I don’t know about you, but one of the things I like least about Jesus is the way he always disrupts my life. Consistently, and without fail, Jesus surprises me. And it’s really hard to get used to.
For the whole of my life, even as someone who was raised in the church, as someone who has done this Christian thing for a long time, I still can’t get over the number of times that Jesus has shown up in my life only to topple my understanding of him, to disrupt my life path, or to send me to a place I couldn’t have imagined coming before.
This year, of course, has been a year of disruption for many of us. It has been a year in which all of the routines that we have held dear have been upended in some way or another. It has been a year in which many of us have found ourselves yearning for all that was normal (at least by February standards) and wondering when things will settle and we’re able to get our bearings again.
I wonder what this time has been like for you.
Over the coming weeks and months of our ministry together, my deepest hope is that we can have that conversation. I’m looking forward to getting to know you, the hopes and dreams God has placed on your hearts, and the new things God is showing you in this strange and uncertain time.
Friends, if you had asked me in February what my future held, I would not have told you a single thing that happened from March through this Thanksgiving Sunday. Nothing about these months makes sense from the perspective of February. And yet, piece by piece, and with a whole lot of hindsight, the pieces are starting to fit together in a new way. Some pieces remain, many have been discarded. With disruption comes a certain amount of chaos. As it was for ancient Israel, and for Jesus’ disciples on the road, and in the wake of his death, there is always a certain amount of wandering and confusion before we are brought into a transformed resurrected life.
And here we are, together, the people of Valhalla Parish, on the lawn at St. David’s Church, in Castlegar. Who would have believed months ago that I would be here to celebrate this thanksgiving with you? And yet. And yet, I’m grateful. For you, for the chance to be together, for the chance to walk the road with Jesus together. To discern our sense of God’s mission for this time and place, and how we might—with the unexpected leading of the Holy Spirit—participate in that mission too.
In today’s gospel reading, we meet Jesus travelling south on the dusty road to Jerusalem somewhere between Galilee and Samaria. Travelling with his disciples, they enter a village. And, as seems to be commonplace in Jesus’ ministry, people in need of healing and restoration approach him, with a special request.
Sometimes I imagine myself as one of those disciples, dusty and tired, ready for some rest and a cool glass of water. I imagine myself entering the village, leaning over to Jesus and saying—not today, okay? Let’s just find a place to rest, spend the night, and be on our way in the morning. It’s been a long day. Just this once, let’s not spend too much time here. This time, can we just pass through undisturbed, get to where we’re going without another pit stop?
But news travels fast in small towns. News travels fast that Jesus is there. And why wouldn’t it? This wandering rabbi, from the nowhere town of Nazareth was gaining quite the reputation. And it preceded him. From the earliest days, his preaching had been provocative. He played with the tradition. Reinterpreted it. He told the story of Yahweh and of Yahweh’s people—he told the story of Israel—as though it mattered—as though it was still unfolding. He told the story of God and God’s people as though God was doing a new thing. And, he told them, he, Jesus, was at the centre of that whole enterprise. For those who were used to hearing something else in Synagogue and on the road, this was a wakeup call.
Perhaps you remember that story—earlier in Luke’s gospel—when Jesus begins his ministry. Perhaps you remember the time he’s at synagogue in his hometown, and he’s handed the scroll of third Isaiah. He unrolls it, scans it, locates his favourite part, and then, with a mischievous grin, reads aloud:
The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
Because he has anointed me
To bring good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives
And recovery of sight to the blind,
To let the oppressed go free,
To proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.
And with that he rolls up the scroll and sits down. They look to him expectantly for an interpretation that will reveal what this might mean for them, gathered as they were under the shadow of Roman occupation. In a time of fear, and loss, and confusion. He looks around the crowd, catching the eye of every person in the room, and says, “today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”
“I am the one upon whom God’s spirit rests,” he seems to be saying. “These ancient prophetic words? That’s my ministry. This is what God is calling me—calling us—to live in our common life. To embody the good news for one and all.”
But where am I—where are we—going to start? Not with the rich. Not with the jailers and the police. Not with those who are able bodied. Not with the white supremacists. But the poor, the captive, the blind, and the oppressed. This is what God’s favour looks like. And it is always disruptive to our way of life, no matter how long we’ve been journeying with Jesus along the discipleship road.
And here, my friends, is what God’s favour looks like: God’s favour tells people who have less than enough, and those who struggle to believe that they are enough, that contrary to what the people in power are saying, they are beloved. You are beloved. I am beloved. We are beloved of God—even on those days we struggle to believe such things are possible.
And so, when we meet the ten lepers just outside the village’s gates, it’s no wonder that Jesus stops. He always stops. For those in need. Those in pain. Those experiencing grief.
Jesus stops. Over and over again throughout his journey, Jesus stops. He stops to see the people before him. Those who have been pushed to the sides of society. Those who struggle with their mental or physical health. Those who have been rejected by their families and communities. Those who aren’t sure what’s next. Those who have lost their jobs. Those who are seeking meaning and direction. Those who feel isolated and alone. Those who polite society doesn’t have any time for. These are the people Jesus comes for first.
The ten cry out on the side of the road leading into the village, for as people with leprosy, they are not permitted to live in the town. It’s a homeless camp, of sorts, down under the bridge, kept far enough away so that the townsfolk don’t have to pay too much attention.
They keep their distance—as we all must these days—for fear of infecting people in another bubble. Even so, they cry out, “Jesus, master, have mercy on us.” They bring their petitions to Jesus, and as soon as he sees them. As soon as he hears them, he speaks, telling them to go show themselves to the priests. And somehow, somehow as they leave, they are made clean. When they get to the temple on Mount Moriah in Jerusalem, they will show themselves to the priests, be declared well, and be welcomed back into the community.
All, that is, except one. All, that is, except the Samaritan, who did not worship in that temple. All except the Samaritan whose religious holy place was on Mount Gerizim to the north. The priests and the temple in Jerusalem would do him no good. He would receive no absolution there. That’s not how things would work. He had been healed of his disease, but the religious leaders would be blind to that. Even so, in gratitude and thanksgiving, he returns to Jesus, lungs bursting, heart brimming with whole-hearted praise and thanksgiving to the one who—without checking ID or religious affiliation—had offered healing in the first place.
That’s the kind of love Jesus extends. And that’s the kind of love Christ’s church is called to embody. Together as God’s people, this is the love each of us—even in physical distance—is called to extend, to unflinchingly embody in the world.
I love this story. I know it’s full of disruption. I know it’s inconvenient. But I love it all the same. And this week I hear Jesus’ invitation loud and clear:
How might we be a parish where everybody has enough, and knows that they are enough? How might we be a parish that, like Jesus, embodies this love for all who we meet? How might we embrace the disruption of this time, and the disruptions Jesus brings us, to respond to all who are seeking such wholeness, even now?
Amen
