Sermon: Luke 10 | Third after Trinity

Preacher:

Bob Cooper

Date:

Sunday 6th July 2025

Venue:

Guildford Cathedral

Service:

Cathedral Eucharist

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I have always worked on the maxim that if I am never in fashion, then I cannot be out of fashion and consequently have seldom succumbed to the zeitgeist of passing fads. And so, forty years after the its publication, and six series into the TV adaptation, I have recently read Margaret Atwood's prescient novel "The Handmaid's Tale" which paints a chilling portrait of a society where religious language was weaponized to justify oppression, where division was sown to consolidate power, and where fear replaced hope as the dominant force shaping human relationships.

In the novel, the totalitarian Republic of Gilead has replaced the United States following environmental disasters and declining birth rates. Women are categorized by function: Wives, Marthas, and Handmaids, who are forced to bear children for the ruling class. The protagonist, Offred, serves as a Handmaid in the Commander's household, enduring ritualized rape and surveillance while mourning her lost family and freedom. Through flashbacks, Atwood reveals how quickly democratic society collapsed into theocratic oppression.

Whilst it's important that we don't overstate parallels, there are troubling echoes in our current political climate. We see the manipulation of faith for political gain, the demonization of those perceived to be "different to us," and the erosion of institutions that once fostered dialogue across difference.

Yet into this context, Jesus speaks: "Go! I am sending you out like lambs among wolves."

Notice that Jesus doesn't say, "Stay safe in your comfortable circles." He doesn't say, "Build walls to protect yourselves." Instead, He sends His followers out—deliberately, purposefully, vulnerably.

The Greek word Jesus uses here, apostello, means to send forth with a specific mission. This isn't wandering; this is intentional engagement with the world as it is, not as we wish it was.

The image of lambs among wolves is particularly striking. Lambs don't survive among wolves through force or cunning. They survive through a different kind of power entirely—the power of innocence, authenticity, and trust in the Shepherd who sends them.

In our polarized world, this feels almost naive. We're told we must fight fire with fire, that political engagement requires us to adopt the tactics of our opponents, that survival demands we become wolves ourselves.

But Jesus offers a radically different way. He sends us out not to dominate or defeat, but to bring peace. "When you enter a house, first say, 'Peace to this house.'" Peace—shalom—wholeness, restoration, the mending of what has been broken. This is our primary calling, not victory in cultural wars, but the cultivation of peace in a fractured world.

In Atwood's dystopia, characters are weighed down by the symbols and trappings of their assigned roles, unable to see one another as fully human. Similarly, in our political moment, we often approach one another laden with assumptions, labels, and predetermined judgments that make genuine relationship impossible.

What would it mean for us to travel light in our engagement with those who disagree with us? What if we laid down our need to be right, our arsenal of talking points, our protective cynicism? What if we approached political difference the way Jesus' disciples were to approach strangers' homes—with an offering of peace rather than a demand for agreement?

This doesn't mean abandoning our convictions or principles. The disciples carried the kingdom of God with them—they healed the sick, cast out demons, proclaimed good news. But they did so unencumbered by the weight of self-protection and self-promotion that so often characterizes our current public discourse.

"Stay there, eating and drinking whatever they give you," Jesus instructs. Don't move from house to house looking for better accommodations. Accept what is offered with gratitude. This is profoundly countercultural in our consumer-driven, choice-maximizing society.

But Jesus calls His followers to a posture of receptivity rather than demanding. In our political engagement, what would this look like? Perhaps it means truly listening to those whose experiences differ from ours rather than immediately formulating our rebuttal. Perhaps it means accepting that our political opponents might have something to teach us, even if we disagree with their conclusions.

In "The Handmaid's Tale," the totalitarian regime maintains power partly by preventing authentic human connection. Characters are isolated, categorized, and forbidden from the kind of vulnerable sharing that builds understanding. When they do connect authentically—as Offred does in her secret relationships—it becomes an act of resistance against dehumanization.

Similarly, in our polarized political climate, the simple act of accepting what others offer us in conversation—their stories, their fears, their hopes—becomes a form of spiritual resistance against the forces that would reduce complex human beings to political caricatures.

Jesus tells the disciples, "Whoever listens to you listens me; whoever rejects you rejects me." This is both encouraging and sobering. Our political witness carries weight not because of our cleverness or our ability to win arguments, but because we represent something larger than ourselves.

This authority isn't about power over others—it's about power for others. The disciples return rejoicing that "even the demons submit to us in your name." But Jesus redirects their attention: "Do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven."

In our current political moment, this distinction is crucial. Success in God's kingdom isn't measured by electoral victories or cultural dominance, but by faithfulness to the way of Jesus. Sometimes that faithfulness will put us at odds with both sides of our polarized politics.

Notice what the disciples don't do. They don't stay to argue, manipulate, or coerce. They don't launch campaigns to destroy those who reject them. They simply move on, shaking off even the dust that might connect them to the place of rejection.

This is perhaps one of the most challenging aspects of Jesus' instruction for our current moment. Our political culture rewards those who nurse grievances, who weaponize rejection, who turn every slight into a rallying cry for further division. But Jesus calls His followers to something different—to the freedom that comes from releasing what cannot be controlled and trusting God with the outcomes.

Throughout this passage, Jesus emphasizes that the kingdom of God has come near. This isn't a distant hope or a purely spiritual reality—it's breaking into the present moment through the witness of ordinary people sent out in extraordinary love.

The kingdom of God is characterized by healing rather than harm, by peace rather than violence, by inclusion rather than exclusion. When we embody these values in our political engagement, we offer our neighbours a glimpse of what God intends for human community.

This doesn't mean we withdraw from political engagement or pretend that policy doesn't matter. But it does mean we engage differently—as those who know that our ultimate security rests not in political outcomes but in the love of God.

As we navigate these challenging times, may we remember where our true joy lies. Not in the submission of our political opponents, but in the fact that our names are written in heaven. Not in cultural victories, but in faithfulness to the way of Jesus.

We are sent out as lambs among wolves, carrying peace into places of conflict, healing into places of brokenness, hope into places of despair. This is our calling, whether the political winds blow favourable or harsh.

Today, thanks be to God, who sends us out not in our own strength, but in the power of divine love. May we go forth as faithful witnesses to the kingdom that is coming, confident that in Christ, that kingdom has already begun. Amen.