
Believe you me,
Ragamuffins aren’t good, they’re graced;
Everyone expects a clean Christian—
Nobody looks to the sinner…
Not that they know purity—
Acknowledging their own sin as pure;
Never smelling their own stink.
Must such an affront
Against Christ’s gospel be affirmed?
Never!—Fuck all of that!
Never mind the language!—
Idealism is willful ignorance—
None of us are pure; focus on that,
Grace is never for the worthy.
POET’S NOTE:
An acrostic Scorched Sunday poem. Part of my Scorched Strays collection. This poem draws inspiration from a ragamuffin preacher whose life and theology rejected the illusion of Christian purity. It confronts the impulse to divide the worthy from the unworthy and returns instead to the scandal at the heart of grace.
© 2026 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.




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