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By Nathan Brown

Because of where many of us live in time, place, and culture—and the traditional place the Bible occupies in our own lives—one of the temptations we encounter in our reading of the Bible is to assume it is telling the story of the mainstream and the powerful. Even our traditional Adventist starting point in sharing the story of the Bible—the image and prophecies of Daniel 2—can distract us with the assumption that the Bible is focused on the rise and fall of kingdoms and empires. But reading more closely must remind us that the headlines of history are only ever the backdrop against which the Bible tells the story of what is happening on the margins.

Yes, at times, we will hear a sermon that highlights the roles of the outsiders in the Bible story. Someone might point to the outsider women of dubious reputation specifically mentioned in the ancestry of Jesus—Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, and Bathsheba (see Matthew 1). Or the Christmas story will include mention of the foreign magi who came “from the east” to worship the infant Jesus, even while the religious leaders of Israel had missed the momentous event of His birth. Or we can see how Jesus reached out to those who were foreign, outcast, and unclean throughout His ministry. Or we might consider the case of the Ethiopian eunuch, the sexually diverse foreigner that the Holy Spirit guided Philip to baptize into the way of Jesus (see Acts 8:26–40).

But these are usually presented as the exceptions, rather than the rule. Even these sermons miss the bigger picture of the Bible: that God has continually and recurringly worked with outsiders to take His story forward in the history of our world. Read rightly, the Bible is the story of the outsiders and the strangers. From Abraham who left his home “without knowing where he was going. And even when he reached the land God promised him, he lived there by faith—for he was like a foreigner, living in tents” (Hebrews 11:8, 9) to the life of Jesus—a poor, homeless, back-country preacher of question- able parentage and background—and so many faithful people of God in between (see Hebrews 11:35–40) and since, it seems that for many the calling to follow God is a calling to become an outsider and a stranger to the world around them.

But we also see this in the larger patterns of the history of nations and peoples. The Bible’s alternative history of the world foregrounds the stories of otherwise unknown and un- likely individuals, but also of small families, forgotten tribes, oppressed or excluded peoples whom God called out to be His people.

There are two stand-out examples of this in the Bible’s larger story. The first was God’s actions of bringing out the people of Israel from their Egyptian slavery, not because they were powerful or important but simply because they were loved and chosen by God. As Moses would remind the people toward the end of his experience in leading them, “The Lord did not set his heart on you and choose you because you were more numerous than other nations, for you were the smallest of all nations!” (Deuteronomy 7:7).

The second example comes with the establishment of the church as those who followed Jesus—again, those who were called out but also those who were “grafted in” to the fulfilment in Jesus of the promise to Israel (see Romans 11:17–21).

In both of these major interventions of God, those who heard the call to be God’s people were placed where they did not otherwise belong. God was regular in reminding them that they were recipients of His grace and that their position of privilege was neither inevitable nor irreversible. One of His key reminders was that this should transform how they relate to those who were marginalized in their communities and who would come among them as strangers: “Do not take advantage of foreigners who live among you in your land. Treat them like native-born Israelites, and love them as you love yourself. Remember that you were once foreigners living in the land of Egypt. I am the Lord your God” (Leviticus 19:33, 34).

Central teachings of Jesus also echoed this reminder and this imperative. For example, the story of the Good Samaritan featured the improbable and disruptive hero to the story as the answer to how Jesus’ hearers should “love their neighbor as yourself” (Luke 10:27). This story offered the listeners an awkward choice between identifying with the “holy” people who simply passed by and thus obviously broke the commandment to love, the victim of the attack who was forced by circumstance to accept the kindness of the stranger, or—if wanting to see themselves as the hero of the story—the com- forting but discomfiting stranger.

Even in Jesus’ teaching about how to respond in a worst- case ethical situation, His command was “love your enemies! Pray for those who persecute you!” (Matthew 5:44). It is intriguing to wonder if the conversion of Saul the Persecutor on the road to Damascus (see Acts 9:1–19) might have been a direct answer to some of the persecuted disciples of Jesus pray- ing just such a prayer. It was certainly something that Paul the Apostle came back to repeatedly in his ministry and writing, expressing his amazement that he was an outsider, a stranger, who had been brought near by the gracious and dramatic intervention of God (see, for example, 1 Corinthians 15:8, 9).

So when a stranger wanders in—to our church, to our lives, to our faith, to our communities and nations—we must first recognize them as one of us, because we were strangers. No one should belong more in our communities of faith than a stranger, because we are a community of strangers. When we begin to forget this, when we begin to read the Bible as a book that tells the story of the powerful or restricts those who are welcome in our communities or forever condemns some to be outsiders or lesser, Moses and Paul, the Hebrew prophets and Jesus Himself would remind us, probably loudly, “Remember, you were strangers . . .”

And while we might be tempted to spiritualize this as a theological concept, portraying the truth of our broken relationships with God and each other, this spiritual estrangement plays out in a million practical and destructive ways. As such, our spiritual reconciliation and renewal must also play out in practical, creative and restorative ways in our everyday lives, in the big issues in our world and perhaps particularly in our lives together in communities of faith.

So when a stranger wanders in, they are not only recognized theologically as one of us, as belonging however counterintuitive that might seem, they must be welcomed practically and truly. We must recognize and respect the process or journey that has brought them to this point, which did not begin with our knowledge or proximity to it, and the courage needed to take this step. While we do not abandon our discernment, we recognize that we can learn from them and their story, and that they might be our Good Samaritan if we have the humility to be recipients of their kindness and contributions.

So when a stranger wanders in, we celebrate together.

–Nathan Brown is a writer and editor at Signs Publishing in Warburton, Victoria, Australia. Check out the website for Nathan’s newest book Of Falafels and Following Jesus at www.FalafelsandFollowingJesus.com. Email him at: [email protected]

By Barry Casey

“To find its fulfillment, the ‘I’ needs at least two complementary dimensions: ‘we’ and—if it is fortunate—‘you.’” “I hope in thee for us.”

Here is a wonder that we do not acknowledge enough: that two carbon-based entities of the human species can— through symbols, vocalizations, and markings—establish enough trust that they will, in the fullness of time, join their lives together for better or for worse.

We cannot read each other’s minds. We think we can read each other’s body language well enough that we make crucial decisions in the short term based on the curl of a lip, the narrowing of the eyes, and the tilt of the head. How amazing our capacity for expression! How boundless the hope we place in our gestures and words!

To begin with the most general purpose of communication—to know another person and to be known—is both to know oneself and to go beyond oneself. To transcend the “I” for the “you,” and ultimately, to create the new—the “us.”

HERE IS ABRAHAM, resting under his tree. The sun is at its apex, the horizon shimmers in the heat. Three figures glimmer into view. Abraham shades his eyes and squints. Movement out here is cause for wariness. He spits to the side and looks up again. They are still there. He can- not be sure they are moving closer; at this distance it’s a question whether they are moving at all or if it’s all a mirage. Too soon to tell. He struggles to his feet.

“Sumash,” he calls, “Sumash, get over here!” A figure ducks out from behind the shed and ambles toward him. “Yes, sir,” he answers, his head tilting away as he speaks. “If they stop,” says Abraham—he swivels and thrusts an arm toward the three—“If they will stop, I want you to get the calf ready. Understand?” “Yes,” comes the reply. The boy shuffles his feet. He traces an arc in the dust with his sandal. “Who are they?” he asks. “I don’t know yet,” Abraham says thoughtfully. “We need to be ready, though.”

Obeying the laws of his culture, Abraham will welcome them—friends or enemies, it is the same. He is not afraid of strangers, for he trusts his hospitality will protect him just as it might save their lives.

I ONCE VISITED a large Methodist church in downtown Washington, DC. It’s an historic church, one that was early involved in the civil rights struggle and continues to be involved in issues of justice and peace. I went because I had heard the preaching was powerful, deep, and challenging. And I had heard that the congregation was attuned to welcoming visitors. I was not disappointed. The preaching was exceptional, but what really touched me was the attention paid to strangers.

I am normally someone who wants to slip in the back of a church or meeting. But the moment I walked in the door there were people who kindly made me feel at home. I did not feel ignored or imposed upon—just welcomed and noticed and acknowledged. I was handed a visitor’s packet and shown to a seat. A deacon slid over next to me before the service started and introduced himself. He also welcomed me and pointed out a visitor’s note in the pew rack. I was encouraged to fill it out and to choose whether I wanted to be contacted further. I was also free to simply turn it in and be considered a part of their extended family, but without any obligation to join.

The packet had a list of small groups that one could join, the times of worship services, and a schedule of upcoming activities that one could volunteer for. Most of these small group ministries had been running for ten to twenty years, with the leadership and membership changing over time, but always sustaining themselves. Almost all of them were devoted to the immediate needs of their neighborhood, as well as joining with other churches and temples across the city to care for the homeless and for AIDS patients.

I looked around the sanctuary and noted that the congregation was diverse. There were families with small children (always a good sign), teenagers, and a lot of white hair. About half the people in the pews were African American, Hispanic, or Asian. It seemed to me that there were quite a few graduate students, an observation that was confirmed by a deacon after the service.

The next week one of the deacons called me at home (this was before cell phones) and we had a good conversation. We talked about present issues the church was involved in and I asked questions about the ministerial staff, a couple of whom I was acquainted with from the Wesleyan Seminary downtown. He asked if I was interested in joining any of the groups or classes. There was no pressure, just an open invitation to be part of the life of the church community. It was clear from our conversation that service to the local community in such groups was the lifeblood of that church. If I wanted to know the beat of its heart, that was the place to start.

WE ARE OFTEN encouraged to bring our neighbors to our churches. Most of us don’t. Perhaps we feel that ex- posing our church community to a critical eye is rather like bringing home our high school friend and hoping our crazy aunt Pat doesn’t show up. While we can anticipate her mood swings and her whimsical sense of humor, we’re not at all sure she translates into a language that friends would understand. Bringing someone to church is not just introducing them to Christianity—it’s our particular version, with certain phrases and insider talk, and assumptions that are rarely acknowledged and can barely be explained if it comes to that.

It gets more complicated. While we are all strangers in more places than not, we don’t know how strange we are until we have a point of comparison. It’s one thing to sit around a dinner table after the sermon and laugh about our Adventist cultural weirdness, but it’s another thing if a stranger derides us for those very quirks. Then we feel the stirrings of tribal identity—even if we generally shrink from that—and there’s no telling what will happen if we give in to those unquestioned urges.

Do we think of our church community—by that, I mean our local congregation—as a conduit which channels Jesus to the world? After all, the Gospels commend to us a life lived in faith within the world and Paul’s letters champion our witness before the principalities and powers. If so, we’d better be prepared to bear our channeling with humor and humility because we will exhibit all the tendencies of humans. We will some days be open and generous, other days sullen and withdrawn. These fluctuations can be tiresome and discouraging: why can’t we come before the Lord in worship with a glad heart every time?

Christians, as Thomas Merton wryly noted, travel “in the belly of a paradox.” Following Merton, Parker Palmer has taken up the fact of paradox as a central component of a spiritual journey. The Gospel paradox, Eamon Duffy says, “both affirms our human needs, and beckons us to a way of discipleship that takes us beyond them.” Duffy encourages us not to despair in our commitment to community and discipleship, and comments in his Walking to Emmaus, that “The call to be reconciled to God involves the demand that we follow Jesus, and what is demanded is an enormous effort, a lifetime of effort, everlastingly inadequate, everlastingly to be begun over again.” But it is also more than this, much more—it is “an invitation to share in a work already accomplished (and complete).” The terrible journey that Jesus made outside the city, estranged from all He had known and loved, sustains and completes our faltering attempts to bring the stranger into our midst.

Duffy concludes “that is why in the end all Christian discipleship, all following of Jesus, finds its meaning and its method not in our solitary struggle with ourselves, but in the Church, in the Eucharistic community, the community of those who give thanks.”

AND ABRAHAM RAN to meet the three men and he bowed to the ground, and he said, “My Lord, if I find favor with you, do not pass by your servant.” And he brought bread and cakes and water and meat for his guests, and they did eat.

–Barry Casey taught religion, philosophy, and communication for 37 years in Maryland and Washington, D.C. He is now retired and writing in Burtonsville, Maryland. More of the author’s writing can be found on his blog, Dante’s Woods. His first collection of essays, Wandering, Not Lost, was recently published by Wipf and Stock. Email him at: [email protected]