a Sermon for Lent 3A
Text: John 4:5-42
Jesus walks
Through the eyes of others, we see our Lord walking
on water, through deserts, in our minds.
We focus on photographs left to time
by those that saw something in Him, something different,
maybe even dangerous. But compelling.
In this picture, a woman stands before Him,
and he sits, relaxed and confident and
when they speak, you can see the magic flowing
between their lips, more intimate than a kiss,
more close than their bodies clutched together.
What we see is love. A dangerous love.
This talk is different. It is a linguistic dance between Jesus and this Samaritan woman. It begins with her self-consciousness; she knows that her people are outcasts and aren’t the right kind of Jews. That they are lesser. But Jesus doesn’t treat her that way. He treats her differently: not like a princess: elevated: but as an equal and participant. That they are the same. And in the end, she is changed. Remember last week’s reading about Nicodemus? Jesus asks if he is willing to undergo a life-long transformation: of being re-created. No. This woman gets the same question and she says yes.
Living Waters
When Jesus says that this living water
gushes up to eternal life, we scratch our heads,
confused: is He talking about heaven?
We focus on the physicality of the water
and permanence of time; but just as John invites us
to see Jesus as offering constant transformation
he offers this woman eternal life—a life
a now
a being
a way
a vibrant life that radiates love
that exemplifies Jesus like a mirror
reflecting life and love onto everything.
The conversation that Jesus and the woman have starts out talking about water, H2O and turns metaphorical, poetic. We often forget that John isn’t writing a biography, but a poetic form that we might today call creative nonfiction. Jesus sees in this well the opportunity to reveal a message about love and about being re-created.
Jacob’s Well
Jacob came across a well with sheep around it.
And a man was there, waiting for more to arrive,
when Rachel comes with her sheep. He refuses
to move the stone from the well, for not all
of the sheep have come. Jacob shoves the rock
so that these sheep may drink now.
This well becomes the people’s well.
Jesus uses Jacob’s well to speak about the power of the Living Water and Eternal Life—this vibrant life of being re-created. That Jesus, like Jacob shoves the rock away. Jesus brings that vibrant spirit to us immediately—we don’t have to wait for everybody to get there. And when this woman hears this, she runs into town to tell everybody.
The Disciples
They don’t get it.
They never do.
Following their master
like puppies, devoted,
always hungry, and
marking their territory.
Jesus gives them this living picture,
our photograph of a woman
transformed into vibrant life
and he tells them
`One sows and another reaps.'
Because she is off to sow and
the bountiful harvest will need reapers.
The woman is filled with the Spirit, and yet the disciples still aren’t sure of their jobs—their place in the story. Jesus has to put the tools in their hands and say “Look! The people will be here soon! Get ready to help them find the vibrant life of being re-created.”
Being Re-Created
I know I’m wrong from time to time.
I know I don’t live the life I should
or follow Jesus’s teachings closely enough
and I certainly don’t pray enough,
so why am I afraid of being re-created?
Why do I fear the vibrant life Jesus promises all of us?
Is it because he promises it to us all?
It certainly isn’t because I think that highly of myself
and this life. But I am. Being re-created means
things have to change and I have to change.
The Pious Young Man was asked to change
and he ran away. Is that what I’m doing?
This is a gospel of transformation. The woman goes from being a nobody and becomes a catalyst for the Kingdom. She isn’t convinced by Jesus’s arguments, nor is she magically given confidence because Jesus is a wizard or a shaman. She is filled with the Spirit because she realizes that she needs it. She realizes that her previous life was not a vibrant life and she was transformed. And was moved to bring others to the well to drink the Living Water offered not just by Jesus, but by his disciples. As Jesus says, we don’t have to drink from His well again—but we must be ready to act, to reap what others sow. May we be so ready and so moved.
Showing posts with label missional. Show all posts
Showing posts with label missional. Show all posts
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
No Retaliation
a Sermon for Epiphany 7A
Text: Matthew 5:38-48
Retaliation and escalation
Jesus begins the gospel with a familiar phrase: “You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.'” Now, I know that you know where this comes from and what it is about; I am just reminding you. To do that, we’ll have to go back thousands of years, long before Jesus and even the Torah (from where this phrase comes). Long before all of this, there was a different law of the land. A law, unwritten, but understood universally:
You can see how this thinking has persisted throughout history. Look at mafia movies:
Enshrining Evil
There seems to be something in us: something that wants to seek vengeance, to retaliate violently. Something that is in us at a truly base level. Which is why it was so remarkable that GOD would instruct the people with this teaching: “An eye for an eye,” because he tells them not to over-retaliate, to not teach people lessons. If someone steals your goat, you steal it back—you don’t burn his house down or anything else.
But, Jesus recognizes the problem: it actually enshrines violence. It makes retaliation OK, and He isn’t OK with that. Because we love vengeance, so we seek out the most “appropriate” retaliations. If someone messes with us a certain way, we desire to mess with them back—to hurt them in the very way they hurt us.
In the immediately preceding passage, Jesus makes a similar claim about oaths. He says that when you swear an oath, when you pinkie-swear with someone, you are saying that you will be honest and not steal or you will do what you say you will do. At the same time, you also communicate that the rest of the time, you don’t have to be honest. You communicate that it is OK to lie and cheat and steal all the rest of the time. So don’t swear any oath. GOD sees you—even inside your head—and knows when you lie or cheat or steal, so be a person who never lies and cheats and steals and you will never need an oath.
Jesus’s way: The Love Revolution
Jesus offers us a different way. But for some reason, we don’t understand it. It has to do with our reptilian brains—the oldest part of our brain—that is hardwired with two options in response to adversity: fight or flight. Either we retaliate, or we run away. This is also the way of the world. The part we’ve inherited from thousands of years ago that yearns for violence. The part that says that the most preferable option is to fight back. That good people fight and cowards run away.
So when we hear Jesus say “But I say to you Do not resist an evildoer,” we hear that as cowardly—as encouraging us to run away. We have to make it fit in that ancient paradigm: it is either one or the other: we have two square pegs and two square holes. And the peg Jesus hands us is round.
To make sense of this, Jesus gives us these three, very visual examples of this third way; and we might mistake them because they are so different from the world:
In the first he says, If somebody hits you on the cheek, offer him the other. Look at this: this is what turning your cheek looks like. You are giving them another shot. That is not running away and that is not retaliating.
Then he says, If somebody sues you for your coat, give them your cloak as well. Imagine the courtroom scene. You are the defendant and the charges are being read and you stand up, and start taking your clothes off. You just take them all off, including your shoes, and you ball them up and walk them to the other desk and you hand them over. Then you walk back and sit down. That is not running away and that is not retaliating.
The third one is awesome—but we screw it up so badly. We misunderstand it. Jesus says, If someone forces you to walk a mile, walk a second one. We hear that phrase, go the extra mile as if it were the ultimate do-gooderism. Good job! You did a little extra! That Protestant Work Ethic thing really suits you! But here is what Jesus is really saying. A Roman soldier would come across a Jewish peasant force him to carry something like 120 pounds of gear. And if the peasant valued his life, he would do it. Now, the image hits home at the important juncture at the end of that mile. Imagine the soldier, chuckling with his buddies about this guy carrying his stuff. He turns to the peasant and says:
Jesus wants us to get that this is a love revolution.
We’ve been reading The Secret Message of Jesus each Sunday, and last week we covered the idea that violent revolution is not revolutionary. That overthrowing a violent regime with a violent revolution is just perpetuating a cycle of violence: it is replacing violence with violence. And more, it enshrines a cycle of violence. Our own revolution enshrined a culture of violence for us. It told us that it is acceptable and there are times to fight fire with fire.
Jesus encourages us to fight fire with water. To violence, love is the water.
It Begins Here
This whole arc, Matthew 5, the first third of the Sermon on the Mount builds from the Beatitudes to this moment. We learn that we are to be and live a certain way, not act a certain way. We are to love. When Jesus says to love your enemies, I think he really intends to say that when we have a love revolution, there are no enemies. Everyone gets loved.
In the last year, we’ve seen bitterness and anger at St. Paul’s.
That is the way of the world, not the way of Jesus.
Anonymous letters, backbiting, potshots from the peanut gallery, back room conversations about people and their families.
That is the way of the world, not the way of Jesus.
People have even used our youth as weapons.
That is the way of the world, not the way of Jesus.
This ends today.
When St. Paul’s is on track, it is the epicenter of the love revolution. We might track evil in, like mud on our shoes. Just tap your shoe, and knock it off. This is a new place, not of this world. Something new.
Here and now—we love. We are a new creation built on love.
Text: Matthew 5:38-48
GOD of Hope and Wonder, you give us the tools of great change and the opportunity to make the choice. Help us to see your ways for us as the right choice. Amen.
Retaliation and escalation
Jesus begins the gospel with a familiar phrase: “You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.'” Now, I know that you know where this comes from and what it is about; I am just reminding you. To do that, we’ll have to go back thousands of years, long before Jesus and even the Torah (from where this phrase comes). Long before all of this, there was a different law of the land. A law, unwritten, but understood universally:
If you do something to me, I do something to you.It is as simple as that. OK, not just as simple as that, because we didn’t just retaliate, we had to do more: we had to teach them a lesson. They had to know that they shouldn’t have done it, and won’t do it again. So if they hit you, you maimed them.
If you do something to me, I do something bigger to you.Sometimes that lesson wasn’t actually for them, but for other people. So if someone stole your goat from you, you would kill them. You had to show what happens when someone messes with you. If they insulted your wife, you killed them, and their wife. If they went after your kids, you killed them, their wife, and their kids: you wiped the whole family from the face of the earth. That was just what you did.
Besides, they were clearly evil people, anyway.
You can see how this thinking has persisted throughout history. Look at mafia movies:
“Eh! He disrespected me, so I shot him in the head!”And every week (I guarantee it) there is at least one movie at the theater that encourages over-retaliation. At least one movie that glorifies vengeance. The first one that came to my mind was from a few years ago: Taken with Liam Neeson; a movie in which a man’s daughter is kidnapped, and he proceeds to kill all the people involved in the kidnapping. And we want him to! We watch him get his bloody vengeance and we don’t want to see him show any mercy! He has a movie out this week, Unknown, which appears to have a similar vengeance plot.
Enshrining Evil
There seems to be something in us: something that wants to seek vengeance, to retaliate violently. Something that is in us at a truly base level. Which is why it was so remarkable that GOD would instruct the people with this teaching: “An eye for an eye,” because he tells them not to over-retaliate, to not teach people lessons. If someone steals your goat, you steal it back—you don’t burn his house down or anything else.
But, Jesus recognizes the problem: it actually enshrines violence. It makes retaliation OK, and He isn’t OK with that. Because we love vengeance, so we seek out the most “appropriate” retaliations. If someone messes with us a certain way, we desire to mess with them back—to hurt them in the very way they hurt us.
In the immediately preceding passage, Jesus makes a similar claim about oaths. He says that when you swear an oath, when you pinkie-swear with someone, you are saying that you will be honest and not steal or you will do what you say you will do. At the same time, you also communicate that the rest of the time, you don’t have to be honest. You communicate that it is OK to lie and cheat and steal all the rest of the time. So don’t swear any oath. GOD sees you—even inside your head—and knows when you lie or cheat or steal, so be a person who never lies and cheats and steals and you will never need an oath.
Oaths enshrine evil just as “an eye for an eye” enshrines violence.
Jesus’s way: The Love Revolution
Jesus offers us a different way. But for some reason, we don’t understand it. It has to do with our reptilian brains—the oldest part of our brain—that is hardwired with two options in response to adversity: fight or flight. Either we retaliate, or we run away. This is also the way of the world. The part we’ve inherited from thousands of years ago that yearns for violence. The part that says that the most preferable option is to fight back. That good people fight and cowards run away.
So when we hear Jesus say “But I say to you Do not resist an evildoer,” we hear that as cowardly—as encouraging us to run away. We have to make it fit in that ancient paradigm: it is either one or the other: we have two square pegs and two square holes. And the peg Jesus hands us is round.
To make sense of this, Jesus gives us these three, very visual examples of this third way; and we might mistake them because they are so different from the world:
In the first he says, If somebody hits you on the cheek, offer him the other. Look at this: this is what turning your cheek looks like. You are giving them another shot. That is not running away and that is not retaliating.
Then he says, If somebody sues you for your coat, give them your cloak as well. Imagine the courtroom scene. You are the defendant and the charges are being read and you stand up, and start taking your clothes off. You just take them all off, including your shoes, and you ball them up and walk them to the other desk and you hand them over. Then you walk back and sit down. That is not running away and that is not retaliating.
The third one is awesome—but we screw it up so badly. We misunderstand it. Jesus says, If someone forces you to walk a mile, walk a second one. We hear that phrase, go the extra mile as if it were the ultimate do-gooderism. Good job! You did a little extra! That Protestant Work Ethic thing really suits you! But here is what Jesus is really saying. A Roman soldier would come across a Jewish peasant force him to carry something like 120 pounds of gear. And if the peasant valued his life, he would do it. Now, the image hits home at the important juncture at the end of that mile. Imagine the soldier, chuckling with his buddies about this guy carrying his stuff. He turns to the peasant and says:
“We’re here. I’ll take my stuff back.”And the peasant responds:
“Actually, I want to keep walking. I’m good.”This isn’t weak-kneed flubberings and it isn’t work a little harder, either. It is a different kind of option.
Jesus wants us to get that this is a love revolution.
We’ve been reading The Secret Message of Jesus each Sunday, and last week we covered the idea that violent revolution is not revolutionary. That overthrowing a violent regime with a violent revolution is just perpetuating a cycle of violence: it is replacing violence with violence. And more, it enshrines a cycle of violence. Our own revolution enshrined a culture of violence for us. It told us that it is acceptable and there are times to fight fire with fire.
That is the way of the world. Not the way of Jesus.
Jesus encourages us to fight fire with water. To violence, love is the water.
It Begins Here
This whole arc, Matthew 5, the first third of the Sermon on the Mount builds from the Beatitudes to this moment. We learn that we are to be and live a certain way, not act a certain way. We are to love. When Jesus says to love your enemies, I think he really intends to say that when we have a love revolution, there are no enemies. Everyone gets loved.
In the last year, we’ve seen bitterness and anger at St. Paul’s.
That is the way of the world, not the way of Jesus.
Anonymous letters, backbiting, potshots from the peanut gallery, back room conversations about people and their families.
That is the way of the world, not the way of Jesus.
People have even used our youth as weapons.
That is the way of the world, not the way of Jesus.
This ends today.
When St. Paul’s is on track, it is the epicenter of the love revolution. We might track evil in, like mud on our shoes. Just tap your shoe, and knock it off. This is a new place, not of this world. Something new.
Here and now—we love. We are a new creation built on love.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Accepting vulnerability
a Sermon for Proper 9C
Text: Luke 10:1-11, 16-20
Sometimes Jesus doesn’t make it easy for us, does he? The instructions that he gives the 70 are to go out, taking nothing with them, and travel to all of the places Jesus wanted to go. These are not easy expectations. What if we left here and some headed to Peachtree City and others to Roscoe and others Fayatteville. You leave from here without stopping at home and without your cars. All right everybody, stand up and get moving! You’re not excited by this prospect? You don’t want to walk all that way without clear expectations for what you are to do when you actually do get there? And considering he also says to leave your purse at home, when you arrive there at about dinner time, you’re going to be pretty hungry and have no money…I can’t understand why you aren’t motivated by these prospects! Huh…I’m going to have to rethink my expectations.
What I was asking you to do is no more out of character for us than it would have been for them. Jesus was asking a lot of these people. He asked them to leave everything behind. Everything. One set of clothes. That’s it. He even makes it tougher on them: they’re to go barefoot. This is a high demand.
Why does he ask this of them? To remove what prevents them from relying on GOD. He is putting these people in danger, in a position of complete dependence on something other than themselves. This is what Jesus is expecting of the 70.
What does Jesus expect of the people they will meet? These 70 people will arrive in their various towns in pairs. They will be hungry, dirty, tired, and with nothing of value—no means of helping themselves. If the people the 70 meet are Jews, they are likely to take them in and offer to clean their feet, offer them food and a place to stay, and demonstrate a profound sense of welcome, that everybody that walks through their door deserves their help. This is a profound sense of hospitality that few of us could imagine happening today.
Jesus is expecting these 70 to depend on GOD to provide for them and depend on the hospitality of others. Those are some pretty lofty expectations.
Few of us are comfortable with this subject; with this part of the expectation because Jesus is asking us to be vulnerable. In a world of strength, being vulnerable puts us at the bottom.
Jesus asks us to voluntarily empty ourselves of worth and power and influence and become dependent on GOD and our neighbor for our very survival. I highly doubt that Jesus only intends for us to hear this metaphorically. I am also not saying we’re supposed to literally walk to Peachtree City shoeless to stay in a stranger’s house and hang out for a few days, but I don’t think that such a vulnerable position is only supposed to happen inside us. What would it mean in today’s terms to empty ourselves in this way: to make ourselves that vulnerable to GOD and one another? Does it mean living without a savings account to protect us? Does it mean selling a car and asking others to take us where we need to go? Does it mean giving away the excess—the stuff and the money that goes beyond putting clothes on our backs and food on our tables? Does it mean abandoning our glorious homes and living in a state of physical and economic poverty? If we are honest to Jesus’s teaching, none of these questions is ridiculous. And this puts a lot of pressure on the way we do live—on our Western obsession with personal and corporate security. We want assurance of safety in the moment and for tomorrow. And deep down, we know better. We know that no amount of border guards and no amount of weaponry can ever keep us entirely safe. No amount of “cushion” in the bank will ever bring us complete economic security. Jesus shows his followers that the only assurance of safety we have comes from being entirely dependent on GOD and one another.
These words aren’t easy to hear any more than they are easy to say. If we trust in GOD, we will receive abundantly. But that trust is shown through vulnerability.
The assurance we have comes from Jesus. This gospel comes immediately after the pericope in which Jesus “turns his face toward Jerusalem”—an act of confidence and certainty of purpose and focus in direction. These 70 followers are sent out to the places that Jesus wants to go. In this new direction for Jesus, there is urgency. And in this morning’s pericope, there is similar urgency placed, not on the disciples, but on 70 of his followers. Jesus is calling on them to “get vulnerable already! It’s time to go!”
We talked about this on Wednesday at the Bible Study, about that number, 70; that it is likely a reference to a list of nations from Genesis 10, in which the nations of the world numbered 70. So Jesus is sending out all the nations of the world, a precursor to what would happen later at Pentecost. It also helps us to see this as our call—as something that Jesus asks of each of us.
But this expectation comes with a second expectation: an expectation of what those followers will find when they reach the towns and cities. Some that the 70 will visit will show uncommon welcome, feeding and clothing and caring for their needs, while others will not, receiving the dust from the followers’ feet.
The hope is that enough places will show that welcome so that all 70 will be cared for and that their needs will be met.
The lesson that I take away from this pericope involves how like the 70 we are—called into vulnerability by GOD—and how like those townspeople St. Paul’s is. We have the opportunity to go out into the world vulnerably and the opportunity to provide for those charged to this vulnerable life. Because if Jesus expects us to be so vulnerable, doesn’t he expect everyone to do the same? And if someone comes among us who is stripped down to the metaphoric shirt on her back, are we not the householder that should invite her in? Are we not the ones that should feed her and wash her feet and give her a place to stay?
The life of the Christian is to be vulnerable and to protect others; to allow ourselves to be weak in the face of our enemies and strong in defending the poor and the abused—concepts that are so opposite our cultural priorities and alien to our usual modes of thinking. And let’s be honest, even being the protector requires vulnerability—to let someone into your house, to eat your food, to live with you—is to share in an uncommon intimacy that few of us could truly understand.
We are challenged this week by a charge that is uncomfortable and frightening: to be vulnerable to GOD, to friends, and to strangers. To show uncommon hospitality to those that need love and nourishment of all kinds: spiritual, psychological, emotional, theological, intellectual, inspirational, and on and on. To show a profound intimacy that comes from believing Jesus when he suggests we put all of our trust in GOD. To extend that invitation of profound welcome to others knowing that doing so may well change the very foundation of our faith and the very core of our being. We are those townspeople that Jesus is hoping to transform.
Text: Luke 10:1-11, 16-20
GOD of Hope and Wonder, the mission you have given us is dangerous and deeply rewarding. May we have the courage to accept the challenge you give us. Amen.
Sometimes Jesus doesn’t make it easy for us, does he? The instructions that he gives the 70 are to go out, taking nothing with them, and travel to all of the places Jesus wanted to go. These are not easy expectations. What if we left here and some headed to Peachtree City and others to Roscoe and others Fayatteville. You leave from here without stopping at home and without your cars. All right everybody, stand up and get moving! You’re not excited by this prospect? You don’t want to walk all that way without clear expectations for what you are to do when you actually do get there? And considering he also says to leave your purse at home, when you arrive there at about dinner time, you’re going to be pretty hungry and have no money…I can’t understand why you aren’t motivated by these prospects! Huh…I’m going to have to rethink my expectations.
What I was asking you to do is no more out of character for us than it would have been for them. Jesus was asking a lot of these people. He asked them to leave everything behind. Everything. One set of clothes. That’s it. He even makes it tougher on them: they’re to go barefoot. This is a high demand.
Why does he ask this of them? To remove what prevents them from relying on GOD. He is putting these people in danger, in a position of complete dependence on something other than themselves. This is what Jesus is expecting of the 70.
What does Jesus expect of the people they will meet? These 70 people will arrive in their various towns in pairs. They will be hungry, dirty, tired, and with nothing of value—no means of helping themselves. If the people the 70 meet are Jews, they are likely to take them in and offer to clean their feet, offer them food and a place to stay, and demonstrate a profound sense of welcome, that everybody that walks through their door deserves their help. This is a profound sense of hospitality that few of us could imagine happening today.
Jesus is expecting these 70 to depend on GOD to provide for them and depend on the hospitality of others. Those are some pretty lofty expectations.
Few of us are comfortable with this subject; with this part of the expectation because Jesus is asking us to be vulnerable. In a world of strength, being vulnerable puts us at the bottom.
Jesus asks us to voluntarily empty ourselves of worth and power and influence and become dependent on GOD and our neighbor for our very survival. I highly doubt that Jesus only intends for us to hear this metaphorically. I am also not saying we’re supposed to literally walk to Peachtree City shoeless to stay in a stranger’s house and hang out for a few days, but I don’t think that such a vulnerable position is only supposed to happen inside us. What would it mean in today’s terms to empty ourselves in this way: to make ourselves that vulnerable to GOD and one another? Does it mean living without a savings account to protect us? Does it mean selling a car and asking others to take us where we need to go? Does it mean giving away the excess—the stuff and the money that goes beyond putting clothes on our backs and food on our tables? Does it mean abandoning our glorious homes and living in a state of physical and economic poverty? If we are honest to Jesus’s teaching, none of these questions is ridiculous. And this puts a lot of pressure on the way we do live—on our Western obsession with personal and corporate security. We want assurance of safety in the moment and for tomorrow. And deep down, we know better. We know that no amount of border guards and no amount of weaponry can ever keep us entirely safe. No amount of “cushion” in the bank will ever bring us complete economic security. Jesus shows his followers that the only assurance of safety we have comes from being entirely dependent on GOD and one another.
These words aren’t easy to hear any more than they are easy to say. If we trust in GOD, we will receive abundantly. But that trust is shown through vulnerability.
The assurance we have comes from Jesus. This gospel comes immediately after the pericope in which Jesus “turns his face toward Jerusalem”—an act of confidence and certainty of purpose and focus in direction. These 70 followers are sent out to the places that Jesus wants to go. In this new direction for Jesus, there is urgency. And in this morning’s pericope, there is similar urgency placed, not on the disciples, but on 70 of his followers. Jesus is calling on them to “get vulnerable already! It’s time to go!”
We talked about this on Wednesday at the Bible Study, about that number, 70; that it is likely a reference to a list of nations from Genesis 10, in which the nations of the world numbered 70. So Jesus is sending out all the nations of the world, a precursor to what would happen later at Pentecost. It also helps us to see this as our call—as something that Jesus asks of each of us.
But this expectation comes with a second expectation: an expectation of what those followers will find when they reach the towns and cities. Some that the 70 will visit will show uncommon welcome, feeding and clothing and caring for their needs, while others will not, receiving the dust from the followers’ feet.
The hope is that enough places will show that welcome so that all 70 will be cared for and that their needs will be met.
The lesson that I take away from this pericope involves how like the 70 we are—called into vulnerability by GOD—and how like those townspeople St. Paul’s is. We have the opportunity to go out into the world vulnerably and the opportunity to provide for those charged to this vulnerable life. Because if Jesus expects us to be so vulnerable, doesn’t he expect everyone to do the same? And if someone comes among us who is stripped down to the metaphoric shirt on her back, are we not the householder that should invite her in? Are we not the ones that should feed her and wash her feet and give her a place to stay?
The life of the Christian is to be vulnerable and to protect others; to allow ourselves to be weak in the face of our enemies and strong in defending the poor and the abused—concepts that are so opposite our cultural priorities and alien to our usual modes of thinking. And let’s be honest, even being the protector requires vulnerability—to let someone into your house, to eat your food, to live with you—is to share in an uncommon intimacy that few of us could truly understand.
We are challenged this week by a charge that is uncomfortable and frightening: to be vulnerable to GOD, to friends, and to strangers. To show uncommon hospitality to those that need love and nourishment of all kinds: spiritual, psychological, emotional, theological, intellectual, inspirational, and on and on. To show a profound intimacy that comes from believing Jesus when he suggests we put all of our trust in GOD. To extend that invitation of profound welcome to others knowing that doing so may well change the very foundation of our faith and the very core of our being. We are those townspeople that Jesus is hoping to transform.
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