Caring for Christ

Luke 7:36-50, Matthew 25:35-40

I did not invite him to honor him. Let’s be clear about that. I invited him because people were talking. You couldn’t walk through Capernaum without hearing his name. They said he healed a centurion’s servant, a Roman, and not even by touching him, just by speaking. Then word came from Nain that he raised a widow’s son from the dead, just like the great prophets Elijah and Elisha. Now, Galilee has always had its holy men. We have seen them before, men like Hanina ben Dosa or Honi the Circle-Drawer. Charismatic, prayerful, powerful miracle workers. People get excited, crowds gather, and eventually the excitement fades. So I invited him because I wanted to see for myself. Was he just another Galilean wonder-worker, or something else?

I had heard him in the synagogue. He spoke with confidence, boldly, perhaps too boldly, and he keeps the wrong company. Tax collectors, fishermen, women of questionable reputation, people who do not keep themselves clean, people who blur lines that protect our community. If he is a prophet, I thought, he should know better. Yes, I did not greet him with a kiss. I did not offer water for his feet. I did not pour oil on his head. Why should I? To show him honor would be to align myself with him, and I was not prepared to lose the respect of my colleagues for a man I was still evaluating.

My brothers of the cloth were there that evening, men who value the Law, men who guard Israel’s faith carefully. And then she walked in. No invitation, no shame. I had seen her around town. Everyone had. She does not keep the Law. She keeps company with men she is not married to. She does not live as a daughter of Israel should live. And she falls at his feet, weeping, touching him. If he were truly a prophet, he would know. He would know what kind of woman she is. He would recoil. He would protect his holiness. Instead, he lets her touch him, lets her wash his feet with her hair, lets her anoint him with ointment.

And then he speaks, not to her but to me. He tells a story about debt, about forgiveness, about gratitude, and before I can gather my thoughts, he has exposed them in my own house, in front of my friends. He names what I did not do: no water, no kiss, no oil. He says she loves much because she has been forgiven much. And then, this is what stunned us, he tells her that her sins are forgiven. Forgiven. Who does that? Only God forgives sins. What right does he have to say such a thing?

He was invited so that I could evaluate him. Instead, somehow, he measured me. I am still not certain whether I witnessed audacity or authority. But I know this: when she left that room, she walked out lighter, and when we remained behind, we were the ones burdened.

In Matthew’s gospel Jesus tells us, “I was hungry and you gave me food. I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink. I was a stranger and you welcomed me.” And then he says something startling: “As you did it to one of the least of these, you did it to me.” You did it to me. That means Christ is not only the one receiving care in Luke 7. Christ is also the one standing at our door.

Every month, before most of the city is awake, people gather outside the doors of our church for bus passes. Some are unhoused. Some are burdened with addiction. Some have simply had bad luck. Some carry everything they own. Some smell like alcohol or tobacco. Some are deeply grateful. Some barely look us in the eye. But every one of them is welcomed. Every one of them is offered hospitality: a cup of coffee or hot chocolate, an empathetic ear, or just a place to sit and rest. No one is hurried out the door. No one is treated like a problem to manage.

It would be easy to say we are helping them, but according to Jesus, that is not the whole story. According to Jesus, we are caring for him. When we open the doors, Christ walks in. When we pour the coffee, we are pouring it for Christ. When we hand over a bus ticket, Christ receives it. That is the good news, not that we are generous, but that Christ is present.

Simon withheld hospitality because he was not sure he wanted to align himself with Jesus. The woman poured out her love because she had nothing left to protect. The good news in this second week of Lent is that great love for God always becomes great love for neighbor. When we care for Christ in the least, the last, and the lost, Christ is already there. That is the gift of grace in giving.

If you need a place to care for Christ, there is always room here at Grace. You can help with the bus ministry by waking up early one morning a month to pour coffee and hand out passes. You can serve with the Good Neighbor Ministry, repairing a fence, trimming a yard, fixing what someone cannot fix alone. You can partner with our Refugee Ministry by collecting household items, giving financially, or walking alongside families with the Wichita International Refugee Committee. You can stand with Justice Together, working not only for charity but for systemic change: affordable housing, support for those who are unhoused, and real efforts to reduce gun violence in our city.

Inside your Grace News, you will find a small card, an invitation to experience Christ’s presence this week by either helping others or allowing others to help you. I hope you will take the card with you as a reminder to be on the lookout for opportunities to open the door for Christ this week, because great love for God becomes great love for neighbor, and when we care for Christ in the least, the last, and the lost, Christ is present among us.

The Rev. Sarah Speed, a pastor in Kansas City, wrote a poem called If God Lived Next Door.

If God lived next door,
I would drop off a loaf of bread.
I would use my mom’s best recipe, wrap it in parchment and ribbon,
and place it on the front stoop.

If God lived next door,
I would leave a note with my phone number:
Call anytime you need anything.
I am always happy to help.

If God lived next door,
I would keep sugar on the shelf just in case she needed a cup.
I would put a picnic table in the front yard and begin taking my coffee there
so that whenever God passed by with their gaggle of rescue dogs, I could say,
“Want to sit for a moment? Want to rest your legs?”
I would keep a jar of dog treats and water by the mailbox
and change my doormat to one that says,
“All are welcome here.”

I would invite God over for dinner.
She would bring bread and juice.

I would host a block party so that everyone could meet her.

I would start a community garden
so that the kids could run between rows of squash and tomatoes
while we adults put our hands in the dirt.
We would share stories while we weeded
and eat harvest meals at the end of the season.

If God lived next door,
I would want to build something beautiful.

Then again, who says she does not?
Maybe God does live right outside our door.
And maybe caring for Christ begins with opening that door.