Proper 14, 2016

2 Kings 5:1–14; Psalm 30; Gal 6:1–16; Luke 10:1–11, 16–20

“Oh, we ain’t got a barrel of money,

Maybe we’re ragged and funny,

But we’ll travel along, singing a song,

Side by side.”

When I was a little girl my Dad made me a tape of himself singing that song, along with many others. Listening to it is one of my earliest memories.

Today’s reading made me think of it.

Seventy people (or seventy-two, depending on the translation) – none of whom are named, and most of whom are not the twelve disciples, clearly – are sent out as sheep amidst the wolves. Sent out together, with nothing but the clothes on their backs, into territory which may be totally unfamiliar with them.

“We don’t know what’s coming tomorrow,

Maybe it’s trouble and sorrow,

But we’ll travel the road, sharing our load,

Side by side.”

It sounds kind of fun when we sing it like that, doesn’t it? I’m sure sometimes it was! Maybe they watched sunrises together and drank crisp clean water from a well. Maybe sometimes they got a really good meal from a happy family. Maybe sometimes they came upon a village celebration – a seasonal festival or a wedding – and were welcomed and caught up in the excitement. Maybe in the heat of the afternoon they sat under a tree and had men and women and children come to them to learn, talk, and listen together about this amazing thing that was taking place among them. Maybe sometimes they restored broken families through healing. Maybe sometimes they raised the dead.

“Through all kinds of weather

What if the sky should fall,

Just as long as we’re together,

It doesn’t matter at all!”

But maybe sometimes, it did matter. Maybe the sky did fall. Maybe sometimes they were rejected, as Jesus warns them. Maybe sometimes they got into huge fights about silly things – “Your foot’s on my side of the blanket!” “That last scrap of bread was mine!” “I wanted to heal that kid!” – and not so silly things: “You never listen!” “You always get so angry, it’s not helping!” “Why don’t you ever take anything seriously?”

Worst of all, maybe sometimes they got along great…but the people they were sent to were frightened, despairing, or unkind. “We don’t want to hear it.” “There’s no way you can fix this.” “We’re starving and you want us to feed you?” “Thanks, but there’s nothing you can do. It’s hopeless.”

Maybe sometimes they just lay together on the side of the road, unwanted, freezing cold, afraid, and alone.

Jesus says, “The harvest is plentiful, but the labourers are few.”

How true this can feel.

How woefully true.

It can make us feel so small, so quiet, so worn out.

We might feel like we’re being shushed when we try to share our good news. Outside the world moves on without us. There are days when it smugly says, “We’re evolving. There is no need for religion.” Sometimes the world is not smug at all, but hostile. “Look at this, another episode of religious violence. You know the problem with this world is religion.” Some folks have a reason to be hostile, because they’ve been horribly abused or have witnessed horrible abuse at the hands of the church. And some folks are simply afraid of what they don’t understand, and are unsure where to direct their fear and anger. They could still be right. There shouldn’t be people in the world who colonize religion to spread hate and violence. But it’s not the only thing that has been or will be colonized by the hateful or the fearful, and sometimes it seems like a lot of people don’t remember that.

The harvest is plentiful, but the labourers are few.

So many of us work so hard to spread love, and to be different from those who are fearful of or hateful toward the unknown. We work so hard, and a lot of that work goes unseen and uncelebrated. We work so hard, and sometimes we are stretched so thin. Sometimes there are so few. The harvest is plentiful, but the labourers are few.

How true.

And yet how wonderful.

How wonderful that those of us who remain are the ones that God called and continues to call, the ones who remain out of love, fidelity, trust, and hope. The ones who remain, maybe without even knowing why sometimes. The ones who may seem foolish to the world, but never to God.

How wonderful, for example, that all of these labourers came to the ordination of seven people on June 19th, and cheered with us, celebrated us, blessed us, and affirmed us – not just because they liked us, but because in the face of all that is changing in the world, people are still called to serve the church as members of the clergy, and the church – that means you – is so joyful and thrilled to help them to answer that call.

But it’s even more amazing than that.

How wonderful that, at that service’s Eucharist, my atheist husband and three of my friends, all of them spiritual seekers but not religious, sought me out for a blessing. How beautiful that these non-church people were even wiser than Naaman in today’s Hebrew Bible reading, not only accepting a freely offered gift but trusting in their hearts that it was a gift, knowing that they wanted a concrete, fleshly symbol of God’s love from a friend whom they trusted – and let’s be clear: a friend who is still a human being, who isn’t even always the best friend, who isn’t always good at making time to be with them, whom they still sought out and, paradoxically, claimed me as their own even as they sought to be claimed by God, if only for a moment.

They claimed me by saying, without words: “I don’t know what this is all about, but something’s happening in this room, and I want to be a part of it, even if it’s just today.”

They came to me for a blessing.

They came to me not because I have suddenly become more holy, but because they believed in my belief. A blessing is not a magic moment of electrical transference between the sacred and the profane. A blessing is a claim. A blessing is something that confers perpetual relationship. It changes people and things. It sets them apart for holy work.

It’s something that ordained people do, but we by no means have a monopoly on the proclamation of God’s blessing for the world.

The seventy were not ordained, but sent. They didn’t take any of this stuff with them. Only themselves, and their proclamation: “The kingdom has come near.” And they were not to withhold that proclamation from anyone, not even those who rejected it.

That proclamation is given to you at your baptism: gift-wrapped to you in the water, and it sticks to you in there whether you want it to or not – whether you even open it or not.

That proclamation is given to you every time you come to church.

Every time you hear it, you join the seventy.

For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, forever.

Yeah, sorry – even death doesn’t part you from this covenant.

Now none of you can say I tried to fool you with fine print. Don’t let it scare you. Rejoice and be glad, because we don’t do any of this work alone. Carry one another’s burdens on the road. Get ready to laugh, cry, eat, drink, sing, share, love, walk slowly with care and in peace.

I’ll be with you. I’m so glad I’ll be with you.

“When they’ve all had their quarrels and parted,

We’ll be the same as we started,

So we’ll travel along, singing a song,

Side by side!”