Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood
First Congregational UCC of Manhattan, KS
Amos 8:4-12
July 17, 2022
Amos is not known as a good-time guy.
If you were with us last week, you had a chance to hear Pastor Sue share all about Amos and his prophetic message in her excellent sermon. But if you missed it, here’s what you need to know for today: Amos was a nobody from nowhere who preached a message nobody wanted to hear. He lived in a time of relative peace and prosperity (at least for the people at the top) and the word that God asked him to bring to the privileged was direct, firm, and uncompromising. Over and over he told the rich and powerful that God was displeased with them because they trampled the poor. Over and over he warned them that continuing down this path would lead to their sure demise.
Amos was big on visions - he spoke of locusts, burning fires, a basket of overripe fruit perhaps teeming with flies, and, of course, the vision of the plumb line measuring the elite against God’s ways of justice.
And so I submit to you a vision that I have of Amos and his ministry. Picture him: this nobody from nowhere, strapped into a big rollercoaster, climbing, climbing up the hill. And the whole way he’s yelling, “Hey, anybody! Somebody! God? Anyone! Stop this thing. I want to get off!!!”
Who among us doesn’t know that feeling? Especially these days? It sometimes feels like the whole world is at a breaking point. And yet here we are, firmly strapped into this coaster together, climbing towards the future.
The word “crisis” is ubiquitous these days. The climate crisis. The crisis in Ukraine. Epidemics of viruses, white supremacy, LGBTQ hatred, mass shootings, disenfranchisement, stripping away people’s rights to bodily autonomy. Political crises and the crisis of democracy. Economic crises, here and abroad. The mental health crisis. And on and on.
We seem to throw around the word crisis today as if it’s synonymous with “dumpster fire.” Just anything that’s generally awful.
But the original meaning of crisis is a little different. It was first used in the 15th century to mean the turning point of a disease. [1] That point at which things either get better or worse. It’s not a hopeless, helpless time. It’s a time of anticipation, action, and wonder. If dumpster-fire-crisis looks like this (big, sad sigh), turning-point-crisis looks like this (sharp inhale of expectation and awareness).
Amos was prophesying in a time of crisis. The rich folks around him didn’t see it, but God had given him eyes to see that the economic systems of his time were doing just what they were designed to do - make the rich richer and the poor poorer. Things were so bad, in fact, that the swindlers weren’t even trying to hide their deceit. They were saying all the quiet parts out loud -
“When will the new moon and the sabbath be over so we can get back to cheating people? When can we get together and rig the scales to steal money from the poor? How high can we jack the interest rates on this payday loan to maximize our profits? What loopholes can we find so that our giant corporation never pays any taxes?”
The system was so far gone that everyday folks could see it was absolutely corrupt. But no one could figure out how to fix it.
Good thing THAT never happens anymore!
Biblical scholar Matt Skinner says that while it’s tempting to just say, “Oh, this is about how one-percenters are corrupt,” we are also invited to think about how these systems creep into and shape our everyday living and values. When this is the water we’re swimming in, there’s no way to avoid it. He invites us to ponder: “What does it look like when our very means of measurement are distorted? When our means of assessing the value of something are distorted?” [2]
When things go this sideways - when our very means of measurement are distorted, that’s when the Spirit invites us to take a deep breath (inhale-exhale) and go back to the basics.
In an attempt to go back to the basics of following in the ways of Jesus, I want to tell you a story about a flashlight. It wasn’t even a big flashlight. Just a small one. Red. Sitting on a bedside table.
I had just checked into my room at the Sophia Center in Atchison for a retreat a few weeks ago.. I was in an unfamiliar and very old, very large building. As I familiarized myself with the space I noticed it was a long way down the hall with several turns to get to the bathroom. And I thought, “Huh. That will be fun in the middle of the night.”
And then I looked at the bedside table and saw this small red flashlight. And I knew exactly why it had been placed there.
It was a small thing. Not earth-shattering. But I felt so very cared for and welcomed. I felt known and seen. The Benedictines take hospitality VERY seriously. In fact, when you enter the Sophia Center the sign on the doorway says, “We welcome all guests as Christ.”
“We welcome all guests as Christ.”
That’s going back to the basics.
We come from a long line of faith ancestors who took hospitality seriously.
Sometimes it’s a small thing like that red flashlight. Other times it’s bigger stuff llike Abraham and Sarah welcoming strangers and offering them a cool drink and homemade food. Sometimes it’s saying “Sure, no problem,” when you’re invited to open your home to a stranger visiting your church from Germany. Sometimes it’s standing outside and offering lemonade or popsicles at Second Helping when it’s 95 degrees outside. Or dropping a card in the mail or a casserole on the porch when someone is going through a rough time. Sometimes hospitality is making a point to greet a child by name at Fellowship Hour. Sometimes it’s making sure you look around the room as you settle into worship and going out of your way to greet someone new.
Always, always it’s trying our darndest to remember every person we encounter is a beloved human being made in God’s image. And that means, of course, that we do what we can to divest from economic systems that oppress, call our elected officials, march, write postcards, and engage in difficult conversations to make the world a safer place for everyone. And it also can mean intentional acts of radical hospitality in all the spaces we occupy on a daily basis, whether those spaces are digital, public, private, or all of the above.
When everything is so messed up that our very systems of measurement are distorted - when we’re on that rollercoaster with Amos screaming, “STOP! I WANNA GET OFF!” - these are the times when leaning into basic practices like hospitality are critical.
I know that when we say “hospitality” we often think about preparing a delicious meal for a guest or perhaps even working in the hospitality industry. And that’s all good, of course. But what I’m talking about today is hospitality that is deeply rooted in the way of Christ. And I want to name at least three characteristics of that Christlike hospitality that we all need to cling to in a world where dumpster fires abound, crisis moments are too plentiful, and the rollercoaster ride has ceased to bring joy:
First, Christlike hospitality is being aware - paying attention to the world around us and the people we encounter. Anticipating needs. Seeing through another’s eyes. This may sound simple, but I think we’d all be surprised to discover how often we’re on autopilot and paying no attention at all to the people around us. Being aware looks like Jesus at the well with the Samaritan woman in John 4. He saw her completely, engaged with her completely, was fully present with her in that moment. This kind of awareness is a gift we can give one another.
Second, Christlike hospitality is open to growth and transformation. It’s not a one-way, charity model where we give to someone else. It’s a willingness to enter into relationship and risk transformation. This kind of openness looks like Jesus with the Canaanite woman in Matthew 15. Jesus is certainly not the poster-child for hospitality in the beginning of this story. In fact, he flat-out tries to ignore this woman who is following him around.He feels she is outside of their mission. But, finally, when she confronts him, he is open to being transformed. He is changed by their encounter. Not because he had something to give, but because there was something he needed to receive.
Third, Christlike hospitality is risky and vulnerable. This one is, I think, how we know we’re talking about more than just offering a cold beer to one of our besties when they come over for dinner. Risky and vulnerable hospitality looks like Jesus’s parable in Luke 10: the Good Samaritan who went above and beyond to help someone beat up and left for dead on the side of the road. It looks like Jesus weeping when he finds that his friend Lazarus has died because we all know that to love is to risk pain. It looks like Jesus on the cross ministering to the condemned man hanging next to him - offering words of comfort and care. It looks like Christ appearing to his friends after his death and meeting Thomas right where he’s at - exposing his own vulnerable body and inviting Thomas to touch his wounded side.
Christlike hospitality is rooted in love. And love always carries risk.
When crises abound, what can we cling to so we can stay present on the rollercoaster and ride the waves of uncertainty and fear? When the world is spinning out of control, how do we hold onto the still point in the turning world to quiet the noise? How can we find the strength to continue to resist systems of oppression and recalibrate our measurement systems?
Hospitality is certainly not the ONLY answer, but it’s not a bad place to start.
I have two concrete suggestions for you as you go forth from this place today. Choose your own adventure. One or both.
Place a flashlight somewhere that you’ll see it every day for the next month. Perhaps your own bedside table. Consider it an invitation to lean into Christlike hospitality AND to remember that God’s light shines on and in and through you. You do not have to rely on your own strength to do this work.
Sometime in the next month or two, commit to going to a worship service somewhere else. That’s right. Your pastor just told you to go somewhere else for worship. Sometimes we forget what it’s like to be a stranger. Experiencing the hospitality (or lack of it) from others can help us rekindle our own desire to welcome all guests as Christ.
Crises are turning points, not death-sentences. May the light of Love - the light of justice for all people and creation shine forth from our deeds, our spirits, our lives. Please God, may it be so.
NOTES:
[1] https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=crisis
[2] https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/853-6th-sunday-after-pentecost-ord-16c-july-17-2022-2
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