There are a lot of tents in the Christian camp. Aside from the myriad denominations, there are other labels such as Evangelical, Social Activist, Traditionalist, Progressive, Fundamental, Orthodox, Liberal, on and on.

I’ve never been much of a label person but the tent I want to dwell in is the one where the Contemplatives live. I decided to make this official when I ran across this quote, “For the Contemplative, everything is important. Everything is sacred.”

The Contemplative way is ancient and its basic practices are:
– Prayer that makes requests known but also listens and is often simply silent in the presence.
– Reading Scripture and other spiritual writings in hope of being formed by them as opposed to simply being informed by them.
– Seeing without judging or grading. Paying attention. Seeing as is, seeking to be aware.
– Listening to the sacred story of others, especially those that often aren’t heard.
– Pondering God’s first language, creation.
– Seeking justice for all.
– Loving kindness, embodying graciousness.
– Remaining humble. Remembering, as Richard Rohr says, that your point view is simply the view from your point in the universe.
– Believing that God is found inside our lives. In our hearts more than in our heads.
– Living simply.

As I ponder this list, two things jump out at me. First, the realization that I am not a very good contemplative, I just want to be one. Second, this way of life does have political and social implications. This way of life pushes one toward nonviolence, restorative justice, doing for others as we would have them do for us on a local and global level, and toward gentle care for the planet.

Yep. I’ve never been much of a joiner and I usually resist labels but I think this is one I want to grow into. I’m guessing the way to do that is practice.

People who study such things say that around 12,000 years ago one of my ancestors (who is probably one of yours as well, Cuz) looked at one of Gus’s ancestors and said, “What a friendly puppy! I think I’ll make it a member of the tribe.” You could say that Gus’s family has been friends with my family for a very long time.

My daughter, who volunteers at the Humane Society, introduced me to Gus back in September. We hit it off immediately even though I had said repeatedly that I would never get another dog. Besides, we already had Lulu, a toy yorkie. Of course Lulu will tell you, “we” don’t have her, she is Kathryn’s. Anyway, when I met my guy I realized that I actually did want another dog and no offense to Lulu, one that weighed a little over five pounds. I wanted one that had a little spunk. One that I could do things with and since my spunk graph is slightly but persistently charting down it seemed like now would be better than later. So, I put in the adoption request, got my new partner and named him Gus, after the spunky retired Texas Ranger in Lonesome Dove. I am being sincere when I say that I believe that God brought Gus to me.

Every dog that has been a part of my life was a precious gift. I, like Mr. Bojangles in the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band song, after twenty years still grieve or five years or forty years, but Gus feels special. Perhaps it is because these days I am more inclined to see God’s presence in all creatures and less inclined to deny that pets can get deep in your heart and become a full member of your tribe. I love my dog.

I believe the feeling is mutual. I have proof of this from the internet. Gus does all the things that iheartdogs.com says that dogs do if they love you. Plus, I have the backing of the popular book, The Five Love Languages. Gus’s love language is clearly quality time. He likes to be with me. He is ecstatic when I come home after being gone just a short time, he dances when we are heading out for walk, jumps in the Jeep like we are going to Disney World when it’s just the recycling station, and tears down the steps to the basement so he can be a part of whatever adventure I’m on when I’m only going to the frig for a beer. Well, maybe it’s not quality time. Maybe it’s just time.

All this reminds me of the saying you’ve probably seen in gift shops or on social media, “My goal in life is to be the person my dog thinks I am.” I like that but I am not sure it actually captures the best part of Gus’s and my relationship. After all, based on the evidence available to him, Gus thinks about all I have going for me is that I occasionally take hikes and like being outdoors. But he loves me anyway.

On the other hand, I have observed Gus to be friendly to everyone, faithful, and constantly saying “I love you” (per Iheartdogs.com). He brings joy to those around him, and encourages exercise. None of this seems to require any effort on his part. It is who he is and he loves being who he is. Maybe a better goal for me is to be the kind of fellow my dog is.

“Am I going to be OK?”

I can still clearly see her face; wide eyed, fearful, yet brave enough to ask the question. It was Kathryn an hour or so before our first daughter was born. She was beautiful, vulnerable, and very afraid. I leaned over, rubbed her forehead with the cool, damp cloth and said something along the lines of “Of course you will.”

I have relived that moment hundreds of times. I think of it whenever I want to ponder the most sacred scenes in my life. I was overwhelmed with love for the woman who was soon to be the mother of my child, grateful that I could offer some assurance when she needed it, and I think for the first in my young, charmed life acutely aware of the vast chasm between “of course you will” and “most likely you will.” I tried to hide it but we were both afraid, both wondering if things were going to be OK. Husband, wife, emerging child, life, uncertainty, fear, hope, no idea what was about to happen, etched forever in my memory.

The other day I was revisiting all this when it occurred to me that I often stop the video in my mind right there. It’s like we had that moment and what happened later that afternoon is unconnected to our time of fear and uncertainty. It’s as if it is two separate days. I guess a baby girl’s arrival is kind of a stand alone event.

But it is connected. It was the same afternoon. We were right on the verge and very soon we would be in a new life, a wonderful life. In one late fall afternoon we would go from fear and uncertainty to joy that literally had me jumping, punching, and shaking when I went to the locker room to change out of my scrubs.

I have come to believe that the memory of that incredible afternoon is my life speaking to me. I think it points to a holy message that is a recurring pattern in our journey with God. The truly miraculous meets us in the scariest places. Read that again. Remember that even Jesus wondered if he was going to be OK when he called out “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”

There are indeed very scary places on life’s path, hard places, heart-breaking places. Sometimes we fall deeply into that chasm between “of course we will be OK” and “not everybody makes it.” But, somehow life and scripture teaches us that those times are not the end of the path, they are doors. Life is coming. Joy is with us even there, even when we don’t feel it. The divine, constant “Do not be afraid,” is present. Our daughter was making her entrance that fear filled afternoon and long ago on that terrible hill the God of Life was about to say, “Arise my Son” to the suffering man on the cross.

Will we be OK? It’s a fair question. Truth is, we may end a particular day not feeling OK but the deepest truth is reflected in that wonderful quote from Julia of Norwich, “All will be well, and every kind of thing will be well.”

Perhaps when we are most afraid it is a signal that birth, new life, is about to happen.

As I ate my hot grill cheese sandwich in a little café in upstate South Carolina, I told a couple of my friends about a man I met when I was the pastor for a church in downtown Columbia. At this particular church, often during the day, people congregated around the front steps or sat on the stone wall along our driveway. At night they slept in shelters, tents, or sometimes behind the HVAC unit of our sanctuary. Michael was one of those folks.
One hot summer afternoon Michael knocked on the door of the office building with a simple request. He didn’t want money, food, or a ride anywhere; he wanted to know if I would let him take a nap on our porch because its cement, in addition to the porch’s overhang, was shaded by old oak trees and was “so cool.”
I thought about it for less than a second but I’ll confess that in that split second I wondered how it would look to potential church visitors as they passed and I remembered that choir practice was going to start in just a couple of hours but still, I quickly said, “Sure you can Michael. I’ll just have to wake you if you are still here when the choir members start coming.”
“No problem Rev. It’s just so hot and I am so tired. I just need a few minutes.”
He put his pack down, fluffed it a bit to transform it into a pillow, lay down on the concrete floor and closed his eyes. I quietly closed the door and went back to my desk.
About an hour later I figured I better check on him. I snuck up to the window, parted the blinds, and saw that he hadn’t budged. I looked at him for several moments, his matted red hair, thick auburn beard, worn army boots, and stained clothes. It occurred to me that there had once been a day when someone held young Michael in their arms and said things like, “It’s a boy!” “Oh look, he has red hair!” “He looks just like you.” “We are going to call him Michael.”
Perhaps a minister, standing in front of the people of God, held him, placed a hand dripping with water from the font on his forehead, slowly traced a cross, and said, “Michael, I baptize you…” He was beautiful. I wanted to kiss on him on his forehead and tell him that he was a wonderful child of God. I gently opened the door and told him it was time to wake up.
Michael was on my mind because two days before lunch with my friends I went to a Bible study at Haywood Street Congregation in Asheville, NC. When I walked in the lobby of this church which strives to be “a witness to include the most excluded,” there were three people lying on the floor because the recliners in the room where people often come to rest were full. I was glad for them. The mountains have started taking on a late fall chill and I imagined a dry, warm place to rest safely was no small thing.
I told my lunch friends about that and I told them about Michael. I told them that I had shared this story about me, Michael, and my epiphany in more than one sermon but I will tell it no more. Now it makes me sad. A little ashamed.
Now days I ask myself, why did I tell Michael that he would have to leave when choir practice started? Why would church members coming to sing about Jesus be a reason to cut short a child of God’s welcome rest? Why did I not ask him if he wanted to nap in the conditioned air that the HVAC unit provided? I have answers to those questions but none of them are particularly good.

Perhaps heard around more than a few holiday tables this time of year:
“Good lord, how much weight has she gained since I last saw her?”
“Do I think he drinks too much? Let’s just saw his ‘one day at a time’ is going in the wrong direction.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I love him and all but don’t you think things are better when he doesn’t come?”
“Before this last election I thought she was pretty smart.”
“He lets that girl walk all over him. It’s pitiful.”
“If she brings that woman, her so called wife, I’m not coming!”
All this and more said by folks whose hearts are wondering why their family can’t be more like the family in the Thanksgiving picture they saw on Facebook. It was twenty-first century Norman Rockwell. Every single person in that photo was beautiful, educated, employed, and kind to animals. Why can’t our family be like that?
Well, there may be a picture on Facebook like that but there ain’t no families like that. We’re all flawed, wounded, and hard to understand. Gerald May, the late Christian psychiatrist and writer, said, “A good definition of a sane person is someone you don’t know very well.” In other words, if we limit seating at the table to sane folks, it will be an empty table.
But if we invite and welcome the ones we need to be there, the table becomes full again because the mystery of it is that we all need each other.
We need our crazy uncle. Not just because he can fix the dishwasher but crazily enough, we need his crazy to make us, us. He was put in our life to teach us something and if we shut him out we will miss it. We will become a little more unbalanced ourselves because we didn’t figure out a way to make him a part.
Sure there are people who are not just irritating but hurtful and we need boundaries. But, compassion gives us the strength to resist dancing to their tune and it helps us hear and dance to our own.
It’s called life. It’s messy. But it is what it is and when we receive it as it is becomes deep, rich, and full. Real.
Happy holidays!
Oh, and a glass of wine may help.

I am not sure of the exact wording but it was something along these lines, “Your scans look good and you are five years out. Congratulations, the chance of this cancer recurring is now less than ten percent.” When I heard my oncologist say that, it put a smile on my face; for three reasons.

First, it tickled me that my guy just can’t let go of doctor speak. “The chance of this cancer recurring” I get it Doc. All those other cancers are still out there and you aren’t guaranteeing anything. I understand that I’m not going to live forever. One day something is going to get me but I promise I won’t tell my family to sue you if anything bad happens.

Then there’s that business about being less than ten percent. Everyone always says that like it should feel like a sure thing. Not really. That’s what they said the first go round and it came back. Less than ten percent just ain’t as little as it used to be. You want to play the less than ten percent game with me? Let’s say I tell you that you have to be in your house tomorrow night at seven. You can be in any room you want. You can stand, sit or lie down but at exactly seven I am going stand in your front yard and shoot a high powered rifle through your house. Hey, don’t worry, there’s a less than ten percent chance that I’ll hit you. Still feel like a sure thing?

Of course, aside from my dark humor, brought to you by metastatic melanoma, the man did say, good scans, five years out, and the truth is my chances are good enough that if I were playing Texas Hold’em, I’d to go all in. Smile indeed.

So, it seems now is a good time to look back and acknowledge a few things I learned the past five years…

1) I learned to stay a little more in the present day. It’s cliché but all any of us truly have is today so don’t let it slip away due to worry about the past or the future. This came home to me one morning as I rode down the road wondering what my chances of survival were. Suddenly it dawned on me that perhaps the one certainty of my day was that I was not going to die from cancer on that day. There was nothing to say I was going to make it to supper but it wasn’t going to be cancer that got me. So, I decided to put my hospice orientation weekend on hold and be where I was, in the here and now. On that day I loved some people, tried to do good work, and said thank you a lot. Got up the next day and did it again.

2) I learned that I actually wasn’t afraid to die. (except when I thought about it too much) Mostly, I was just sad because what I realized is that I love being alive. I love my family. I love laughing. I love loving. So I put in an official request. I asked God to let me see my youngest grandson graduate high school. Kathryn gets mad at me about this one. She says my negotiating skills need honing and seventy-eight (in case he fails a grade) is too young. I tell her I’ll take an extension if one is offered. I’d love to talk to my grandson about whatever he chooses to do with his life, I want to meet his children, I’d like to go on vacation with a whole gang of grands and greats (on them). But a deal is a deal. If I can see him graduate I’ll go without whining. If it’s before then, I’ll trust next chapters to God but I’m still going to file an official complaint because I love this life and the people in it.

3) I learned that being brave isn’t much like bravado. It’s being able to keep moving. It’s caring about other folks, smiling, and doing your job. Mostly, it’s keeping an outward focus. Cancer wants to suck you inside yourself. It wants to scare you and make you focus on yourself and the lousy cards in your hand. The best way to fight cancer is to fight that. I learned this from the guy in the treatment room with me who may have weighed one hundred and twenty pounds and could almost walk. One day he shuffled past me as I lay there with some very expensive chemicals dripping in my arm. He smiled, shook his head, and said, “Hang in there.” In that moment his soul touched my soul. His path was much rougher than mine but he was encouraging, and by that I mean in couraging, me on my path. There were lots of folks like him along the way. I tried to be like them and as I did, I grew stronger. I grew braver.

4) Along with this I learned that we do get strength from others. You can feel prayers. Prayer shawls, meals, hugs, pats on the back, and listening ears impart super powers. Special sources of hope and comfort are the fellow survivors and their families. Over the course of five years the cancer family grows. Not everyone makes it. All become precious to you and transform your life.

5) Thanks to cancer I have become more grateful, more appreciative, more aware of the gift of a new day. That’s not to say that I don’t still piss some time away. I guess that is one of the banes of the human condition but it’s less, way less than it used to be.

6) Finally I learned a little bit about miracles. I don’t mean the miracles of medicine and prayer that wipe out cancer cells. Those are wonderful and they are real but I’m talking about deeper and more profound stuff. I have learned that God can take something as awful as cancer and make it a teacher, a blessing even. You see, it’s when we are at the end of our resources, when health, willpower, and even our human faith are depleted; that’s when the whole thing gets turned around and becomes a true conversion experience. That’s where we have the opportunity to discover that God is still with us and will never let us go. Never.

All of this is not to say that cancer is particularly fun. But if you have to go there, you may as well learn something. You may as well come through seeing a little more clearly, loving a little more dearly, following a little more nearly.

All in all it’s been quite an adventure.

Postscript: There is such a thing as survivor’s guilt. Like I said, some of my fellow travelers, people more talented, people who were needed more than me, didn’t make it. I carry them in my heart and have filed a complaint on their behalf.

“Do you think the little children have any idea what they are doing?”

My friend was a little concerned about the United Methodist practice of inviting everyone to the table during communion. She had noticed that there was no membership requirement and partaking wasn’t reserved for those of a certain age. She seemed particularly concerned about the children.

I couldn’t help myself, my response was, “I doubt they do. I know I certainly don’t.”

Of course I’m used to doing a lot of things that I don’t understand. I don’t understand my desire to embrace the people I love but I embrace them anyway. I don’t understand why I feel inspired when I look at the sky but I look anyway. And, I certainly don’t understand how peace comes to my anxious heart when I pray but I pray anyway.

There are a lot of things I don’t understand and I really don’t understand very much about the bread and wine. About all I really know is:
– Christ is present
– When we gather at the table we remember the story, our story, that says we are lovingly created and faithfully cared for even when we fall short.
– That Jesus told us to take, bless, break, give, and remember. He gave these instructions on the night he was headed for the cross.
– That he used words like “all” and “many” and the whole thing begins with an invitation to all who seek.
– That our hope is that this eating and drinking will change our hearts, make us one, and give us strength to serve.

Now that I think about it, maybe I do get it on a deeper level than the three year old being carried in her father’s arms as she receives the bread from her pastor. After all, I’ve written a couple of graduate papers on this stuff.

Or, maybe, in that sacred moment, as she is gently carried, reminded that she is loved, and nourished by a broken piece of bread and grape juice, she gets it more than me.

Even after more than three decades, I still find it hard to sleep the night before I preach. I attribute a good bit of that to the inner wrestling match that takes place as I struggle to change my heart’s prayer from something like, “Please let them be impressed” to “Let me glorify you and be a blessing for others.”

So, when I woke up at my daughter’s a couple of Sundays ago, I was tired and anxious. I had spent the night there because I had been invited to fill the pulpit for two churches near her house and I took that as an opportunity to add some family time to my weekend.

As I made my way downstairs, I was a little dismayed to discover that my eight year old granddaughter was already up and eating breakfast. I say dismayed because she is one of those folks that appreciates nothing better in the morning than the sound of people not talking and she is willing to express that preference. (Full disclosure, she may have inherited that from someone on her mother’s side of the family.) Anyway, when she looked up from her cinnamon toast, she gave me a look that confirmed my trepidation and conveyed that a vow of silence might be a good thing to add to my Sunday morning disciplines. Fine. Quietly I secured a mug of coffee and headed for the front porch.

The porch was a good choice for a nervous preacher. Morning was breaking, the cement was cool and refreshing to my bare feet, the day’s early glow was covering the neighborhood, and the rhythm the neighbors’ sprinkler just added to the feeling that things were being refreshed and growing. I settled into the rocking chair closest to the door and took that magic first sip of coffee.

Several birds were singing their morning songs but the most prominent voice was the crow. I guess calling a crow’s caw a song is a stretch but they sure seem to enjoy it.

There is a myth that says that the crows were once told by God that they could become any other creature they desired but they turned the offer down, choosing to remain crows. They must have figured that being clever, fairly tough, and able to fly was enough.

As I sat pondering crows and sermons, the front door opened and out came the granddaughter. She too was barefoot, with prettier feet, and she too took a moment to look around and take in the morning. Then, without a word, she walked past me to the next rocker. She pulled it a few inches closer to mine, took a seat, and continued her assessment. It occurred to me that it never crossed her mind that she wouldn’t be welcome in my sanctuary. I guess she believes me when I tell her that her Granddaddy will always love her.

As we sat and slowly rocked, I wondered if she remembered the hike we took a year or so ago, when I told her and her little brother to stand still and observe what was going on through each of their five senses. When we got to hearing she said that she heard birds but I asked her to go a little deeper, “How many birds?”

I wondered if I had ever told her about the crows turning down the offer to change into something other than what they were.

I wanted to say something but I knew speaking would ruin the moment. It was like a butterfly had landed in my hand and if I moved the wrong way it would fly away. I didn’t want it to fly away.

So we just sat; surrounded by creation, God’s first language. Enjoying the sound of people not talking and watching morning break.

“Praise for the morning…”

Phyllis Tickle, via her book, The Divine Hours: Prayers for Springtime, informed me this morning that on May 1 we celebrate the lives of St. Philip and St. James. This James is the one known as “James the Less.” She said that these two Christ followers “remained fairly obscure during their lives, preferring apparently to further the Church and not their own fame.” That observation concerning two of Jesus’ original disciples reminded me of a rather humbling moment of self-awareness I experienced a few years back.

The church’s basketball team had played that night and when I walked in the kitchen, after the game, Kathryn asked me if we had won.
“Nope, we lost.”
“What was the score?”
“I don’t remember but I had twelve points.”

Oops. I wouldn’t think it is a sign of a good team player to be sure what you scored but unable to remember the team’s score. Most likely, this applies not only to basketball players but to church folks, teachers, public servants, parents, spouses. . . let’s just say pretty much everyone who seeks to live with other people and somehow leave things a little better than you found them.

I’ll confess, throughout my career as a minister, I constantly had to remind myself of one the most important things a pastor can remember; it’s not about you. It’s not about you when you preach. It’s not about you when you counsel. It’s not about you when you lead.

One would think that would be a little easier to remember in retirement, when you are slowly drifting to the periphery anyway but I find the wondering how I’m doing and fretting over what my stats are, doesn’t quiet down so easily.

I’m still trying to live into the lesson the teacher gave the disciple when he told him to go to the graveyard and praise the saints there as highly as he could and then to insult them terribly. The disciple did as he was told and returned to his teacher.
“What did they think of your praises and insults?” the teacher asked.
“They didn’t seem to care.”
“Strive to care as much about whether people are praising or insulting you.”

They didn’t seem to care about their own fame, preferring to further the Church. Happy St. Philip and St. James day.

(This is a story I’ve been working on, not my usual, if there is such a thing, post. Thinking about doing a series with the same narrator, under a working title of “Me and Jesus”)

The invitation to Simon’s table was a surprise. At least it was for me. Simon was a Pharisee and Jesus, well, Jesus wasn’t. Simon was very careful about doing things the right way, very concerned about who was in right standing with God. For Simon, some people were in and a lot of people definitely were not. Jesus wasn’t particularly careful about the correct way to do things and I am not sure he considered anyone out.

I’m not saying that Jesus wasn’t religious. He was very religious just in a way that I had never seen before. He was the most prayerful person I have ever known and he taught us to pray in a way that completely changed the way we thought about praying. In fact, it changed our lives. Jesus went to the synagogue every Sabbath and knew the Holy Scriptures better than the oldest and most studious of teachers. It’s just that he seemed to ignore a sizable amount of it. For many, especially folks like Simon, he was a little too forgiving and way too inclusive. Some of the religious leaders had openly wondered where the lines were for Jesus. They wondered if there were any lines at all. Simon and his friends liked lines.

On top of this, Jesus’ lifestyle was disturbingly simple. Most people see money and possessions as a way to keep score, signs of God’s favor. Jesus, even though he was a skilled carpenter, didn’t care to keep a steady job. He had one robe. It was a nice one, well made and sturdy but it was the only thing he owned.

We were staying at Matthew’s house at the time and when one of Simon’s servants delivered the invitation Matthew immediately declared that he wasn’t going. “Simon hates me! I’ve known him all my life and I don’t think he liked me even before I was a tax collector. There is no way I am spending an evening listening to him find ways to put down people who have worked for the Romans.”

“Nobody has to go,” said Jesus. “I am going though. I’ve been invited.”

“Well, I am certainly going,” said Judas. “This is just the kind of connection that we have been waiting for. It’s a great opportunity. If we could count Simon as a member of our movement it would give us all kinds of credibility with the Pharisees, even the Sadducees. I know this is hard for most of you to see but we need leaders like this on our side.”

That said, everyone else, except me, decided that if Matthew didn’t have to go, they didn’t either. So it was just Jesus, Judas, and me that went to break bread at Simon’s table. I wasn’t trying to make connections and I wasn’t being polite, I just figured that listening to Jesus and Simon go at it over how to interpret Moses was a pretty good way to spend an evening. Besides, the idea of another night of Peter’s specialty, biscuits and fish, wasn’t very appealing.

Even though Simon and Matthew lived in separate worlds, their houses were fairly close. It was a short walk up the hill, through a crowded street to our host’s home. As we walked some of the neighboring children ran up to get a head rub or a quick tickle from Jesus. This always irritated Judas but Jesus loved it.

I used to feel like Jesus and Judas were perplexed, to say the least, by one another. It seemed like they wanted to be close but could never quite pull it off.

Simon was standing just outside the door, his arms folded, waiting for us when we arrived. “Good, you’re here,” he said to Jesus without much warmth. When he looked at Judas and me he seemed to be wondering what to do about us. It occurred to me that the invitation was only meant for Jesus but he let us in.

He waved off the servants that came from the back of the house to welcome us and ushered Jesus to his assigned place. It was the one to the right of the seat of honor. He took that place for himself, leaving Judas and me to recline wherever we found an open spot.

Judas didn’t seem to mind. He was beaming and telling Simon what a nice home he had. He told him that he had always admired him and had been so looking forward to the evening. I was admiring the delicious looking food on the table.
Jesus was quietly taking it all in, smiling slightly.

He was the same everywhere he went. It didn’t matter if he was at Simon’s or sharing a simple meal with the poorest family in town. No, that’s not entirely true. The atmosphere was lighter with the poorer folks. There was more laughter. I guess that was because that’s the kind of home he grew up in.

It was a wonderful meal. It had everything one would expect; good wine, fish and bread so tasty it made me wonder what Peter was doing wrong when he cooked. There was lamb, fat olives, cucumbers, melons, onions, pomegranates, figs, and frankly a couple of things that I didn’t know what they were, something Egyptian according to Simon, but they were exquisite. Simon assured us that everything had been washed and prepared properly, according to tradition. I don’t think any of us really cared but we thanked him for letting us know.

We had just started eating; Simon had just asked Jesus how he normally observed the Sabbath, when Rachel burst in off the street. I was very sure that she had not been invited.

I only knew Rachel by reputation and it wasn’t good. She was single and that usually meant hard times for women. But she could somehow afford a nice house, lots of jewelry, and lots of parties. Lots of parties. I had seen her many times dancing and laughing in the street outside her house.

“Teacher, they told me that you were here and I just had to see you tonight. I couldn’t wait. I, I just had to see you, to thank you.” Her words and voice were timid but her stance was one of resolve. She knew she wasn’t welcome. It was pretty easy to tell that she was more than not welcome if you looked at Simon’s scowl but she wasn’t going anywhere. I was surprised when I saw the tears welling up in her eyes.

Soon she was crying, then she began to weep and sob, then her legs wouldn’t hold her any longer and she fell at Jesus’ feet. Between sobs she kept saying “Thank you, thank you for spending so much time talking to me, for helping me see. I’m sorry to be making a scene. I just got it. I was sitting home praying like you taught me and thinking about what you said and I just got it, really got it. God truly loves me.”

She took a bottle of very expensive balm from her bag and rubbed all of it on Jesus’ feet. She then began to kiss his feet as if he were a king or something, and when she noticed that her tears were wetting him, she wiped his feet with her hair.

Jesus gently took her face into his hands and tilted her head up until they were looking into each other’s eyes. It was what we called “the look.” We had seen it before.

Jesus had dark brown eyes, very dark. When he was serious, you hoped he wouldn’t look at you. You knew the gaze would be too intense. You were certain that he would see through every mask and know all your secrets; every sin, every shameful act or thought. But then, when he did look at you it wasn’t like that at all. Yes, he saw right through you but it wasn’t with harshness or judgement. It was happy surprise, joy, and love, even delight, all mixed together. When Jesus gave you the look, you were stunned to realize that he thought you were, well, just wonderful. He looked at Rachel this way. It just made her cry even more. Now the tears were falling on his hands.

Judas was aghast. His plans for the evening were exploding. But aghast doesn’t even touch what Simon was. He was furious, beyond furious, “I cannot believe you let that woman touch you! I cannot believe you let her in my house!”

Things were getting intense, fast. Even so, I couldn’t help but chuckle a little on the inside. I was thinking that Rachel being in Simon’s house would give his neighbors something to talk about for quite a while. I think he may have been thinking the same thing but failing to find it humorous.

“I invited you here to learn more about your teaching but I guess I know all I need to know now! If you let people like that touch you, if you touch people like that, you are certainly no teacher that I want to listen to! Woman, get away from my table! Now!”

Jesus put his hand up, “Simon, wait.” Everything seemed to deescalate when he spoke. Simon was beside himself but Jesus somehow took control the room. His calm was simply stronger than Simon’s fury. But I had a feeling it wouldn’t last.

“Simon, I would very much like to share something with you. Something I had to learn myself and frankly it may help you see things more clearly.”

Simon almost snorted but he said, “Please do.”

“Simon, I am not sure why you really invited me here this evening, perhaps to discuss the law as equals, perhaps to try and catch me in some error. Either way, I think Rachel’s presence gives us an opportunity to see a truth of God’s kingdom. Her presence at your table can be a gift if you will truly see her, not as what you seem to be thinking about her but as a child of God, just like you.

“Growing in God’s ways almost always involves seeing that the Father’s love is greater and wider than we once believed. You might not believe it but I used to be very strict. I was very careful about who I associated with and how I did things. I spent many years separated from society, living with the people by the Dead Sea. In fact, until a few months ago, I was convinced that God only wanted me to be a teacher for the people of Israel. Then I met a woman in Tyre.” He looked at Judas and me and said, “I bet you both remember her.”

Oh yes, I remembered her. I was the one who told Jesus to do something. I told him to send her away. I couldn’t figure out why she was bothering us in the first place. She wasn’t a Jew and Jesus was a Jewish teacher. We worship the God who is and she worships who knows what? All I know for sure about who she worshiped is that she had a necklace with a small image of Melqart, the protector god of Tyre around her neck. She did call Jesus, “Son of David” but I wasn’t buying it. I figured someone had told her to use that phrase because it might flatter Jesus into helping her.

She wanted help for her young daughter and I’ll admit the poor girl touched my heart. She was in a pit of despair, half in, half out of reality, cutting herself with rocks, and refusing to take any nourishment. But what were we supposed to do? What business did this foreign worshiper of Melqart have with us. Why didn’t she leave us alone?

The woman simply had no social graces. She had to know that it wasn’t proper for us to even talk to her but she just kept pushing, kept saying that she wasn’t leaving until she saw Jesus. Finally I went to Jesus and said, “You’ve got to do something. We need you help us out. Send her away, she won’t listen to us.”

So Jesus tried. “Woman, we are all Jews and my mission is to the people of Israel. There’s nothing I can do for you.”

“That’s just stupid!” (I told you she had no social graces.)

“It just wouldn’t be right to take children’s bread and give it to dogs.”

When he said this we all figured that would be an end to it. I don’t see how he could have been clearer, but she wasn’t deterred at all. Without missing a beat she said, “Even dogs get the crumbs that fall off the table.” When she said that, it changed the entire conversation. We looked at her and saw her for the first time.

Jesus was telling Simon all this and then he said something I hadn’t heard him say before. “Simon, when that woman said that, when she was literally willing to call herself a dog to help her daughter, it made me look at her like I’m asking you to look at Rachel.

“I saw her as God’s child. I saw her as one created as the book of David says, ‘fearfully and wonderfully.’”

“The scripture talks about how we are knit by God in our mother’s wombs and God knows our every thought. Do you think that those words are only meant for Jews? Do you think that only the people of Israel love their children? Are we the only ones that love our children enough to do anything we can to help them when they need us? Don’t you think that God who knows when a sparrow falls, knows when a woman of Trye weeps? When I saw her like this, of course I prayed for her daughter.”

Simon wasn’t buying it. “I think that’s worse than talking to this woman here tonight! There has to be some kind of boundary or else there is no reason for the Law and commandments. There have to be rules! If prostitutes and idol worshipers are welcome then why follow any of the commands? Jesus you are trying to destroy all that is good and right about our religion.”

“No Simon, you have dedicated your life to God and know many things but I am afraid you don’t understand the most important things. The Law was given to us to help us worship and to keep us for hurting one another. We are not to use it to exclude and hurt others. You should know this as well as I do. Everything comes under the great commands to love God and love our neighbors. Every religious practice is supposed to help us fulfill these two things.”

Simon still wasn’t having it. “You are trying to twist the words of scripture. I don’t know where you get these ideas but they are not true. We have hundreds of years of tradition to teach us the way. We honor God when we are willing to be different and separate ourselves from sinners like this woman.”

Simon said “this woman” like he was cursing and now Jesus was agitated. “Simon, you invited me to your table to talk about scripture but you are unwilling to live it. You barely gave us a welcome when we got here even though we came on your invitation. Here’s what you need to know: God is God for all. You cannot welcome me into your home without also welcoming Rachel. You and I don’t get to pick and choose those who are called God’s own.”

“Have it your way Jesus. If you and she are together then you both need to leave.” Simon’s face, voice, everything about him, showed that he had nothing but contempt for Jesus. Simon was certain that he was right and that Jesus was wrong. It was impossible for him to believe that what Jesus was saying was true.

Jesus nodded at Judas and me and we rose to leave. I could tell that Judas was devastated. He tried to say something to Simon but Simon just glared.

Jesus took Rachel by the hand and we began our walk back to Matthew’s.