Nomads and Pilgrims

When the days drew near for him to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem [Luke 9:51].

To show you just how far the world has come since the mid-1950s, when I was a young lad growing up with my three brothers in rural southern Gaston County (NC), our family had a special board game, a game that would now be called “quaint,” or possibly even “weird.” It was manufactured and sold by Parker Brothers, the dominant name in board games at the time. The name of the game was—wait for it, wait for it — “Going to Jerusalem.” I’ll bet you thought I was speaking of “Monopoly”—we had that one too.

Imagine a board game from a major American toy manufacturer whose play scheme was to follow the path of Jesus from Caesarea Philippi to the Cross. The game’s existence says a lot about middle America in the 50s. I think it also speaks volumes about our parents. When it came to matters of faith, they were serious, often in ways that we could not then appreciate. Talk about Holy Play! Incidentally, I found a used copy of the game listed on eBay for $59.99 [click here to see it].

As we approach the Gospel lesson for this upcoming Sunday, the Third Sunday after Pentecost, Luke 9:51-62 (Revised Common Lectionary, Year C), we encounter some of the theological underpinnings of the Parker Brothers game. By this point in Jesus’ life, he has already made it abundantly clear to his followers (and to us) that He is indeed the promised Messiah, but that His messianic role is not the sort that had been broadly expected. He will not raise an army and strike down the Roman authorities. Instead, He will offer Himself up for the sins of humanity. The Temple officials and the Roman authorities will, of course, gladly cooperate in ending His life, but the Gospel narrative is clear: Jesus’ Passion is orchestrated through His own will, a strong will that is consistent with the revelation that He has been given by the Father. Jesus is no victim.

And so, Luke stresses that when the days drew near for Him to be taken up, Jesus set his face to Jerusalem. When one follows a Messiah who is headed toward Jerusalem and a Cross, one may step into some neighborhoods that one might otherwise want to avoid. Samaria comes to mind. Our text indicates that no sooner had Jesus “set his face” than he—along with those who were following Him—crossed over into Samaritan territory.

We might remind ourselves that most “good Jews” traveling toward Jerusalem from the North would likely skirt around Samaria. I don’t have room for detail here, but as you likely know, Samaritans were considered half-breeds. They shared some Jewish DNA, but they worshipped Yahweh on “the mountain,” not in the Jerusalem Temple. Many Samaritans had intermarried with outsiders. For the good Jew, Samaritans just weren’t “our kind of people.”

To be sure, Jesus has already shown great toleration for the Samaritans. For example, in John 4, He has an interesting and provocative encounter with the Samaritan woman at a well. Only this isn’t just any old well. It’s Jacob’s well, the well where Jacob first encountered Rachel. Of course, Jesus’ encounter with the Samaritan woman isn’t some boy-meets-girl story. The woman at the well has a past—Jesus relates her sordid life story to her—but He does not condemn her. Instead, Jesus offers the outcast woman living water, which she excitedly accepts.

On another occasion, described in the chapter of Luke’s Gospel that follows this week’s lesson, Jesus offers up a parable in which He paints a Samaritan man in particularly good light, noting that the outcast who is typically shunned by Jewish clergy becomes the only one who will assist a Jewish man who has been beaten, robbed, and tossed into a ditch.

It may have been that the Samaritan villagers noted in this story would ordinarily have been happy to welcome Jesus. Luke tells us, however, that the Samaritan villagers fail to accept Him “because his face was set toward Jerusalem” [Luke 9:53].

It’s one thing, of course, to accept Jesus when He’s handing out bread, providing healing, and lavishing His many blessings. When He concentrates instead on His messianic mission, some change their minds. “Jesus, my friend, what have you done for me lately?”

We see this sometimes in our own lives and in the lives of professing Christians around us. When we think Jesus is interested in our particular brand of politics, in our pet “issues,” when we think He is resonating with our priorities, we naturally welcome Him into our lives. We’ll even slide over and let Him sit down with us.

When He insists, however, that we must conform to His priorities, that we must love those whom we don’t like, when we must discard our carefully constructed private kingdoms, and meander instead toward the kingdom that is solely His construction, when He tells us that we are to die to ourselves every day, to pick up our own crosses, and then to follow Him—well, that’s another matter. Some of us might say to ourselves, “Jesus has set his face toward Jerusalem—toward suffering and sacrifice. If I follow Him there, I’ll have to move from where I’m currently sitting or standing. I’m not sure I can do that. And let’s face it, Jerusalem is as dangerous as South Chicago. They hang people there on Fridays!”

As I say, I think the Samaritans were avoiding Jesus because they liked the status quo. To be sure, life for them wasn’t perfect. Yet, with hard work, community organizing, membership in the correct civic clubs, golf on Wednesdays, and other efforts on their part, they had carved out quite a solid existence. If Jesus was interested in adding to their blessings, more power to Him. But this Jerusalem thing, well …, I just don’t know.

We’ve all seen this side of Jesus before. He’s just so intent upon shaking things up, upon making us move. It’s as if He wants us all to be pilgrims and nomads. A preacher friend of mine has joked, “What’s the difference between a pilgrim and a nomad?” The answer, “Forty years in the wilderness.”

When the Israelites escaped from Egypt, crossed the Red Sea, and found themselves in Sinai, they were nomads. They didn’t know where they were going. They had no fixed homes; they’d given them up. To be sure, Moses was traveling along them, but Moses didn’t know which direction to go either. They had no guide except the wind-driven cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night. Of course, we might think of that cloud and pillar as Holy Spirit.

You see, the nomad understands and accepts movement. He or she also understands that in spite of such almost constant movement, there will be rest for the weary, sustenance for the hungry, and drink for the thirsty. The nomad knows that in Yahweh’s good time—and only in Yahweh’s good time—the nomadic activity will end in holy space that the nomads cannot construct on their own. It will end with Holy Ground. The nomad doesn’t know when or why.

As Jesus set His face toward Jerusalem, He knew that the times ahead would be harsh. And so, as they were going along the road, when someone—probably a brown noser like me—said to him, “I will follow you wherever you go” [Luke 9:57], Jesus responded:

Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head” [Luke 9:58].

In short, Jesus said that anyone who followed Him would need to be content as a nomad.

Indeed, Jesus knew that after His Death and Resurrection, and particularly after his Ascension, His disciples would all become nomads. They would take His Gospel far and wide. They’d have no homes, no income, no assurances except the assurance that mattered the most—that the presence of the Holy Spirit would be with them in all their endeavors. As each of His disciples moved from his or her earthly existence to that holy existence that is beyond death, he or she ceased being a nomad and became, instead, a pilgrim.

Nomads and Pilgrims—During the final discussions that I enjoyed with my dear friend, Rick Jenkins, who died late last August, Rick shared with me that for many years he had felt like an almost aimless wanderer. To be sure, he’d been an extremely successful patent attorney, building a vibrant practice from virtually nothing. He had a wonderful and loving wife, a lovely daughter that meant the world to him, a gaggle of friends so numerous that he felt guilty, and many other blessings. But something was missing.

Rick added that particularly during his final five or so years of life, he’d felt as if he had finally turned a sort of corner with Jesus, or rather than Jesus had turned a corner with him. Like the rest of us, Rick confessed that at various points in his life, he had insisted on his own agenda, had followed his own plan, had made all the necessary calculations to attempt to achieve a “successful” life. He’d been successful, but, in reality, he was a mere nomad. He’d been too busy to follow Jesus.

But with his cancer, Rick turned the corner. He realized that Christ was active, forceful, and engaged. So also, Christ was challenging and loving, whether he (Rick) thought it wise to become engaged in Christ’s Holy Kingdom or not. In short, Rick said that Christ had shown him a choice—that he could continue to wander—or make up his mind to follow.

It was in the determination that he should follow that Rick, one of Christ’s 21st century nomads, said he felt the corner had been turned. In retrospect, I think that Rick experienced what Jesus was describing to His young follower, after Jesus had set his face toward Jerusalem—that the path behind Jesus did not come with earthly assurances, but that the path made by Jesus’ footsteps did offer the promise that a nomad could become a pilgrim, a pilgrim who no longer wandered aimlessly, but rather looked forward to a heavenly destination shared with our Lord.

Are you tired of wandering?