right past me, like hearing a motorcycle or car approach and head off in the other direction.

But it suddenly stopped right in front of me. I didn’t see anything. It was dead quiet. But I knew someone was standing there. Was it God? Jesus? Some angel? I don’t know.

I anticipated it was going to speak to me in a soft, comforting voice. Maybe say something like “I know what you’ve been through”, and then cuddle me with comfort. I was wrong. The voice was angry. Clear. And had an authority I can’t describe. It could have brought that mountain down flat or boiled the ocean with a single word.

“Who are you to think you can take your own life?” He thundered. I was shocked.

I’ll spare you the details of the life-changing dialogue. He finished with: “Now go down, go home, and live!” Then suddenly the sound of the wind departed to the left and traveled until it disappeared over the horizon. I stayed for a long-time crying.

When I got down to the car, I forgot that I had left the engine running and the driver’s door open. A couple was at my car looking to solve the mystery of the missing driver. As I approached, the woman looked at me, really looked me in the face, the kind of look I longed for at eight. She asked, “Are you OK?” For the first time in my life, I answered truthfully, “Yes, I’ll be OK."

I went home and hugged my family. I couldn’t stop kissing my young children. I was freed to love fully.

Day 3: The Day I Insulted Jesus, And He Left.

It’s been more than 10 years since I attended a weekend retreat for men called “Tres Dias”. It’s three days with no phones or outside contact, lots of prayer, praise, and Bible study. The weekend is broken down into sessions, each with a theme. Saturday morning was a session on “Study.” I sat there with my well-worn Bible as a seasoned Bible teacher, thinking I would “phone this one in” because I already had a consistent and disciplined study life. I knew things. If there was one session I DIDN’T need, it was this one.

I also had a secret p0rn addiction that was well hidden from my external Christian life.

Study? I’m good, bro. But that’s when Jesus showed up. I couldn’t see him. But I knew he was six feet from me, right beside me. He spoke by quoting a partial scripture: “Study to show yourself approved unto God.” It comes from 2 Tim 2:15. And then he said the first of two life-changing statements.

“You are already approved." Wait, what? Again, “You are already approved."

He addressed an emotional flaw that was buried deep in my heart. Why did I believe? Why did I study so much? Why did I do any of the things I do in Christianity? And then he nailed me. “Even if you never read another Bible verse again, you are approved. You are already approved.”

My Christian life was nothing more than trying to win God’s approval. It was work-based and not a real, deep, intimate relationship. Maybe a massive amount of good works could motivate Him to keep the bad people away. My eight-year-old self had never completely healed.

Then he said the most stunning thing I could ever imagine. “I am so proud of your service. But now I’m asking you to be my friend."

My reply was instant. I’m not sure if the words came out of my mouth. Or if somehow, I spoke it spiritually. But I said, “Jesus, if you really knew me, you wouldn’t ask me to be your friend.”

Then suddenly, he was gone. A million miles away. In an instant.

I don’t know if you have ever been in the presence of God, and then suddenly not. But it’s a horrible feeling. It’s like a panic. A terror. It’s something I never want to experience ever again. I thought I chased Jesus away. I would have wept openly. But I was in a room full of men. So, I quietly died inside.

That night, I went down to the shore of the lake. I was alone under the myriads of twinkling stars. And said out loud: “Jesus, I accept your offer to be friends”. He showed up for me just like he did for Peter when he cooked Peter breakfast on the shore of a lake. His friendship offer was never rescinded. He had been patiently waiting for me. My restoration was complete that day.

Jesus and I Both Had a Three-Day Process.

Jesus stayed in the tomb three days. And then everything for all creation was different. I, too, had three days for my emotional and spiritual resurrection to be complete.

I learned in three days why he didn’t send in the death angel to kill pedophiles and rescue children. Instead, he stayed with us through the valley of death to make sure we lived. He hated every minute of what I went through. And held me by the hand.

I learned in three days that every time I wanted a wooden Jesus to look at me, the real Jesus already was. He knew me. He knew my name. And he had seen my face. He watched me sleep and sang over me when I felt afraid. He watched me serve the kingdom of darkness for a while, jealously waiting for me to leave the pig pen and make the journey home. He ran to meet me.

I learned in three days that he kept me alive when I wanted to check out. Yes, he had to tough-love me. But that’s what friends do. They say a friend will stab you in the front. Or maybe meet you on a Colorado mountain. He rode upon the wind. And commanded me to live. As if to say, “Let there be life."

I learned in three days that there is an intimate relationship that is better than the master/servant dynamic. It’s friendship. It’s why John called himself “the disciple whom Jesus loved” while he lay his head on Jesus’ chest. I bet Jesus stroked his hair. I still struggle with being friends with the One who calms the storms. But I’m getting there.

Why Do I Believe?

I tried not to. I really did. But Jesus did what any Good Shephard does: he left the ninety-nine people in a “spiritually good place” and sought out the one, lost, broken, sad, and hurting sheep. Me. And He loved me back to health.

“For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord, ‘plans for well-being and not for trouble, to give you a future and a hope.” Jer 29:11

He was always there, with me. At the side of that evil house. Kneeling with me in a Catholic church. In a beam of light in Winter Park, Colorado. By a lake at a men’s retreat.

Somehow, I’m still in the game. Why? Because he has plans for me.

Beloved reader, do you need anything/everything to change? If so, do you have three days?

© 2026 I.M Koen. Want more content like this? Explore more articles in the Why We Believe series.

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