“Go on your way. See, I am sending you out like lambs into the midst of wolves. Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals; and greet no one on the road. Whatever house you enter, first say, ‘Peace to this house!’ And if anyone is there who shares in peace, your peace will rest on that person; but if not, it will return to you.”  [Luke’s Gospel 10.3-6]

You must always bring something with you, when you visit someone’s home. It’s common courtesy, or so we were told when we were children. Cake, or biscuits, even from the shop; a bottle of wine if it’s evening. You don’t go empty-handed, it’s just rude.

That’s one of the first memories that springs to my mind when I read this passage, the idea that you appear at someone’s front door, hoping to go in, and your hands are empty.

This passage takes us even deeper; this is not about afternoon tea, it’s about staying with people, imposing on their hospitality until the job is done. Whenever that is. We are hoping for a welcome, and one that lasts beyond the kettle cooling.

Even if we take into account the Middle Eastern culture of hospitality, and the inherent obligations to the neighbour and the stranger, this is a significant challenge. We are carrying nothing.  

We have no money, no footwear, no protection, no bags for the clothes we are not carrying.  Nothing.

Consider the planning meeting for the new church plant, for the new faith community   we hope to grow in our neighbourhood. First step of the Action Plan: we arrive at someone’s door, expecting food, drink, perhaps a change of clothes and some money for an Uber.

Consider the Mission Consultant (deserving of capitalisation) who outlays no cash for the proposal, not a smidgen of financial planning, and tells us all we need to carry with us is the Blessing of Peace, and the proclamation, “The reign of God has come near to you”. In your hands are healing, for those communities in which you receive a welcome.

(Might we have some training, please? When we last tried to heal a child, we under-performed…)

What does it mean to arrive in a community, disarmed entirely? When we have no resources – material, financial – behind which to shelter, we can feel exposed. And we are.

In the astonishing Old Testament story about Naaman’s healing (II Kings 5), Elisha’s messenger tells the military commander that he needs to dip himself in the Jordan seven times and everything will be fine. What? No bells and whistles? No drama and theatrics? Nothing?

Just barefoot, no sandals, no staff, no cash required?

With all the resources at our fingertips, we find it difficult to imagine that the only resources required are the mercy of God, our story and our selves.

This is not a romantic allusion to poverty, to the honour of having nothing. It is an assertion of how God is at work in the world, through us and, frequently, despite us.

We take with us a blessing and a story, the story of our experience with Christ, and what that means for us. The story we need to bring is unadorned, unromantic and as tangible as our handshake. We share hospitality, because conversations happen more easily over a percolator and a pikelet.

We never impose the gospel, but offer it, as a cup of tea is offered. It can be received, or refused, but the gift endures – and may well be offered again.

Material resources for our participation for God’s mission are – at best – the next step, when people have offered blessing, and hold each other’s tale reverently in their hands.

Our world is consumed with those who would impose their will, their violence upon others, with any number of excuses and rationales. Jesus has always chosen a different course, and calls us to the same. 

When we consider how we might offer a blessing to our friend, our neighbour, even our enemy, remember that we bring with us an encounter with the reign of God in the world. This is God’s astounding mercy – for us, and for those to whom  we offer ourselves,  woven into the story of God, at work in the world for which Christ died.