Taking Up The Cross In A Time Of War

Sermon for Lent 2, Year B, 3/16/03 (Three days before the invasion of Iraq)

St. Barnabas Episcopal Church, Glen Ellyn, Illinois

Genesis 22:1-14, Psalm 16:5-11, Romans 8:31-39, Mark 8:31-38

In the year 390, Ambrose, Bishop of Milan, sent a letter to one of his parishioners. Ambrose was convinced that this parishioner had committed a grievous and public sin. In his letter, Ambrose told the parishioner that until he repented publicly he would not be allowed to receive Communion.  Ambrose had excommunicated him. But this was no ordinary church member. It was Theodosius, emperor of the Roman Empire. It seems one of Theodosius’ officials had been murdered in the Greek city of Thessalonica. The exact circumstances are unclear. Perhaps it was a tax revolt.  Perhaps it was a random terrorist attack. In any event, Theodosius had done what emperors always do. He sent in the army to teach the people of Thessalonica, and by extension the rest of the empire, a lesson. Some 7,000 people – men, women, and children – were killed, the vast majority of whom had had nothing to do with the death of the official. Ambrose was not a pacifist, but he knew that the emperor’s actions needed to be condemned even if it meant the very real possibility of being sent to prison or killed.  Emperors don’t usually like to be challenged. Against all odds, Emperor Theodosius repented and publicly sought absolution from his bishop.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Ambrose and Theodosius lately. What would Ambrose say about the looming invasion of Iraq?  Would it make any difference? Christian leaders around the world and the leaders of nearly every Christian denomination in America have stated that this war does not meet the standards of a just war. The Pope has declared the same. But it does not seem to matter.

Some of these leaders can perhaps be written off as the religious lackeys of the left – people who would reflexively oppose any use of force by America. But, not all of them. The current Pope has never been accused of being a liberal lackey. Nor is Miroslav Volf, an evangelical theologian on the faculty of Yale. There are others who cannot be so easily written off.

There are some theologians who have argued that a preemptive war on Iraq is justifiable. One has to wonder though if the religious lackeys of the left don’t have their parallel among some conservatives who have never seen a war waged by their own country that they could not justify. Did Theodosius have any theologians around to reassure him that his use of force was necessary and justified for the good order of the Empire?  “You can’t run an empire after all without a little collateral damage.” One problem I have with the just war theory is that in practice it is too elastic. It can be stretched, and has been, to support every war this nation and others have waged. Too often, the just war theory has become merely the “excuse war theory.”

I have referred in passing to the pending war in sermons a couple times recently but have been hesitant to address it directly. On reason for that hesitancy is that the texts have not seemed to naturally lend themselves to addressing the issue of Iraq. I do not want to do violence to the scriptures just so I can preach against violence. Another reason for my hesitancy is that I, like you have heard too many sermons where the pulpit was used as a platform for the preacher’s political prejudices rather than a proclamation of the gospel.  I am wary of doing the same. I have also been hesitant because I am all too aware that I am no Ambrose. And you are not Theodosius.  None of us here this morning has any control over the decision to attack Iraq.  And, to be perfectly honest, I have been hesitant to address the topic directly because I don’t particularly like controversy. But this morning’s text and the urgency of the situation lead me to wade into the thicket. 

Jesus said: “If any want to be my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” I want to explore with you this question, what does it mean to take up the cross in a time of war?

There has been lots of public talk about God recently; some of it by the president, some of it by those who oppose him. But talk about God is cheap and all too often self-serving. I am convinced that any talk about God without the cross tends to be either insipid or dangerous. There have been plenty of examples of both lately.

What does it mean to take up the cross in a time of war? I have said before that I am persuaded that the way of the cross means a commitment to peace. It is harder to get around Jesus’ nonviolence and that of his earliest followers than some want to suggest. But, any talk of peace must not avoid the reality of sin and death. Talk of peace that implies that if we are just nice to others they will be nice to us is not the way of the cross. It is simply naïve. Any serious talk of nonviolence must recognize that it is a call to martyrdom. My own, certainly, but more problematically, the martyrdom of others who I might otherwise intervene to help. Being resolutely nonviolent does not mean doing nothing, but to totally avoid having blood on my hands in a world of violence, sin and death means being prepared to stand by while others bleed. That is not an easy way. But, I am not convinced that it is not the way of the cross.

There is no avoiding the hard fact that, whether we commit to nonviolence or to the “judicious” use of violence, we are all stretched out between the catastrophe we have made of the world and the promise of God’s good creation and his kingdom.

But what if nonviolence is not the only faithful posture for Christians? I am catholic enough to recognize that the majority wisdom of the Church has believed that it is not. I take that seriously.  But even then we must ask, what does it mean to take up the cross in a time of war? Another problem with the just war approach as it is usually presented is that it does not ask this question seriously enough. I have serious reservations about a moral system in which the particulars of Jesus’ teaching, life, and cross are essentially irrelevant. Hindus, Moslems, and agnostics could all support the classic just war approach. What does it have to do with Jesus and the cross?

If we decide that sometimes we cannot avoid participating in violence, we still have to make that decision in light of the cross and of Jesus. What does the way of the cross look like then? This way must also be understood as a way of martyrdom, but not first and foremost in the obvious sense that some are going to die in a war. That is true, but we must accept the way of the cross as first of all dying to ourselves and following Jesus. Among other things that means:

1) Taking up the cross in a time of war means getting our loyalties straight. I saw a woman wearing a t-shirt last summer that I found very troubling and very telling. It was a white t-shirt that had JESUSAVES written across the front. I believe he does. But that was not the only message on the shirt. It actually looked more like this: JESUSAVES. All the letters were blue except for those in the middle – USA – which were red. It was a telling icon of the confused syncretism of many Christians in America. Who saves?  Jesus? The USA? Or, are the two so entwined that we can’t tell the difference? We cannot begin to discern whether war in general or this war in particular is justifiable until we can tell the difference between the way of Jesus and the way of the United States. The way of the cross means dying to, and being suspect of, all other loyalties. If talk of just war just means that it is OK for Christians to kill when their government says so, it is not the way of the cross.

2) Taking up the cross in a time of war means the way of humility. It means being prepared to entertain the possibility that we are wrong. It means asking, why does most of the rest of the world disagree with us? Even those governments that support the United States’ invasion of Iraq do so against the will of the overwhelming majority of their people. Most of those closest to Iraq do not agree with us.  Right and wrong are not determined by majority vote. But, it is arrogant to presume that everyone else is automatically wrong because they don’t see it our way.

If it is America’s fate to be the de facto empire of the world, it will make a big difference how we live that out. The way of the cross means we cannot lord it over others. We have not been doing a very good job of it lately. Because the United States has been seen as lording it over others, we have remarkably managed to loose a public relations contest with a thug and tyrant like Saddam Hussein and alienated much of the world. Humility means listening to those who disagree with us, not derisively dismissing them so we can ignore their concerns.

We might not need U.N. approval to go to war. The just war approach allows that any nation has the right, on its own authority, to defend itself when attacked. But, Iraq has not attacked us and it is not clear that it is able to. If, however, we are going to war to enforce U.N. resolutions, it would seem the proper authority resides in the body that passed the resolutions. What does it mean to enforce the will of others against their will? What if Egypt and Syria decide on their own to enforce the U.N.’s resolutions condemning Israeli settlements on the West Bank? I do not think we would find that to our liking. We apparently haven’t run out of patience there.  Humility means we must be careful of the precedents we set just because we can.

3) Taking up the cross in a time of war means we must recognize our own sin. It is a Lenten theme.  It is a Christian theme. Much of the rest of the world looks to America as an example, a beacon of hope, liberty, and prosperity. But it is also suspect of our power and of our motives. We need to deny ourselves the indulgence of self-justification and recognize that this is neither accidental nor simply a matter of colossal misunderstanding. There are reasons many in the world do not trust us.  I am very concerned that as a result of this war and our behavior leading up to it we will be living with the deep resentment of much of the rest of the world for a long time. And we will only be less safe and secure for it.

Recognizing our sin means we need to be suspicious of our own motives. Can it be that every country that opposes war with Iraq has mixed motives, but the United States does not? Do we really believe that we are the only ones who are realistic about the dangers of the world? Do we really believe that we the only ones who have courage? We need to take the reality and pervasiveness of sin more seriously than that.

4) Taking up the cross in a time of war means repentance. We need be prepared to repent of sins we commit as individuals and as a nation. And if sometimes we decide we must resort to violence, we need to repent for that violence. Some have suggested that the classic just war approach does not presume that violence is wrong. I do not know if that is true. If it is the just war theory needs to be rethought in light of Jesus and the cross. Killing some people for the sake of other people is always a devil’s bargain – even if we decide it is the only bargain we can make. St. Basil of Caesarea who was a contemporary of Ambrose said that though the church had decided that sometimes we must resort to war, when we do so we should repent and those who participate should do penance, enduring a time of exclusion from the sacrament. That is the position still of the Eastern Orthodox Church which is not pacifist, but has never accepted the theory that for Christians war can be just or pleasing to God.

Lent is about taking up the cross, denying ourselves, and following Jesus. It includes denying our tendency toward self-justification – as individuals, as a church, and as a nation.  It means dying to other loyalties.  It means humility. It means acknowledging our own sinfulness.  It means repentance. It is a way of martyrdom. If any want to be my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow.

I can’t say whether, if he were here, Ambrose would oppose war with Iraq. What disturbs me more is that for many Christians in America – it wouldn’t matter.

Of Mercy and Banana Peels – Luke 18:9-14

 

I suspect that Jesus would have liked slapstick comedy. You know, the Laurel and Hardy sort of humor. Remember? Laurel will be eating a banana and throw the peel on the ground. And you know, as soon as you see Hardy walking up the road what’s going to happen. It’s the pratfall, the trip, the rug pulled out from under your feet, the banana peel in the way.

Jesus seems to have had a liking for that sort of thing, continually pulling the rug out from under our feet or tossing banana peels in our path. His parables are often like banana peels tossed on the pathway of our moral self-satisfaction.

This morning’s parable, in particular, is such a banana peel. It’s a familiar story – the Pharisee and the Tax Collector praying at the temple. In fact, it’s so familiar it has lost some of its edge for us. We already know who is the good guy and who the bad guy.

Jesus’ original hearers would not have been so sure. The Pharisees were not known as necessarily self-righteous or righteous in any other way than the way we all hope to be righteous. The Pharisees were part of movement of lay people who had a passion for seeking after God’s heart, for living according to the Torah – for living faithfully so that all Israel might be redeemed. If anything, Jesus had much in common with the Pharisees

Tax Collectors, on the other hand, everyone knew and no one liked. Even under the best of circumstances few people are excited when they see the tax man coming. But in a time when you are occupied and oppressed by a foreign nation, tax collectors are even worse. Not only are they taking some of your money to run the government, but the government they are taking money to run is a foreign occupier. Tax collectors would have been seen as the collaborators with the enemy, with the oppressor. The last thing you would want your son to grow up to be would be a tax collector.

And so in this parable we have the Pharisee and the Tax Collector. The Pharisee prays to God, recounting all the good things that he has done – good things that everybody would have recognized as good things. He fasts. He tithes. He is a regular worshipper. All the things that we hope to be ourselves.

Of course, as he is praying and recounting all the good things, he has one eye open to those around him. The Pharisee prays with peripheral vision, looking to either side at those who might not quite measure up to his standards: all the rogues, the prostitutes, thieves, adulterers, and, maybe even especially, this tax collector (we all know what sorts of people they are). The Pharisee is confident that he is on the right track, that he is dotting all the i’s and crossing all the t’s. Not like so many other people.

The Tax Collector, on the other hand, as everyone would have known, is all undotted i's and uncrossed t's. And he knows it. He prays the only honest prayer he can pray, “God have mercy on me, a sinner.”

The Pharisee is a moral, upright person. He is on the straight and narrow. But it is on that straight and narrow that Jesus tosses his banana peel, and the Pharisee who has every reason to think that he is right with God slips on the peel and falls. Meanwhile, the Tax Collector who has every reason to think that he is out of sorts with God goes home justified.

And I suspect those who heard Jesus tell this parable slipped on the banana peel as well. What kind of a morally uplifting story is that? Not the kind of story you want to tell your children. They might take it seriously. The just person is condemned and the contemptible person is justified? Jesus doesn’t even suggest that the Tax Collector went home to live differently. He only throws himself on God’s mercy.

The point is not that being a tax collecting collaborator is a matter of indifference to Jesus. The point is that the Pharisee is in as much need of God’s mercy as is the Tax Collector. As are we all. And, of course, we all get that now. Don’t we? Don’t we?

There is a third person implied in this parable. This person is praying as well, and watching both the Pharisee and the tax collector. We are the third person. If we’re not careful, there is a banana peel in our path as well. How often do we see this parable and say, “Thank you, God, that I am not self-righteous, like that Pharisee"?

We all slip on the banana peel sooner or later. We measure ourselves against others. Whether it is the righteous and the unrighteous, the holy or the unholy, the mature or the immature, the sophisticated or the unsophisticated, the just and the unjust.We all fall into the trap of keeping score. Thank God I am not like that liberal. Thank God I am not like that conservative.Thank God I am not like that fundamentalist. One way or another, we are usually pretty sure that we are the ones who get it. We are the ones who are superior. We are the ones who are on the side of the angels.

Again and again Jesus tosses a banana peel on our path to moral superiority, our own exalted opinion of ourselves. We are reminded that we don’t know as much as we think we do. We are reminded that we are not as good as we like to think we are. We are reminded that our perspective is not God’s. We are reminded that we often slip into our own version of the Pharisee in this parable. We slip and land on our moral backsides.

By God's grace we are humbled and reminded, yet again, that our only honest prayer is, “God, have mercy on me a sinner.” In fact, the only prayer that is anything other than stammering, and the only deed that is anything other than stumbling, is the one that begins and ends with, “Have mercy on me, a sinner.”

Have heard the story of the man who dies and goes to the Pearly Gates where he is met by St. Peter?

Peter says, “Before you get in, you have to pass this little test. You have to make sure you have scored enough points to get in. You have to get one hundred points.”

The man thinks that should not be too hard because he has, after all, led a very good life. So he says to St. Peter, “Well, first of all, I was married for 57 years to one woman and was faithful from the very beginning until the very end.

Peter says, “That’s impressive. Three points.”

Then the man says, “Well, I also was a regular at church, Sunday in and Sunday out."

Peter gives him another point.

The man tries again, “I tithed. I gave 10% of everything I earned to the church and to the poor

Peter says, “Well, good for you. That’s another three points.”

“Did you know that I also volunteered for the youth group for five years? Do you know how many lock-ins that is!?”

“Four points.”

“I was politically active and always voted for the right candidate”

“Another point.”

The points are not adding up very fast. The man begins to despair. He says, “Well, how about this?” “What about that?” But his score remains distressingly low.

Finally, the man beats his breast in despair and cries out, “At this rate the only way that I’ll get into Heaven is by the mercy of God!”

Peter smiles and says “One hundred points!”

The first word for Christians is grace The last word for Christians is grace; and every day, along the way, is grace, grace, grace.

That’s not good news for the Pharisee in us who wants to keep score. It is very good news for the Tax Collector in us who can only pray,

“God have mercy on me, a sinner.”

Watch out for those banana peels.

Not a Hobby – a Sermon on Luke 14:25-33

St. Barnabas Episcopal Church, Glen Ellyn, Diocese of Chicago

Pentecost 14, Proper 18, 9/9/01

Deut. 30:15-20, Psalm 1, Philemon 1-20, Luke 14:25-33

(Twenty years ago two days before 9/11)

It was a tough week for religion in the news. On Monday, another Palestinian suicide bomber blew himself up in an attempt to maim or kill others. Then, there were Protestants verbally harassing and stoning little Catholic girls on their way to school in Northern Ireland. The Taliban Islamic government of Afghanistan was also in the news bringing some relief workers to trial, accusing them of seeking to spread Christianity. And then yesterday, we heard about rioting in Nigeria between Moslems and Christians in which at least 50 people have been killed so far. It makes you wonder if you want to have anything to do with religion or god stuff if it’s that problematic. Maybe those who say that religion has done more harm than good in history are right after all.

I’m wondering because in this morning’s gospel Jesus calls us to a radical kind of loyalty. What kind of loyalty is he calling us to and to what? To God? What kind of god? No doubt each situation is more complicated than this, but in one way or another in the past week we have seen people kill or attempt some sort of violence in the name of some god. Or, at least, loyalty to an idea about god was involved. Is it right to do such things, to kill or be killed in the name of god? The question sounds preposterous to us. One reason, it sounds preposterous to us is because in western society we have become immunized to the power of faith. Culturally, and all too often, personally, we tend to think of religion as a sort of hobby, one step above stamp collecting or bird watching. Some people are into stamp collecting. Some people are into bird watching. Some people are into Christianity. Others are into Buddhism or something else. But it is all more or less a matter of private preference, a hobby; certainly nothing you would kill someone over, nothing you would risk dying for. Don’t those people in Palestine and Northern Ireland and Nigeria and Afghanistan and everywhere else get that? Don’t they understand this is not a matter of life and death?

Or is it? Is it wrong to kill or die in the name of God? The more I thought about it this week, the more it occurred to me that it is actually a rather interesting question. I’m not sure the answer is altogether obvious. If God is the ultimate reality, the ultimate and final good, what else would be worth killing or dying for? If I won’t kill or die in the name of God, why would I kill or die for the sake of something less? If not God, what about country? What about ideology, justice, or freedom? Or, as Jesus questions so offensively this morning, for the sake of family? For whom or what are we willing to kill? For whom or what are we willing to die? What is worth the ultimate sacrifice of my own life or the responsibility of taking someone else’s? To what to whom or to what do I pledge such allegiance? If we can answer that set of questions we will get pretty close to what “god” really is for us.  Whatever it is to which I am willing to give over that kind of allegiance or loyalty, that kind of sacrifice, is my god whether or not I call it religion. Is it O.K. to kill in the name of God?  Ultimately, it depends on what god we are talking about, what god we are seeking to follow and please. To what or whom do I pledge such allegiance?

Since their inception, nations and governments have demanded the ultimate sacrifice from their citizens. When your nation says go to this place and kill these people, you are expected to obey – to kill and to risk being killed. Others have done the same in the name of abstract ideas such as justice and freedom. More often than not, a varnish of god-talk is usually added to all of these to lend legitimacy. I don’t know if the suicide bomber did what he did for God or justice or revenge or some combination of these. I don’t know enough about Islam to know how he might have thought he was pleasing to the God he worshiped.  I do know that not all faithful Moslems would agree with him.

I do know a little bit about Jesus. Following Jesus rules that kind of thing out. You don’t have to be an absolute pacifist to read Jesus and find that his way is not the way of violence. It is hard to justify killing in the name of the one who said, “Turn the other cheek.” It is hard to justify killing in the name of the one who said, “Love your enemy and pray for those who persecute you.” His is not the way of retribution. His is not the way of meanness. Whatever else the Protestants who were hurling invective and stones at the little Catholic girls thought they were doing, they were not following the way of Jesus. Though, tragically, it has been done; killing in the name of Jesus and the God we know through Jesus is an oxymoron.

To die in the name of Jesus and the God we know through him is a different matter. In fact, that is the point. When he says, “Count the cost. Decide now whether or not you are going to be able to finish the building,” that’s what he has in mind. Following Jesus into the heart of God is no hobby. In this morning’s reading from the Gospel of Luke, Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem and he knows what is in store for him there. He is on a mission, but it is a mission that he knows ends only one way. It ends in his death. He is on his way to Jerusalem, the center of power – political and religious power – and he intends to throw a wrench in the works. He intends to throw a wrench in the usual way of things, the way of intimidation and oppression, the way of coercion, the way of control, the way of violence. More than throw a wrench into the works, Jesus intends to be the wrench in the works to upset the usual machinery of violence and bondage.

To those who are following him, he lays out his agenda pretty clearly. “If you think you are following me in some sort of victorious parade in which we are going to march into Jerusalem, take things over, kick the Romans out, and set the temple worship straight, you’ve got the wrong guy. If you want to follow me into Jerusalem, take up the cross and follow me. Take up the cross and prepare to die.” To follow Jesus is to follow him in that mission, the mission to upset the usual way of things – the way of things we see in the nightly news and in the morning paper. Sometimes that might mean actual martyrdom.” There have been places and times when people have literally died for the sake of that mission. There are people in the world now for whom that is a day-to-day possibility. But for most of us, most of the time, it is the daily martyrdom of dying to self and learning to live in love for the other. That, too, is taking up our cross and following Jesus. As Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote, “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” Nowhere does he bid us to kill.

There is only one cross. Sometimes people talk about “their cross to bear” as if each of us had his or her own individual cross. “I have this problematic child and she is my cross to bear.” Or, “I have this illness and that is my cross to bear.” Or, “I am in this relationship where I am being abused and that is my cross to bear.”  That is a misappropriation of what Jesus is calling us to. Taking up your cross and following Jesus is not resigning yourself to being abused and trapped in a situation beyond your control. It is a call to servanthood not servitude. Taking up the cross of Christ is choosing freely to follow him in his mission of resistance, his mission of proclaiming mercy and grace, peace and justice. There is only one cross, and it is the cross of Christ.  Ultimately, he bears that cross with us.  He is on the cross with us and before us.

Jesus, in this morning’s gospel, challenges us to put all other loyalties in the context of his mission, all other loyalties in the context of the cross.  When Christians marry, they marry with that mission in mind. Marriage is one place and one way we can serve the mission. We can learn to love.  We can learn to give totally of ourselves. We can create space where the stranger is welcome and generosity is given. If we choose to be single, we choose to be single for the same reason, because sometimes being single is the best way to serve the mission. If we choose to have children that, too, is not something that just happens. That’s something we do because having children is a way of witnessing to the mission, to the kingdom, and to raise up new disciples, new witnesses. All loyalties – families, friends, nation – are redefined in the context of that ultimate loyalty to the way of Jesus, the way of the cross. Jesus does not say focus on the family; he says focus on the cross. And there are no precious moments on the way of the cross. Bonhoeffer wrote, “The cross of Christ destroyed the equation that religion equals happiness.” That might be overstating the case just a bit. As we sang in the opening hymn (483), the cross is also our life and our health. It is the way of grace, the way of joy. But certainly the call to take up our cross destroys the equation that religion, at least religion that is true to Jesus Christ, equals sentimentality and nostalgia. It also destroyed the equation that religion is compatible with the way of violence.

The way of the cross is the way of Jesus and it is the way to which he calls us. It is the way of dying to self and living toward the other. It is the way of servanthood. It is the way of reaching out to the stranger, of proclaiming God’s favor, God’s mercy. Those of us who have experienced that mercy are called to embody it to those who do not yet know it. We are called to be the peace of Christ, not just to pass it, but to be it. We are called to be people of forgiveness, people who know how to love our enemy, people who know what it means to welcome the stranger. Protestants welcome Catholics. Catholics welcome Protestants. Christians welcome Jews. Christians love and welcome Moslems. We are called to a life of resolute kindness and peace. It is the way of the cross. It is the way of Christ. It is a call to resist all that says no to the goodness of God’s creation and to the worth of each person. It is a call to be, in ways small and great, wrenches in the usual way of things, to break up the machinery of the way things usually go. It is a call to creatively and effectively disrupt the cycle of violence. It is a call to live lives of gentleness, kindness, peace, and justice in a world of violence and hate. It is a kind of martyrdom. It is not a hobby.

Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.

“Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” Can you imagine what it would be like to have a messenger of God show up in your room and speak these words to you? (Luke 1:26-38)

I love this painting of the Annunciation by 20th century African-American painter, Henry Ossawa Tanner. I especially like the way the angel Gabriel is represented. Rather than a man with wings, here we have a beam of light. It has about it something of the eerie mystery that I expect comes with such an encounter with the Holy. It reminds me of the way C. S. Lewis represents angelic beings in Out of the Silent Planet (writing after Tanner painted, but as far as I know unaware of this painting). Except that in Lewis’ telling, the “eldila” appear slightly off kilter – but this is because it is our world that is askew being bent by sin.

I also appreciate that Mary looks more like a young Mediterranean peasant girl than in most renditions. There is a gritty realism to it. She looks like maybe Gabriel woke her up to greet her in God’s name. Her bed is unmade. And she really looks like she is perplexed and pondering what sort of greeting this might be.

And what a greeting it is, “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” What an affirmation of God’s care and delight. Insignificant though she might have been considered in her society, God notices and cares. However unimportant she might have thought herself to be, God delights in her. God favors her. It is the word we all long to hear.

But there is more to God’s favor than affirmation. When the God Mary knew through the stories of her people favors someone, it involves a call. God favored Abraham. God favored Moses. God favored David. God favored the people of Israel. The affirmation in every case was accompanied by a call to participate in God's mission. And so it is with Mary. No wonder she pondered what sort of greeting this might be.

And the part she was being called to play in God’s mission of redemption was daunting indeed. Which is why the other part of the initial greeting is just as important as the affirmation and call of God’s favor: “The Lord is with you.” Much is being given to Mary and much is being asked of her. But the one who has favored her is also with her to give her strength to see it through. And nothing will be impossible with God. The angel continues, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God.”

Still, the angel – along with angels, archangels and all the company of heaven – awaits her reply. Will she dare to receive this word in her heart? Will she dare to conceive this Word in her womb? With Mary’s response, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word” human willingness is freely united with the will of God. Perhaps Tanner is right to have Gabriel beaming perpendicular. Perhaps in this one moment, in this room, with the response of this young woman, hope and history rhyme, heaven and earth are in sync, and the world is unbent. And the Baby she will bear will be the Unbent One, perfectly embodying the peace and joy of God’s favor.

The story doesn’t end there of course. Mary’s role in the story will get complicated. There will be confusion and heartache. But the Lord will be with her along with God’s favor.

And so it is with us. Given her role in the story of our salvation, Mary is particularly favored and we honor her for that. But Mary is also considered the prototypical disciple – the elder sister of all believers. If she is, then we should be able to hear the word she heard as being spoken to us as well. What if we knew ourselves to be addressed every morning with, “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you” and “Do not be afraid for you have found favor with God.”? If what Christians believe about Mary’s son is true, then that is precisely what God is saying to you and to me each day. Whatever else the voices around us or within us are saying or not saying, God has declared his favor toward us in being made flesh. In spite of the bentness, in spite of sin and brokenness, God is with us and has addressed all that is bent in the world and in us.

As with Mary, God’s favor toward us is also a call to mission – to love God and to love and care for one another, to be bearers of forgiveness and healing. And, as with Mary, all the angels in heaven rejoice when we respond, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

"Therefore, I will now allure her" – a Sermon on Hosea 2:14-23

Hosea 2:14-23

What kind of God have you gotten yourself mixed up with?

In the prophet Hosea, we have the God of Israel making a spectacle of himself as he pursues his wayward love. Israel had continually done him wrong, two-timed him, cheated on him. And yet, here he is saying, Therefore, I will now allure her.” I will now allure her. What kind of self-respecting God is that?

I wonder what the other gods would have thought (imagining for a moment that they existed.)

Marduk: I wonder what he sees in her. She’s not all that good looking. She certainly is not wealthy like the Great Babylon where I am worshiped. I’d have dumped her long ago.

Zeus: I like to play around like any other god, but this is ridiculous.

Anat: They say love is blind, but this is too much. At least my Lord Baal has the decency to have a goddess like myself as his consort. But Yahweh insists on consorting with this ragtag people, Israel, even after they have spurned his love over and over. You’d think he’d get the hint.

Here is Yahweh, shamelessly gone courting, inviting Israel to go on a sort of second honeymoon, back to the desert where it all began. He wants to recapture the spark that had existed between them. “Therefore, I will now allure her.” “I will speak tenderly to her” – whisper sweet nothings in her ear. In the presence of such public displays of tender affection and relentless love in spite of all, the other gods are too embarrassed to exist and they fade away.

Hosea lived in distressing times. The reign of the great king Jeroboam II had just ended. Jeroboam had reigned for 40 years during which Israel had enjoyed a golden age that rivaled that of Solomon’s. But, in the midst of prosperity, there was an internal rot. Injustice and oppression were rampant. Their worship of Yahweh was diluted as the people chased after other gods.

The prophet, Amos, had warned of a coming day of reckoning. Soon after Amos had gone back to dressing sycamore trees, Hosea picked up the refrain. Hosea also warned that Israel’s unfaithfulness would have consequences. Israel was headed for destruction and, this time, God was not going to intervene. Sure enough, it was not long before the Assyrian Empire invaded and conquered Israel. All appeared to be lost. Perhaps God would finally abandon Israel.

But Hosea has another theme – on the other end of Israel’s unfaithfulness, misery, and affliction is God's relentless love. Hosea learned this the hard way through personal experience. He was married to a woman with the unfortunate name of Gomer. Gomer proved to be an unfaithful wife, an adulteress. It is unclear whether she merely committed adultery in the conventional sense or if she served as a temple prostitute on behalf of one of the Canaanite Gods. But it is clear that she was not faithful to Hosea – just as Israel was not faithful to Yahweh. Hosea lived with the heartache of that betrayal, but he also learned from it. He came to a deeper understanding of God's faithfulness despite Israel’s unfaithfulness.

Though Israel would suffer the consequences of her unfaithfulness, Hosea knew that God was in the suffering with her and would be on the other end of it. The Valley of Achor, which means “affliction,” would be made a door of hope.  God had told Hosea to name one of his children, “Lo-ruhamah,” which means “No Pity” to demonstrate Israel’s dire predicament. Here, he is promising that there will be pity. Another child was named, “Lo-ammi,” which means “Not My People” to demonstrate how seriously God took Israel’s infidelity. Here, God is promising that he will yet say, “You are my people.” And the people will respond, “You are my God.”  God would not give up on Israel.

God even promises that Israel will “know the LORD.” The knowing referred to here is not a matter of head knowledge only, but an intimate knowledge born of deep experience. It is the language of intimacy. The Hebrew word for “know” used here is the same word used in Genesis where Adam “knew” Eve. There used to be a euphemism for intimacy – to know someone “in the biblical sense.” “And you shall know the LORD.” The double entendre is not accidental. God desires – and promises – intimacy with us beyond our imagining.

“Therefore, I will now allure her.”  God is like a long-suffering husband romancing his faithless bride back to his love.  “Therefore, I will now allure her.”  God will play the bridegroom once again.

It should come as no surprise that this is the language Jesus uses of himself. He is the bridegroom, come to allure Israel. It is no accident that his first miracle is performed at a wedding feast. The feasting that was typical of his ministry might very well have been enactments of the wedding feast to which all are invited. Jesus, with his twelve groomsmen, went about romancing Israel in a long wedding procession toward Jerusalem and the cross. Demonstrating once again there are no lengths to which God will not go to demonstrate his love.

“Therefore, I will now allure her.”

By the Holy Spirit, Jesus continues to allure, to romance the world.  We need only pay attention.

He allures us through the Scripture. The Bible has been called a collection of love letters from God.

He romances us through creation. The lift in your heart at the first taste of spring points to the one who is our Eternal Spring. Walt Whitman, in his poem, ‘Song of Myself’ refers to a blade of grass as

. . . the handkerchief of the Lord,

A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,

Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners,

that we may see and remark, and say Whose?

Jesus allures us through prayer. In her ‘Revelations of Divine Love’, Julian of Norwich – woman who knew what it was to be loved by and to love God, wrote,

We shall by his sweet grace in our own meek continual prayer come into him now in this life by many secret touchings of sweet spiritual sights and feelings measured out to us as our simplicity may bear it.

Jesus allures through our relationships with others – friends, relatives, strangers. God is present in every encounter with another person inviting us to draw near to him through loving others.

Jesus allures us in the Eucharist. I heard the Eucharist once described as the kiss of Christ. No matter how much someone says he or she loves us, a hug, or kiss, or pat on the shoulder makes it real. You can hear in a sermon that God loves you. Receiving the Bread and the Wine, you can feel it.

Jesus allures us in the story of our own lives. We need only pay attention.

God in Christ continually allures us – wooing us into a people – we who were no people are now a people as 1 Peter says, quoting Hosea. And, of course, Paul calls the church the bride of Christ. We gentiles, who were no people, have been incorporated into the great love story of God and Israel – which points ultimately to the love story of God with all creation. And with each of us in it. However often we are as unfaithful as Gomer, God is yet more faithful.  His love is unrelenting.

What kind of God have you gotten yourself mixed up with? This kind:

A God who is alluring.

A God who is alluring you . . .

Make Friends for Yourselves – Thoughts on Luke 16:1-15

Jesus' parable of the “Dishonest Manager” in Luke 16: 1-15 is notoriously one of the more difficult to understand. Is he commending dishonesty? Is he just talking about forgiveness? Just what is Jesus saying in this parable?

First of all, a word about parables. All parables use images and metaphor to mess with our imagination and reorient it toward Jesus and the kingdom of God. But parables are not one thing. “Parable” is a broad category. Some of them are allegories in which one thing stands for another. Others are more like stories with a moral. Others are similar to proverbs. Still others are like riddles that leave you pondering. Many, including the Dishonest Manager, have an element of humor. And some are more like a joke in which the point is not so much the set-up as it is the punch line.

Jesus’ parable in Luke 16:1-13 is of the last variety. It is like a joke with a punch line. The story itself is not really the point. We will get hung up if we try to turn it into an allegory in which "the rich man" represents someone and "the manager" represents someone else, etc. It is not that kind of parable. We will also get hung up if we try to figure out why Jesus seems to commend this scoundrel of a manager as morally exemplary. But it is not that kind of parable. The story itself is just a somewhat ridiculous and humorous set-up for the punch line. And the punch line packs quite a punch.

And what is the punch line? It comes in verse 9: “And I tell you, make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest [unrighteous] wealth so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into the eternal homes.” I told you it packed a punch. The manager dealt shrewdly with what he had in a worldly way. If we are children of light, we will deal wisely with what we have to make friends who will welcome us into the eternal homes. What does that mean?

1. Unrighteous wealth: Although the New Revised Standard Version and the New International Version read “dishonest manager” and “dishonest wealth,” the King James Version and some other translations has it better when it translates the adjective as “unrighteous”. The Greek word, adikias, is translated "unrighteous" or similarly everywhere else in the New Testament so there seems no reason not to here.We have come to think of money and wealth as a good thing or at least morally neutral – as long as we do not come by it dishonestly. But it has not always been so. Jesus, and a broad and long tradition following him, sees money with great ambivalence. It has spiritual power and that power is dangerous. You cannot have much of it without that spirit starting to work on your soul leading you into all sorts of unrighteousness. Jesus goes so far as to call it an “abomination” in verse 15 (some translations have "detestable" instead, but it is the same Greek word, bdelugma, that is often translated "abomination" in Mark 13:14 and Matthew 24:15). So, the best thing to do is have as little has you need. So, what to do with it?

2. Make friends: It is deep in the tradition that giving alms to the poor is basic to faithfulness. Give and give and give. It is not only a good and faithful thing to do. It might just be salvific (see Mercy – Caring for the Poor as Redemptive Liturgy). Caring for the poor for their own sake is good in and of itself. But for Christians, as Pope Leo the Great (400-461) pointed out, “rightly in the needy and poor do we recognize the person of Jesus Christ our Lord Himself” (Sermon 9.III). So, making friends with the poor is one way we make a friend of Jesus. 

In verse 12, Jesus goes further, “And if you have not been faithful with what belongs to another, who will give you what is your own?” So, if my “dishonest/unrighteous money is not my own, whose is it? God’s? Certainly. As we pray over our offering, “All things come of Thee, O Lord, and of Thine own have we given Thee” (1 Chronicles 29:14). But in the context, it seems Jesus is implying that the “other” to whom our money belongs is the poor. This was certainly the understanding of the early Church. This line from Ambrose of Milan (340-397) is typical, “You are not making a gift of your possession to the poor person. You are handing over to him what is his.”  Thus, understanding and clinging tom our money as simply our own is dishonest. The honest and faithful and righteous thing to do is use it to make friends with the poor.

3. They may welcome you into the eternal homes: Shaped as we are by the Reformation, we are used to thinking that all you need is faith. But it is hard to pay attention to Jesus (or to Paul for that matter) and come to the conclusion that it does not matter what we actually do. And the early church was clear that what we do matters and matters eternally. Giving alms to the poor is one of the things that matter. You all know I am big on grace. Grace is indeed the fundamental reality for Christians. But Jesus will not allow us the complacency of cheap grace. Who will welcome us to our heavenly homes? The poor whom God loves. We would do well to make friends with them now. James Forbes put it this way, “Nobody gets into heaven without a letter of reference from the poor.” Similarly, Pope Leo said, “Food for someone in need is the cost of purchasing the kingdom of Heaven, and the one who is generous with temporal things is made heir of the eternal” (Sermon 9.II).

Everything before verse 9 is set-up for that discomforting punch line. Everything after is an elaboration of the point that caring for the poor is an essential means of befriending Jesus and preparing for the kingdom of God.

Here is a story attributed to John the Merciful (early 7th century) that also makes the point well:

There was a certain man, Peter Telenearius, who, in order to get rid of the poor, threw rocks at them. One day when he was again surrounded by them, he had no stone handy, so he grabbed a loaf of bread and threw it at the head of one of them. Later he became sick and saw a vision in which his deeds were being weighed in the balance of divine justice. All his sins were on one side of the balance and on the other side was the loaf of bread thrown at the head of the poor. It had become acceptable to Jesus Christ as an act of mercy.

So, let us be children of light and make friends for ourselves by means of dishonest wealth so that when it is gone, they may welcome us into the eternal homes.

Of course, alms alone are not enough. We must also address the moral and systemic issues that cause too many to be poor. But that must never let us off the hook of giving of our own wealth for the sake of the poor. And for the sake of our own souls.

Loving vs. Infatuation with Jesus

A Sermon for Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday.

I had a friend in college I'll call “Bob”. Bob was drop dead cute. He had big brown puppy dog eyes and girls just swooned around him. I hated that!

Bob was never without a girlfriend. His problem was he could never keep a girlfriend for more than a couple of months. Bob would fall "in love" with a girl and he would be absolutely sure that this was the woman for him. Everything about her was perfect. She was pretty. She was bright.

She had all the qualities that he was looking for – for a couple months.

After a couple of months, about the time something was expected of him, things started to change. Bob started to realize that he was dealing with was actually another person. She was not just a projection of all his fantasies but actually had her own perspective and her own opinions. She had her own way of doing things. She had her own expectations. She had expectations of him. At that point, Bob would break up with her, disillusioned. Before long, he would fall in love with another girl and the whole sequence would start over again.

Bob was given to projecting his fantasies onto the girls with whom he was infatuated. But, those fantasies kept bumping up against the actual person. He was good at infatuation, but not so good at actual love.

I wonder if that isn’t how most of us engage Jesus much of the time. We are in love with the idea of Jesus. We are infatuated with Jesus. We want to welcome Jesus with shouts of

Hosanna. Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.

But mostly we just project our own expectations and wishes onto the idea of Jesus. When Jesus turns out to be something other than our preconceived notion of what he is or should be, we must either change or do something to avoid changing. Or we must try to change him. And, like those in this Passion we just heard, our Hosannas turn to, “Crucify him!”

[Let’s be clear here: In the passion narratives, when the gospels refer to "the Jews" the Jews, who are the representatives of all humanity, are not uniquely culpable.]

It’s not just that Jesus did not conform to the expectations his fellow Jews had for the Messiah. Jesus – and the God that Jesus reveals – messes with the usual categories of all of us for what God should be. And Jesus calls into question many things that each of us wants to assume about what is right and good and true about the way life should be lived.

It’s not just that the Jews expected a Warrior Messiah and got a non-violent, self-sacrificing Messiah instead. It’s that all of us prefer the Lion of Judah to the Lamb of God.

All of us want to enlist God in our battles – literally when we go to war, but also our political and other battles. We want to assume that God is on our side. What we want – what we are infatuated with – is a God we can exploit for our own comfort and to our own ends. We want a God we can use to prop up our own preconceived notions about what life is all about. We want a God we can exploit against those who threaten those notions. Indeed, we often want a God we can enlist to beat up our enemies – rhetorically at least, but often enough, literally.

But that is precisely where the God we know in Jesus frustrates our infatuation. A God who humbly empties himself is hard to exploit as a tool for our own purposes. Certainly it is hard to use such a God as a stick with which to whack the people we don’t like.

The God revealed in Jesus will frustrate all easy certainties about what God is like and what God wants. To believe in such a humble God turns our expectations of God upside down and demands of us a corresponding humility. It calls us to resist being too sure that God agrees with us or only likes the people we like. It means being prepared to let go of even our most cherished fantasies of what God is or should be. It will require that we not gloss over or ignore those things Jesus says and does that challenge our prejudices and assumptions about God and life. To move from infatuation with the idea of God to love of God in Jesus Christ requires a willingness to get to know the one we claim to love. If the God we claim to love is the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, Philippians 2 is a good place to start.

If then there is any encouragement in Christ, any consolation from love, any sharing in the Spirit, any compassion and sympathy, make my joy complete: be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others. Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,

who, though he was in the form of God,

            did not regard equality with God

            as something to be exploited,

but emptied himself,

             taking the form of a slave,

            being born in human likeness.

And being found in human form,

            he humbled himself

            and became obedient to the point of death—

            even death on a cross.

It’s right about there that we find out if we truly love Jesus or are just infatuated with him, when we realize that following him means the cross,  when we realize it means denying ourselves for the sake of the other, when we realize it means emptying ourselves and living his way of sacrificial love.

Jesus looks down from the cross at the very people who are taunting, threatening, and crucifying him. And he prays, “Father, forgive them.”

How will we demonstrate our love for such a God as we engage others? Will we love and forgive and welcome others in the name of Jesus? Or will we find excuses to avoid, ignore, or reject them? Will we be perfect in mercy as Jesus says his Father is, pouring out mercy on everyone? Or will we decide only some people really deserve mercy – those we like and those who are like us? Will we withhold mercy from some others?

Our love of the God of Jesus will mean that we welcome him – all of him – with our hosannas. And that means welcoming all other people, beloved by this God, with hosannas. Do we love Jesus? Or are we just infatuated with the idea of Jesus? As we enter Holy Week, may we enter more deeply in love with Jesus as he really is and follow him in the shadow of the cross, singing our hosanna’s as we recommit to denying ourselves that we might love with his self-sacrificial love.

Zacchaeus and The Pilgrim, a sermon on Luke 19:1-10

A sermon on Luke 19:1-10

In the summer of 1987, I taught English for five weeks in China. While there, I had the chance to visit Mount Tai which, according to tradition, is the holiest mountain in China. It is a remarkable place. There is a wide staircase carved into the rock from the base of the mountain to its peak. For hundreds of years, pilgrims have been coming from all over China to climb those steps.

As you climb the steps, there is a growing sense of age and history. Along the way, there are places where poetry and quotations from Chinese classics have been carved into the faces of cliffs and even behind waterfalls. There is a plaque commemorating the visit of an emperor that dates back two thousand years. At the top of the mountain, there is a Buddhist monastery and shrines dedicated to various Taoist deities.

As you climb the stairs of Mount Tai, you see trees with rocks balanced on their branches. Each rock represents a prayer brought to the mountain. Sometimes there are two, three, or four rocks of different sizes lined up on like sparrows on a branch. Pilgrims place their prayer rocks on the branches of the trees of Mount Tai hoping that maybe here those prayers will be answered.

It was the first time I had ever been to anything like an official pilgrimage site. Of course, there are many such sites in the world: Mecca, The Ganges, Canterbury, Walsingham, Rome, Jerusalem and the Holy Land. Sometimes, a pilgrimage is not to a site, but to a person: the Pope, the Dali Lama, or someone like Desmond Tutu. In any event, these places and people are considered a little more transparent to the Holy Mystery. People visit them to make some kind of connection and be transformed by that Holy Mystery.

Zacchaeus went on a sort of pilgrimage. He didn't travel far. He didn't climb a mountain. He did climb a tree. He was an unlikely pilgrim. A tax collector, he was willing to sell out his own people to make a buck. He sided with the forces of occupation and oppression. Hardened and cynical, he knew the way things work. Words like goodness, love, and justice were only words. They had no currency in his line of work. You have to look out for number one. That's what Zacchaeus had done. And he had done it well, thank you very much. He was no petty tax collector. He had been employee of the month so often he was given his own franchise. If you could say "Bah! Humbug!" in Aramaic, it might have been his motto.

No, Zacchaeus was not a likely pilgrim – or a likely candidate for conversion and transformation. Certainly, his neighbors had written him off. Yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, or the bottom of his heart, there is a nagging, a sense that all is not right. There is brokenness and guilt behind the cynical mask. In spite of all his wealth, he feels bankrupt. Somewhere he has lost his way, if he ever had a way that was not already lost. He has grown weary of his life, but sees no way out. He is alone. He is lost.

Then, along comes this man, Jesus, a man with a reputation for changing lives, for healing, for forgiveness, and for restoration.

But, Zacchaeus is still unsure. It is as much a surprise to himself as to anyone that he finds himself perched in a sycamore tree. He is waiting expectantly – apprehensively wedged in the branches like a prayer. Can change happen here? Can this holy man do it? Zacchaeus has come seeking Jesus. He is on a pilgrimage.

But, Zacchaeus is not the only pilgrim in the story. He is not even the primary one. Jesus is also on a pilgrimage. "The Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost." God, in the person of Jesus, came into this world on a pilgrimage. Like all pilgrims, Jesus was seeking to make a connection with what was important to him, with what he loved. Unlike other pilgrims, he came not to seek the holy, but to bring holiness and wholeness to others.

Like a pilgrim visiting a series of shrines, Jesus came to the sisters Mary and Martha. He came to a bent and broken old woman. He came to the blind man and the leper. He came to the Samaritan woman. He came to the children. He came to a man whose wealth and comfort made him numb to the needs of the poor.

Jesus was on a pilgrimage. The destination of that pilgrimage was the broken and the lost, the possessed and the dispossessed, the outcast and the ones who cast out, the oppressed and the collaborator. The son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost. Zacchaeus has come seeking Jesus. But before Zacchaeus was seeking Jesus, Jesus was seeking Zacchaeus. And now, Zacchaeus is tree'd.

To his surprise (and everyone else's dismay) he hears Jesus say, "Zacchaeus, hurry and come down. For I must stay at your house today." There was something in that voice, something in the eyes that made the invitation impossible to refuse. Maybe it was the shock of being loved when he had become so unlovable. Maybe it was a sense of judgement in the presence of one so good. Maybe it was the realization that they are two sides of the same coin.

Whatever it was, Zacchaeus let Jesus into his home. He let Jesus into his heart. And transformation occurred. Zacchaeus was reconnected with God. He was reconnected with his neighbors. And the combination of those two connections disconnected him from his attachment to his wealth. He paid back those he had cheated at 400% interest. He gave half of the rest to the poor. Zacchaeus had been lost, but now he was found. He had been lost, but now he was saved.

Each of us has also come on a sort of pilgrimage this morning. Like Zacchaeus, we haven't come far. Like Zacchaeus, we have come to see Jesus. It is into his cross-shaped tree that we wedge our prayers. We bring our brokenness, our lost dreams, our lost innocence. We bring our hopes for transformation, for connection, for healing for forgiveness. Perhaps here change can happen. We bring our offering to the place of our pilgrimage.

But here also, the real pilgrim is still Jesus. The destination of his pilgrimage is each of us. Before we thought to seek him, he has come seeking us. He comes bringing holiness and wholeness. He looks to each of us and says, "Hurry and come down, for I must stay with you today." The risen Lord still comes to seek out and to save the lost. To seek out and to save you and me.

Will we welcome him into our homes? Will we welcome him into our hearts?

The Stranger is the Messenger

A sermon on Hebrews 13:1-8

“Let mutual love continue.  Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.”

Six nights in a row the man had had the same dream. Six nights in a row he had awakened, weeping. Tears of longing. 

In the dream, he was lost, wandering the streets of a large city. It was a winter night, dark and bitterly cold. But every door of every building was locked. 

No matter how hard he knocked or how loudly he shouted the doors remained closed. Only silence on the other side.

He eventually came to a door behind which he could hear the muffled sounds of a party, a great celebration. The door was slightly warm to the touch, promising warmth and comfort on the other side. The faint bits of laughter and music that made it through the door made his heart ache with longing.

He knew his joy depended upon entering, but, like all the other doors in the city, this door was locked. He knocked. He pounded. He shouted. He pleaded. There was no answer. 

At this point, six nights in a row, the man had awakened, weeping. 

On the seventh night, he had the dream again. This time, as he stood at the door, he cried out in desperation, “Dear God, tell me how to open the door.” 

To his amazement, he heard an answer, “The Stranger is my messenger. You will find the secret in the stranger.” 

Again, he awakened, weeping. But, now the tears were tears of expectancy.

As soon as he could get himself ready and skipping breakfast he went out on the sidewalk and asked each person he met, “Are you the messenger?” All he got were blank stares and puzzled looks.

It occurred to him that maybe the stranger would not know whether or not he or she had the message. It was up to the man to pay attention.

That evening he went to a committee meeting. There were people there he had known for a long time. More than one of the committee members was a source of great irritation to the man. During the meeting he realized that though he had known some of those on the committee for a long time, in a deeper sense he had never really gotten to know them. They were still strangers. Maybe one of them was the stranger! He began listening to each person with patient attention like a prospector panning for gold.

So it was with each person he met, not just strangers, but friends and family as well. 

He became more and more open-hearted. He invited others into his heart and made them welcome. The drunk on the street corner. The clerk at the store. The salesperson at his door. He learned to listen to each stranger, seeking the messenger. Every person he met, no matter how troublesome or offensive, was a potential bearer of the message.

The man hosted a big party in which there was much laughter and music. Because he was the host, everyone came. When each person came to his door – whether they were rich or poor, respectable or disreputable, attractive or offensive – he greeted each with a warm embrace and said, “Welcome friend.” He welcomed them regardless of gender, race, or ethnicity. If they had an accent, he just listened more attentively. He spent the evening getting to know as many as he could, hoping to discover the messenger.

He went to the jail and visited the prisoners. He visited patients in the hospital. He went to the nursing home and the insane asylum. Maybe among the prisoners, the sick, or the mentally ill he would find the messenger with the secret to opening the door.

As he invited people into his heart, his home, and his life, things changed. Not always the way he expected or wanted – sometimes the floors and rugs got dirty when some people were careless. Once, his flower garden got a bit trampled. Sometimes, as he welcomed people into his heart, all he got was heartache. strangers did not always cross the borders of his life as he intended. But that was a risk worth taking for the sake of finding the message giving him access to the joy on the other side of the door.

His life was not always comfortable and predictable. But, his life was transformed even as he transformed the lives of others.

Gradually, the man began to realize: each person he let into his heart or home was the stranger-messenger with part of the answer. He had been expecting one particular stranger to have the message, but every stranger, indeed every other person, was part of the message. Each person the man met was a sacred gift, each one rare and precious, each one a messenger from God – an angel.

Every encounter with another person became a potential Visitation, every conversation was a potential Annunciation or Epiphany. With every encounter, he was panning for gold – panning for God.

In showing hospitality he also got to know God who is by nature hospitable, always reaching out to every stranger with open arms to say, “Welcome friend.” 

He learned humility. Not humility born of a groveling sense of worthlessness, but humility born of the realization that each person he met was the very image of God, worthy of respect, honor, and attention. 

He learned love. And the love he learned was mutual love. As he learned to receive the gift of others, he learned to offer the gift of himself.  He, too, might be a messenger of warmth and joy to others.

This was the answer he needed to hear. In his dreams, as in his heart, all the doors were open. He was able to join the celebration on the other side. He still sometimes woke up weeping – but now the tears were tears of joy.

“Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.”