Church of the Incarnation

The summer after my junior year of college I got to study history and literature in Cambridge, England. It happened that my best friend from home was studying architecture in Italy that same summer. My program ended before hers, so I took a week to make my way from Cambridge to Vicenza. She and I then had another couple weeks in Europe before we were set to leave for home, and we planned to see as much as we could during that time.

Now, before I headed to Italy, I consolidated my luggage. I packed up all my books, the posters I had bought in art galleries, and most of my clothes, and I left them in a locker in Victoria Station, knowing we'd be back through there before we went home. I wanted to be able to travel easily, unhampered by bags of things that weren't essential. I took only tiny travel-sized toiletries, and planned to wash and re-wear clothes. I ended up fitting everything into a pack I could wear on my back. It was easy to move around crowded train stations, since I wasn't trying to drag several suitcases with me. And I could pop into art galleries or restaurants without having to find somewhere to leave my bags.

My friend Marion had a slightly different definition of travelling light. Before we left Vicenza for our European wanderings, she shipped home everything she deemed non-essential. But she was still left with three suitcases of clothes, a large cardboard tube of posters, and a huge, elegant hat she'd purchased. Boarding a train was a major production: one of us had to stand on the platform and hand the bags up to the one already on the train, while the line of people behind us grumbled. Then we had to bump our way through the narrow aisles, knocking passengers' knees with the bags until we found seats with enough overhead room to stow all the bags. And we couldn't just pop into a restaurant while we waited for our train. One of us would have to stay with the bags while the other went to find food and bring it back. No more spontaneously ducking into galleries or museums, either. We'd first have to leave the bags somewhere: in a hotel room or a series of train station lockers.

Travelling with just a pack on my back, I felt free and aware. I watched for signs pointing to interesting places, since I was free to follow them. And I talked to people on the trains about where I should go next, since I was free to go wherever I wanted. When I met an interesting group of Morrocan college students, I went with them to a funky club they'd heard about. Travelling with Marion and all her baggage was a very different experience. There was no point in watching for interesting detours, since we couldn't wander far from the bags. And we hesitated to strike up many conversations with locals, since the volume of our luggage made us obvious targets for thieves. The baggage kept us from doing what we came to Europe to do.

Jesus tells the disciples to leave all their baggage at home and to go out into the world to love people into God's kingdom. They are to take "no bread, no bag, no money in their belts." They take no extra food, no money with which to purchase food, and no beggar's bag in which to collect alms which could be used to buy food. They are to carry only a staff, the symbol of God's power and authority. Remember the mighty acts God did when Moses raised his staff on the shore of the Red Sea? The staff reminds them that their mission comes from Jesus and will be accomplished only through the power of Jesus. In that spirit, they come with no baggage of their own, relying instead on God and their neighbor to provide for their daily needs. They are to love the world openly, trustfully, and faithfully, unencumbered by the baggage of worldly concerns.

I find this hard to hear this week, when I'm so weighed down with worldly concerns. I feel like my friend Marion. I'm carrying around the baggage of fear, of anger and outrage, of sadness and despair. I find myself looking at people in the stores as potential threats rather than as neighbors. I look outside my windows to be sure no one's around before I step outside. I want to avoid people, to stay inside with the doors locked.

But Jesus sends us out, to engage the world and to love people as he does. And he sends us out empty, with no way to protect ourselves from the world's dangers and no way to provide for our own basic needs. But he sends us out carrying his staff, the symbol of his power and authority. We are weak and empty-handed by human standards, but his power is made perfect in our weakness. He doesn't promise us that we'll be safe. But he promises that he'll be with us, strengthening us and guiding us.

I wonder what Stephen Tyler would say now. I wonder if he's glad he was the kind of man who re-opens his store for a desperate customer, now that he knows the consequences of that kindness. I'm sure the parent in him is torn, haunted by the memories of his daughter's death. But I hope he still thinks it was worth it to live openly, freely, loving the world as Jesus instructs us.

We can't let one sick individual turn us away from one another. We can't let him cause us to take up our baggage and put our trust in worldly things rather than in God. We know we aren't safe - we never have been. But we also know that death isn't the end of life, but rather the beginning of new and far more wonderful life. We have much more to fear than death. There's the possibility that we cease to live here and now, that we stop loving and welcoming one another, that we retreat into ourselves and forget the very spirit that makes Gaffney so peaceful and that makes life worth living.

So let's go to Victoria Station and put our baggage in a locker there. Jesus is waiting to turn the key for us. Let's stow away our fears, our suspicions, our sadnesses. Let's lock away everything that weighs us down and keeps us from seeing one another as God's precious child, someone deserving of love and care. Let's leave here today as Jesus' disciples, weak and vulnerable and yet carrying the staff of God's power and authority, determined to love and trust the world.

Amen.