Grace and Truth: A word from pastors

Cleopas and another disciple are walking the long road from Jerusalem to Emmaus when a stranger interrupts their sullen conversation with a question: “What are you discussing?” He just wants to talk, but the two disciples are annoyed at first: “Are you the only stranger who doesn’t know what has taken place?” Despite their irritation, Cleopas and his friend let the stranger walk with them as they talk about the Messiah’s execution, about an absent corpse, about the Scriptures and God’s promises. Along the way, the disciples experience a change of heart—something about the conversation changes their disposition toward the stranger. We don’t know how the change happens. We can’t see it: the soundlessness of transformation, the subtleties of metamorphosis. We do know that when they find themselves at a crossroads and the stranger is about to go on without them, Cleopas and his friend refuse separation. “They urged him strongly, saying, ‘Stay with us.'” And he does. And, in their house, the truth flashes before the disciples, illuminating their eyes. They can now see that the stranger is a friend, that the stranger holds their salvation in his hands. Because they offer an invitation, Cleopas and his friend are in a position to see the truth. Why do they tell him to stay? Because they desire him, because they want to be with him. “Stay with us.” All of us want to hear these words. All of us want this invitation. We want someone to want us. We want to be desired— for someone to see us, to look in our eyes and recognize us, know us and say, “Stay with us.” Why? Because we desire fellowship, because we find God’s life in holy friendships and because the Bible tells us that hospitality to strangers makes room for Christ’s presence. “Stay with us.” This invitation inaugurates the church: Where two or three are gathered, Christ is there. Cleopas and his friend show us how to become the church, how to become people who welcome Jesus into us: into our homes and buildings, into our worship and discernment, into our congregational and denominational life. “Stay with us.” I’ve heard these words, spoken to me by Mennonite disciples, sisters and brothers who have welcomed me into their church. They have shared with me, once a stranger to Mennonite life, a faith handed from generation to generation. I’m here, with you, learning how to belong and discovering to whom I belong. We are bound together through baptism and Communion and church membership, all of which, I’m learning, summon me to belong to a group of people from whom we, as a denomination, are trying to divorce ourselves. Our church system has estranged our LGBT sisters and brothers, rendering them perpetual strangers by means of our institutional documents: our statements and guidelines, our agreements and covenants, all of which insist on categories for human beings that are supposed to disappear in the church; for as the apostle Paul declared, “there is no longer male and female.” In Christ’s church, Paul wrote, “you are all children of God … you belong to Christ.” “You belong.” Yes, you, my reader. You, sister and brother—God’s children, all of us, God’s beloved. You who are embraced by the Holy Spirit and drawn into the church by God’s love. You who share with us the gifts of song and sermon, who hold our babies and teach our children, who cook for our potlucks and manage our buildings and write our theology and administer our finances. You who stay with us, with your church, even when we sin against one another. I’m grateful for you who are LGBT, because you have stayed with us even though we have official documents written against you. Your steadfast love for the church, despite rejections, bears witness to a God who loves us despite our sins— a God who overflows with patience and long-suffering, a God who loves us with a stubborn love, refusing our refusals and rejecting our rejections. You—my sister, my brother—you love us with God’s love. Your love for our church teaches me how to love, how to love our church and our God, to love the One who somehow thought it was a good idea to get us all mixed up together—all of us, as strangers become friends and enemies become companions. I hope that as we stay—as we hold on to the church, as we hold on to one another— we may find ourselves with strangers whose eyes glimmer with salvation, strangers whose hands offer the bread of life. Isaac Villegas is pastor of Chapel Hill (N.C.) Mennonite Church.