Pentecost 4A
July 2, 2017
Matthew 10:42-44
Genesis 22:1-14
“Give me
your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free, The
wretched refuse of your teeming shore, Send these, the homeless, tempest tost
to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”
Anyone
recognize that poem? It is the inscription on the Statue of Liberty. This
world-famous statue was a gift to the United States from France, meant to
commemorate the alliance of France and the US during the American Revolution.
The gift was also given by France in hopes that France, too, would someday be
able to attain a government in which people’s natural rights to life, liberty,
and the pursuit of happiness would be embraced, as they were in the United
States. For 130 years, “Lady Liberty” has stood on Liberty Island in Manhattan,
welcoming immigrants coming by boat – it was the first glimpse they saw of
America, and of the hopes and dreams they believed rested in our great country.
The torch, lifted high, would light the path to freedom, to hope, to liberty,
to new starts, to all the ideals on which America was built.
And what a
beautiful welcome she offered – not to the educated, the rich, the accomplished,
but to those listed on that beautiful inscription: the tired, the poor, those
yearning to breathe free, the “wretched refuse of your teeming shore,” the
homeless, those tossed about by storm upon storm – in short, those who sought a
better life than the one they had.
The statue
and what she stands for was meant to be a tribute to and a celebration of
Enlightenment ideals. But the welcome offered by this inscription could have
come right out of the mouth of Jesus. All throughout the Bible we see and hear
the same thing: welcome the stranger, care for the poor, heal the sick. Jesus
reaches out to all those “wretched refuse” – people of different faiths,
different genders, different races, different abilities (Gentiles, women,
Samaritans, lepers) – all those people that good, respectable Jews would have
nothing to do with. He reached out to them to heal them, and even, to make them
his disciples.
Today, in our
Gospel reading, Jesus is now equipping and instructing some of those very same “wretched
refuse” to bring his message to others. In the past weeks we have heard the
earlier part of his instruction, telling them not to pack anything, but rather,
to rely on the hospitality of strangers. He warns them that their work on his
behalf could bring division in their own families. In this closing section, he
offers what maybe is supposed to be an assurance: that when someone welcomes
them, it is like welcoming Christ himself. I’m not sure how much assurance that
would offer me, though. Putting yourself at the mercy of strangers is pretty
risky. It’s one thing to go to someone’s house when they’ve invited you, where
the risks may include having to listen to music you don’t like, or eating
unfamiliar food, but to rely for all your basic needs on the hospitality of people
you’ve never even met, people who may reject your beliefs and what you stand
for, people’s whose history you don’t know… that’s about as risky as it gets.
But I’m not
sure which is riskier – that, or being the people who will be doing the
welcoming. As I’ve reflected on this text this week, I have tried to put myself
in both positions: the position of the ones Jesus is talking to, who are to rely
on the welcomer, and the position of the one reading this 2000 years later, who
may be the one called upon to welcome a stranger, to welcome someone I might
call tired, poor, homeless, tempest-tossed, even, “wretched refuse” – to
welcome them into my home, my church, my town, my country.
That’s
pretty scary stuff. We don’t really know what we’re getting into by extending
that welcome. If we were the ones whose doors got knocked on by some dirty,
tired stranger claiming some guy, Jesus, whom we’d never heard of, was Lord…
would we let them in? Would we offer them a cup of cold water? They could steal
from us, or hurt us. They could challenge our beliefs. They could say something
that doesn’t jibe with how we see and understand the world. And all of these
things can be very threatening.
And yet, it
is these, these ones who offer the welcome to the stranger, about whom Jesus
says, “none of these will lose their reward,” and that indeed, they will be
welcoming Christ himself into their home and into their hearts.
Yes, it is
the faithful thing to do – to welcome without counting the cost, to see Christ
in our neighbors, even those who are strangers about whom we are skeptical. It
is faithful, but it is not without risk.
But who ever said faith was without
risk? Man, you don’t have to look any further than our Old Testament reading
today! The sacrifice of Isaac has never been a favorite story of mine, and all
the less so now that I have a son named Isaac! To imagine that God would call
Abraham to sacrifice his own son! We talked
last week about how faith means
loving God with heart and soul and mind and strength, even more than our
families, but this is a bit extreme, no? Of course, God doesn’t make Abraham go
through with it, which is a relief (though just imagine the lasting trauma of
the event, for both parties!). But the point is that trusting God means that we
listen to God in all things, and in all ways try to follow God’s command – even
if it puts us or our loved ones in danger.
 |
| Sacrifice of Isaac, Marc Chagal http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=54647 |
Or maybe
better is, the point is that our faith may call us into risky or dangerous
positions, but at the end of the day, God will provide: God will provide the
ram, a conversation partner, a new perspective on our old views, a lesson in
faith, a deeper relationship with God – and finally and most importantly, God
will provide forgiveness of sins and life everlasting through the sacrifice of God’s
own Son, Jesus Christ.
Stephen
Bouman was our speaker at Synod Assembly this year. He loves to tell this
story: When Steve was just 8 years old, he and his grandpa went fishing. They
stood there in silence, as fishermen often do, until suddenly his grandpa
turned to him and blurted out, “The only death you ever have to fear is behind
you in your baptism.” Then he smiled, and returned to his fishing in silence. Young
Steve stood there, stunned, unsure of what to make of this outburst. Many years
later, in 2001, when Steve served as the bishop of the Metro NY Synod, he
thought of this, as he stood at Ground Zero and watched first responders
running into the collapsed buildings to save people. He thought of it as he
anointed their heads with oil in the sign of the cross, a recollection of their
own baptism as they ran toward what may very well be their death. The only
death we ever have to fear is behind us in our baptism. It is this assurance
that makes it possible to have faith and to trust God.
The Statue of Liberty promised to many
immigrants over the years that new life, liberty and freedom were possible in
this land called America. But we who believe in Christ know that true freedom
comes in the trust of God’s providence. It comes in the knowledge that Christ
died for us and rose again so that we need not fear the grave, so that we could
trust that the only death we have to fear is behind us in our baptism, when we
were welcomed into the death, and into the life of Christ.
So let us step out in faith, sisters
and brothers in Christ. What in our lives and in this world requires our faith
and our trust in the providence of our living God? What tired, poor, homeless,
and wretched refuse of the world need a cold cup of water, or the promise of
new life? Let us welcome them in the name of Christ, trusting that when we
welcome them, we welcome also Christ himself.
Let us pray… Life-giving God, you have shown us from the beginning that faith
requires all of our hearts, souls, minds, and strength, and you have also shown
us that when we give everything we have, you provide everything we need. Help
us to trust your promise as we seek to serve the tired, poor, and homeless in
need of help. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
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