There is a song I thought
of this week – Would You Harbor Me? The
lyrics take the form of a question, asked repeatedly in many ways.
Would you harbor a Christian, a Muslim, a Jew,
a heretic, convict, or spy?
Would you harbor a runaway woman or child,
a poet, a prophet, a king?
Would you harbor me?
Would I harbor you?
It is the kind of question
that seems to be important for this section of Paul’s letter to the Romans. It
asks, simply: Who is in and who is out? Who is worth our resources – our time,
attention, love, or money – and who is not.
It is clearly a matter of
great importance to Paul. The stakes are high, for he knows both sides
intimately, and loves both sides deeply. If there are to be winners and losers
in this argument, Paul does not see an outcome that would be bearable for him.
Paul is in anguish at the very thought of his brothers and sisters, the Jews,
being excluded from the covenant with God.
This is what is at stake.
And it’s remarkable, when you think about it, that in just a few short decades,
things could have turned around so completely. As Paul was writing this letter,
it wasn’t very long ago that Jesus was born and raised, lived and died, as a
Jew. He lived among Jews; taught, healed, and performed miracles among the
Jews; he called the Jews to be his disciples; he died as a Jew.
And now, the good news has
traveled so far and become enculturated in so many places already, it is
leaving behind its roots, quickly taking on the perspective of a new people, to
whom these people, the Jews, and their law and customs, are foreign. It happened
quickly.
It wasn’t too long ago that
the Apostle Peter had experienced a powerful vision telling him that Jesus
Christ was not only for the Jews, but they were to carry the gospel to the
gentiles as well. “Do not call unclean what I have made clean,” is the message
Peter receives in his vision. God’s love was more inclusive than they had
thought it was.
And it wasn’t too much
longer before Paul and his partner in ministry, Barnabas, were traveling from
city to city carrying the gospel of Jesus Christ – first, to the synagogue and
then to the gentiles in each city they visited. And on these travels, they
began to have such great success among the gentiles, the inevitable question about
them was raised: have they been circumcised? Have these gentile men been
properly brought into the covenant? Were Paul and Barnabas evangelizing
properly, were they doing it kosher? The answer was no, they were not. Forcing
the question of whether one had to become a Jew before one could be a
Christian.
Paul was called before the
Church council in Jerusalem, where he argued passionately for the gentiles,
that they should not be burdened with unnecessary requirements. And after some
debate, the council agreed.
As the church grew and
pushed across border after border, the distance grew between Jews and
Christians. And now it was a question not of whether the Gentiles could be
saved but whether the Jews could be saved. It is clearly a very painful
question for Paul.
Paul is in anguish over the
idea that the Jews would somehow be excluded from the love and promises of God.
But it is not only because Paul is by heredity and upbringing a Jew – a
Pharisee, by training. He is not partial; Paul’s perspective, his love, his
commitment, is astonishingly inclusive.
He fought for the gentiles
in Jerusalem and he fought for the Jews in Rome. Paul didn’t claim to always
understand the way God was working in the world; as he wrote to the church in
Corinth, “I did not come proclaiming the mystery of God to you in lofty words or
wisdom. For I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ, and
him crucified.” He tried simply to keep his eyes fixed on Jesus. We can hardly
go wrong to do this, ourselves. For Jesus’ love was inclusive.
Paul’s expression of
anguish for his brothers and sisters, in this letter, is powerful. His love is
so selfless that he would go so far as to cut himself off from Christ for the
sake of the Jews, if it would somehow bring them to Christ. He would sacrifice
himself, a very Christ-like sentiment, if it would bring his people into the
fold of Jesus Christ.
The letter to the Romans is, as I said a few weeks ago, the
most theological of all Paul’s letters, and it reflects a very mature theology.
Scholars believe this letter to be the last one written in his life, at least
among those we have seen. Paul’s letter to the church in Rome reflects a
lifetime of experience working for the sake of Jesus Christ and his church. Some
of his sharp edges have worn down with age and experience, but his passion clearly
has not dimmed. His love of Christ and all his people is strong, his joy in
knowing Christ is deep. And he knows the love and grace of God to be inclusive,
not exclusive.
It’s a valuable perspective for us to try on. It shakes us
out of our complacency. To think that there was a time when it was not at all
clear that God would be for us – descendants of gentile believers. Jesus came
as a Jew, to the Jews and for the Jews. But God opened the door wider and let
us in. We were invited in. This is a perspective we are not accustomed to
taking.
It follows, then, that we
should ask how God might be opening doors now. Is there some way God is
challenging us to widen our perspective, to challenge our assumptions? Is God
calling us to, in some way we may not recognize yet, have greater compassion
for others? Is God challenging us to open the doors wider?
Last week among our guests
was, David, who pastors a church in Queens. He said that the overwhelming
majority of his congregation is from the West Indies. In fact, not all of them
are Christian. There are Hindus who are faithful participants in the work of
this church. Tell me: what does this mean for us?
It is actually not all that
unusual in New York City to see multicultural – even multifaith congregations.
I remember visiting a congregation in Greenwich Village on a baptism Sunday
when six families came forward to present their children for baptism into the
church. Three of the six families included a parent who was of another faith –
Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist. Tell me: what does this mean for us?
I read about another
congregation in Manhattan (I guess New York is the center of the universe)
where Jews and Muslims are faithful members.
In fact, they come forward to receive the sacrament of communion, to the
table about which we say, “Jesus welcomes all.” Tell me: what does this mean
for us?
It seems as though the
boundary lines are moving, just as they were moving during Paul’s lifetime. The
natural reaction for human beings is to resist it, but why? Why do we resist
the inclusivity, the expansiveness of love?
Where are the boundaries that trouble us? In the book of
Acts, the Ethiopian eunuch asked Philip, “What is to prevent me from being
baptized?” Philip had no answer to that. Later, when a Roman centurion named
Cornelius, came to Peter’s door, to listen to what Peter could teach him, Peter
said, “Can anyone withhold the water for baptizing these people?”
Barriers were being broken, as it was being discovered that
God’s love and grace is more inclusive than anyone thought possible. And so we
must ask ourselves, what are the boundaries that God is challenging us to break
through today? Where are we being pressed to offer welcome, to offer sanctuary,
where we have not before?
Who would we harbor?
Who are the people Christ would have us embrace, just as they
are, not asking them to change themselves into something more like us? Indeed,
Christ is actually pressing us to transform ourselves to become more like him –
men and women who cross barriers with the mercy and grace of God.
I dare say that in our past the church has scared off many
people who could use some mercy and grace in their lives.
Who are the people in our community we might approach with
the love of God we know through Jesus Christ – not to make demands, not to set
a hurdle before them, but simply to offer the love and grace of God, which is
inclusive.
Who would we harbor?
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