If you’re like me, then you can have no trouble imagining all kinds of people with whom you would not want to spend any time. You can imagine individuals who have hurt you, who have offended you, who have insulted you. You can even imagine entire groups of people, people you do not know, people different from you.  

And you can imagine being in their company. You can imagine your own sense of superiority to others. You can imagine your self-sufficiency, you can imagine your independence, your utter independence (and how fragile and delicate that illusion can be). You can also imagine how quickly it would be undermined, if you found yourself dependent on another, in need of help, suddenly relying on shelter at the house of a stranger, in the company of someone with whom you would not want to spend any time. You can imagine.

Jesus says to the disciples: Go on your way. He knows the truth of being in the company of others is that we can learn to rely on one another, even when we distrust them. They are different. They are strangers. They are they, and we are we. You can imagine this deep truth about humanity, when the disciples, the 70, going out in pairs, to one village and another, away from their teacher, away from their rabbi, away from their authority. They are not with the healer. They are not with the prophetic speaker, to whom crowds flocked to see.

They are on their own and by themselves. They are without any credibility. They themselves are just strangers walking in a strange land. This is how they find their identity. As Israelites finding a home in Egypt under Joseph’s leadership, as children of Abraham, a wandering Aramean, the people of God find their identity as a people of faith and reliance on God. They are not independent. They are not all-powerful. They are not rich and wealthy; they are not well spoken of; they are hardly well spoken themselves.

The disciples are humbled by the discovery that they are guests of others. They are enveloped in that leveling truth of the Gospel: Abraham entertaining angels and not having known it, three strangers coming to his tent, that deep and mystifying truth about hosts of great banquets being taught by Jesus the stranger and learning more than what they ever could have provided.

That humbling truth: we are not in control, ever, is learned when the disciples are sent out to go their own way, to try to make it on their own, and to discover, you do not make it on your own. You never do. You always have help; you always are fed before you feed others. You always are clothed and housed before you clothe and house others. You always are taught before you teach others. Not one person makes it their own way, as the disciples discover.

And Satan is cast down, Jesus declares. The power of evil teaches us to believe in independence, superiority, self-centeredness. And when that power of evil is cast down from the sky, when it is brought low, it is because we have discovered compassion. Empathy begins to reclaim its primacy in our daily lives.

How could anyone possibly imagine that hospitality would win out over selfishness? Jesus did, an unexpected and unplanned child born to an unmarried couple, he grew up as an illegitimate embarrassment – whispered about, spoken about, mocked, probably not welcome in the company of others.

But imagine some stranger to the town, knocking at his mother’s door, asking for help, and receiving it from Mary, Joseph, and Jesus. Imagine later, that stranger being told who exactly it was who offered him hospitality, who exactly offered him grace. Imagine the stranger’s response, that it didn’t matter whether Jesus was illegitimate or not, welcome or not, acceptable or not. Jesus and his family offered the stranger kindness, when everyone else in town did not. Who behaved like a neighbor to that visitor, but Jesus and his mother and his father?

Maybe the poison of power, of treating others with disdain, and looking down on those who could not fight back, maybe the poison of evil in this world – the power of shame and sin – is reduced when moments of care, hospitality, welcome, and kindness are witnessed. Maybe the truth is that those who claim they were truly deserving, that they truly belong, those who have been in the community for decades, who have obsessed over their reputations and every word uttered about them, are wrong. Maybe their own perception of their superiority and their independence will finally be shown to be without foundation, to be contrary to the way of God.

Maybe for Jesus, growing up on the outskirts of one town after another, spending time in Bethlehem as an infant with no grandmothers to welcome him, spending time in Egypt as a refugee from Herod, spending time in Nazareth and around Galilee, maybe for Jesus, as a perpetual stranger, with nowhere to lay down roots, with no one to grant him legitimacy, with no standing of his own, maybe he learned from the example of faith set by his parents, guided by the Spirit of God in their lives, moved by the presence of goodness in their own home, no matter what people said.

Maybe Jesus learned that in spite of the self-centeredness of the world, the faith his parents had, and the kindness they offered to strangers, demonstrated that they didn’t have to be independent or cut off; they didn’t have be superior; they didn’t have to be perfect.

Maybe Jesus knew this from an early age, earlier than all of us. Maybe he wanted all of us as disciples to learn it as well. No one is superior. No one is independent. All are beloved children of God.

When did you learn that lesson in your own life? Have you found yourself feeling comfortable and at home with everyone you’ve encountered, even the people you’d prefer to avoid? Will you continue to resist the temptation of seeing yourself as superior to others?

Maybe you’re ready for something more. Will you listen for Jesus’ calling, and will you consent to go on your way, as well, to spend your time among strangers, to live your faith and cure the sick without payment, and to proclaim the kingdom of heaven has come near?

Will you go without any power of your own, without the comfort of your own money to fall back on, without any reputation you’ve built for yourself, without the dignity of self-reliance? This Independence Day weekend, will you permit yourself to be in a position of dependence?

Will you realize and understand that in others – even those we demonize and reject, deplore and condemn – will you realize that God is at work in them, just as much as God is at work in you?

Because God doesn’t value us for our independence, doesn’t demand our perfect behavior, doesn’t prefer some people over others. So will you allow yourself to discover that you are more loved more than you expect, accepted more than you can believe, and welcomed into this world, more than you can fathom?

I pray you will. And I invite your response. Amen.