Hope in a Borderland Place

A sermon preached with the people of St. John’s Episcopal Church in Oakland, California.

This morning, Jesus and his disciples are headed toward Jerusalem, traveling “through the region between Samaria and Galilee.” And they stop at a borderland place. And from this borderland place, ten people living with a painful condition cry out: “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!”

They keep their distance; maintaining the wall between differences; between sick and able. But Jesus walks right through that wall. Jesus heals right through that wall. And the wall crumbles. And, for everyone witnessing, the truth is revealed: that borders are holy places. It’s the walls that are dangerous.

Jesus sends the ten on their way to see the priests; in other words to the place of worship that had put a wall up between them and the community, because of their illness.

And then, one of the ten comes back to this borderland place. And the one who comes back is a Samaritan. Not of Jesus’ own people. From the other side of the cultural and religious and national and historical wall.

And this Samaritan falls down before Jesus and gives thanks. And Jesus wonders out loud where those other nine are. Noting that it is the quote “foreigner” who shows gratitude to God. It is the “foreigner” who returns to the borderland place. It is the foreigner who sees that place as not dangerous, but holy.

The wall has crumbled, and he’s allowed himself the imagination to see God’s vision for us.

And Jesus says to him, “Your faith has made you well.”

When we talk about “having faith,” I think it can sometimes have the ring of some kind of rote dogmatism. But faith is not about forcing yourself to suppose that you both understand and believe all the great unknowable mysteries. Faith is about allowing yourself the imagination to see God’s vision for us amidst the great unknowable mysteries.

And when we not only see, but live according to that vision. That, I think, is called hope.

And, friends, in this time when I am so often feeling shaken, sad, mad, confused, distraught and, unwell when I look around and see all these walls coming up in places of difference, allowing myself the imagination to see and believe God’s vision for us is healing indeed. Makes me well.

Faith is the willingness to imagine the world as it could and it should and ultimately will be according to God’s vision. And hope is daring to step inside that imagination. [i]

Hope is returning – again and again – to the borderland places of our world—racial, national, political, personal—and daring to imagine them as the holy places they are. Recognizing the walls we build as the dangerous actors they are; the violence that keeps us from who we were made to be.

Hope is believing that healing can happen there. That gratitude can grow there.

In August, St. John’s Action & Justice team, along with Genesis (our community organizing partner), invited friends from different churches and different faith traditions to a Vigil outside the Sansome Street Immigration Court in San Francisco. Our goal was to show those waiting in the long line outside that they were not alone. These people – individuals and families –were following the rules by showing up, but in doing so exposing themselves to the danger of being detained by ICE agents.

And when we got there, to this borderland place, we saw that an actual wall – a barrier – had been set up, dividing the sidewalk in two. So, those waiting for court were lined up on the side closest to the building, while everyone else gathered in the narrow space on the other side.

And then, people of faith walked through the wall (okay, around it, we’re not Jesus after all, but you get that point). And once on the other side, we served breakfast and coffee and water. We gave toys and sidewalk chalk to children. And, as we stepped inside our imagination, faith became hope.

We handed out what we called “solidarity cards,” which did not use language of any particular religious tradition, but simply insisted they were loved. Some of us helped ensure that those in line had legal representation. Had language services. Some of us had powerful and emotional conversations and real human connections.

Through a wall. At a borderland place. And there was some small dose of healing. And, as we prayed and sang words of worship together, there was gratitude. Borders are holy places. It’s the walls that are dangerous.

We will return to this borderland place regularly. I hope for as long as it is necessary. And I hope that is not long. If you are interested in joining us this coming Thursday at 8am, let me or Scott know, or write an email to actionandjustice@stjohnsoakland.org.

We have learned to expect danger at borderland places; we have learned to expect violence and illness and corruption and cruelty at the places where difference meets. We have therefore been told to protect ourselves. To fortify. To legislate. To arm. To cut off. To ostracize. To arrest. To deport. To humliate. To embargo. To starve. To eliminate. To build walls of every kind. So much work across human history.

When, all along, borders have been holy places. It’s the walls that have been dangerous.

In that village between Samaria and Galilee, Jesus revealed God’s vision: a world where relationship is restored, where all people are cared for, where the walls that divide us crumble. Where difference is holy.

We do not have to buy what so many are selling: the myth of danger of difference. We do not have to stay on “our side” of any wall that’s put up between us and other children of God. We can believe in the truth of our own imagination. We can live in the hope of stepping inside of that imagination, and right through those walls.

Because when we do that, healing happens. Gratitude happens. The realm of God just begins to break in —right in the middle, right between us. At the borderland place.

[i] With thanks and praise to Walter Brueggemann, who died earlier this year. His Hope Restored: Biblical Imagination Against Empire was an underlying inspiration here (maybe the underlying inspiration).