Sermon for July 6, 2025
Pentecost 4C
Luke 10:1-11, 16-20; Isaiah 66:10-14
Rev. Karl-John N. Stone
I was 2 years into my first call as pastor, and was still getting to know the region of Pennsylvania where we lived, an area which geologists call the “Valley and Ridge Province” of the Appalachian Mountains. With a long-distance backpacking trail (“the Mid-State Trail”) nearby I figured, what better way to get to know the place than to hike through it? So I invited two of my college buddies, Brian and Lars, to join me for our first 40-mile backpacking trek. The Sunday before we set out, one of the old-timers from my church, who’d been a deer hunter in the area for decades, made sure to find me after the service. He looked at me and said, “Now, make sure you respect the mountain. Be careful.” I promised I would.
As we hit the trail, I showed my friends the topographical maps, and when they saw that none of the mountains were higher than about 2,000 feet above sea level, the jokes started coming about how these weren’t high enough to really be mountains. The first day went well. We had a nice hike along the ridge of the first mountain, then down into the wooded valley and set up our tents by a creek with cold flowing water. Next morning we were back at it, but this time we’d have two mountains to cross. And we discovered that what these mountains lacked in height, they more than made up for in steepness and rocks. Climbing up the south face of each mountain was like climbing a never-ending staircase, only this staircase had no handrails, and the steps were uneven and of varying size. Then going down on the north face, the rocks weren’t so bad, but the terrain was so steep it was like trying to walk down a slide in the playground but never getting to the bottom.
When we finally reached the valley and got to a flat spot in the woods, we thought we’d have it easy—only to received a sudden surprise—a loud buzzing rattle sound right in front of us. Yup, a rattlesnake was warming himself in a sunny spot on the trail and warning us to keep our distance—and we did! By the time I got to the top of the second mountain, I was far behind my friends, my knees were aching, my feet killing me, my shoulders sore. I just wanted to stop and set up camp right there. The only thing that kept me going was the thought that my friends would be worried if I never arrived.
Very slowly, as afternoon bled into evening, I made it off the mountain into the valley and onto the gravel road that led to Poe Paddy State Park—where I limped into our campground for the night. Brian and Lars had already pitched the tents, and were chatting with some other campers, a family who seemed to be the only other ones there. We learned that they camped there every summer. As I threw my backpack off, they tossed me an ice-cold can of Coca Cola and said, don’t worry about cooking tonight, you can eat with us!
And eat we did! Hamburgers, bratwurst, as many as we wanted, plus more ice-cold drinks. The next morning, we woke up to the smell of pancakes, sausage, and fresh coffee, as much as we wanted. They had plenty. The welcome and hospitality we received from a family of strangers who became friends, in the middle of a remote forest and mountain range—whenever I think of it, I think “this is what it’s like when the kingdom of God has come near”.
Now, I know that we didn’t strictly fit the bill for the instructions Jesus gave those 72 followers of his, the ones whom we sent out as “laborers into the harvest”. 72 was a significant number, because there were 72 “known countries” at the time (at least, known to those lived in that part of the world). Theirs was a mission through which Jesus was beginning to reach the entire world! My friends and I were simply walking through a very small corner of that world. Those 72 disciples carried no purse or bag, but we carried backpacks with enough gear to survive in the wilderness. They wore no sandals, and neither did we, but we did wear hiking boots. We had no wolves to worry about, as if we were lambs—but that rattlesnake gave us quite a scare! We didn’t enter anyone’s house with a greeting of peace, as those 72 disciples did—but we did enter a campground that was a “home away from home” for a local family, and we ate what was set before us, and enjoyed the peace they shared with us, and all of it was the cure for what ailed us after a very difficult day.
What my friends and I did come with, similar to the 72 disciples, was vulnerability—tired, hungry, and having simplified our lives to whatever we carried on our backs. And we also came with humility—achy knees, sore feet, hurting shoulders, the scare of a rattlesnake’s rattle, the steep rocks to climb and even steeper slopes to descend—the mountains had humbled us, and we respected them.
So, despite the differences, we were made to become similar to those 72 followers whom Jesus sent as messengers to every place where he intended to go. Because, like them, it’s only when you meet people (whoever they may be) with a spirit of vulnerability and with a humble heart, and see them as fellow children of God, that’s when you can truly receive the gifts they may have for you—or the gifts that God wants to give to you through them. Or maybe I’ve got it backwards. Maybe in this case, I and Brian and Lars were not the ones who were like the 72 disciples. Maybe it was this family, camped out in that campground, who made a home away from home there each summer—maybe they were the ones whom the Lord had sent to us?
In either case, it was a gift of grace; it was the “coming near of God’s kingdom”. Now that phrase, “the kingdom of God” is one that we say all the time, it’s all throughout the Bible. But it’s also a word that shows the limits of translating the original Greek into English. Because when we hear the word “kingdom” we tend to think of a place. Maybe it even has a castle, and a border around it, and you either belong there or you don’t. But the word in the original Greek is much more active. More like “reign of God” than “kingdom of God”; it’s not so much a place far away where God dwells, but an activity that God does nearby throughout all of creation. God’s reign is God’s influence and activity that is felt anywhere, whether in heaven or the most remote parts of earth or the most mysterious corners of the universe.
And God’s activity and influence is not limited to just certain places or certain people. It is available to whoever is open to receiving what God is doing. Such is the power and grace of our loving God, and his living and risen Christ, and their inspiring Holy Spirit. God works through people to bring good news, and healing, and hope even in the midst of difficulty. The reign of God is like the comfort provided by a mother to her child, it’s like the satisfaction of a delicious meal provided at just the right time, it’s the gift offered with no expectations, healing care provided for the sick and suffering, the welcoming of a stranger who might become a friend; it’s the building up of human connections and relationships, in the time people decide to make for one another.
Those things are a small sample of what it’s like when the kingdom of God, the reign of God, comes near. Not everyone will accept these gifts of grace when they are offered. But God calls us to offer them just the same—and to receive them when they are offered to us. Now, my friends and I could have politely declined the offer of burgers, brats, ice cold soda, pancakes, sausage, and fresh coffee from the family in the campground because, after all, we’d brought our own stuff to eat. We didn’t have to accept their welcome and hospitality. But know this: Even if we had declined it, the activity of the living God would have still been near. Amen.