$3.00 Worth of God

This blog post is based on my sermon from Sunday, April 7, 2019.

When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, and he will put the sheep at his right hand and the goats at the left. Then the king will say to those at his right hand, 'Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.' Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you? And the king will answer them, 'Truly, I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.'

--Matthew 25:31-40, New Revised Standard Version

 $3.00 Worth of God is a title of a book of meditations published by Wilbur E. Rees. The irony is that the book was published in 1971 and has long since been out-of-print, so when a rare copy does show up in a used bookstore, it retails for about five hundred dollars!

Now, if by some coincidence, this little book were to show up on Rummage Donation Sunday, please tell the donor that while we don't normally accept book donations (other than children's books), that we are willing to make an exception in this case, and then take the book directly to the boutique!

Here's a quotation from the first meditation in the book:

I would like to buy $3.00 worth of God, please, not enough to explode my soul or disturb my sleep, but just enough to equal a warm cup of milk or a snooze in the sunshine. I don't want enough of [God] to make me love a black man or pick beets with a migrant. I want ecstasy, not transformation; I want the warmth of the womb; not a new birth. I want a pound of the Eternal in a paper sack. I would like to buy $3.00 worth of God, please.

It seems to me that Wilbur E. Rees has written perhaps the quintessential mediation on keeping God at arm's length. How different is that from what Jesus said:

I was hungry and you gave me food to eat. I was thirsty and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger and you welcomed me. I was naked and you gave me clothes to wear. I was sick and you took care of me. I was in prison and you visited me. 

Those who hear this are incredulous, and they ask, "Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you a drink? When did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and give you clothes to wear? When did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?

Then Jesus replies: "I assure you that when you have done it for one of the least of these members of my family, you have done it for me."

The original hearers of Matthew's Gospel were those who were well acquainted with being hungry, with being persecuted and thrown in prison, with having little to no resources of their own and having no choice but to rely on the hospitality of strangers. How reassuring it must have been for them to know that all those who had shown kindness and compassion to them would be acknowledged by Jesus as having shown the very same kindness and compassion directly to Jesus. The original hearers of Matthew's Gospel would have recognized themselves in the persons of "the least of these," and they would have taken heart in Jesus' promise of blessing to all those who had given them food when they were hungry, or something to drink when they were thirsty, or clothes to wear when they were without clothing, or who had welcomed them when they were strangers, or who had visited them when they were sick or in prison.

How do we hear these words as followers of Christ nearly two thousand years later, when our own social location is, for the most part, one of privilege and security?

We may hear it as an ethical demand to feed the hungry and welcome the stranger, which it is, but there's a danger in thinking of ourselves as the "haves" while thinking of the "least of these" as the "have nots." We might begin to think of ourselves as regulators of the resources, as the ones who get to decide who is the most deserving of our support.

And where is Christ in all of this?

Jesus Christ is in 100% solidarity with those who are hungry, thirsty, naked, sick, or in prison. If we as followers of Christ want to be where Christ is, then we need to be in solidarity with those who are hungry, thirsty, naked, strangers, immigrants, sick, or in prison.

How can we begin to identify and partner with our fellow human beings, and not simply think of ourselves as the regulators of the resources?

My friend and colleague the Rev. Cari Pattison was an associate pastor at the Reformed Church of Bronxville (New York) for nearly twelve years. She recently left her position to begin thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail. She started out three weeks ago today, on March 17th, at Springer Mountain in Georgia, and she hopes to get to Mount Katahdin in Maine sometime this Fall.

It seems to me that in the three weeks that she's been on the trail that she has posted on social media with much greater frequency than she ever has before, which has been an incredible gift, making it possible for hundreds of people to follow her hike in real time through Facebook, Instagram, and her blog.

In one recent blog post she wrote about hunger:

Hunger is a funny thing. I am sitting on a shuttle out of Winding Stair Gap, riding into Franklin, [North Carolina]. Reeking of the woods, I feel like the homeless woman on the back seat of the bus. I'm surrounded by what seem to be squeaky-clean day hikers.

My stomach rumbles. It is all I can do to sit on my hands to keep from swiftly reaching over the seat to grab their packs and rummage for food. I am quite certain that if there were a garbage can, I would be going through it.

I watch one of the passengers on the bus in front of me, a smiling, 50-something woman. She leans over ad kisses the man she's with, as they affectionately share a PayDay bar.

"I will not take their PayDay," I repeat to myself. "I will not take their PayDay," summoning all powers of restraint.

(just in case you weren't already craving one ...)

They kiss again. "I will not yell or punch them."

I ate my last calories earlier that day--a lone packet of apple cinnamon oatmeal. What's the big deal? I have fasted before. I have dieted and cleansed and done ten-day green-smoothie challenges before. But not while hiking ten to fifteen mountain miles a day with a 30-pound pack on my back.

This kind of hunger is new. This kind of hunger encompasses every muscle, every cell, every bone. This hunger has invaded my brain, giving me violent fantasies of confiscating the woman's fanny pack on the seat in front of me.

My hands and fingernails are caked in dirt, and I put on my sunglasses so I don't have to make conversation or eye contact. My empty belly feels like another character on the bus, yelling at me for not packing enough food. The smell of the woman's peanut bar wafts into my nostrils and I try not to breathe.

She tries to make small talk with me and I cannot concentrate on the words because the peanuts--the peanuts are so loud and taunting and the woman is so clean and kissing and not-hungry and I am trying so hard not to scream.

I have never, ever, felt this famished.

Disclaimer: I have never been truly poor. I have had a largely privileged life.

The bus driver careens around a corner and I make a promise. Never again will I walk through the streets of New York City without carrying an ample supply of protein bars or McDonald's gift cards.

I will never again walk by someone who looks hungry or says she's hungry, and not give her something to eat. 

And here ends my long quotation from her blog post. To read her post in its entirety, please click here.

We who are followers of Jesus Christ are called to identify just this strongly and intensely with those who are hungry, with those who are immigrants, with those who are in prison.

A few longtime members of Katonah Presbyterian Church will remember Helen and Jack George, who helped start the food pantry out of KPC that eventually became the Community Center of Northern Westchester. Helen and Jack were remarkable in that their son was killed as a bystander in a crime, yet they visited their son's killer in prison and forgave him. As Susan Polos describes them, they were incredible examples of love.

Many will also remember Thea and Bailey Jackson, who were very active in prison ministry. Thea, along with Lee Roberts, started the college program at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility.

Jim and Susan Polos recall with fondness the many experiences they've had with the Children's Center, hosting children so that they could visit their mothers at Bedford Hills.

And isn't the best part of our annual Rummage sale the fact that we provide clothing and other essentials at greatly reduced prices to marginalized people in our community?

In many ways we do already embody what it means to be a Matthew 25 church, but we can still grow to be more of a Matthew 25 church.

Last Monday the Presbyterian Mission Agency of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) issued an invitation to each congregation in our denomination to become a Matthew 25 church. An invitation, in the words of Executive Director the Rev. Diane Moffat, to put feet to faith, hands to hope, and legs to love.

You can learn more about this invitation by clicking here.

Congregations are invited to become a part of this Matthew 25 initiative by committing to work toward congregational vitality, dismantling structural racism, and eradicating systemic poverty.

I am eager myself to learn more about this newly announced initiative, but in truth the invitation is nearly two thousand years old. An invitation not merely to distribute resources, but to identify with and walk alongside those who are hungry, thirsty, naked, strangers, sick, or in prison.

And the one issuing the invitation is none other than Jesus Christ.

All glory and praise be to our God. Amen.