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"Sodomy, But Not How You Think"
July 8, 2007: 6th Sunday after Pentecost, Year C
The Rev. John MacIver Gage, senior minister
United Church on the Green, UCC: New Haven, CT
www.UnitedChurchontheGreen.org

Scripture

Luke 10:1-12, 16

After this Jesus appointed seventy others and sent them on ahead of him in pairs to every town and place where he himself intended to go. He said to them, "The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few; therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest. Go on your way. See, I am sending you out like lambs into the midst of wolves. Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals; and greet no one on the road. Whatever house you enter, first say, 'Peace to this house!' And if anyone is there who shares in peace, your peace will rest on that person; but if not, it will return to you. Remain in the same house, eating and drinking whatever they provide, for the laborer deserves to be paid. Do not move about from house to house. Whenever you enter a town and its people welcome you, eat what is set before you; cure the sick who are there, and say to them, 'The kingdom of God has come near to you.' But whenever you enter a town and they do not welcome you, go out into its streets and say, 'Even the dust of your town that clings to our feet, we wipe off in protest against you. Yet know this: the kingdom of God has come near.' I tell you, on that day it will be more tolerable for Sodom than for that town. . . .Whoever listens to you listens to me, and whoever rejects you rejects me, and whoever rejects me rejects the one who sent me."

Sermon

So, given last Sunday's lesson from the Gospel According to Luke, where Jesus has some hard words for three would-be followers about the high cost of discipleship, it may seem a bit odd that in this week's reading—in the very next verse no less!—Jesus is already sending his disciples out again as his representatives to the world. But there it at the head of chapter ten: "After this the Lord appointed 70 others and sent them on ahead of him in pairs to every town and place where he himself intended to go." This is a reflection of and enlargement on the scene at the beginning of chapter nine, where Jesus sends out the core Twelve on their first missionary program.

In the same way, the instructions for the road Jesus gives here in chapter 10 are a repetition of and an expansion on his earlier instructions: "Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals." They are to travel light. "And greet no one on the road." They are to remain focused on their purpose. "Remain in the same house, eating and drinking whatever they provide." They are not to "shop for a better deal" along the way. Instead they are to share in building a new kind of community, tend to the physical needs of those among whom they find themselves, and always, always preach the good news that the "kingdom of God has drawn near."

But lest we think last week's hardnosed Jesus has gone all soft and dreamy on us, Jesus makes sure these new missionaries know that he knows what he's asking. He understands that any disciples of the way of the lamb will be vulnerable in a wolfish world. And so Jesus schools them in what to do when they meet with rejection—when, not if: "But whenever you enter a town and they do not welcome you, go out into its streets and say, 'Even the dust of your town that clings to our feet, we wipe off in protest against you. Yet know this: the kingdom of God has come near.'"

Jesus knows a thing or two about inhospitable towns; after all, he was born in one, Bethlehem, where there was no room at the inn, and that's where he's headed in the context of this passage from Luke, remember? "When the days drew near for him to be taken up, Jesus set his face to go to Jerusalem" (Luke 9:51). Jerusalem, for whom Jesus will weep aloud: "Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!" (Luke 13:34). "Not willing," to the point of the cross, inhospitable to the point of the stone-cold tomb. As the poetry of John's Gospel would put it a little later, in Christ, "the true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him" (John 1:9-10).

It seems that in the grand sweep of salvation history, of the working out of God's kingdom purposes of justice, peace, and compassion on earth "as it is in heaven," hospitality is one of the hinges on which the whole story turns. Not "hospitality" as we commonly use the word today, run down to cover only such happy homemaker skills as setting a fine table or engaging a guest in polite conversation, but as Jesus' audience and their ancestors would have understood it, hospitality in the deepest sense. Their roots still reached down to a spare desert culture where the stranger was a gift from God to be received graciously, extravagantly, above even one's own family, at the risk of invoking a kind of karmic payback down the road.

This experience, of receiving strangers and, indeed, of being strangers, is integral to the self-understanding of the people of Israel in the Hebrew Bible. In Deuteronomy 10, right after Moses lays down what we have come to know as the "first and greatest" commandment to love and serve God "with all your heart and with all your soul," he goes on to remind the people how that love gets put into practice: "For the Lord your God... executes justice for the orphan and the widow, and who loves the strangers, providing them food and clothing." Therefore "you shall also love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt" (Deuteronomy 10:12, 17-19).

Just think of all the moments throughout scripture where an act of radical hospitality makes all the difference and sets the story moving in a completely new direction. In the first testament, Pharaoh's daughter fishes a basket out of the Nile and raises baby Moses as her own; Rahab the prostitute, a many-times great grandmother of Jesus, opens her Jericho home to Joshua's spies and saves her family; Boaz extends his protection to destitute Naomi and her foreign daughter-in-law, Ruth, and so, too, becomes an ancestor of the messiah. In the New Testament, Roman Cornelius welcomes Jewish Peter and receives also Holy Spirit, while Ananias opens the door to a blind son-of-a-bitch named Saul, who under his care is converted to an apostle to the gentiles.

And then there are the two great Biblical examples of hospitality shared and hospitality denied, both from Genesis, chapters 18 and 19, respectively. First, Abraham and Sarah, camped out beneath the oaks of the oasis at Mamre, see three strangers headed toward them out of the heat haze of the desert sun. Abraham bows low before his guests, offering them rest and refreshment, and greets them with extravagant words: Good sirs, "if now I have found favor in thy sight, pass not away, I pray thee, from thy servant: Let a little water, I pray you, be fetched, and wash your feet, and rest yourselves under the tree: And I will fetch a morsel of bread, and comfort ye your hearts; after that ye shall pass on: for therefore are ye come to your servant" (Genesis 18:3-5, KJV) And all this before he even knows that these three are, in fact, in some mysterious way, the One and Only Lord God. But by their uncalculated act of hospitality Abraham and Sarah open themselves to receive the blessing of God, the confirmation of God's promise of a child.

By way of contrast, in chapter 19, two of those heavenly strangers then go on to visit Abraham's nephew, Lot, at his lovely new town home in center city Sodom. While there the city fathers come knocking on Lot's door, as well, insisting that he turn over to them the two undocumented and unwelcome immigrants he's sheltering so that they may "know them"—insert diabolical laughter here. <Ahem> Well, whatever that means, you can bet it's not good. And so, in a bit of historical atrocity that serves only to underscore the importance of hospitality in Ancient Near Eastern culture, Lot tries to defend his guests by bargaining with the mob. "Please," he pleads with the oh-so civilized barbarians at his gate, "do nothing to these men, for they have come under the shelter of my roof," as sacred guests of my hospitality. "I have two daughters who have not known a man," if you know what I mean; "let me bring them out to you, and do to them as you please" (Genesis 19:8). Let's just sit with that a moment.

Now, like I said, as repulsive as Lot's offer is, it highlights the enormity of the sin of inhospitality in the world view of Jesus and his audience, a sin for which tradition says the people of Sodom paid dearly. That's right, friends: Contrary to centuries of majority wisdom, Sodom's sin wasn't homosexuality, or sexuality of any kind, really, but rather the sort of gross inhospitality which treated the strangers in their midst not as guests to be received but as objects to be exploited and then cast aside. Our ancestors in faith knew this. In the book of Ezekiel, the truth-teller warns the Jewish exiles in Babylon: "This was the guilt of your sister Sodom: she and her daughters had pride, excess of food, and prosperous ease, but did not aid the poor and needy" (Ezekiel 16:49). Likewise, in the Talmud, the rabbis wrote:

So when Jesus says of the people who will not receive the messengers he is sending, "I tell you, on that day it will be more tolerable for Sodom that for that town," this is what he has in mind. Jesus is sending out the 70 as bearers of the good news of God's reign of justice, peace, and compassion in his name. Like him, they are offered to the world as living invitations to hospitality, to personal, powerful engagement with the God who comes to us wearing the stranger's face. And Jesus also knows that, like him, they and the topsy-turvy, first-shall-be-last-and-last-shall-be-first gospel they bring with them aren't likely to be too welcome too often. Hospitality's a dying art already in Jesus' day. And so, for just those moments, Jesus gives his disciples—gives us—one of the great parting shots of all time. Eugene Peterson, author of The Message paraphrase, puts it this way: "The only thing we got from you is the dirt on our feet, and we're giving it back. Did you have any idea that God's kingdom was right on your doorstep?" (Luke 10:11, The Message).

So take that, Roman Catholic Church! Take that, Southern Baptists! Take that, Boy Scouts of America and Denny's Restaurants and the United States Supreme Court and Coach Peterson in 10th grade and the loan officer at the bank and mom and dad and.. .and... everyone else who's ever refused the gifts we have to offer, the gifts we are by virtue of who and whose we are as beloved children of God. Jesus says it's okay to say it, so: Eat our dust! <Nyah!>

But before we get too, too lost in the romance of victimhood—which can be totally appropriate in some ways and even feel really good, I admit—before we do that, we need to stop and think again. Yes, it's true, just as he called those 70 disciples long ago, Jesus calls us to be his messengers to the world today, to offer the world the opportunity to practice sacred hospitality and so receive the presence of God in their midst, as Abraham and Sarah did. But at the same time, since the gospel life within is, shall we say, as yet incomplete, God is still speaking not only through us but to us, too. We are not only the disciples, we are also the towns. We are not only the bearers of good news, but its intended audience. In other words, folks, we've got lots to listen and learn. We need to check ourselves before we wreck ourselves and end up as just another haughty, heartless Sodom.

Because, judging by Ezekiel and the Talmud's thoughts on the subject, as a nation we're not that far from sliding into Sodom-hood—not as our more evangelical brethren and sistren may imagine, certainly, but who can deny that among the community of nations, we in the United States enjoy "excess of food and prosperous ease"? Who can deny that we in this country can and do tend toward pride about our "American way of life?" Who can deny that we like to imagine that the many blessings we enjoy from God's hand are simply our just reward, or even our right, to be shared sparingly among our shrinking circle of friends and allies, and withheld completely from those unworthy, unwelcome aliens in our midst? Does this not sound familiar, folks?: "Why should we suffer wayfarers, who come to us only to deplete our wealth? Come, let us abolish the practice of traveling in our land." Come, let us round up and fine and deport them all before they eat our bread or take our jobs or move into our neighborhoods or marry our children.

Remembering Abraham—and doubtless Sodom, too—the author of the Letter to the Hebrews put it plain as day: "Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it." (Hebrews 13:2). Jesus himself tells us that whenever we show kindness to one of the "least of these who are members of God's family," who hunger or thirst, or are in need or in prison, or who are strangers, we do it to him (Matthew 25:31-46) and so open the door to eternal life. Now, am I saying that all undocumented immigrants in this country are angels of God, sent by Jesus to bring us gospel good news? No, clearly not. These are folks just like you and me—or maybe your family and mine, a couple of generations back—and immigration policy is an immensely complex and confusing issue. But given the negative example Jesus gives us in today's reading, invoking the name of once-proud Sodom itself, do you want to be the one to stand at the border and pick out the "good ones" as they come across?

Frankly, friends, we cannot afford to waste the time and energy, not to mention the opportunity to practice sacred hospitality. Our faith urges us to receive, yes, even the illegal stranger in our midst and the immense gifts—economic, political, spiritual gifts—they represent, lest they shake off the dust our cities and towns that clings to their feet as a witness against our modern-day Sodomy, our prideful inhospitality. In our passage today, Jesus says, "Whoever listens to [my messengers]," whatever disguise they may wear, "listens to me, and whoever rejects [my messengers] rejects me, and whoever rejects me rejects the one who sent me," that is, the Lord God who executes justice for the orphan and the widow, and who loves the strangers. Is that a risk you are willing to take? Not me. Despite the fear-mongering and shameless politicking of too many in power today, our harvest in this nation is plentiful, not merely five loaves and two fish, but enough for a multitude, with twelve baskets left over. Let us share this table with the all the guests God has sent to sit beside us.

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