So I was at the clothing bank this morning, waiting in the fluorescent-lit, plywood-walled hallway as some of our newly arrived refugees filled trash bags with a hodge-podge of hand-me-downs. I had taken along a book to read, as is my custom - this time the brand new miscellany by Frederick Buechner. I found it hard to focus on the book, however - as engaging as Buechner’s writing always is - because down the hallway was a single mother with two children, both of them vying for her attention, both of them picking fights with each other.

“Mommy, he poked me in the eye!” the girl screamed, tears streaking down her face.

“Say you’re sorry,” commanded the mother to her son sternly.

“Sorry,” said the eye-poker with a tone that lacked earnestness.

“Say, ‘I forgive you’.”

“No,” retorted the one with the tear-filled eyes as she walked away, sniffling, arms crossed. “I don’t want to!”

It wasn’t long until the family was called into the office to fill out their forms, but it sure seemed like a long time what with the eye-poking and screaming and relentless rebellion from the son each time his mother told him to sit down and shut up - which occured every ten seconds or so.

Once inside the office, they quieted down, and I was just able to make out a question from the youngest of them, the little girl whose tears had mostly stopped flowing.

“Who’s that in the picture?” I heard her ask.

I knew which picture she was referring to because I had just been in the office a few minutes earlier and had given a moment’s attention to the big picture on the wall of the man with the black beard, the white robe, the compassionate yet piercing eyes.

“It’s Jesus,” responded the mother, her tone having suddenly lost its edge.

“Is that really what he looks like?” asked the son.

“Yes,” the mother said.

“How do they know?”

“Because that’s what the Bible says he looks like.”

The absurdity of the statement hit me, but I couldn’t dwell on it too long because the conversation continued.

“Everyone has their own idea of what Jesus looks like,” offered the woman behind the desk, who with a gold crucifix around her neck and fake red fingernails types clients’ information into the computer day after day, week after week, year after year.

What struck me most about this whole fascinating episode was how the scene went from pandemonium one second to something miraculous that bordered on awe and reverence the next. The pandemonium ended (fleetingly, I must add) and awe and reverence took its place (if but for a moment). What made the difference? It was the face of Jesus.

For a split-second I was tempted to put down the book, walk over to them and tell them who Jesus really is, since I am a Christian and in my stream of the Christian faith we are taught to tell everyone we meet everything we know about Jesus, but then it struck me.

This Jesus in the picture on the plywood wall at the clothing bank, along with the pictures all of us have of Jesus on the walls of our hearts and minds, are all in some way representative of the real Jesus who was born in a cave out back, who grew up stubbing his toes and skinning his knees and wetting the bed, who got thirsty and hungry and tired, who healed the sick and raised the dead and told seemingly everyone with words both veiled and explicit that the Kingdom of God was at hand, who ultimately died on the cross and rose from the dead and ascended where he now sits at the right hand of the Father in Heaven - this Jesus, the real Jesus, the one we have so much yet to learn about, the one we have only begun to get to know, was the Jesus who said, “Come to me, all who are weary and weighed down, and I will give you rest.” And also, “Let the little children come to me.”

This morning at the clothing bank, I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the unremorseful eye-poking big brother and the unforgiving eye-poked little sister and the tired and edgy but trying-her-best single mother were the exact sorts of people to whom Jesus was and is saying, “Come to me.” He’s not calling those who have their act together. He’s calling the messes. He’s calling those with no clue what he looks like, just as he’s calling those who think they have him all figured out. And that is really good news for all of us.

“I stood there holding my gun and felt special because I was part of something that took me seriously and I was not running from anyone anymore.”

These are the words of Ishmael Beah from his book A Long Way Gone, in which he tells his story from his days as a child soldier in the army of Sierra Leone, which he was manipulated into joining at the age of twelve. He was later freed from the army, underwent rehabilitation, and eventually found himself in New York City where he was given the chance to speak out against the practice of enlisting brainwashed children to fight wars (a practice that continues today, perhaps most notably in northern Uganda).

As you can imagine, the circumstances that lead to this tragedy are multi-faceted and complex. But this idea of belonging, of not running anymore, is one reason teenagers in American cities join gangs, for one thing. But I think it’s something we all can relate to in one way or another. Most of us, by God’s grace, will never join a gang in order to be part of something that takes us seriously, part of something in which we matter. But that desire is in each of us, and I believe it’s God-given. We’re made to belong. We’re created in the imago Dei, crafted for relationality.

So, as inside out people, we reflect on the church. Do the Ishmael Beahs in our lives (assuming they are in fact in our lives) find the church to be a community worth belonging to, a community that takes them seriously? Is this story we’re telling - the story of Christ and his Kingdom - compelling enough? Why do so many of those looking for belonging, for purpose, need to turn to gangs and militias to find stories they can belong to? Is this story of the Kingdom really Good News for a twelve-year-old brainwashed killing machine? If not, is it really the Good News?