James
2:1-10, 14-17
September
16, 2012
William G. Carter
As
we continue the countdown toward our hundredth anniversary, we think again
about the church. What kind of church are we called to be? The letter of James
begins with an observation, and moves to a challenge.
My
brothers and sisters, do you with your acts of favoritism really believe
in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ? For if a person with gold rings and in fine
clothes comes into your assembly, and if a poor person in dirty clothes also
comes in, and if you take notice of the one wearing the fine clothes and say,
‘Have a seat here, please’, while to the one who is poor you say, ‘Stand
there’, or, ‘Sit at my feet’, have you not made distinctions among yourselves,
and become judges with evil thoughts?
Listen,
my beloved brothers and sisters. Has not God chosen the poor in the world
to be rich in faith and to be heirs of the kingdom that he has promised to
those who love him? But you have dishonored the poor. Is it not the rich
who oppress you? Is it not they who drag you into court? Is it not they who
blaspheme the excellent name that was invoked over you?
You
do well if you really fulfill the royal law according to the scripture, ‘You
shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ But if you show partiality, you commit
sin and are convicted by the law as transgressors. For whoever keeps the whole
law but fails in one point has become accountable for all of it…
.
. . What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith
but do not have works? Can faith save you? If a brother or sister is naked and
lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and eat
your fill’, and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of
that? So faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.
A
few years ago, the United Church of Christ spent some money on an advertising
campaign. The television spots were simple. It’s Sunday morning and people are
going to church. As they arrive, there are two bouncers at the door. They turn
aside the two men who arrive together, and allow in the blond family with well
behaved children. The African-Americans, the man in the wheelchair are denied
entrance, while the well dressed elderly couple is welcomed with their big
checkbook. The bouncers look grim, and then the tagline fades up: Jesus didn’t
turn people away. Neither do we.
The
advertising campaign struck a nerve. Other churches grumbled. So the United
Church of Christ dug in, and just in time for Easter, they created a follow-up campaign.
It’s Sunday morning again, and people are sitting in church. The worship
service is underway, and the ushers pay attention to who is present. A baby is
crying in the fifth row. Not a problem; the usher hits a red button, the baby
and his mother are ejected out of the room. The undesirable couple, the
homeless woman, the old man in a walker – on by one, the usher hits the red
button, and they fly out of their ejector seat pews.
Maybe
you remember the ads, which were carefully timed to appear during Holy Week.
What you may not remember is the outcry. A friend of mine in Cleveland was part
of the U.C.C. staff that dreamed up the commercials. He said they received a
mountain of mail. Some of it said, “Say whatever you want, but in our
congregation, we reserve the right to reject anybody.”
Now,
I know. That strikes a nerve in some of us. We have heard the lesson for today.
It’s straight-forward. God welcomes everybody. God creates everybody, so God
welcomes everybody. That’s the word from Brother James. All else is commentary;
except, it is nearly impossible to welcome all the people that God welcomes.
It
is there in our gestures. Have you ever noticed what our hands declare?
The hand says “Enter…”
The hand says “Halt . . . “
The hand says, “Come and sit right here
. . .”
The hand says, “Move along . . . sit
over there . . .”
The
hand says all of this, for the hand reveals the heart. If the heart is
welcoming and hospitable, the gesture reveals openness and generosity. If the
heart is anxious or fearful, the hand will reveal it.
James
is acquainted with those gestures in the church. He has seen them in his own church.
The rich person enters and is escorted to the choice seat. If the needy person
in dirty rags is there, she is told to move, if not ejected.
Please
note: we are not talking about reserved seats in the concert hall. A hundred
dollar ticket puts you right down front, while the cheap seats are in the
balcony.
James
is not talking about that. No, he is speaking of “the assembly.” That is the tag-phrase
for the sanctuary, the synagogue or the sanctuary, where every child of God is
invited, and where the hosts and hostesses are called to welcome them. It is a
church that is intentionally blind to the distinctions of the world.
Did
you see the movie “Finding Neverland”? It’s the story of J.M. Barrie who wrote
“Peter Pan.” He is failing as a playwright. Nobody came to see his last show,
and he has lost all inspiration. The muse returns, he drafts the words, books
the theatre, hires the actors – but fears that nobody will actually come. So he
goes to the waifs homes of London, visits the orphanages, and offers free
tickets to any child who will come. Soon the theatre is jammed, and the play is
a huge success – because he welcomed the little ones that the rest of the world
turned away.
It’s
a metaphor for the Gospel. Jesus said, “Let the little ones come to me.” He
meant the children, to be sure, but in the broadest possible sense, the little
ones. He welcomed both the little and the big, the rich and the poor, the ones
who heard him gladly and those who were still working through the implications
of his message.
At
the heart of it all is the experience of evidence of welcome. The gesture of
inclusion – “y’all come.” This reveals the heart, not only of the point person
at the door, but the very heart of the whole institution.
My
daughter and I took a whirlwind tour of four colleges in Boston. We returned
last night. Every college is distinctive, of course. Some of them require a
distinctive amount of money.
We
visited one school where the tour guide was indifferent. She didn’t make eye
contact to any of us, took little interest in our questions, and basically
moved through the tasks of the work-study job. It was a big school – no
surprise – and I can imagine that the students often feel like mere numbers.
Then
there was another college, where we went on a whim during a long lunch break.
We didn’t know much about it, didn’t have much time, and stopped by to see if
we could at least drive through campus. The guard at the gate could have turned
us away. But he pushed back his denim cap, signed an orange pass, and pointed
us toward a convenient spot in the parking garage.
Even
then, we weren’t certain what we would see, since tours weren’t scheduled for
the day. But the admissions receptionist smiled, offered us a conversation with
a staff member, and that impromptu visit turned out to be the most hospitable
stop of the whole tour.
It’s
this sense of welcome that makes the difference. Brother James asks, “Do you
really believe in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ?” If you believe, it will be
clear in your works of welcome. It’s obvious in treating the neighbor as we
wish to be treated. It’s clear in how we postpone our own urges for the sake of
the guest.
James
puts this forth as his hope for the church of Jesus Christ – that it would be
an intentionally blind church where all are welcome. Distinctions do not
divide. The greatest possible good for the largest number of people is pursued.
It’s a church where I work for your well-being because we are both children of
God.
William
Barclay explains the Greek words that James is using. They have to do with
seeing, with looking upon the face, with regarding people for what you see
about them. We see differently from what God sees. We see the nice clothing,
the expensive haircut, the shined shoes, the manicured fingernails, the
chiseled physique. Or we see the discounted blouse, the torn sleeve, the
dime-store makeup, the downtrodden expression.
Do
you know what God sees? A child of God! God looks at the human face and
murmurs, “She looks like me. He was made in my image. Whether those people know
it yet or not, they are my offspring.” Each one of us – you, and you, and you.
Sisters, brothers. Different, but not better or worse. Each one identical in
the love of God.
Henri
Nouwen gets at this when he writes, “The church is one of the few places left
where we can meet people who are different than we are, but with whom we can
form a larger family.”
At
our best, this becomes true. We welcome one another into our lives, sweet or
ornery, all of us in the process of being changed by God’s love. Those who have
a lot, those who have a little – all of us, all of us, have God in common,
because God makes us and God loves us.
So
the church is called to be something different from the football team. Football
is fine as a sport, but you only get to play football if you are strong,
mighty, and fast. And the church is something different from the office staff.
In the office, there is a hierarchy, a pecking order, a gradation of value
based on importance and significance. And the church is called to be something
different from the clientele of the shopping mall. People go to the shopping
mall to buy things, to make purchases, and that only makes sense if you have
the money to go.
Oh
no. We are different. In the church, we gather before the Word of God. We
gather to hear how God chases after us, how God is always calling us out to
trust, to love, to make a difference. We gather to hear the Word that shakes us
out of our complacency and comforts us in our affliction. Most of all, we
gather and we hear that every single one of us is wanted and beloved. Every
single one, even the grumps. Every single one.
Because
this is the church. The intentionally blind church, where every single person
has infinite value.
(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.
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