STRANGERS AND ANGELS
A Sermon by Rev. James D. Brown
Market Square Presbyterian Church
September 2, 2007
Scripture: Jeremiah 2:4-13, Luke 14:1, 7-14 and Hebrews 13:1-3
This past Thursday was an important one in the life of our congregation. The Committee led by Sandy Bell that is searching for a Director of Music had arranged for a candidate to come to town. He was to give a late afternoon mini-recital on the organ for the Committee, and then at 7 was to lead a rehearsal of our choir. In this fashion we hoped to gain a good sense of his abilities as an organist and conductor.
Late Thursday afternoon Lois Gayman left me an urgent voicemail. “Jim, there’s underwear hanging out to dry on the railing outside the choir room—in full view as you look out the window.” I had to chuckle. At 7 p.m. that evening our choir members would be facing our Music Director candidate—with underwear fluttering in the breeze just behind him as he led our choir members for the first time. No one would have been able to keep a straight face.
I decided that this was probably not the optimum way for the search process to unfold, and given the fact that Jim Queeley was not due to return from his vacation until yesterday, I ventured a bit beyond my job description. I gathered up a few garbage bags in which to collect the various belongings alongside our building on Blackberry (including the “wash”!), with the idea that I would place them around the corner by the side door where their owners could find them.
I had also dragged out a step ladder with which to climb down in the window well below where the underwear was waving in the gentle afternoon breeze. The well was loaded with wet towels and blankets and trash, which I set about gathering up to throw in a dumpster behind the church.
There I was, crammed in the window well, jamming soppy towels and blankets and Styrofoam cups in garbage bags when a fellow peered over the railing above me and said, “Reverend, you really should be wearing gloves.”
It was all I could do to keep from inviting him to replace me at the bottom of the window well while I went into the church to get him some gloves! What a way to get ready for the Labor Day weekend. The motto of St. Benedict was ora et labora—pray and work. I was praying hard not to let my work of the moment get the best of me!
Next came the matter of the underwear—which was why I was out on Blackberry on Thursday afternoon in the first place. It just so happened that the owner of the underwear was sitting on the side steps of the church. How did I know this? She told me so.
I walked over to her and told her that we needed to find another place to put it—that we had choir members and a guest coming to the Church that evening. I suspect I was not a model of pastoral charm at that point. I wasn’t mean. But I probably wouldn’t want to see a video of the exchange up to that point.
Then things changed dramatically. The woman explained she had run out of quarters at the Laundromat and had no other way to get her clothes dry. As a matter of fact, the clothes were almost completely dry by that point, and she very graciously gathered them up and put them with her other belongings.
We talked a bit more. She had just come from the emergency room. She showed me one of her ankles that was grotesquely swollen and flaming red—almost violet in color. She had been bitten by an insect of some sort and had a horrible infection. And to top it off, the ER doctor had just informed her she had diabetes. She had been put on antibiotics, and had a doctor’s appointment for the next morning.
I wished her well, telling her how concerned I was about her ankle. She nodded and slowly walked away. I stood still on the Blackberry sidewalk for a few moments. Today’s lesson from Hebrews came to mind. It had to. This is how the Bible works on us.
Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers,
for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.
The writer of the Letter to the Hebrews was addressing a community of Jewish Christians with Greek roots (the “Hebrews”) who were most likely residing in Rome toward the close of the first century. This amazing collection of early Christians worshipped in small communities called house churches, banding together as the world around them become increasingly hostile to this new religion called “The Way.” These churches were made up of men and women who had found Jesus of Nazareth to be, as the writer puts it, “the reflection of God’s glory and the exact imprint of God’s very being.” I love that expression, don’t you?
The three verses that make up our call to worship are in the form of an exhortation to these early Christians to live lives worthy of their callings. And foremost among their Christian attributes was showing hospitality to strangers. The word hospitality comes from a Latin word for guests. A hospital is a guest house for those needing respite and care. Hospitality is defined as treating strangers in a friendly or generous way.
Doing this is no frivolous thing. It matters. It counts for something. In fact, there have been times, says the writer, “that some have entertained angels without knowing it.” Here the writer has in mind Old Testament stories like the one in Genesis 18 in which Abraham and Sarah were visited by three mysterious men who assured them that Sarah would indeed have a son, even though she was way beyond her child bearing years—all this causing Sarah to laugh to herself and exclaim, “After I have grown old, and my
husband is old, shall I have pleasure?” The answer was yes. Their son’s name would be Isaac, which means “He [God] laughs.” Thank goodness!
On this whole matter of angels I am taken by what Rowan Williams, the Archbishop of Canterbury, says about them. He calls angels mysterious agents of God’s purpose…a powerful symbol for all those dimensions of the universe about which we have no idea.”[1]
In other words, there are some things so profound, we can only bow before them in wonder and awe.
The writer of the Letter to the Hebrews—by the way, we’re not quite sure who it was, maybe Paul or one of his cohorts like Timothy or Apollos or Barnabas—the writer goes on with a call to remember others:
Remember those who are in prison,
as though you were in prison with them;
those who are being tortured,
as though you yourselves were being tortured.
I’ve said many times that the Bible reads us as we are reading it. This is certainly true of the words I have just quoted from our call to worship. By now I’m sure you are aware that these three verses from the call to worship are the basis for my three part sermon today.
Remember those who are being tortured, as though you yourselves were being tortured. Here’s the literal rendering of the Greek text—as though you yourselves were in the body. This phase has churned around in me all summer long as the debate continues about the slippery slope our nation is on when it comes to torture. Somewhere I read about things we are doing to those we term “unlawful enemy combatants”—a group of enemies we have placed in a special category that denies them decent treatment while in captivity.
One of the practices outlined was something called waterboarding—where a person is strapped to an inclined plane with his feet slightly above head, and then water is poured over his face to simulate drowning. You’ve heard about this. We’ve been doing it since right after 9/11. We have chosen to ignore both American law and the Geneva Conventions in using such an abusive means for interrogating prisoners. The New York Times pointed out in a recent editorial [August 30, 2007] we should not be doing this for the practical reason alone that “Every abuse the United States visits on detainees increases the risk of American soldiers being abused in foreign prisons.”
Our lesson contains an even more profound reason for saying no to torture. Remember those who are being tortured, as though you yourselves were in the body. One day this summer I remembered, as if out the blue, an experience at a place called Ojo Caliente in New Mexico. There is a famous spa there where you go for hot baths—hence the name Ojo Caliente—or an eye or spring of very hot water.
One of the services offered wrapping you very tightly in hot blankets—maybe to sweat out all your meanness! I had never experienced a “blanket wrap,” so I decided to try it.
I was told to lie on my back on a table in a very humid room, and then wrapped tightly in a huge blanket, including my arms. I felt like a mummy. At that point the attendant walked away.
Very shortly I felt a horrible wave of claustrophobia—which is not something that I normally experience. I couldn’t move my arms or legs. I became desperate and called out for help. The attendant hustled back and I was soon set free. This was my taste of torture in the body, that horrible sense of being out of control, unable to care for myself.
When I read about waterboarding and the like, I remember Ojo Caliente, and I vow to myself never to approve of doing to others what I would not be able to tolerate myself. Torturing other human beings is wrong on moral grounds, not just practical ones. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Or as the writer to the Hebrews tells us, live as though you yourselves were being mistreated; enter into solidarity with those who suffer in ways that can bring comfort and relief. Torturing other human beings is just plain wrong, and beneath our dignity as individuals and as a nation.
During these next weeks, this whole matter of torture and war will be on our front burner as a nation. Starting now, this Labor Day weekend, we will do well to be thinking and praying and talking about the momentous times in which we are living.
I mentioned back a while that we have a friend whose brother is a captain in the Army. John received horrible wounds when the Striker vehicle he was commanding ran over an Improvised Explosive Device in Iraq. He spent most of the summer at Walter Reed Hospital in Washington where surgeons pieced back together over 70 fragments of bone in one of his legs alone. He is now back in California, facing a long recuperation from his grievous wounds.
One day while his mother and sister were at his bedside at Walter Reed, President Bush joined them. The President leaned over and told this 25 year old captain in the Army, “War is ugly, but it is necessary.” This was quoted to Nina and me by his sister who was there. “War is ugly, but it is necessary.” The family members were taken aback. I think they wished the President had said something like, “You have my deepest sympathy,” and left it at that.
War is ugly. But whether this one was ever necessary will be debated for ages to come. As we engage in this important debate—which has so many life and death consequences, we do well to remember those in harm’s way as though we are in harm’s way, those being blown up as though we ourselves are being blown up in the body.
This leads to the third verse from Hebrews that concluded our call to worship. It is really the first verse of Chapter 13, but I moved it to last. It summarizes every thing that we have been talking about. Let mutual love continue. The key word is philadelphia—love (phileo) for our brothers (adelphoi)—mutual love for one and all. Let the love between brothers and sisters continue on and on and on.
Mutual love is the kind where we get under each other’s skin and into each other’s hearts. This past week one of our members told me how much the notes and cards they have received from members of our congregation have meant to her and her family as they endure a rough time. “You cannot know how much the notes and emails have meant,” she said. We feel like we have carried the weight around for so long now. Those notes just lightened the load.” She’s talking about mutual love, is she not?
This was brought home to me in a powerful way this summer when a man from a cottage down the street from ours at Thousand Island Park died tragically. His name was Dave. His wife’s name is Pam. Dave loved to fly. He often came to the St. Lawrence from their home in Rochester in a little seaplane, landing it in a bay near us and then tying it up at a dock.
A few weeks ago he and a friend took off from Rocherster. This time they were headed for Ontario on a fishing outing. The plane suddenly went into a dive and crashed in a field, bursting into flames on impact, killing both Dave and his friend.
All of us in Thousand Island Park were deeply affected. I would guess that there are at least 25 persons in the extended families of Dave and Pam in the Park. For several days we found ourselves in small circles at the grocery store and post office and after worship on Sunday, talking and commiserating with one another.
One day Pam came down the path toward me. We’ve known her for almost 40 years. Her sister read to our children at Story Hour during the summers when they were growing up. Almost no words passed between us. What do you say at a time like that? We embraced, and she and I held on as if our lives depended on never letting go, sharing just a few brief words about the grief that has touched both our lives. Mutual love is like that, isn’t it?
There you have it—some summer reflections on three short verses of Scripture. It’s amazing how vital Scripture can be when we take it to heart. It’s all about strangers and angels—and concern for those in prison and those being tortured—and mutual love that gives life its deepest meaning. To whoever wrote the Letter to the Hebrews, we need only say, “Thank you, thank you for reminding us of what it means to follow the One who has reflected God’s glory into our hearts.”