July 4, 2010 Des Moines
Sermon Text: Luke 10:1-11, 16-20
The Mexicans, of course, knew a
little something about that process themselves, having declared their
independence from Spain in 1810, a move that took another 11 years to
accomplish. Then, of course, there is
August 1 in Switzerland, August 15 in India, September 15 in Nicaragua, and
April 18 in Zimbabwe. The Burundians upstairs might have been celebrating
earlier this week on July 1, in the same way that we are today celebrating July
4 – which is just to say that everybody seems to celebrate “Independence” from
one oppressor or another.
Each of those moves has its own
colorful story – some such revolutions, as is often said of Czechoslovakia's,
are covered in velvet; others, such as the one with which we are more familiar
that pitted the Red Coats against a determined army of American colonists bent
on liberty and self-rule, are covered in blood.
Still others are simply drenched
in laughter. When my parents were
sorting through decades of accumulation in preparation of moving out of the
house where they had reared two sons, accomplished a career and meaningfully
lived for over 40 years, my mother came across a handwritten sheet of notebook
paper on which a younger version of me had spelled out the terms of it titled
at the top of the page my “Declaration of Independence.” Chief among those terms were not such things
as “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness;” merely the abandonment of piano lessons.
Which is just to acknowledge that not all revolutions are
military. In addition to those fairly
routine adolescent ones, we have seen an industrial revolution that changed the
way we manufacture goods. We have lived
through a sexual revolution that changed that way we talk about and practice
that most intimate part of ourselves.
And we have participated in an informational revolution that, with the
advent of the personal computer and the refinement of the internet, has changed
the way we process data, gather information, listen to and acquire music, and
communicate with each other.
Revolution,
after all, simply refers to a
fundamental change that replaces an old way of being or thinking or acting with
a new one because of widespread dissatisfaction with the existing one. That dissatisfaction might be centered around
perceived parental limitations, or poverty and injustice under cruel, corrupt,
or incapable rulers. It may have to do
with new ideas or new discoveries or previously unrealized opportunities. Wherever it occurs, however, a revolution
needs strong leaders who can use unsatisfactory conditions to unite people
under a program that promises something better.
John Kenneth Galbraith once observed that “All successful revolutions
are the kicking in of a rotten door.”
And so it was that Jesus came, stirring a revolution by kicking in the
rotten doors of a spirituality and a way of community that could not support
life. It would be neither a quick nor an
easy victory. What had begun with his
own witness and ministry, he expanded to the ministry of an intimate circle of
disciples. In the passage before us,
that revolutionary mission is expanded even further. Seventy – in some ancient manuscripts the
number is seventy-two – are sent out to extend the vision of God’s shalom –
God’s ultimate brand of peace.
The opportunities, Jesus told
them, are plentiful. There simply aren’t
enough people seizing those opportunities.
There will be challenges, he acknowledged, but you will be
equipped. Travel light, he counseled;
keep focused, and work in pairs. Why
pairs? For one reason, according to
Mosaic law, two witnesses were required for a testimony to be credible. In addition, given the rigors of travel in
those days it simply made good sense.
Then Jesus gave three more
instructions. When you enter a town,
·
Eat
what is given you without prejudice or snobbery;
·
Heal
the sick;
·
Extend
your gift of peace;
·
And
when you leave, whether or not you have been accepted, let people know that in
your presence the Kingdom of God has drawn near to them.
In some ways it is a straight
forward story – a slice of life from the ministry of Jesus. But given a little closer scrutiny, I see at
least two principles at work in the story that sound quite revolutionary.
The first comes in the form of
Jesus’ authorization of the many rather than the few. In our culture we have gotten quite
accustomed to viewing ministry as the proprietary work of the clergy and those
specially trained for particular work.
We credentialed ones are the only ones who can pray before meals or
visit the hospital. Oh, sure, you riff-raff
can go to the hospital to visit a family member or a friend, but it doesn’t
really count – doesn’t really qualify as “ministry” unless the Minister
does it. Why, after all, do you think
they call us “ministers”? We are the
ones who do ministry.
I hope you can tell from my voice
how deeply my tongue is embedded in my cheek.
The characterization I just described is at least false, if not
ultimately sinful. Jesus understood that
gifts for ministry are the beans and rice of life, not the caviar reserved for
the elite few. Sure, there are
particular things for people like me to do, but there are infinitely more
dimensions of ministry for us to practice and embody and accomplish
together. We are called to
ministry, not just me. In this era of
narrower and narrower specialization, the thought of such a thing is
revolutionary, indeed.
The second revolution comes in the
form of a minister’s presumptive greeting.
“Whatever house you enter,” Jesus instructs the fledgling disciples,
“first say, ‘Peace to this house!’”
Not, “friend or foe?” or “is this
a ‘red’ house or a ‘blue?’” or “do you agree with my stand on reproductive
rights, marriage equality, government interference in business and whether or
not bike lanes should be striped into popular thoroughfares?” No, just “peace to this house.” That type of greeting betrays a very
different set of operative assumptions about who is inside and how it will be
that we engage one another.
Just to drill that down a little,
it will mean that we will assume about one another from the outset that we are
not enemies; that we are not a meeting of superior and inferior, goodness and
evil, potential threat. I know, I
know: these are dangerous times and we
need to keep our wits about us. I understand
how sensible it can sound for someone to argue that we need to just assume –
whether we are individuals or a nation – that there are spiders under every
rock, thieves behind every bush, and terrorists in every passenger seat.
I just want you to hear for a
moment how different that sounds from the way Jesus instructs his disciples to
proceed: “Whatever house you enter,
first say, ‘Peace to this house!’” It is
true that not every house you enter will live up to that invocation. But you will notice that even when the peace
is not received, Jesus instructs his disciples to stay there, eating and
drinking and bearing witness.
I have to say that this
determination to break away from pre-judgment and condemnation sounds far more
revolutionary than breaking away from England.
So what would it look like if each of us took this commission seriously? What would it look like for each of us to
involve ourselves personally in Christ’s revolution of peace?
According to the instructions
given to the seventy, it would involve the many of us extending some large
measure of relational hospitality – sitting down with others, on their terms,
listening to their stories and receiving what they have to give at the same
time we are sharing what is ours. It
would involve a new measure of gracious acceptance that sets aside the cultural
and philosophical boundaries that typically divide us, and share in acts of
community.
And it would mean choosing to live
instead of merely trying to keep from dying.
Life moves so fast these days, and
the world can seem like such a scary place.
We hunker down and barricade ourselves in, take our vitamins and drink
skim milk, and generally keep such a close watch on our feet to keep from
stumbling or stepping in something untoward that we neglect to watch where we
are going. But being careful and staying
safe were never much use in revolutions, and make no mistake: Jesus calls us to be instruments in a
“revolution of peace”.
There is a subtle postscript
included in the story of the disciples’ return.
Joy characterizes the experience of the disciples who have obeyed Jesus’
mission charge. We often view
discipleship as onerous, difficult, and self-depriving. These disciples in the story would simply
look back at us who hold such a view with a look of utter confusion. What they found in faithfulness was joy. Sure, it was difficult. Yes, there was disappointment. No, not everybody joined in and sang
along. But in the midst of it all was
joy.
In a world so preoccupied with and
defensive about individual “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,”
wouldn’t it be nice to be filled, instead, with joy?
Wherever you go – at whatever door
you knock – before you do anything else, first say, ‘Peace to this house,’”
knowing that when you do, the kingdom of God has come near.