12th Sunday after Pentecost

I was working at the dining room table earlier this week. Kathryn plopped down beside me. “Working on your sermon?”

“Yep,” I replied.

“What’s the text?”

So I read her the gospel we just heard.

“Hmm,” she said. “The first part just sounds like good advice on how to look cool in front of your peers. But the second part just sucks.”

And I totally agree with her. I have the same response every time I read this passage. Even though we keep reaffirming our parish mission to “be like Jesus,” the truth is, I only want to be like Jesus in some vague, idealized sense. When it means actually being like Jesus in specific, costly ways, everything in me resists. I hate the way passages like these make me feel: inadequate and guilty – that whenever I’ve hosted friends or family for dinner I was missing the mark. I wasn’t meeting Jesus’ standard of the right way to host a meal.

Which begs the question: If we’re trying to be like Jesus, is it wrong to host a meal for people who can host us in return? Is Jesus’ only acceptable standard that we only host meals for those who cannot return the favor?

Well. I don’t think it’s that simple.

When I was a teenager, my school didn’t have a debate team. I never had any formal training in debate. But that didn’t stop me from having a good go at it with my mother. Frequently. And whenever she and I were arguing, my favorite debate techniques was to take whatever logic she was using, then stretch it as far as I could, to reveal how fundamentally flawed it was.

“Oh, Eric, that’s not what I’m saying.”

I suspect I was a rather annoying son. In the same way that Jesus can be a rather annoying Messiah.

You see, in his teaching, he regularly exaggerates his point in order to make it as clear and emphatic as possible. He might be Lord of Heaven and Earth, but he’s also Lord of the Hyperbole. I don’t think he’s interested in laying down rigid legal codes on the only way to host a meal. He’s articulating a principle.

And, in this case, the principle is clear: The Kingdom of God is no quid pro quo affair. We don’t give with expectation of return. We just give. We just let go of our bounty in order to bless the one who has little. Just because.

Just because we are image bearers of God. Which means, Jesus never calls us to do anything that God is not already, and perpetually doing, himself. This is how God lives. With us. God is the host and we are “the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind” brought in to dine at God’s banquet table.

To all those things within us that cause our shame, that make us weak and ineffective – in this life, in our families, in our Christianity – to all those disabilities of character that inhibit our call to “be like Jesus,” God says, “I know. I know. Have you tried the potatoes? I used a little garlic and rosemary on them this time. Go on. Have seconds.”

That standard Jesus upholds – that standard of blessing – that feels so exaggerated and so impossible to fulfill through us, is the perpetual reality for God, who can bless and who does bless without barrier or compromise.

So thank God Jesus teaches with such hyperbole. Thank God his standard remains so high. For it is so high as to lead our eyes to heaven and say, “All I can do is to show what I see my Father doing perpetually for us.

Then in our way, we who are lame and blind, compromised in so many ways, do what we can to mimic this God whose love for us cannot be stopped.

As God blesses us, so we bless one another, with no expectation of return. And in this, God is neither judge nor condemner, but our gracious parent, guiding us – bit by bit – to mature into the dignity of this life God has given us.

Like Jeff Waters, this week, teaching water color painting every night at Family Camp. I’d see him setting up each morning, with all the supplies, eager, waiting for people to arrive, ready to give his skills away, with no expectation in return. He was most excited the night someone was just walking by on the street, saw what was happening in the narthex, and asked if she could join. Absolutely!

We bless with what we have been blessed.

But for some, this call to bless remains such an allusive call, so beyond our ability or comprehension. And if that’s the case, let me say (with all compassion), that our capacity to bless is often dependent on our own sense of stability.

And I’m not talking about money here (although that can certainly be a factor). What I’m talking about is the fundamental stability that comes from the assurance that we matter – that we belong in this world; we belong in our families, in this community, at the banquet table of God.

So if that is missing – without the stability that comes from knowing our own worth – it is very hard to see the other and to believe that we have anything worthwhile to share. And if that is you, please, do not let this scripture or sermon be a condemnation, but rather, an invitation: come, beloved of God, this table is set for you.

As you’ve heard on every flight you’ve ever been on: first put on your own oxygen mask before assisting the child next to you.

It is from knowing love that we are able to love.

So, returning to Jesus’ lesson: the underlying principle is that, in the Kingdom of God, we bless without any calculation of how we will be blessed in return. We simply give because it is the right way to live.

But that being said, there is – undeniably – another layer being emphasized in this teaching. We are called to be intentional in caring for those who are unable to reciprocate in kind. Because the love of God is universal – that none are left out – the call for the people of God is always to be on the lookout for those on the margins, or beyond.

In the language of the liberation theologians, it is Christ’s “preferential option for the poor.” It is not to say that they are more loved, but to include them and get them to a place of stability and hope will take more work, more intentionality. And, on the surface, it can feel less rewarding.

When our children were infants and toddlers, Cynthia used to say, “the family revolves around its most vulnerable members.” It was a useful articulation of what any healthy, functioning family intuitively understands. You forgo your own sleep to wake in the middle of the night to feed the baby or change their diaper. You leave the party you’re enjoying sooner than you want, because the children need to be home in time for bed. They’re the most vulnerable ones, and so their welfare comes first. We all know this and understand this.

And what’s true in our families should be true for the family of God: who is most vulnerable among us? And how will this family prioritize their wellbeing?

Now obviously in the church, as in Jesus’ example, this must always include a deliberate prioritizing of those whose financial vulnerability is extreme, because that vulnerability saturates every other aspect of life. So I am grateful for the ways St. John’s does this: for the English Language Learning class it offers for immigrants and refugees, for its partnership with FISH foodbank, Food Backpacks for Kids, Harbor Hope, the Refugee Resettlement Office. And my sincere hope is, each year, our support will grow – both the amount we give and the spirit that inspires the budgeting process and our relationships with them.

But I’m also mindful of another kind of vulnerability within our community, and it’s a social one.

It’s natural to gravitate towards those who have something to offer us in return: the charming and gracious people whose attentiveness makes us feel valued and desired; the clever and witty people whose banter can be so delicious; the people who hold the same political or theological beliefs who can bolster our own convictions; the wealthy people who serve better wine than we buy for ourselves!

It’s not that we’re being deliberately calculating. It’s just the natural thing to do. We naturally seek relationships that are rewarding in some way. And that’s fine, it its way.

But Jesus is calling us to something more. Especially in the church. That same “preferential option for the poor” has a social dynamic, a deliberately inclusive spirit that values and includes those who – on the surface – we may not be intuitively drawn to.

The classic example of this is in Winnie the Pooh. (I read this in some meme on Facebook, and think it’s spot on.) By any technical definition, Eeyore must surely be clinically depressed. For Eeyore, the glass is always half-empty, if not outright empty. It’s always going to rain. No good will come of whatever plan is afoot. Eeyore brings nothing fun to the party.

And yet, he’s always invited to the party. He’s always included, with no expectation that he pretend to feel happy. They just love him anyway, and they never leave him behind or ask him to change.

The church should be something like the Hundred Acre Woods. It’s for everyone, especially those who may often sit in the margins, for whatever reason. It could be someone is strongly introverted; there could be any number of mental health issues; they may be physically separated by ongoing Covid vulnerabilities or not having a car or dementia or in a retirement home.

These might not be relationships you naturally seek out. But to do so intentionally is not phony. (It can be patronizing if it’s done poorly!) But what it is, really, is a maturing kind of love. It is you – taking your discipleship and the teaching of Christ seriously. Christ had his intimate circle of friends, but loved broadly. And we can, too.

And as we do so, it is good for us, for we are becoming like Jesus, our hearts expanding with the choices we make. It is good for the receiver, for they are being restored to community, stability, and hope. And it is good for the world, that amidst so much rancor and division, something is being made whole again.

And we can all begin to hope, just a little bit more, that the kingdom of God is in our midst. Amen.