The Messy Work of Community - Reflection

Making sense of today’s scripture requires a very brief history lesson. Just to put a few things into context.

During the time of Kings and Prophets in Israel, the people lived in the shadows of foreign empires who loomed large right outside their borders. And because Israel was the epitome of a small fish in a big pond, the bigger fish took advantage of their size. 

Not long after a portion of Israel was captured and taken away by the Assyrian Empire, the rest of the country was captured by the Babylonian Empire.  But not everyone was taken away. Only the most prominent citizens--the professionals, priests, artisans, and the wealthy—were sucked up into the inner workings of the Babylonian empire machine. And they lived in exile for decades upon decades. Somewhere between 50 and 70 years. It wasn’t until the Babylonian Empire itself was taken over by the Persian empire that the captive Israelites were allowed to return home.

For years, those living in exile dreamt and yearned to return to their ancestral land. Some imagining a place they’ve never even seen much less resided in. A place they’d heard about from their elders whose eyes got misty as they retold stories about the land that flowed with milk and honey. A land that once held the very house of God.

So the exiles were more than eager to leave Persia behind and return to Israel to rebuild both the temple and their lives. But when they arrive, the reality doesn’t live up to expectations. The sweet dreams they had had for so long soon sour.  

When they arrive, they’re met with a host of different peoples. There are the folks who had been left behind in Israel—those who were not considered important or wealthy enough to be incorporated into the Babylonian empire. And there were also other folks—non jewish peoples and other foreigners---who had moved into their abandoned houses.

As each group grew suspicious and resentful of the others, they began to draw strict social boundaries. They began to separate who’s in from who’s out. Who belongs here and who doesn’t. And all the while theyre trying to figure out how to get things done. How to make life go back to the way it was before—which, of course, meant different things to different people.

For everyone involved, this is definitely a crisis situation. And as Amy G Oden, a professor of Early Church History, explains, these ancient peoples behave similarly to folks recovering from a natural disaster. They are concerned with the same things. And they ask similar questions. Who’s in charge of making the tough decisions? How and who can we trust when our ruptured social network is not yet repaired? Who belongs and who doesn’t? Can there actually be justice for everyone involved? And can community even be re-created after such tragedy and social upheaval?

So to say the least, tensions are high in ancient Israel.

It’s from this context that our scripture comes. This is the situation it seeks to address.

Even though this is a context so incredibly far removed from our own 21st century lives in the US, there are actually some similarities that we can understand. And I think the musical Come from Away can help us see them. Come from Away presents the mess that ensues when groups of incredibly diverse peoples are forced to co-exist together in the midst of crisis.  This musical tells the true story of how a small Canadian town hosts and cares for seven thousand passengers from all over the world after 38 planes are diverted to their tiny airport immediately after the 9/11 attacks.

Most of the musical is lighthearted and shows the surprising hilarity and tenderness that ensues. For example, there are some unexpected encounters with moose and a handful of bonobos. And a high-spirited scene including rowdy Nova Scotian drinking songs and the dancing, that, of course, follows.

But it also honestly portrays the fears, prejudices, tensions, suspicions, frustrations, and sorrows that immediately followed the events 9/11. With little to no information about what happened and where they are, the thousands of stranded passengers echo the ancient Israelites. They begin to wonder and ask questions that range from the practical to the existential: What’s going on? Where exactly are we? What’s going to happen to us? When can we go home? And who am I if I don’t feel like the me from yesterday? How do we live in this new world we find ourselves in? Is it even possible to find a new normal?

While the musical doesn’t explicitly answer these questions, it does show the chaotic process of trying to answer them. Come from Away shows the necessary intentionality and tremendous difficulty it takes to meet the needs of thousands of people who don’t all speak the same language and have all kinds of different dietary restrictions and religious obligations. It shows how folks participate in the project of being neighbor to one another—of treating one another with radical welcome and loving-kindness.

This tiny town of Gander didn’t know what to expect or exactly what to do as planes upon planes on their front porch.  It was a scary prospect to welcome all these people from who knows where. All these people who they—most likely--have little in common with. But they embraced them anyway. And they embraced the awkwardness of trying to connect with someone from half a world away. They embraced the clumsy conversations, the awkward moments of silence, and general bungling that’s inherent to welcoming and integrating a new person into your life.

It’s this same kind of commitment to the messiness of love, care, and justice that today’s scriptures encourage. In the Isaiah passage, all of God’s people are encouraged to widen the circle of who’s included in community--of who gets to call themselves a child of God.

God radically redefines their understanding of community, so it isn’t dependent on genetics or cultural customs. Instead, it’s an expansive welcome. God will bring all people to their holy mountain. God will make all people joyful in their house of prayer.

What Come from Away and the Issaiah passage tells us is that this kind of expansive welcome isn’t easy. Yes sometimes each us of will meet a complete stranger with whom we immediately click. But most of the time that’s not the case. The transformation from stranger to neighbor requires an investment--a commitment of time, energy, and resources.

In other words, welcome disrupts and community building is messy. As Amy G Oden goes on to say, “Most scriptural teaching on welcome, teaches us this: strangers often bring God’s own message, coming in to disrupt and transform. But We are surprised when welcoming the stranger is disruptive, awkward, or difficult.  Strangers bring strange practices, strange worldviews and strange expectations. [yet] We are often surprised that strangers are strange!”

But a commitment to God means commitment to stranger. And that means leaning into and embracing the disruption, chaos, and weird feelings they inevitably bring along with them.

While writing this sermon I was reflecting on all the many times I have put my own emotional equilibrium—my ease, my security—over embracing a stranger. Especially strangers I think—or rather assume--I have little in common with. The anxiety and awkwardness intrinsic to interacting with someone new is often something that I, honestly, would rather not deal with. it’s just easier for me to continue on with my plans than to engage with someone I don’t know. Someone who might press the self-destruct button on my whole day.

I know that this isn’t an entirely uncommon experience. So It’s made me curious about how other people—and groups especially--including churches-- do the same thing. How and why do congregations—and The Church in general--ignore our ancient and sacred calling of being beloved community and of welcoming the stranger? Why do we do we do nearly everything in our power keep our still waters still—to keep to all our regularly scheduled programming?

I know my own beloved tradition is definitely guilty of this. In the Presbyterian church, we like to do things “decently and in good order.” And yes that is written down in our constitution. On one hand, I so appreciate the stability and certainty it offers in a world that seems to spin way too fast—a world where it can feel hard to gain traction under our feet. On the other hand, I know that our well-meaning dedication to behaving “decently” and doing things “in good order” can hinder the beautiful, chaotic work of bring God’s Kingdom into the world. While the PCUSA is the context im most familiar with, I am absolutely sure that that happens in all denominations and in every congregation.

But our God is a God whose very identity is community and whose spirit both disrupts and comforts wherever she goes. And this God has called us into this work. We are called into the messy, chaotic, unruly, and even disorganized and indecent—yet beautiful and sacred--project of building beloved community and welcoming the stranger.

This week then, I invite us to let a little messiness—a little sacred chaos, a bit of holy disorder—into our lives this week. How ever it may show up in our lives. And if we fumble things along the way and feel incredibly awkward as we do it, I think it means we’re probably on the right path Because this is hard work, but God is always with us. And God will work in us and through us and in all and through all—even if it is a mess.  Amen

 Let love be messy - m jade kaiser

let love be messy

Love isn’t just one thing;
it’s fierce and soft,
intimate and collective,
wild and sincere and deliberate and just.
Love can be more chaos than order.
Love can be a boundary.
Love can be conflict.
It’s complicated.
It’s multifaceted.
Love is hard work.
Love is natural.
Love is a process and practice.
Though its paths are many and varied,
love always leads to life.
Love is an ever-unfolding thing
we are all still figuring out.