I’d guess I’m not alone in this, but I don’t do very well in large crowds. Of course large is a relative term, because even a small number of folks can seem bigger depending on the space in which they’re collected. But generally speaking, crowds aren’t my thing––especially when trying to navigate through one. I get nervous. I become frustrated. And I start to feel as if I need to escape.
Which was part of my predicament in January of last year when I was selected to be one of two pastors from the Memphis Conference to attend a denomination-wide Young Clergy Forum in Washington, DC. Overarchingly, it was an amazing opportunity. But it was a tad stressful too. If you’ve never been to our nation’s capitol, Reagan National Airport is ridiculously busy on a normal day. But the afternoon that I landed was the first the airport had been open since a major snowstorm had shut it down for more than three days.
To say that traffic was backed up is a ridiculous understatement. Thousands upon thousands of people flooded the gates and occupied virtually every square inch of the massive complex. And just about every one of them, because of travel delays, was late in getting somewhere––and was therefore in a hurry, and not in their most pleasant demeanor. When I called Kristy that evening, I shared that the time between my exit of the plane to my arrival at the hotel (which was only seven miles away) was close to three hours. It was pandemonium, to say the least. And it did absolutely nothing to enhance my impression of crowds.
Jesus, too, knew about crowds. Reading through the gospel accounts, we find that he gathered them most everywhere he went. Time and again, we hear about the people clamoring after our Lord––often pressing in on him with their needs, their wants: begging for assistance, for relief, for another chance. And we also get pictures of Jesus, like us––or like me, anyway––retreating from the crowds. Withdrawing from them. Going away to quieter places, calmer places. Because, I suspect, the crowds were overwhelming. They were tiring. Maybe even upsetting. Still, it’s the ways in which Jesus interacts with the crowds that are instructive for us.
And in today’s gospel lesson, St. Matthew tells us about one such encounter. Jesus and his disciples were traveling about Capernaum, “proclaiming the good news”––accompanying words of the reign of God’s righteousness with deeds of healing and restoration. But it’s how Jesus responds to this crowd that’s always given me pause. We’re told that, “when he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” He had compassion for them--a word that, when we hear, we usually think of as feeling sorry for someone; as pitying them. But if we look at the literal meaning of the Greek term, Jesus’ stomach was in knots––he was pained physically––because of his love for these. Because true compassion moves one not merely to feel for, but to feel with. Because, as John Wesley asserted, Christ knew that none “cared for their souls.”
But notice that what precedes even this is that Jesus saw the crowds. And our natural response might be, “Of course he did; it was a crowd.” There was no way of overlooking that mob in the airport; no way I could’ve not seen them. But the word here chosen by the evangelist, horáo, doesn’t strictly mean physical sight. It means rather to see with the mind, to perceive, or to know. It means to experience something––or, in this case, someone. Masses of someones, in whom Jesus recognized pain and suffering and lostness: whose pain and suffering and lostness Jesus felt and shared. He recognized that about the people. But the point's that he saw the people.
And this is how it works. When we take the time to see––to really see––those around us, we find ourselves moved. Just as Jesus was. We find ourselves unsettled––maybe even pained. And this is because allowing ourselves to deeply know and experience others helps us to deeply experience God in profound and stirring ways.
Consider Abraham’s story. Sitting “at the entrance of his tent,” he “saw three men standing near him.” There’s that word again: he saw them. But, being as it was hot––and he was tired, and let’s not forget elderly––Abraham nodded and waved, and let the strangers walk on. Right? Of course not! The scripture says “he ran...to meet them, and bowed down to the ground.” Now, there’s nothing here that should cause us to assume that Abraham knew these were divine messengers. But he saw them––and it stirred him. And Abraham invited his guests to rest, bringing them water to wash their feet, milk to drink, and bread and meat to fill their stomachs––after which they revealed God’s promise to give he and Sarah a son. Abraham saw the people, which led to his encountering God in a way that’d change his life.
Which prompts me to wonder: What might’ve gone differently for the patriarch, had he not seen his guests? Had he not sat with them to share with them, to hear them? Had he not made the effort to experience them? What might (or might not) have happened? Who can guess?
But we do know that, throughout the course of the human story, seeing the people hasn’t been the norm. Nor is it today. It isn’t the norm, sadly, for us to run toward those waiting outside our tent. It isn’t the norm for us to take the time and make the space to be present with others. It isn’t the norm for us to go out of our way to know, to perceive our fellow travelers in this voyage called life. It isn’t the norm for us to seek to experience those around us. We might notice the crowds. But we quite rarely see the people.
Instead, our propensity is only to see something in or about them. Some aspect of who they are, of where they are, of what they do. And even then, it isn’t usual that we frame those somethings as good or celebratory. What we see is lamentably often whatever frightens us, confuses us, is off-putting to us, or challenges us. And so instead of seeing the people, we see political affiliations––and people become closed-minded conservatives or immoral liberals. Instead of seeing the people, we see religious beliefs or practices––and a person wearing a turban or praying to Allah becomes a terrorist. Instead of seeing the people, we see their orientation––and allow that, though commonly rooted in biases and stereotypes, to define everything else about them. Instead of seeing the people, we see the pigmentation of their skin––and assume that if it’s lighter, she’s a racist; if it’s darker, he’s a criminal. Instead of seeing the people, we see their socioeconomic status––and a struggling single mom becomes a lazy mooch; if she’d work harder things would get better. Instead of seeing the people, we see their addiction––and figure he’s there because he’s never tried to quit.
At a minimum, failure to see the people leads to segregating ourselves from and an inability to understand one another. But the difficult truth is that with alarming frequency it leads to far worse. Turn on the radio. Scroll through your newsfeed. All around us are stories of the violence we do to one another, the harm we inflict on one another, the hate we perpetuate. It’s disgusting. It’s despicable. And it’s rooted largely in our valuing of our opinion, our position, our security, our correctness, our possessions, our way of living above and before anything or anyone else. It’s rooted in the same self-absorption (the same self-adoration) that separated us from God in the first place, when in our garden home our first parents were given one rule––and decided they’d rather do things their way. In short, the reason we have such a hard time seeing all the people is because we’re enamored with our own reflection.
But all isn’t lost. Because God has spoken into and acted upon our frailties, sending the Christ who shows us a better way: sending the Christ “through whom we have obtained access” to God’s grace––“grace in which we stand”––that both forgives us and frees us to rise above our creaturely inclinations and brokenness, and to go instead with the hands of Jesus to fulfill the apostolic commission to “cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, [and] cast out demons.”
We often say that God gives us what we need when we need it, and I find that to be especially true today. Because it’s at the font, around which we appropriately gather this morning, that we catch a glimpse of one of the surest signs of this grace. Because it’s at the font that we learn how it is that God sees us, and the lengths to which God goes to claim us––doing so “while we were...weak.” It’s here, as the prayers are offered and the water is poured and a precious soul is baptized, that we’re reminded of how God preemptively moves toward us: choosing to love us before we love God––and promising to be close to us always.
Thanks be to God, that we’re given such opportunities and others like them to discover that ours is a Maker who sees us: who sees all the people. My prayer is that we’d be granted new sight––God’s sight––that we might see them too. And, having seen them, that we might love them as their Creator does: with a life-entering, journey-sharing, wound-healing love that brings the kingdom of heaven near.
Which was part of my predicament in January of last year when I was selected to be one of two pastors from the Memphis Conference to attend a denomination-wide Young Clergy Forum in Washington, DC. Overarchingly, it was an amazing opportunity. But it was a tad stressful too. If you’ve never been to our nation’s capitol, Reagan National Airport is ridiculously busy on a normal day. But the afternoon that I landed was the first the airport had been open since a major snowstorm had shut it down for more than three days.
To say that traffic was backed up is a ridiculous understatement. Thousands upon thousands of people flooded the gates and occupied virtually every square inch of the massive complex. And just about every one of them, because of travel delays, was late in getting somewhere––and was therefore in a hurry, and not in their most pleasant demeanor. When I called Kristy that evening, I shared that the time between my exit of the plane to my arrival at the hotel (which was only seven miles away) was close to three hours. It was pandemonium, to say the least. And it did absolutely nothing to enhance my impression of crowds.
Jesus, too, knew about crowds. Reading through the gospel accounts, we find that he gathered them most everywhere he went. Time and again, we hear about the people clamoring after our Lord––often pressing in on him with their needs, their wants: begging for assistance, for relief, for another chance. And we also get pictures of Jesus, like us––or like me, anyway––retreating from the crowds. Withdrawing from them. Going away to quieter places, calmer places. Because, I suspect, the crowds were overwhelming. They were tiring. Maybe even upsetting. Still, it’s the ways in which Jesus interacts with the crowds that are instructive for us.
And in today’s gospel lesson, St. Matthew tells us about one such encounter. Jesus and his disciples were traveling about Capernaum, “proclaiming the good news”––accompanying words of the reign of God’s righteousness with deeds of healing and restoration. But it’s how Jesus responds to this crowd that’s always given me pause. We’re told that, “when he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” He had compassion for them--a word that, when we hear, we usually think of as feeling sorry for someone; as pitying them. But if we look at the literal meaning of the Greek term, Jesus’ stomach was in knots––he was pained physically––because of his love for these. Because true compassion moves one not merely to feel for, but to feel with. Because, as John Wesley asserted, Christ knew that none “cared for their souls.”
But notice that what precedes even this is that Jesus saw the crowds. And our natural response might be, “Of course he did; it was a crowd.” There was no way of overlooking that mob in the airport; no way I could’ve not seen them. But the word here chosen by the evangelist, horáo, doesn’t strictly mean physical sight. It means rather to see with the mind, to perceive, or to know. It means to experience something––or, in this case, someone. Masses of someones, in whom Jesus recognized pain and suffering and lostness: whose pain and suffering and lostness Jesus felt and shared. He recognized that about the people. But the point's that he saw the people.
And this is how it works. When we take the time to see––to really see––those around us, we find ourselves moved. Just as Jesus was. We find ourselves unsettled––maybe even pained. And this is because allowing ourselves to deeply know and experience others helps us to deeply experience God in profound and stirring ways.
Consider Abraham’s story. Sitting “at the entrance of his tent,” he “saw three men standing near him.” There’s that word again: he saw them. But, being as it was hot––and he was tired, and let’s not forget elderly––Abraham nodded and waved, and let the strangers walk on. Right? Of course not! The scripture says “he ran...to meet them, and bowed down to the ground.” Now, there’s nothing here that should cause us to assume that Abraham knew these were divine messengers. But he saw them––and it stirred him. And Abraham invited his guests to rest, bringing them water to wash their feet, milk to drink, and bread and meat to fill their stomachs––after which they revealed God’s promise to give he and Sarah a son. Abraham saw the people, which led to his encountering God in a way that’d change his life.
Which prompts me to wonder: What might’ve gone differently for the patriarch, had he not seen his guests? Had he not sat with them to share with them, to hear them? Had he not made the effort to experience them? What might (or might not) have happened? Who can guess?
But we do know that, throughout the course of the human story, seeing the people hasn’t been the norm. Nor is it today. It isn’t the norm, sadly, for us to run toward those waiting outside our tent. It isn’t the norm for us to take the time and make the space to be present with others. It isn’t the norm for us to go out of our way to know, to perceive our fellow travelers in this voyage called life. It isn’t the norm for us to seek to experience those around us. We might notice the crowds. But we quite rarely see the people.
Instead, our propensity is only to see something in or about them. Some aspect of who they are, of where they are, of what they do. And even then, it isn’t usual that we frame those somethings as good or celebratory. What we see is lamentably often whatever frightens us, confuses us, is off-putting to us, or challenges us. And so instead of seeing the people, we see political affiliations––and people become closed-minded conservatives or immoral liberals. Instead of seeing the people, we see religious beliefs or practices––and a person wearing a turban or praying to Allah becomes a terrorist. Instead of seeing the people, we see their orientation––and allow that, though commonly rooted in biases and stereotypes, to define everything else about them. Instead of seeing the people, we see the pigmentation of their skin––and assume that if it’s lighter, she’s a racist; if it’s darker, he’s a criminal. Instead of seeing the people, we see their socioeconomic status––and a struggling single mom becomes a lazy mooch; if she’d work harder things would get better. Instead of seeing the people, we see their addiction––and figure he’s there because he’s never tried to quit.
At a minimum, failure to see the people leads to segregating ourselves from and an inability to understand one another. But the difficult truth is that with alarming frequency it leads to far worse. Turn on the radio. Scroll through your newsfeed. All around us are stories of the violence we do to one another, the harm we inflict on one another, the hate we perpetuate. It’s disgusting. It’s despicable. And it’s rooted largely in our valuing of our opinion, our position, our security, our correctness, our possessions, our way of living above and before anything or anyone else. It’s rooted in the same self-absorption (the same self-adoration) that separated us from God in the first place, when in our garden home our first parents were given one rule––and decided they’d rather do things their way. In short, the reason we have such a hard time seeing all the people is because we’re enamored with our own reflection.
But all isn’t lost. Because God has spoken into and acted upon our frailties, sending the Christ who shows us a better way: sending the Christ “through whom we have obtained access” to God’s grace––“grace in which we stand”––that both forgives us and frees us to rise above our creaturely inclinations and brokenness, and to go instead with the hands of Jesus to fulfill the apostolic commission to “cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, [and] cast out demons.”
We often say that God gives us what we need when we need it, and I find that to be especially true today. Because it’s at the font, around which we appropriately gather this morning, that we catch a glimpse of one of the surest signs of this grace. Because it’s at the font that we learn how it is that God sees us, and the lengths to which God goes to claim us––doing so “while we were...weak.” It’s here, as the prayers are offered and the water is poured and a precious soul is baptized, that we’re reminded of how God preemptively moves toward us: choosing to love us before we love God––and promising to be close to us always.
Thanks be to God, that we’re given such opportunities and others like them to discover that ours is a Maker who sees us: who sees all the people. My prayer is that we’d be granted new sight––God’s sight––that we might see them too. And, having seen them, that we might love them as their Creator does: with a life-entering, journey-sharing, wound-healing love that brings the kingdom of heaven near.
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