Sticky Children
There was a time that my life found me attending annual women’s conferences. If you are familiar with Evangelical Christianity, or know someone who is, you may have attended these as well.
Conferences are week or weekend long meetings often held in an arena or large hotel room. There are Praise and Worship times of singing, clapping and crying. There are times in which well known authors/actors/speakers and other people of note come and share their wisdom/inspiration/experiences (to me, one of the most memorable of these was a woman who served for a while with Mother Theresa-the small Indian children did not know what to make of her blonde American hair) and there are times in which concerts are performed by fairly well known Gospel or Christian pop/rock artists.
Conferences are often organized into categories. There is, for example, a ministry that sets up events for both senior adults and teenagers. There are conferences for people who are single and not dating. There are retreats for married couples (these often involve comedians doing skits-I do not really know why). On and on the list goes. I have been to marriage weekends. I have been to very loud youth gatherings (for which I was too old and quiet even when I WAS a youth). I have mostly, however, been to “Women’s Conferencesâ€.
I am not generally made for such things. I don’t easily sit still. I don’t listen very well. I absolutely dislike large crowds and walking up and down stairs is something that fills me with severe dread. So, I usually spent my time trying not to doodle or whisper to my neighbor or fidget and distract the person beside me. As a result, I retained very little of what was shared.
Until her.
I don’t remember her name, but her story comes back to me time and time again. She spoke, you see, about one of my favorite passages in the Gospels, the love that Jesus displayed for the weakest, most overlooked members of His society, the children.
It went, she imparted, something like this:
Jesus was, as he often did, teaching a large crowd of people. This crowd was not just your average Sunday Morning attendance gathering. This was more than an extended family reunion. There were thousands of people pressed around Him, waiting to see whom He made mad that day or what miracle (read that as “magic trick†to them) He would perform or what object lesson He would impart.
The Disciples were, as the Disciples could usually be found doing, arguing about which one of them would be the greatest in Jesus’ kingdom or grumbling that John got to sit beside Jesus AGAIN at dinner or stealing all the pennies in the treasury for themselves. They weren’t ready for what came next.
NOBODY was ready for what came next.
Er…make that WHO came next.
All of a sudden, women…left out of the Temple, not allowed to testify in court, “Lord I may be a Jewish man but thank God I’m not a woman†type WOMEN began making their way through the crowd.
What’s worse is that they had children with them. Children. Dirty, dusty, bought and sold like property, slaughtered by kings and thrown into rivers, not considered even people yet CHILDREN were about to approach their Rabbi and the Disciples decided that they would not stand for it.
Picture it, implored the storyteller/conference speaker whose name has been forever lost to me but whose message still comes back years later…Picture it…these were not your fancy, ribbons and bows, Sunday clothes and hairspray, Chick-Fil-A going, wet wipe using, pristine families. These were…these were…McDonald’s people. They wore jeans. They had messy hair and holes in their shirts. They had catsup on their faces and their hands were (shudder) sticky.
“Hold up there†our narrator imagined the Disciples saying as they folded their arms and began encircling Jesus. “Our Master is a busy, busy man. You don’t have an appointment. You’re messy. You’re dirty. He doesn’t have time for you. Go wash off, clean up and maybe come back when you aren’t so (shudder) sticky.â€
And then, and then, in the stillness of the auditorium, our speaker began the sentence that will probably come back to me for the rest of my life.
“Let them come†she imparted in the role of Jesus “Let them come to me. I love sticky kids.â€
Do you hear it? Do you see?
If you are anything like me, there are times when there isn’t a lot of grace in your life. Judgment surrounds you and even the people who claim to love you best keep pointing out only your sins, only your mistakes.
I LOVE STICKY KIDS
If you are anything like me, your soul is torn and patched with BAND AIDS that don’t quite cover all the holes.
I LOVE STICKY KIDS
If you are anything like me, you are going through a time in which everything you have been dreaming of has been crushed and you wonder what you are any good for, anyway.
I LOVE STICKY KIDS
If you are anything like me, you can quote the Scriptures, win the Bible Trivia Games, sing the songs and probably preach the sermons, but you are looking for so much more than just the words people keep giving to you, because empty words never solved anything, did they?
I LOVE STICKY KIDS
If you are anything like me, you are tired of the endless debates about things that you aren’t sure even really matter and you just want something you can know for sure, you just want something real.
I LOVE STICKY KIDS
If you are anything like me, you keep trying and trying only to fall flat on your face over and over again and you wonder if you should just give up because you know if you try once more, you are just going to fail…again and again. Every time.
I LOVE STICKY KIDS
If you are anything like me, you are tired of people and their categories and their conditions and you wonder why we can’t all just be human together and why we have to put so many labels on so many things and can’t we just go love and care for the people in our world without so many judgements.
I LOVE STICKY KIDS
If you are like me, you are messy
If you are like me, you are mud streaked
If you are like me, you fall down
If you are like me, you have catsup on your face and honey in your hair
If you are like me, you are hurting
If you are like me, you have scars
If you are like me, you are broken
You are tear stained
You are torn
You are weary
And confused
And someone has tried to push you back to where it was you started from
You are ignored
You are stumbling
You are so very small
And you
You are sticky
It doesn’t matter, our storyteller reminded us. Jesus didn’t care.
You know what He did?
He put His arms around them.
Those sticky, dirty, messy, unimportant children who were the lowest of the low were embraced by The Perfect, Sinless, Son of God.
Can you hear it?
Can you hear the crowd murmur? Can you hear the Disciples gasp? Can you hear people asking if Jesus was out of His mind?
He, who had talked with the most important Religious Leaders of His day…He, who had stood up in church and explained ancient Scriptures written by the Prophets Themselves…
He, Jesus, that many people still hoped would strap on a sword, mount up on a white horse and go charging into the heart of the Roman Empire in order to lead a Bloody Revolution was placing toddlers in His lap.
The Hoped For General was tugging braids.
The Future King was wiping noses.
The Son of God was giving two year olds hugs.
They didn’t understand.
Some of them probably died still not understanding.
But every now and then, we do. Every now and then We
The Messy
The Fallen
The Forgotten
The Confused
Get a glimpse of Glory
And we don’t see swords
We don’t see armies
We don’t see sacks of coins or decrees or treaties or land or titles or crowns
We see nothing of Power
We see nothing of Might
We see Jesus
We see His Heart
We see His Love
We see Him holding out His hands
And offering an embrace
Catsup faced
Sticky Hands
And all