This morning I am thinking of Marjorie. A dear, retired women I knew years ago,
she was a devoted Christian and shared with me in the ministry of preparing
young people for confirmation.
More than ‘knowing her stuff’ about the church, she was ideally suited
for this work because she was the kind of person we want our young people to
emulate: gently, caring, kind, thoughtful, full of faith, always radiating
joy. It was not at all her way to
speak badly about anyone, which is why I have never forgotten a comment she
once made to me.
We were talking in private about one of the teenagers
in the group who in class had made some pretty uncharitable comments about poor
people and people of color. Where
did these beliefs come from I wondered?
Marjorie told me about a lunch she once had with the teen’s mother. In church the mother presented herself
as holier than thou, but at a tiny café a different side had emerged. Marjorie described how the mother
interacted with the waitress; ignoring her at one point, barking orders at another,
and generally being so rude that Marjorie was embarrassed to be in her company. It was then that Marjorie made said
what I have never forgotten – a comment that has guided every single
interaction I have had since she spoke the words: “My mother used to say that
you can tell a lot about a person from the way they treat the help.”
You can tell a lot about a person from the way they
treat the help – or we might want to change it slightly to a term Jesus used,
‘the least of these.’ If this is
true, and I think it is, then you can tell something about me from the way I
treat a congressman, but more by the way I treat a Wal-Mart cashier. You can tell something about me from
the way I treat a lofty admiral, but more from the way I treat a lowly
administrator. You can tell
something about me from the way I treat the bishop, but more by the way I treat
the Barons barmaids.
More than being a common curtsey or a sign of a good
upbringing, this approach to ‘the least of these’ was a crucial reason (if not
the crucial reason) why Christianity spread throughout the Roman Empire in such
a relatively short period of time.
In today’s New Testament reading we heard James – the brother of Jesus –
admonishing the early church to show no acts of favoritism to the wealthy over
the poor. We heard him proclaim
the belief that showing partiality is a sin.
This was radical stuff in that day and age. Listen to how one historian describes
that era:
The ancient Mediterranean world that Rome once ruled
was a vast, culturally diverse set of societies, unrelated by language,
economics, religions, and histories, all forced into political unity by a
brutal military. Vast numbers of
people who inhabited the Roman Empire resented or hated Roman rule and
experienced few, if any, benefits from its social and economic structures. The empire was not in any modern way
even vaguely democratic or inclusive; instead, it was a rigidly hierarchical
and status-based world of haves and have-nots, of masters and slaves. Unlike Hollywood sword-and-sandal film,
the ancient world was not a pleasant place absent conveniences such as sewer
systems and running water.
Greco-Roman cities were small, extremely crowded, filthy beyond
imagining, disorderly, filled with strangers, and afflicted with frequent
catastrophes – fires, plagues, conquests, and earthquakes. Unlike Western urban life today, where
even the poor have access to marginal services, life in antiquity abounded in
anxiety and misery for nearly everyone.
In that environment, Christians embodied the virtue
of hospitality to all: the sick, the poor, travelers, widows, orphans, slaves,
prisoners, prostitutes, soldiers, and the dying. Lucian, a 2nd century pagan critic of
Christianity, wrote of the lavish care believers offered to a local prisoner,
saying “the efficiency the Christians show whenever matters of community
interest like this happens is unbelievable; they literally spare nothing.”
Tertullian, a Christian from same era offers a similar insight: “It
is our care of the helpless, our practice of loving kindness that brands us in
the eyes of our many opponents.
‘Only look,’ they say, ‘look how the love one another.’” One
more quote, this from John Chrysostom, writing in the 4th century,
describes what motivated the early church to behave this way: “Observe
the hospitality here spoken of is not merely friendly reception, but one given
with zeal and cheerfulness, with readiness, as going about it as if one were
receiving Christ himself.”
Our Christian forefathers and mothers received every
person they met as if they were greeting Christ himself. The early church could not have
manufactured a weapon of war more powerful against the culture in which they
lived nor could it have produced an ad campaign more effective than the
sacrificial manner in which they humanized every person they encountered. It subverted an entire society and way
of life across the greatest empire the world had known to date.
Today’s gospel reading is particularly interesting
because it tells a story where Jesus is the antagonist. The hero has several strikes against
her: she is a woman, a foreigner, and her daughter is tormented. She approaches Jesus as her last, best
hope, but he brushes her off with a putdown that makes us bristle: “I don’t
feed dogs like you.” Here is where might want to remind
Jesus that you can tell a lot about a person from the way he treats the
help. To her credit, the woman
perseveres and, in a clever little bit of give-and-take notes that even dogs
get to eat crumbs that fall from the table.
It is a revelatory moment in Jesus’ life because her
faith helps him to discern that his mission encompasses all people, not just
the children of Israel. Jesus
grants the woman’s request by healing her daughter and then, in the very next
story (which we also heard read) he heals without hesitation a man with a
speech impediment even though he too is a resident of a foreign land. These acts become signs of how
outsiders – unlovely, unwanted human beings – are to be welcomed into the heart
of Christian community and fellowship.
We are the inheritors of this tradition. We become its standard bearers at our
baptism when we make covenantal promises with God to seek and serve Christ in
all persons, to love our neighbor as ourselves, and to respect the dignity of
every human being. Living as we do
in a world that seems to be more dehumanizing and less friendly every day, the
church is finding anew how powerful and potent embodying these promises can be
as we seek to draw all people into God’s life and love.
You can tell a lot about a person by the way he or
she cares for the least of these.
And you can tell a lot about a congregation by the way it does the
same.
As the election campaign cranks into full gear I find
myself having a recurring thought: what would happen if word got out that a
presidential candidate would be speaking at St. Paul’s next Sunday? Well, we’d have the place spotlessly
clean and the paint touched up.
Every burned out bulb would be replaced and every bit of brass
polished. The acolytes would be
here early and they’d be wearing dress shoes with socks. The choir would be at full strength and
Al might even behave himself. My
sermon would be brief and possibly even coherent. The Parish Hall would be decked out with the finest foods
served on the fanciest flatware we can muster. The pews would be packed long before the service
started. We would anticipate the
event all week and talk about it with pride years later. Whenever someone gets around to writing
an updated history of the parish you can be sure that it would mention the
visit from a presidential nominee.
Now, let me ask you this: what would happen if an
e-mail went out announcing that a former parishioner who moved out of the area
several years ago was coming back for a visit? Those who knew the person well might make a special effort
to be here, evening changing plans to make it happen. Someone might even arrange to go out to lunch with the
person after the service. There
would be no special cleaning or music, Al would behave (or not behave) as we
have come to expect, and my sermon would be long and rambling.
How about this scenario: what would happen if God
whispered in your ear that next Sunday a homeless person was going to sit in
the back pew during the service?
What would be different?
How would we approach that day and that event differently that the other
scenarios? I am not suggesting we
have a silver and crystal reception after church (or maybe I am), but what does
it look like to show no partiality?
What can you tell about us from the way we treat a presidential nominee,
a returning friend, or a homeless person?
Our ancestors in the faith treated like royalty the
most humble and lowly members of society.
They confronted the proud and pompous at every turn, even if it meant
persecution, imprisonment, or death.
Their church grew and it thrived because they were selfless in the
service of others. They offer
their witness to us and inspire us as we seek to serve Christ in our own day,
striving always to discern what this looks like in our own time.
