Welcoming the Unwelcome

Then he took a little child and put it among them, and taking it in his arms he said to them, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me" [Mark 9:36-37].

The irony in this week’s Gospel lesson, Mark 9:30-37 [the Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost, RCL, Year B] is palpable. The disciples, unable themselves to cast out a demon from a possessed boy—Jesus always has to do the heavy lifting—find themselves in an argument about who among them is greatest.

The disciples would have been comfortable within our society. Being gentle, meek, and kind all sounds good in our world, but greatness—well, greatness is reserved for those who can exert their own power over others. In our world, greatness is defined by those who are disruptive. Greatness is reflected in the bottom line, the size of the 401(k), the number of followers enjoyed on one’s social media site. Our society values strength and resolve. Ambition is usually praised, not denigrated.

Jesus has something else in mind. His is a difficult task, much harder than casting out demons. He has to help His disciples unlearn generations of Jewish thought. They’re sure that the Son of Man, a/k/a the Messiah—will be King David 2.0. He’ll overturn the Roman authorities. He will right all the wrongs perpetrated against the house of Israel. He will settle all old scores. But the disciples misunderstand His purpose, His mission. And so, Jesus has to repeat, over and over, the narrative of His impending betrayal, death, and resurrection.

As the Gospel writer relates the story, upon reaching Capernaum, Jesus confronts their bickering. As He did in last week’s lesson, then telling them that the only way to save their lives was to lose them, Jesus again upsets their greatness discussion with an inversion of the social order. Without pointing to anyone specifically, Jesus instructs them that whoever wants to be first must be last and servant of all [9:35].

And then, as has been pointed out by a number of commentators, Jesus doubles down. He gives them an object lesson. He takes a child in his arms—a life that in the first century was thought to be but barely human—and he says that if anyone desires to follow Him, then they must treat this vulnerable, virtually invisible one with care and respect. If one seeks to follow along Jesus’ way, one must not only jettison society’s definition of greatness, he or she must minister to and welcome this child, for in welcoming the child, one welcomes Jesus Himself, and if Jesus, then also “the One who sent” Jesus [Mark 9:37].

Jesus’ act of cradling this vulnerable child is not, of course, an isolated incident, but part of a consistent pattern in His ministry. Throughout Mark’s Gospel, we see Jesus repeatedly reaching out to those whom society overlooks or devalues. He healed Gentiles and the chronically ill, touched lepers, freed demoniacs, and dined with social outcasts. Each action crossed boundaries and restored dignity to the marginalized. In each action, Jesus welcomed the unwelcome.

Now, by drawing this unnamed child close—a being considered barely human in the first century culture—Jesus not only challenges His disciples’ understanding of greatness, but also provides a living example of God’s upside-down kingdom values.

In this gesture, Jesus embodies vulnerability itself. He demonstrates that in God’s eyes, those with no power, no status, and no voice are still worthy of love and protection. Jesus embraces vulnerability. It’s part of His utter core. Paul would later teach the church that:

… Christ Jesus, who, though He was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied Himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, He humbled Himself and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross [Philippians 2:5b-8].

In Jesus, we encounter a God who doesn’t just sympathize with human vulnerability from a safe distance; we see a God who ventures fully into the very heart of human pain and mortality.

When I think of the vulnerable, I think of the poor, those who struggle to make ends meet in an environment of our recent rampant inflation. I think of the sick as they try to navigate our complex and often impersonal healthcare system. I think of the elderly, who are often isolated and forgotten in a youth-obsessed culture. I think of those battling mental illness or addiction, and who so often are stigmatized and misunderstood. And I think of the more than one million unborn children who will be summarily dispatched this year because of the choices made by others.

Like the child in this week’s Gospel lesson, the unborn have no voice and no power. They’re seen by many in power as having little inherent value, often viewed not as persons, but as potential, subject to the convenience or choice of others. They are, in many ways, the most vulnerable members of our human family. Yet, disturbingly, mainline Protestant denominations have remained silent on their behalf or have even advocated for policies that fail to recognize their inherent dignity.

Recently, I had a rather elongated exchange of emails with an editor of The Christian Century, that well-respected “flagship magazine of US mainline Protestantism” [Wikipedia]. For more than 30 years, I’ve been an on-again, off-again subscriber. The magazine has an admittedly left-leaning agenda. I often disagree. But it almost always also contains some top-notch theological pieces. In this particular case, the editor had invited comment on an article that, like virtually every other article on the subject ever published in the magazine, had been strongly pro-abortion.

Our email exchange was quite cordial. His arguments favoring abortion were predictably clear, although completely political. I asked him to outline for me the theological basis for his position. He could not/would not do so. “It’s more complicated than that,” he said.

I certainly understand. Taking the side of the immigrant is straightforward. So is taking the side of the criminally accused. So also, is taking the side of the homeless. But taking the side of the unborn, well now, that’s complicated. Some of the world’s vulnerable deserve our love and support. It’s just that others that are even more vulnerable, like the unborn, can be treated differently.

I asked the editor if the church’s position on the abortion issue, indeed any issue, shouldn’t be informed by scripture. His response: “Not necessarily.”

Near the end of our “conversation,” I asked him if Christ had commanded that we love our neighbor. He quickly agreed that, indeed, Christ had clearly done so. I responded that all this tended to beg the larger question: “Do you consider the unborn your neighbor?”

His answer was entirely consistent with his other points. He said, “No.”

What say you?

Subsequently, as I reflected upon his answer, I thought, “If welcoming a child in Capernaum, because of its vulnerability, is the same as welcoming Jesus Himself (as well as the One who sent Him), how much more should we consider welcoming and protecting the unborn, who are even more vulnerable than, say, a five-year-old? Stated somewhat differently, when and how did we gain the authority to erect a boundary between Christ’s love and a vulnerable group like the unborn?

Jesus’ embrace of the vulnerable child in Capernaum challenges us to reconsider who we welcome in His name. If welcoming such a child is equivalent to welcoming Christ Himself, how does mainline Protestantism reconcile this with our treatment of the unborn—perhaps the most vulnerable among us?

The church has historically been a voice for the voiceless, championing the cause of the marginalized and oppressed. Yet, on the issue of the unborn, we find a stark divide. Some see them as neighbors formed in the image of God, while others view the issue through a secular, political lens.

As we contemplate Jesus cradling that first-century child—considered barely human by His society —we must ask ourselves: Who are the “barely human” in our world today? If Jesus welcomed that voiceless, powerless child with His embrace, who else might He be calling us to welcome? In our eagerness to be on the “right side” of contemporary issues, have we impermissibly drawn boundaries around Christ’s love?

In the quiet of our hearts, do we truly see the face of Christ in all the vulnerable, born and unborn alike? Or have we, like the disciples arguing over greatness, missed the profound simplicity of Jesus’ embrace?