Seventy for Samaria

Margorie Wrench was a slight woman. Petit, thin, and soft spoken. Yet, she was also a librarian. Not someone to mess with. Margorie was kind, but firm. Like many women of the mid-west, she worked through the hardships of life with a firm resolve, a church home, and lifelong friendships. When her husband died suddenly on Saturday when mowing the yard, she was devastated but also determined to live. Hence, she was a deacon, served on the search committee, baked the cookies for the fellowship hour.

It was at a deacon meeting where Margorie made her one and only complaint. I outlined how in a few weeks the session and deacon board would canvas the small Ohio farm town with church guides.  I put together a guide of the 30 churches in and around Pataskala.  Each page had a picture of a church, address, phone number, time of service, any other helpful information each church provided.  (Before the internet obviously).  On a coming Sunday we would canvas the community going door-to-door to hand them out.

              Margorie's complaint was: she didn't want to go door-to-door, didn't want to knock on random doors.  "I don't want to do this," she said.  "But," steeling her resolve, "I'll do it if I walk with you and only you." 

              On the day of distribution Margorie was there, without fanfare.  She stood next to me when I handed out the guides to the pairs who would walk the neighborhoods.  When all had left Margorie and I walked off, not a word between us, but there was a lingering sense of trepidation.  She was going to do this with me, but she was not impressed.

              At our first house I knocked on the door. A woman answered.  I said, "my name is Fred, this is Margorie, we are handing out church guides in the community.  This is all the churches in the area.  If you need to find a church home, this could help.  If not, maybe give it someone who needs to find one."  The woman at the door looked at the guide and then said, "wow, that is really helpful.  Thanks for this."  I told her to have a great day and turned to leave.

              As we were walking down the path from the house Margorie hauled off and whacked me in the arm.  She was slight but she packed a punch.  Then she said with great certainty, "well, I can do that."  And then she did. At the next twenty houses Margorie knocked on the door, described the guide and bid farewell to the person who answered.  She could do that, and she did.

              I am not exactly sure what Margorie thought was going to happen. Maybe she expected a Jehovah's Witness testimony would be required or a Mormon push to be invited in, but whatever her expectation it was more than what we did.  Maybe the idea of knocking on the door, going door-to-door frightened her. Greeting the stranger, being the stranger.  Whatever it was, she was afraid until she wasn't.

              Perhaps it was the church part.  Had I invited her to go door-to-door to register people to vote, maybe she would have been less fearful.  There is no religious component to casting your vote, at least there didn't use to be.  I got a sense from Margorie that faith, her faith, was a private matter.  She was not up to standing on street corners and preaching to the people passing by, which is not for the faint of heart.  I get that. Yet, even something as simple as handing out the guides didn't sit well with her relationship with God, her theology and devotion.  It was a private matter even though she gathered with people every Sunday to worship.

              Remembering Margorie and the people in the small town, I laugh now.  If ever there was an easy place to talk to strangers, this was it. Even in such a place she was afraid until she wasn't.

              A few years later in Washington State I canvased the neighborhood surrounding the church going door-to-door with a seminarian in tow.  "The church is sponsoring, hosting a community meeting," I would say to those who dared open the door or were unfortunate enough to be doing yard work.  Handing them a flyer I was often greeted with "no thanks."  Some folks took the flyer and thanked me, but their unspoken request was for us to keep moving.  I messed up at one house and misspoke.  I said, "we are hosting a neighborhood meeting."

              My mistake proved very enlightening.  The person took the flyer and thanked me with sincerity and said, "this is great.  Thanks for doing this.  I would love to come to a neighborhood meeting."  Walking away the unforeseen difference was clear.  Community represented something too big, too much, maybe even political or involving protest.  Neighborhood was just right, important, appealing. 

              Neighborhood good; community bad. I tested this theory as we continued to walk the blocks. Without fail, when I said "community meeting" the response was negative; when I said "neighborhood meeting" it was positive. Somehow community was too much.  As it was with Margorie, the life people lived was more private than public.  Gathering a community was too big.

              Beneath this difference is a strange truth about size, number.  I have led many trips to Mexico, to New Orleans after Katrina, to Africa.  Some of the groups have been as small as three or four, some groups as large as 100.  Both have purpose; both are worthy.  But something changes, is lost, when you get beyond a few dozen people.  The intimacy, comradery of a dozen becomes crowd control with seventy.  To pay attention to the experience and emotions of people who are venturing beyond their comfort, the safety of a private life is manageable with twenty; it is not with eighty.  With eighty people in an airport, you are trying not to lose anyone, and enough bathrooms is key.  The problems which always arise with a large group, the drama, the cliques the meltdowns are all you can handle.

              One way of reading today's lesson from Luke is to consider crowds and the boundaries of public and private, the fears that arise when you venture beyond the safety of your space. Jesus addresses this in a not very encouraging way.  I am sending you as lambs into the midst wolves.  I am not sure Margorie would have agreed to walk the neighborhood had I said this. 

              To be honest Jesus is not making this easy.  Take no bag, no purse, no sandals. Greet no one the road.  When I led groups to Mexico there was a lot of planning.  Flights, busses, vans and tents, hotels.  I took a cook with us who was a chef.  The people had lots of stuff.  Sturdy shoes; a hat for the heat of Tijuana in July; everyone had the meds they needed.  We even designated someone to act as the nurse on these trips. Jesus seems to say to the 70, good luck.  Stay where people are nice to you and leave where they are not.  I don't give the staff a lot of detailed instruction, true, but I am better than this.

              At the heart of the direction to the seventy there is the tension between public and private.  Jesus is pushing them out of the nest.  For some people, like the ones who thought a neighborhood meeting was good, but a community meeting was too much, for some people this direction would have been difficult to endure in terms of exposure.  Too big, too much.  Yet, what I find challenging is not being out there, away from home or even a matter of scale; what I find the most challenging in our reading is the need to accept hospitality. 

              We have a hard time accepting a gift, accepting something offered to us.  Consider someone who comes to your house, and you say, "can I get you something to drink?"  Most people are quick to say, "no.  Don't worry about me."  People have come to my house in the middle of summer, hot and sweaty, obviously in need of a glass of water and when I say, "let me get you something to drink," they will always say, "oh, no.  I don't want to put you out."  This has happened enough that I have a habit of saying, "no problem, really.  We have a tap in the house where water comes out.  We keep glasses on hand, ready to use just for this reason.  There is even a small door on the fridge where ice comes out by pressing a button." 

              I am not sure why receiving hospitality is so problematic.  Yet I imagine if I went through the list of directions Jesus gave: travel light, possible danger, venture into the unknown, all of this would be greeted with a level of courage, but then, to live solely off the hospitality of strangers?  This is where we all balk and say, I just checked my calendar and I've got to meet someone about a thing.  This is hard for us, the ability to accept hospitality, to say, "thank you, that would be lovely," It is hard, and it is the key to the message of Jesus, his good news.

              The good news of Jesus is simple: the kingdom of God is at hand, you can be free here and now, live a life of liberty if you walk in humility and have the courage to give away your life so to find it.  That is the good news.  Jesus bid his disciples to carry this message throughout Samaria. The seventy walked from village to village preparing the people with this good news.  They did.  But the message would have no effect were they to remain as strangers.  The key is not the hardship of less than adequate supplies, nor the fear of crossing the boundary from private to pubic, the key is how Jesus bids them to risk friendship, to rely upon the hospitality of others.

              Eugene Peterson, a Presbyterian pastor, always gave people the same advice when they were looking for a church home.  He said, start at a large church and then keep visiting churches that are smaller and smaller.  Do this until you find yourself in the smallest church you can enjoy, where you feel at home.  At the heart of his advice is the truth in our lesson.  Find a place where you are most likely to give and receive hospitality. 

              Often I give a book to elders.  The Twelve Keys to the Effective Church.  For the most part the keys are mundane.  Good parking, good signage, good financial accounting, boards with accountability.  Lots of simple things like a comfortable place to sit.  I just sat in a church this Friday with new pads in the pews.  Gotta tell you, we are missing a key there.  But the real point of the book, the essence, which none of the others can make up for, the essential key is hospitality, how you welcome, greet, gather the stranger and call them friend.

              It could be Jesus needed an advance team given the mistrust of the Samaritans.  That a Galilean prophet would be kind to them or care for them was not an easy sell for the villagers of Samaria who were used to being treated poorly by their Jewish neighbors.  It could be he needed his disciples to convince the people of Samaria that the good news was for them too.  Makes sense.  Yet, I wonder if it was the disciples he needed to convince even more. We can live as if friendship is extra, a bonus, not an essential, the key. 

              What if the message had little power without the trust of hospitality; what if without friendship the kingdom of God is a lonely place.  Maybe it is just that simple.  Amen.