Where Do You Belong?

I think their names were John and Carol. According to the story I was told, these people were very much into family trees and that sort of thing. Through their genealogical research they discovered that they had relatives in Norway. Through a series of letters and emails, and even long distance phone calls, they started getting acquainted. Eventually, the Norwegian relatives invited John and Carol to Norway for a family reunion with the family they had never even met. Of course they made their travel arrangements and headed across the sea. When they arrived at the family farm, they were treated like royalty; hugs, kisses, tours of the village, stories of earlier generations, and a wonderful Norwegian meal. Later on, the local family historian arrived at the farm and announced that he had some important news to share with them. With everyone huddled around the dining room table, he looked at John and Carol and said "It's a mistake. It turns out that you are not actually related to us after all."

What do you do? A few minutes earlier, they were family and now they are just a couple of American tourists in a foreign land. They are strangers with no real ties to the family at all. It seems John and Carol had made a mistake in their research. They had come to some wrong conclusions. There was a feeling of awkwardness that set in; a feeling that they didn't belong there. Their Norwegian hosts were still very hospitable, but John and Carol felt uncomfortable and a touch embarrassed about their mistake. They cut the visit short, packed up their things, waved good-bye, and went on their way.

A similar sort of thing happened to LuAnn and I years ago, only we were traveling through Atlanta, Georgia, not Norway. I decided to to look up a name in the Atlanta telephone directory because, the last I heard, a former college roommate of mine lived there. When we stopped at a fast food place for a bite to eat I asked if I could borrow a phone book. Sure enough, there was Bruce Lund whom I had not seen or been in contact with for a good many years. I called the number, told who I was. We had a wonderful visit on the phone. He even invited us over to his home for dinner. Then, in the course of the conversation, I asked how Marti was doing, his wife. Bruce said, “who?” It turned out that I had called the wrong Bruce Lund. Strangely enough, this guy had had a roommate in college named Larry, and the conversation was able to move along until I asked about his wife, and called her by name. I apologized for my mistake and for bothering him with my call. He said, “no problem at all. In fact, you’re still welcome to come over and have dinner with us. We’d enjoy having you.” I declined, feeling that we really didn’t belong there. We were strangers to these people. We had no ties to them. So we went on our way.

In our gospel text today, Jesus and his disciples are among strangers. They are 60 miles from home in a land that is mostly occupied by Gentile people, that is, non-Jews. And Jesus doesn't even get settled in the home where he is staying before a Gentile woman approaches him with an urgent request; her daughter is ill. She begs Jesus to heal the little girl, but Jesus says "no." It's not that he was too busy. It's not that he was unable to heal her. It is that his mission did not yet include Gentile people. Such people were outside the family. Why should he have anything to do with the likes of one such as she. But the woman said, "It's not right to take the children's food and feed it to the dogs." The "Children" of course, are the Jews. In Jewish circles in those days, Gentiles were referred to as "dogs." But the woman is persistent; she is desperate that her daughter be healed. "Yes, Lord, but even the dogs sometimes eat the crumbs that fall from the children's table."

Jesus was amazed by this Gentile woman's persistence and by her faith. This woman believed that even crumbs of his grace would be sufficient to heal her daughter. "Woman, go home. Your faith has healed your daughter."

Next, Jesus is confronted by people who have a deaf friend; he's deaf and he has a speech impediment. The friends also believe that Jesus could heal him. This time, Jesus is more cooperative. He moistens his fingers and places them in the man's ears and says "Be opened!" And immediately, the man is able to hear and speak.

Two miracles. Two miracles from a preacher whose ministry was comprised of hundreds and hundreds of such miracles. Time after time in the bible, we find Jesus healing the blind, and the lame, and the lepers, and the paralyzed. Again and again, we find him feeding the multitudes, or changing water to wine, or calming the angry seas. What is so significant about these two miracles that would warrant special attention from us on a sunny Sunday in September? It is this: these miracles were performed on the nobodies of the day; people who didn't count according to the righteous and religious people of the day.

Think about it! First, they were Gentiles, non-Jews; the dogs of society. Then there was a woman, a second class citizen who should not have even been speaking to a Jewish male according to Jewish custom. Then there was a small child, powerless and without position in that culture. And then there was the deaf mute; a castoff in society because he couldn't hear and he couldn't speak. These were the nobodies of the day; total strangers to Jesus, but it was to them that he gave attention, and life and hope.

It’s like a mother of several children being asked, "Mom, which one of us do you love the best?" Perhaps that mother would respond, "Whichever one of you needs me the most." That was Jesus philosophy exactly. He sought out the strangers, the ones nobody else would care for, and he cared for them deeply, and with compassion. And he loved them into his Kingdom.

In the Church, we often see ourselves as the insiders of God's Kingdom. We're in. We know the stories of the bible, and the words to the hymns, and the language of the Church, and the rules of the club. Like the official Norwegian family historian who made his announcement to John and Carol, I have some important news for you: "It's a mistake. We're not related." Unless we have some Jewish blood flowing through our veins, we're the dogs. We are the outsiders. We have met the strangers and they are us. But then Jesus intervenes and invites us to be has children. Not because we deserve it. Not because we have the right pedigree. Not because we follow the right rules or know the right language, but because we are exactly the kind of people he always seeks; those who are hurting, those who are in need, those who are lonely, those who are strangers, those who are excluded.

I remember a pastor telling about being in his office at the church one afternoon when the telephone rang. The voice on the other end asked, "How do I get into your church?" And the pastor talked about baptism, and confirmation, and new member classes, going on in quite some detail about the process involved. Finally, the voice at the other end interrupted, “No, no, you don’t understand. I'm the UPS guy and have a package for you. I tired all the doors and they are locked. How do I get into your church?" In a very real sense, there are people asking us that question. "How do I get into your church?" They're not asking about the doors? They are asking where the friendship is. They are asking where the compassion is. They are asking where there is someone who truly cares. They’re looking for a place to belong. It is up to us to welcome them as family. Thanks be to God. Amen.