There’s a visceral uncomfortableness knowing 2,429 pleas for help rest on my desk. 

Let’s back up a bit. 

My staff function at Doxology is: storyteller – a mild euphemism for someone who listens and shares stories about what God is doing around the congregation. For Journey to the Cross, however, I floated – another euphemism for the person who manages lost pens, messy notecards, and empty rock tubs. Occasionally someone asks for directions, but every now and then … prayer. I love that part. 

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The Woman in the Garden

Near midday, I floated past the garden station and observed a person engrossed in prayer. A middle aged woman, her eyes were closed as she whispered to herself in hushed reflection - visitors moving busily from one area to another.

I sat down on the couch, introduced myself, and asked if I could pray with her. 

She sat silently for a few seconds, still praying. 

“No, but would you stay here for a few minutes?” She asked.

We didn’t say anything in those few moments, but I could feel the weight of her presence in the way I remember feeling my father when he reflected about something he had no intention of telling me – a heavy reminder that some conversations are never meant to be shared with anyone except God. 

When she stood up to leave, the woman pensively looked back down at me. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I have a lot … a lot of things to work out. I’m not sure, but I’m probably too messy even for God …” 

She left, and I never saw her again. 

For the next few minutes, I walked through the exhibit, replaying that encounter in my mind – selfish concerns like did I ask the right questions? Was there something more I could have done to ease that desperation?

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Are My Sins Too Much?

Finally in the cross room, I stood in the back corner and watched families, singles, old, and young as they hammered their sins over to God. I thought to myself that each person in that room could be struggling like the woman in the garden, asking themselves: “Are my sins too much?”

In past years, when Journey to the Cross concludes, we dispose of the anonymous prayers guests nail to their cross. Carrying burdens on paper is an intimately personal part of the guest experience, so we’ve always concluded that they serve only the guest and God. But, this year, as I passed the stack of prayers ready for the trash, I felt compelled to save them even though I didn’t know how they could be used. Maybe they’ve served their purpose. I wasn’t sure, but God clearly left it on my heart that there was more to be said.  

At home, I crafted a plan to help reveal what God was asking me to do. In Plan A, I stared at the bag of cards on my desk but nothing spoke to me. I moved the bag to the kitchen. I moved it to the car. I moved it back to the desk – hoping that maybe repositioning them would shake something loose.

On to Plan B. This time, instead of staring at it, I started the delicate process of counting the cards in the bag. My goal this time was to simply see the totality of prayers without exposing myself to what was written on the card -- the Holy connection between guest and God. I say totality because by the end, I encountered 2,429 prayers. Fullness or bigness, in this case, just isn't the same expression.

Early in the evening, my daughter saw me counting the mountain of cards stamped “SIN,” and asked why I would do such a thing. To which, I responded. “I don’t actually know.” An honest assessment of a spiritual endeavor without goals. Sometimes, I know, God takes time.

Days later, frustrated, I tossed the cards into a basket and looked at them one last time. 

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‍And there it was. 

At the top of the pile rested a card that said: “I am an outcast.” 

I can’t explain why, but I am still welled up with chest-high emotion when I look at that card. And that’s not a physical response because the phrase is articulate or profound. It’s not even fancy. 

No, the statement is real. It’s us. It’s everyone around us. It’s the woman in the garden. Fortunately, together, we celebrate the God who promises us that He will gather up the outcasts (Isaiah 56:8). He came for us and He died for us – the sinners, transgressors, and outcasts.  I wish I had asked her name. I wish I could remind her that Easter is an existential reminder that God came for the very least of us. He came for people just like you – at the end of your rope, too messy for God. 

You see, not a single one of those 2,429 anonymous cards reflected a church filled with people reaching out to God to let Him know how well their 401K is looking. Not a single person wanted to tell God about their car, phone, or social media profiles. That’s not to say awesome things aren’t happening, but it’s not why we reach out to God in these moments. 

Here's the good news that doesn't seem like good news at first ... but really, it’s great news:

• We’re a community of sinners with secrets and doubts.
• In our walls live parents who fight. 
• Children who worship social media, and parents who worship their career.
• Men and women who struggle with infidelity.
• Brothers and sisters who fight before they love.
• Friends and family who wrestle with lust, pride, and selfishness.
• Under our roof reside people who find peace in substances, food, and possessions. 
• On the roads, we find ourselves short of patience and long on frustration. 
• We’re tired more than we’re inspired.

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It’s OK. We’re outcasts. Every single one of us. 

Looking at that pile again, I don’t feel trepidation. I’m not uncomfortable, and I hope the woman in the garden feels the same peace. I hope everyone walked away from Good Friday and Easter this year with a new sense of home. That while we might look like outcasts, we all know that, by Grace, Christ accepts us in every state of our brokenness.

And He’s not giving up any time soon. 

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