A Meditation on Matthew 10
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1.
Here’s a line for all you poets out there: “Life writes the poetry,” these are the words of poet Ged Thompson in Liverpool. “Life writes the poetry, but it will always call for witnesses and scribes alike to tattoo its echoes upon the ghosts of trees.” How about that? “Life writes the poetry, but it will always call for witnesses and scribes alike to tattoo its echoes upon the ghosts of trees.”
I’m struck this week (maybe you are too) by the poetry all around us, the poetry of early November in New England: rusty fall foliage blanketing the hills, an early morning frost, a crisp baptism for a new day. Or the deer I saw at dusk barreling across a sun-dappled field. “Life writes the poetry.” Or smiling volunteers passing baskets of fresh fruit and veggies out of a church basement. There’s a kind of poetry in that too. Or a young Asian-American woman winning an election as the first woman, the first Asian-American, the first person of color elected mayor of the city of Boston. “Life writes the poetry.”
But always, always and forever, God calls on witnesses and scribes to tattoo its echoes upon the ghosts of trees. It’s our calling—yours and mine, and especially in the church, ours—it’s our calling to bear witness to the poetry, to offer testimony to the wonder, to celebrate what we see. You and I are called to bear witness. It’s our baptismal privilege and obligation.
But let’s be real. This is so very different from proselytizing or browbeating, right? It’s so very different from pushing feverishly to convert others to our way of thinking or our way of believing or loving or even rhyming. It’s our calling to bear witness to life’s poetry. It’s our calling to offer testimony to God’s wonders. It’s our calling to celebrate the the in-breaking kin-dom of God, in-breaking kingdom of Love, the in-breaking Kingdom of heaven. “Proclaim the good news,” Jesus says to the twelve. “The Kingdom of heaven has come near.” It’s our calling to bear witness. Now what others do with that witness, what others do with our poetry is really, ultimately up to them, and the God who loves them. We simply and joyfully and lovingly bear witness.
Life writes the poetry. We tattoo its echoes upon our hearts, our homes, our neighborhoods, our sidewalks. We bear witness.
2.
So Jesus sends us out to do just that. That’s the simple message this morning, the basic direction of this gospel. Witnesses don’t hide their light. Apostles don’t protect their joy at all costs. Jesus sends us out. I want to suggest this morning—and it’s a risky suggestion, I know—but I want to suggest that you and I are 21st century apostles. Nothing less than that. 21st century apostles of Jesus the Lover, Jesus the Includer, Jesus the Healer, Jesus the Good News, Jesus who Heralds the Kingdom of Heaven. The kingdom of Love is not satisfied in a cloistered container. The kingdom of God is not content with inequity or injustice. The kingdom of heaven draws us into new neighborhoods, and into broad coalitions, and into practical initiatives. Jesus sends us out.
I visited a colleague this week, a pastor, and he mentioned that his church wants to recarpet his office and buy him a new desk and paint the walls something fresh and shiny. But he tells them to forget all that. And he points to a big framed sign hanging by the light switch. It says, in bright red letters: “Get Out of Here.” Get out of here. “My ministry’s in the streets,” he says to me. “My ministry’s at the school board meeting on Tuesday night. My ministry’s at the barber shop where they’re talking about getting vaccines or not. My ministry’s at the hospital where the nurses are on strike.” “Get Out of Here”—says the sign by the light switch.
Of course we’re not talking about proselytizing or browbeating. Of course we’re not talking about pushing feverishly to convert our friends. But we are talking about trusting the Love in our hearts and the poetry in our souls—and taking it out into the world. Into your neighborhood. Into your school system. Into the halls of your government. Into the workplace and the marketplace. Witnesses don’t hide their light. Apostles don’t protect their joy at all costs. “To be an apostle,” says theologian Stanley Hauerwas, “to be an apostle is to be a messenger of and witness to Jesus.” And that’s you, that’s me, that’s us. Messengers in the worlds we live in. Witnesses to the love and light and grace of Jesus.
Now there’s a lot in this morning’s text that’s complicated and even unsettling. But Jesus is pretty clear—in Matthew’s story—about the direction of our movement. He’s pretty clear about where the love and the light and the grace take us. Right? Cure the sick, he says to the disciples. Raise the dead, he tells them. Cleanse the lepers, cast out demons, bring the frightened into the fold. As the sign says, in my friend’s office, “Get Out of Here.” Get out of here.
Pay attention to his purpose. Because church, it’s got to be our purpose too. Wherever children of God are disconnected, connect them. Wherever children of God are alienated and disoriented, bring them together, bring them into communion, give them hope. Wherever children of God despair, wherever they weep, touch them and feed them and tell them that God is near.
And that’s the message, right? If we are messengers, if apostles are messengers, that’s the message. “The kingdom of heaven has come near.” It’s not: ‘You better believe in the things I believe in, or else.’ It’s not: ‘You better recite the creed I recite every Sunday, or else.’ It’s not: ‘You better get yourselves saved fast, or else.’ “The kingdom of heaven has come near.” The poetry has already been written. The glory of God is already in your hearts. That’s the message.
Now I know this notion of bearing witness can be scary for us in the progressive church, in our United Church of Christ. I know we bristle at all the ways Christians through the ages—and even now, especially now—how Christians use Jesus to scare us into complicity, to bully us into falling in line. But let’s be real this morning. That’s not the energy in Matthew’s story. That’s not the vocation of these apostles. And that’s not the message we take into the world today.
“The kingdom of heaven has come near.” The glory of God is already in our hearts. The mercy of God is always enough. If the sick despair, if the frail lose hope, we go to keep watch with them. We practice radical, faithful, holy accompaniment. If the dying are frightened and alone, we sit with them and pray and sing with them. And we practice radical, faithful, holy accompaniment. And if any are bullied, if any are judged, if any are mocked for their sweet and precious gifts, we stand by them, and we stand with them, and then we stand between them and harm’s way. See how this goes? We practice radical, faithful, holy accompaniment. The mercy of God is always enough. “The kingdom of heaven has come near.”
So, yes, Jesus sends us out. Let me put a finer point on that. Jesus sends you out. You are an apostle of God’s love. You are an apostle of mercy and joy. Your baptism means just that. You are an apostle of mercy and joy. And that doesn’t mean having all the answers—or really, having any answers at all. It simply means you have heard Life’s Poetry, you have seen the Love of God in Jesus, and you are sent into the world (this week and every week) to be Love’s witness. Into your neighborhood. Into the school where your kids spend all their days. Into the spaces where we struggle for justice for one another, and where we rise up to save the fragile and sacred planet. I know that’s going to shake some of you up a bit. To imagine yourselves as apostles, as witnesses, as evangelists even. But you are sent into that world. You are apostles in that world.
That’s what church means. To Jesus. To Matthew. And to us. Love’s light shines in you. Love’s light shines in me. And together, together, we shine for all the world. Faith is nothing less than that.
3.
Now one of the interesting, and yes unsettling, things about this morning’s text is this very sober reminder: that it doesn’t always go as we’d like it to go. Our witness isn’t always received or embraced as we’d like it to be.
You’re going to go out there, Jesus says, with this message. You’re going to out there, he says, with this light, with this love, with this joy. And sometimes they’ll welcome the light. And sometimes they’ll rejoice with you and break bread with you and open their hearts to you. And sometimes they won’t. Sometimes they won’t welcome you. And sometimes they won’t open their hearts to you.
And it’s significant, in this part of the gospel at least, that Jesus directs us to shake the dust from our feet and move on. Move on. We cannot and we will not mend every tear. We cannot and we will not lighten every load. We cannot and we will not heal every wound. We can only bear witness. We can only offer testimony. To the Love that lives in our hearts. To the Jesus we come to know and trust together.
I remember years ago standing with friends in a vigil against the invasion of Iraq. And we were standing at a busy urban intersection at midday, and there was foot traffic on all sides, and cars and trucks rolling by. It was loud and chaotic. And some drivers were honking in an obviously supportive way—for the signs we lifted and the spirit of our protest. A lot of us were worried about that invasion, and against it. But then one car, one driver, slowed down as saw us, and he rolled down his window, and before I could do anything or turn away, he spat in my face. A direct hit on my cheek. I have to confess my first irrational impulse was to want to chase after the car—which was gone in the blink of an eye. I was so mad. And so humiliated and disgusted.
Sometimes, Jesus says, they’re not going like your message. Sometimes, Jesus says, they’re not going to welcome your witness. So shake the dust from your feet and move on. But don’t put that light under a bushel basket. Don’t let them demoralize your spirit or diminish your joy. If your thing is tackling climate change and bearing witness to God’s passion for Planet Earth—if that’s your thing—you’re going to meet some disappointment along the way. You’re going to find some cold hearts out there. Sometimes, they’re not going to like your message. So shake the dust from your feet and move on. If your thing is promoting gender equity, or ending gender violence, or lifting up the rights and dignity of transgender siblings and nonbinary friends and LGBT neighbors—if that’s your thing—you’re going to meet some meanspirited souls along the way. Just protect yourself. Call on the rest of us if you need us. Shake the dust from your feet and move on. Your message is God’s good news. Your light is your gift. There are other people, and other places, and other ways for you to let that light shine. Shake the dust from your feet and move on.
4.
Years ago, the great American writer Madeleine L’Engle wrote that “to be a witness does not consist in engaging in propaganda, nor even in stirring people up, but in being a living mystery.” Friends, that’s you and that’s me. I am a living mystery. You are a living mystery. So just do that. Just be that. Wherever you go. Whatever you do. Whomever you travel with. Whomever you work with. Just be a living mystery.
God will work through you. The One whose grace shines in you will shine through you. How it is that others receive that light is not for you or me to say. How it is that others respond to your message is not for us to say. But know this. You can be a witness. You are a witness. And world is waiting for the story you have to tell. The world is hungry for the story you have to tell. For the poetry of your life.
Amen and Ashe.
1.
I’m struck this week (maybe you are too) by the poetry all around us, the poetry of early November in New England: rusty fall foliage blanketing the hills, an early morning frost, a crisp baptism for a new day. Or the deer I saw at dusk barreling across a sun-dappled field. “Life writes the poetry.” Or smiling volunteers passing baskets of fresh fruit and veggies out of a church basement. There’s a kind of poetry in that too. Or a young Asian-American woman winning an election as the first woman, the first Asian-American, the first person of color elected mayor of the city of Boston. “Life writes the poetry.”
But always, always and forever, God calls on witnesses and scribes to tattoo its echoes upon the ghosts of trees. It’s our calling—yours and mine, and especially in the church, ours—it’s our calling to bear witness to the poetry, to offer testimony to the wonder, to celebrate what we see. You and I are called to bear witness. It’s our baptismal privilege and obligation.
But let’s be real. This is so very different from proselytizing or browbeating, right? It’s so very different from pushing feverishly to convert others to our way of thinking or our way of believing or loving or even rhyming. It’s our calling to bear witness to life’s poetry. It’s our calling to offer testimony to God’s wonders. It’s our calling to celebrate the the in-breaking kin-dom of God, in-breaking kingdom of Love, the in-breaking Kingdom of heaven. “Proclaim the good news,” Jesus says to the twelve. “The Kingdom of heaven has come near.” It’s our calling to bear witness. Now what others do with that witness, what others do with our poetry is really, ultimately up to them, and the God who loves them. We simply and joyfully and lovingly bear witness.
Life writes the poetry. We tattoo its echoes upon our hearts, our homes, our neighborhoods, our sidewalks. We bear witness.
2.
I visited a colleague this week, a pastor, and he mentioned that his church wants to recarpet his office and buy him a new desk and paint the walls something fresh and shiny. But he tells them to forget all that. And he points to a big framed sign hanging by the light switch. It says, in bright red letters: “Get Out of Here.” Get out of here. “My ministry’s in the streets,” he says to me. “My ministry’s at the school board meeting on Tuesday night. My ministry’s at the barber shop where they’re talking about getting vaccines or not. My ministry’s at the hospital where the nurses are on strike.” “Get Out of Here”—says the sign by the light switch.
Of course we’re not talking about proselytizing or browbeating. Of course we’re not talking about pushing feverishly to convert our friends. But we are talking about trusting the Love in our hearts and the poetry in our souls—and taking it out into the world. Into your neighborhood. Into your school system. Into the halls of your government. Into the workplace and the marketplace. Witnesses don’t hide their light. Apostles don’t protect their joy at all costs. “To be an apostle,” says theologian Stanley Hauerwas, “to be an apostle is to be a messenger of and witness to Jesus.” And that’s you, that’s me, that’s us. Messengers in the worlds we live in. Witnesses to the love and light and grace of Jesus.
Now there’s a lot in this morning’s text that’s complicated and even unsettling. But Jesus is pretty clear—in Matthew’s story—about the direction of our movement. He’s pretty clear about where the love and the light and the grace take us. Right? Cure the sick, he says to the disciples. Raise the dead, he tells them. Cleanse the lepers, cast out demons, bring the frightened into the fold. As the sign says, in my friend’s office, “Get Out of Here.” Get out of here.
Pay attention to his purpose. Because church, it’s got to be our purpose too. Wherever children of God are disconnected, connect them. Wherever children of God are alienated and disoriented, bring them together, bring them into communion, give them hope. Wherever children of God despair, wherever they weep, touch them and feed them and tell them that God is near.
And that’s the message, right? If we are messengers, if apostles are messengers, that’s the message. “The kingdom of heaven has come near.” It’s not: ‘You better believe in the things I believe in, or else.’ It’s not: ‘You better recite the creed I recite every Sunday, or else.’ It’s not: ‘You better get yourselves saved fast, or else.’ “The kingdom of heaven has come near.” The poetry has already been written. The glory of God is already in your hearts. That’s the message.
Now I know this notion of bearing witness can be scary for us in the progressive church, in our United Church of Christ. I know we bristle at all the ways Christians through the ages—and even now, especially now—how Christians use Jesus to scare us into complicity, to bully us into falling in line. But let’s be real this morning. That’s not the energy in Matthew’s story. That’s not the vocation of these apostles. And that’s not the message we take into the world today.
“The kingdom of heaven has come near.” The glory of God is already in our hearts. The mercy of God is always enough. If the sick despair, if the frail lose hope, we go to keep watch with them. We practice radical, faithful, holy accompaniment. If the dying are frightened and alone, we sit with them and pray and sing with them. And we practice radical, faithful, holy accompaniment. And if any are bullied, if any are judged, if any are mocked for their sweet and precious gifts, we stand by them, and we stand with them, and then we stand between them and harm’s way. See how this goes? We practice radical, faithful, holy accompaniment. The mercy of God is always enough. “The kingdom of heaven has come near.”
So, yes, Jesus sends us out. Let me put a finer point on that. Jesus sends you out. You are an apostle of God’s love. You are an apostle of mercy and joy. Your baptism means just that. You are an apostle of mercy and joy. And that doesn’t mean having all the answers—or really, having any answers at all. It simply means you have heard Life’s Poetry, you have seen the Love of God in Jesus, and you are sent into the world (this week and every week) to be Love’s witness. Into your neighborhood. Into the school where your kids spend all their days. Into the spaces where we struggle for justice for one another, and where we rise up to save the fragile and sacred planet. I know that’s going to shake some of you up a bit. To imagine yourselves as apostles, as witnesses, as evangelists even. But you are sent into that world. You are apostles in that world.
That’s what church means. To Jesus. To Matthew. And to us. Love’s light shines in you. Love’s light shines in me. And together, together, we shine for all the world. Faith is nothing less than that.
3.
Now one of the interesting, and yes unsettling, things about this morning’s text is this very sober reminder: that it doesn’t always go as we’d like it to go. Our witness isn’t always received or embraced as we’d like it to be.
You’re going to go out there, Jesus says, with this message. You’re going to out there, he says, with this light, with this love, with this joy. And sometimes they’ll welcome the light. And sometimes they’ll rejoice with you and break bread with you and open their hearts to you. And sometimes they won’t. Sometimes they won’t welcome you. And sometimes they won’t open their hearts to you.
And it’s significant, in this part of the gospel at least, that Jesus directs us to shake the dust from our feet and move on. Move on. We cannot and we will not mend every tear. We cannot and we will not lighten every load. We cannot and we will not heal every wound. We can only bear witness. We can only offer testimony. To the Love that lives in our hearts. To the Jesus we come to know and trust together.
I remember years ago standing with friends in a vigil against the invasion of Iraq. And we were standing at a busy urban intersection at midday, and there was foot traffic on all sides, and cars and trucks rolling by. It was loud and chaotic. And some drivers were honking in an obviously supportive way—for the signs we lifted and the spirit of our protest. A lot of us were worried about that invasion, and against it. But then one car, one driver, slowed down as saw us, and he rolled down his window, and before I could do anything or turn away, he spat in my face. A direct hit on my cheek. I have to confess my first irrational impulse was to want to chase after the car—which was gone in the blink of an eye. I was so mad. And so humiliated and disgusted.
Sometimes, Jesus says, they’re not going like your message. Sometimes, Jesus says, they’re not going to welcome your witness. So shake the dust from your feet and move on. But don’t put that light under a bushel basket. Don’t let them demoralize your spirit or diminish your joy. If your thing is tackling climate change and bearing witness to God’s passion for Planet Earth—if that’s your thing—you’re going to meet some disappointment along the way. You’re going to find some cold hearts out there. Sometimes, they’re not going to like your message. So shake the dust from your feet and move on. If your thing is promoting gender equity, or ending gender violence, or lifting up the rights and dignity of transgender siblings and nonbinary friends and LGBT neighbors—if that’s your thing—you’re going to meet some meanspirited souls along the way. Just protect yourself. Call on the rest of us if you need us. Shake the dust from your feet and move on. Your message is God’s good news. Your light is your gift. There are other people, and other places, and other ways for you to let that light shine. Shake the dust from your feet and move on.
4.
Years ago, the great American writer Madeleine L’Engle wrote that “to be a witness does not consist in engaging in propaganda, nor even in stirring people up, but in being a living mystery.” Friends, that’s you and that’s me. I am a living mystery. You are a living mystery. So just do that. Just be that. Wherever you go. Whatever you do. Whomever you travel with. Whomever you work with. Just be a living mystery.
God will work through you. The One whose grace shines in you will shine through you. How it is that others receive that light is not for you or me to say. How it is that others respond to your message is not for us to say. But know this. You can be a witness. You are a witness. And world is waiting for the story you have to tell. The world is hungry for the story you have to tell. For the poetry of your life.
Amen and Ashe.
