Ragamuffins

What a wonderful Easter I had! It seems each year the reality and pretending of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ hits me more and more. I am going to share my favorite part of the morning service with you all now. I'm sure you have all been to Easter services where a cross is carried down the aisle of the church, usually during some dramatic reading or powerful and sentimental piece of music. This seems to happen every year in my church. Perhaps they think that since they spend the time and effort to build a cross they should at least use it once every year. And really it can be a good visual reminder of what our Lord did years and years ago and what we are called to do every moment of our lives as we follow Him. Regardless, when the cross is usually carried in, I usually see an elder of the church, or at least someone who is within church leadership and respected in the church as a "man of God." While I suppose there isn't something inherently wrong with this, I really loved our cross carrier yesterday morning. You see, it was this awkward, somewhat embarrassed, young kid, probably around 12 years old. And whereas the deacon or elder usually has on his "Easter Best" suit and tie, this one wore jeans and old tennis shoes and a beautiful black button-down with yellow and red and orange streams of fire shooting from the bottom upwards. Really, it was something that can be found at truck stops all across America. (And yes, I am one to know, which you will already realize if you read my comments on the I-80 truck stop that I wrote last week.) He fumbled with the cross and when he went to put it in its upright position at the front of the church, he just wasn't tall or big enough to get quite the leverage needed for an easy placement. But he struggled and succeeded, and I loved it. I think I cried. Because to me that's what the church needs more of, and when he struggled and succeeded I couldn't help but think that's what happens so often in the Christian life. It's one long process with a whole lot of struggle. I don't go to a big or flashy church but I'm noticing more and more that the people that do come are a random group of ragamuffins, to steal a term from our dear friend Brennan Manning. Sure, there are the holy stoics who have been there for centuries, but there are also these others coming, people who know very little about God and this thing called Christianity. There are ex-Mormans, mentally handicapped, and the very poor. It makes me delighted to see them and I feel honored to be a small part of the community with them, even though I honestly don't know any of them very well. I used to be really excited about changing churches when I move in a few months, getting away from the small-town church my dad has always pastored, but yesterday I realized that there really is something quite beautiful going on there and I think some part of me will really miss that. I hope I always am moved by the community that is the Church, even if the Church is also something of great frustration and sadness. It's one of the most beautiful things I've ever experienced or can imagine and is something I always want to be a part of. Because, really, we're all ragamuffins. Sure, some may look more like ragumuffins on the exterior or based on what we think society may label as a ragamuffin, but I know I'm a ragamuffin, struggling and seeking and wanting to belong. I love that we are all equal at the foot of the Cross, that Christ does not go with stereotypes and is the Truth. I love that He desires to know me. I also know that Christ loves ragamuffins and wanted to associate with them. And since I want Christ to associate with me and I certainly want to associate with Christ, I think being a ragaumuffin must be a pretty good thing.