Always vulnerable, never alone

The Rev. Alissa Newton

The Seventh Sunday after Pentecost

text: Luke 10: 1-11

My daughter didn't cry on the first day of kindergarten. Some of the kids did, of course, but they were in the minority. For most of the children on that first day of school almost a year ago, the morning was full of excitement and the joy of new experiences. Us parents were a different story. We were, in short, a mess. For every newly minted kindergartner in tears there were at least five parents blubbering like it was our first day away from home, including me. I was surprised – after all my kid had gone to two years of preschool, and daycare before that. I didn't expect to be crying over kindergarten. But then, I am regularly taken aback by my vulnerability to parenthood. I used to be quite stoic about things like first days, and ballet recitals, and swim lessons, when it was other people's children having them. But now, with my own children, anytime I see one of them out in the world on her own – kindergarten, dance performance, t-ball game – I am brought in touch with the basic risk and beauty of being a person and this often moves me to tears. As we grow up we acquire all sorts of supposed protection against vulnerability and harm. We learn to be tough or clever, or we get bank accounts and houses and jobs that we hope will keep us safe in the world. And then our firstborn child goes to kindergarten and we come face to face with the reality that human beings are always vulnerable, at any age. Always vulnerable, but never alone.

In our gospel lesson this morning Jesus sends his followers out into the world, ahead of him, to proclaim the coming of his kingdom. Unlike other versions of this story, in the gospel of Luke Jesus sends them to every place that Jesus intended to go, not just to Jewish households. This is underlined by the context of the passage – Jesus is traveling to Jerusalem by way of Samaria, a place that most observant Jews would have taken great pains to avoid, as any contact with Samarians could make a Jew ritually unclean. And yet, Jesus sends his Jewish followers out from that place to proclaim God's kingdom. They are vulnerable to uncleanliness, and have no assurance of being well received: just before this in the text a Samaritan village refused to host Jesus and his entourage. One might think that the seventy who are being sent out will need extra provisions, just in case they are not given the customary hospitality on the road. But Jesus doesn't seem worried about this. Instead of equipping them to travel, he does the opposite and tells them to leave everything useful behind.

"Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals, and speak to no one on the road" Jesus instructs the seventy. "Whatever house you enter first, say peace." Like lambs among wolves, indeed. Jesus wants his followers to go ahead of him completely vulnerable to the world around them – no shoes, no money, and no making friends on the road. This is Jesus setting up God's kingdom as a radical rejection of the violence that marked the spread political regimes in Jesus' time. They are proclaiming a kingdom, after all, and usually people who proclaim kingdoms come not only with sandals and bags but also with swords and soldiers. Usually people who proclaim kingdoms do not start with peace and blessing. But this is God's kingdom and God's kingdom runs precisely counter to the violence and domination of other kingdoms this world knows. So instead of equipping his people for a holy war, Jesus de-equips them for holy peace, exposing the power that is at the heart of God's kingdom: the upside-down power of vulnerability to and care for each other and our world. In other words, the power of love.

So Jesus sends his people out as vulnerable as he can make them, without any of the things that they might bring along to help them feel safe. But they are not alone as they go. What Jesus does give the seventy is each other. He sends them out two by two – a pattern that we will see later in the book of Acts as the disciples and others begin to evangelize on behalf of the risen Christ. They go together into this world that may or may not receive their words of peace. And the promise of this gospel is that wherever they go, these followers of Jesus who have nothing in the world but each other, wherever they go, and regardless of how they are received, God's kingdom will come near.

So what are we do to, church, with this lesson that runs right up against so much of what our culture teaches us about safety, protection, and survival in this world? We belong to a time and a society that is probably even more freaked out by, and in denial of, human vulnerability than the people who lived in Biblical times were. We belong to a culture that equates safety and security with being alone and independent. We are part of a country that is fixated on personal protection and willing to sacrifice lives to keep our hands on all the equipment that goes along with that obsession. We live in a world that does not proclaim peace. What do we as Christians do with the great commission that our gospel gives to us this morning?

One place we might start is with each other. We might begin to imagine lives where we see all people as potential travelers with us on the road to God's kingdom, and allow ourselves to be vulnerable to companionship, help, and love from unexpected places. Another place we could begin is the proclamation of peace, even in places where we know we will be rejected. This is not an easy world in which to advocate for peace – we are given new reasons to feel vulnerable and afraid every day. And yet we worship a God who values vulnerability. We worship a Christ who was willing to become a vulnerable person and live a life vulnerable to pain and death in order to show us a different way to love the world and be human in it.

Today we get to baptize someone new into the household of God. This, also, is a way to proclaim peace and hope in our world. We baptize Mica not to make her belong, but because she already belongs to God, and with us. Baptism, for us, is a wildly optimistic statement of hope and love and vulnerability – hope in God and in each other, and love for all the vulnerable world that God has made us a part of, especially today the miraculous and vulnerable person we welcome into our midst, through the waters of baptism. Baptism is one way to say with God, and to each other that yes, we are always vulnerable to this world – there is nothing we can take with us on this road that can change that. But this is sacred and beautiful vulnerability. And through it all, we belong to God and are given each other. We are always vulnerable, and never, never alone.