Into the Fray
Matthew 25:31-46
This last Sunday of Pentecost, sometimes called
Christ the King Sunday, brings us to the conclusion of the church year. As we might do at the end of a secular year,
it may be helpful to pause to take stock.
How do we measure up as Christians? What are those things “done and left undone”
that we would amend? In facing the
challenges of daily life, how do we respond to the question, “What would Jesus
do?” And as John Burton asked us in last
Sunday’s sermon, “what reservations and fears hold us back?”
Put another way, where will we fit into the
heavenly pasture — as sheep or as goats?
We learn from Matthew’s gospel that the consequence of our action or
inaction is crystal clear: “eternal punishment” or “eternal life.” Serious, serious business.
Today’s gospel reading follows previous ones in
Matthew about living responsibly in order to be ready for the second coming—the
story of the wise and foolish virgins
and the parable of the talents, for example.
This morning, however, we come to the last words of the public ministry
of Jesus, according to Matthew. The
emphasis falls clearly on whether one has acted lovingly toward others: “` . .
. just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family,
you did it to me.’” [Matt. 25:40 ]
As Jesus makes clear in this passage, the actions
we take toward the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick and
the prisoner are not a means to earn “brownie points” in heaven, but rather
constitute a decisive criterion for judgment.
Being a Christian, Jesus tells us, is not about sitting on the
sidelines; it is about jumping into the fray.
In his book Living on the Border of the Holy:
Renewing the Priesthood of All, L. William Countryman explores the priesthood
of the whole people of God—what we are all called to do and be.
To begin with, he paints a disturbing picture of
the culture in which we are to minister:
“We live in a world of
self-righteous destructiveness.” he says.
“It is characterized by hostility along the dividing lines of race,
ethnicity, gender, sexuality, religion, and class; by complex economic and
political justifications for arrogance, selfishness and greed . . . ; by new
forms of homicidal absolutism in the world religions; by an intense desire to
prove ourselves always in the right and our enemies always in the wrong; by an
extraordinary ease in resorting to violence; by massive indifference to the
fate of most children; by stunning ecological carelessness. [p. 70]
Ultimately Countryman poses the question facing
all Christians: “Living in such a world, what priestly work falls to us as
successors to Christ . . . ?” [p. 70]
Jesus gives the answer: we are to provide food for the hungry, drink
for the thirsty, welcome for the stranger, clothing for the naked, care for the
sick, and human contact for the prisoner.
In short, we are to see and respond to the Christ in each person.
Too often, however, the ideal of seeing Christ in
others is clouded by criticism and judgment.
We can be put off by what we perceive of as laziness, indifference, and
manipulation of the system or by the madness, odors, and appearance of those to
whom we would minister. It is one thing
to be the Lord or Lady Bountiful — quite another to climb into the trenches and
open ourselves to the “least of these,” as Jesus puts it.
As Countryman points out, “Both within the
church and outside it, there is a great need for human beings to overcome our
suspicion of one another, and the fear and hostility that arise from them. We need to `share food’ with even the most
impossible of our fellow humans.” [p. 73]
And that is exactly the lesson Ron Hall learns in
the book titled Same Kind of Different As Me. Ron, an upscale art dealer, in Ft. Worth humors his wife one
day by agreeing to accompany her to volunteer at the Union Gospel Mission in a disreputable
part of downtown Ft.
Worth,
which he describes in these words:
“Drive under the I-30/I-35 interchange, pass
beneath an impossible pretzel of freeways called the Mixmaster and through a
tunnel that efficiently separates the haves from the unsightly have-nots, and
there are no more plazas or monuments or flowerboxes and certainly no more
dazzling urbanites. In their place:
tumbledown buildings with busted-out glass.
Walls scarred with urine stains and graffiti. Gutters choked with beer cans and yellowed
newspapers. And vacant lots blanketed in
johnsongrass tall enough to conceal a sea of empty vodka bottles and assorted
drunks.” [p. 82]
Ron’s secret hope is that his wife Debbie will
change her mind about volunteering at the mission once she meets the “scuzzy
derelicts,” as he refers to them. [p. 75]
However, not only is Debbie Hall undeterred, she enthusiastically
plunges in to help, embracing what she finds beneath the surface of those whom
she serves. Beyond their dysfunction and
addiction, she sees what she calls “gifts–like love, faith, and wisdom—that . .
. [lie] hidden like pearls waiting only to be discovered, polished, and set.”
[p. 85]
Ron, however, finds the street people “shabby and
pungent” and is repelled by their appearance and behavior. In other words, he is ruled by judgment and
fear rather than trust. By contrast,
Debbie suggests to him that they refer to those who come to the mission as
“God’s people” and pray for them as such. [p. 86]
The centerpiece of the book is Debbie’s dream
wherein she sees a man, she describes as “`like that verse in Ecclesiastes . .
. a wise man who changes the city.’” [p. 85] Later she tells Ron that it is he
who is to befriend this “wise man.”
Enter Debbie’s “wise man” — Denver Moore, a
homeless African-American who grew up in a sharecropper’s shack” — fled that
environment for the life of a vagrant and has served time in prison; a man who
has never attended a day of school. He
is one client of the mission who wants absolutely nothing to do with “that
smilin’ white couple [who] started servin’ in the dinin’ hall on Tuesdays.” [p.
92]
Annoyed by and suspicious of Debbie’s cheerful
acceptance and attention, Denver
does everything he can to get her to leave him alone. He says:
“But no matter how mean and bad I tried to act
at the mission, I couldn’t shake that woman loose. She was the first person I’d met in a long
time that wadn’t scared of me. Seemed
like to me she had spiritual eyes: She could see right through my skin to who I
was on the inside.” [pp. 92-93]
And it is the man Denver is on the inside that
turns Ron Hall’s world upside down. All
of his judgments about the homeless street person fail to prepare Ron for Denver’s fierce loyalty and
his spiritual insight—traits that ultimately help Ron through the greatest
crisis of his life. By the book’s end,
both men have changed dramatically because of Debbie’s example and the miracle of
love.
You see, Debbie Hall did not judge Denver. She saw the Christ in him. She looked at him with “spiritual eyes.” And the result? Listen to Denver’s own words:
“I used to spend a lotta time worryin that I was
different from other people, even from other homeless folks. Then, after I met Miss Debbie and Mr. Ron, I
worried that I was so different from them that we wadn’t ever gon’ have no kind
a’ future. But I found out everybody’s
different–the same kind of different as me.
We’re all just regular folks walkin down the road God done set in front
of us.” [p. 235]
Here at St. James’ we sometimes sing a song with
these words: “I see the love of God in
you; the light of Christ comes shining through/ And I am blessed to be with
you, O holy child of God.”
Debbie, Ron, and Denver learned to live these
words. They moved beyond judgment and
tolerance to acceptance, grace, and unconditional love.
So when we ask ourselves how we are to live out
our priesthood in this place, we might profit from some suggestions from
another writer, Lee Strobel, who describes “tour bus Christians.” He says:
“Tour bus
Christians are insulated from the
real-world activity and excitement of God’s work. They may avoid some of the pain that’s
involved, and they may protect themselves from the difficulties and struggles,
but there’s no real adventure on a tour bus.
They miss out on the excitement of living on the edge of
expectation. They don’t experience the
tremendous counter-cultural truth that the more a Christian pours himself out
serving others in God’s name, the more God will fill him to overflowing. The adventure comes when you tell the tour
bus to stop, and you jump off and say:
“`Lord, I want to get into the fray. I want to play a role in the biggest
adventure story of all time. Use me to
make a difference. Use me to impact a
young person for You. Use me to solve
someone’s problem. Use me to soothe
someone’s pain. Use me to answer
someone’s prayer. Use me to feed someone
who’s hungry. Use me to rescue a
child. Use me to bring someone to You. Use me to ease someone’s loneliness. Use me to raise a godly family.
“‘Use me to deepen someone’s faith. Use me to cheer someone on. Use me to help a broken person understand
that he’s precious in Your sight. Use me
to touch lives in Your name.
“`I don’t want to just observe cathedrals through
my bus window; I want to roll up my sleeves and build one! Lord, use me to build a living cathedral
dedicated to Your glory.’” [From Celtic Daily Prayer,
p. 391]
Sheep and goats.
Do we dare to follow the risky example set by Jesus or are we satisfied
to be “tour bus Christians”?
“` . . . for I was hungry and you gave me food, I
was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you
welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care
of me, I was in prison and you visited me.’” [Matt. 25:35-36]
When we come right down to it, the fact is that
the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick, the prisoner and
all who cry out in need are most assuredly the “same kind of different” as
us. May we, like Debbie Hall, always
strive to see our fellow human beings, of whatever sort and condition, with
“spiritual eyes.”
AMEN.
Laura Shoffner
St. James’ Episcopal Church
Eureka Springs, AR
23 November 2008
Last Sunday after Pentecost