Sitting in the Ditches

Gospel Reflection Luke 14:1, 7-14

When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.

By my nature I’m a Midwesterner. My hope runs like Coldbrook creek, right through Highland Park right into the Grand River. I try to keep my hope reality sized, always wanting the world to be better, but not letting my hope get out of hand. I try to be thankful for what I have without comparing and I mind my manners. I eat the food put in front of me without complaint and try not to make it uncomfortable.

I think this is why this passage rubs me funny. Jesus was a guest at a party, and instead of enjoying himself, instead of minding his manners, he chose that moment for social commentary. Who knows what was up that day? Maybe his robe itched, maybe the host snubbed him, but Jesus was a spicy mess. He’s just plain rude. 

It makes me feel uncomfortable, like critiquing a stranger within the stranger’s hearing. 

And what Jesus says isn’t wrong. 

The Gospel according to Luke will always be just this, different from what we see day to day, our normal work-a-day world. Luke’s perspective on the world always and already favors the poor. Luke’s gospel is where we find the Magnificat, that brilliant and pointed commentary on our world; the rulers are brought down from their thrones, those with plenty have nothing, and the humble and meek are exalted. In Luke’s gospel, it isn’t “blessed are the poor in spirit” it’s the straight up “blessed are the poor.” Luke’s concern was for those who had nothing, those who had less than nothing. Luke’s Jesus is really heavy-handed today. So much that I couldn’t ignore it.

What if this is exactly what is supposed to happen? What if this is the story that Luke wanted to tell, the idol Luke wanted to smash, the vision that he wanted to paint, the theme he wanted to highlight, because if he didn’t, we’d forget it and in order to make sure we don’t forget it, he tells it this way. 

And neither is this a passage that needs a whole lot of interpretation. Maybe we haven’t been to that kind of wedding banquet, but anyone who has sat at a middle school lunch table knows these rules. Those with more power and authority, more coolness sit there. The next coolest sit here. The underlings don’t even go near, and the middle of the road-ers, well then, you can walk by and occasionally say hi. Our social orders are well-oiled machines. I did this for him, so he owes me, and on and on. Jesus turns them on their head. 

Invite the poor, the lame, and the crippled to your party. The meek will inherit the earth, blessed are the poor, the hungry are filled with good things and the rich God has sent empty away. 

I have to squint to see how this comes to pass, because right now this reality seems like the least likely of all realities. Yet this is God’s logic, so I try to begin to imagine what this would look like in this here and now. 

The Magnificat also says that the proud are trapped by the imaginations of their hearts; it’s like saying that you fall into the hole that you dug for another. 

But what if our  imaginations were utilized for the glory of God, for the kin-dom unfolding in our midst? For those who don’t yet know — I like the word kin-dom instead of kingdom. Kindom is about relationship, about connection, about webs of family — chosen or otherwise — between humans. It helps me imagine a place that’s part of my world now, not a Disney-esque fable with a king, but where equity, justice, and even angels are so normative that we expect them to be guests at our table. 

What might this look like? I’ll offer one vision. 

Fanny Lou Hamer, a black civil rights activist from Montgomery County, Mississippi, a woman of passion and wisdom, a Christian who knew poverty and could name it, who understood injustice and oppression and fought against it, saw the kindom of God as a really long table, groaning with food. Think Thanksgiving, birthday parties, church potlucks all rolled into one. There is a place for everyone, everyone in the world, even the people who didn’t think that Fanny Lou belonged at that table; everyone’s been invited. “But,” she said, “some people have to learn their manners first.” 

What else could you imagine? 

I can tell you what it doesn’t look like too. 

Some people are on Instagram to stay aware, but I’m on Instagram for the dog videos. This week I was introduced to a dog, Jacquweenie (who reminds me a lot of my little Hermes). Jacquweekie has a dramatic flair and very low pain tolerance. He suffers greatly with the smallest paper cuts or mosquito bite. But there was this part about Jacquweenie and his personal policy that doesn’t look like the kindom of God. Jacquweenie first above all things. You pet one dog, you better only pet Jacquaweenie. You give water to one dog, don’t forget Jacquweenie. Jacquweenie first. 

It’s all funny and maybe adorable because it’s a dog, yet what if it wasn’t a dog? 

Me first. You first. Who gets to choose?

And we Christians are asked to remember others as if they were ourselves, like the Golden Rule asks of us, do unto others as you would have them do to you. Imagination is at the beginning of this process, but it is by no means the end. 

These readings indicts all of us — even those of us who don’t think we have status, because we all do. It’s my usual to compare up, to look at those who are more money, more friends, who are more powerful, and see what I don’t have. I’d to think that I’m the one that God should bring justice to. But our texts demand a different response. There’s the poor, who inherit the kindom of God, those who are crippled, those who are blind, immigrants, children hiding in their classrooms, LGBTQIA+ humans, those who are being tortured, those in prison, those dying, those watching people die; we must not forget them. And it’s not only remembering, our text asks us to remember them as if it was we ourselves who were suffering.   

This doesn’t leave us a lot of room. Another moment of discomfort! My Midwest nice sensibilities are ruffled, but these texts ask me to reform. I need to only use my imagination, so that instead of only seeing when I squint, I see God’s way all the time.   

On Friday night, I went to a party with a whole lot of my Dutchie people, Calvin professors and the like. I’ve never lived in a place with my people and one of the joys of is our common heritage. “Oh,” a woman who I’d just met says to me, “you grew up in Rolling Fork? Our church supported a woman from Rolling Fork.” I knew exactly who it. was. Elvinah Spoolstra;  I called her Aunt Elvinah. What was her mother thinking? But besides that, Elvinah was a do-er. When she first started working in Mississippi as a young social worker, she saw that the folx with mental and physical disabilities had no resources. She wanted to change that. It was her imagination and the generosity of the communities that she belonged to — the money and the hard work of retired volunteers who did the renovations for free — that created Mississippi Christian Family Services, a nonprofit that served more than 200 people a day with its day program, supervised community and residential living, vocational skills, and work placement. You wonder why I’m Christian today? It was people like Aunt Elvina who lived their faith with their bodies, who imagined and then built it, whose ministry was evident, not just in their hearts, but in their actions. When I think about Elvina Spoolstra, I am reminded that maybe I should allow space for bigger hopes and more Spirit than my Midwestern sensibilities call for. Spirit gets her work done, y’all! 

This is about our baptismal vows, where we promise to love our neighbors as ourselves and respect the dignity of every human being. This is a moment where we don’t give ourselves a pass; where we sit in the ditches with those who suffer, honing our empathy. 

I’m finishing today with the First Nation’s version of Mary’s Song so that we can hear this vision anew. One thing to be aware of — instead of naming the characters, the First Nations version uses the meaning names: 

Luke 1:45-56

"Bitter Tears (Mary), you have been chosen by the Maker of Life for a great honor, because you believed His words to you." 

When Bitter Tears heard this, she was full of gladness and her words flowed out like a song. 

"From deep in my heart I dance with joy to honor the Great Spirit. Even though I am small and weak.  He noticed me. Now I will be looked up to by all. The Mighty One has lifted me up! His name is sacred. He is the Great and Holy One." 

Her face seemed to shine as she continued. 

"He shows kindness and mercy to both children and elders who respect Him. His strong arm has brought low the ones who think they are better than others. He counts coup with arrogant warrior chiefs, but puts a headdress of honor on the ones with humble hearts." 

She smiled, looked up to the sky and shouted for joy! 

"He prepares a great feast for the ones who are hungry, but sends the fat ones home with empty bellies. He remembers the promise He made to the tribes of Wrestles With Creator (Israel), and has shown kindness to the children of Father of Many Nations (Abraham)." 

When she finished Bitter Tears and Creator Is My Promise (her cousin, Elizabeth) both laughed with joy. With hearts full of gladness they told each other their stories.