When the brutal Oklahoma summers
became too hot to ride bikes,
too hot
to play World Series Whiffle Ball
(Cards vs. Yankees)
and the sidewalk shimmered
with rising heat waves,
my brother and I
sometimes played a game
we called, “Spin the Globe.”
The rules were simple,
and the game—
virtually un-winnable.
We sat in front of the window fan,
spun the globe,
laid a finger on a random spot,
and the other player
had three chances to guess the city.
We could usually narrow it down
to a continent,
but the only real winners in this game
were our Geography grades
at General Douglas MacArthur Elementary.
“Spin the Globe”
led to a life-long love
of maps,
atlases,
globes,
National Geographic,
and the lure of distant lands
bearing exotic names.
And yet,
Every map,
Every atlas,
Every globe
came equipped with boundary lines;
clearly delineated edges
that marked the space between
one nation
and the next;
between one people
and another.
Perhaps there is something deep within us,
something primal and instinctive,
that is drawn to demarcation lines,
borders,
boundaries.
We are, after all,
heirs of people who constructed
deep moats,
fortified cities,
stout gates,
watch towers,
defensive walls,
stone parapets.
We are here.
Not there.
We are this people,
living in the state with the squiggly border,
not that people,
whose border is a river.
But as I got older,
I began to wonder…
Why?
Why do we love a good fence?
A solid wall?
Clear boundary markers?
Is it fear?
Ego?
Survival instinct?
Collective atavistic memories
of danger and risk?
Whatever our motives,
we seem to have a default setting
designed to keep some people
in
and other people
out.
We embrace as normative
the practice of marking territory
and nailing up physical
and virtual,
“No Trespassing” signs.
We love both the idea
and the reality of a perimeter—
a line
drawn in the sand that says,
“This far, but no farther,”
“My space, not yours.”
“These people, not those.”
Spin the Globe
and wherever you land,
there is a neatly drawn border
not too far away.
Despite the physical labor involved,
mapping boundaries
and constructing barriers
is not really a surveying task
or an engineering feat.
It is a political, military, and social act—
an act that speaks of power,
and access,
and control.
Who sets up the border crossing;
Who builds the wall;
Who holds keys to unlock the gate;
Who guards the tower and fills the moat;
Who is left standing outside?
These lines of demarcation
establish membership.
Determine value.
Weigh importance.
Amplify or silence voices.
Make people visible or invisible.
Browse any website that sells fences,
and you will wonder
how you ever survived without one.
According to marketing brochures,
a good fence
offers security and protection
marks boundaries
defines property
maintains privacy
hides unpleasant views
increases property value
creates a barrier
from invasive plants, animals, and people.
Separates you from the outside world
A good fence holds something good
in
and keeps something bad
out.
As the poet Robert Frost said,
“Good fences make good neighbors.”
And that is definitely true
when your neighbor’s hobbies include
cultivating poison ivy and breeding attack dogs.
But the problem with boundaries,
and barriers,
and moats,
and walls,
and perimeters,
lines on maps,
and our love for holding things in
and keeping things out,
comes
when we carry those fences around with us--
when we sling them over our shoulder,
pack them along with our lunch,
load them in the back of the truck,
and tuck them safely into our pocket…
just in case.
Just in case we encounter something ugly
Or different
Or run into someone
who doesn’t belong.
The trouble with circles drawn in the sand
and inner sanctums
and barriers to invasive plants and people
comes when we place our need for a safe perimeter
ahead of God’s inclusive embrace.
Go and make disciples of all nations.
Discipleship is not meant to be
a private enclave.
The job description, “Christian”
does not include erecting walls
and establishing barricades to separate
us
from
them.
It does not involve keeping guard on the border,
or viewing Jesus
through the bars of a gated community.
It does not mean that we get to select,
from a carefully curated list,
the nations and people with whom we will
share the Good News
and the ones we will ignore and avoid.
Go and Make Disciples of all Nations.
Our call to faith
is not an invitation of personal privilege
or a first-class ticket
to safety and protection.
Rather,
the command,
“Go, make disciples of all nations”
invites us to Spin the Globe,
point a finger,
and view that corner of the world
through the eyes and heart of Jesus.
The Great Commission impels us out
into a crowded and unsettling world
where outsiders reign
and expectations are overturned.
In this world, sinners and enemies
dine at the head of the table,
the lowly are lifted up,
and the powerful
need to watch their crowns.
In this world,
God invites us to see
the destruction of guard towers
and the dismantling of walls
as a religious act of hope and liberation.
When we look at a map,
we see dark lines,
carefully dividing God’s creation
into distinct and separate spaces.
Brazil is marked in yellow,
Argentina pink,
Uruguay purple.
Yet,
this is not what God sees.
We see sharp lines
where God sees opportunity.
We see boundaries
where God sees blessing.
We see travel advisories,
where God sees beloved people.
The spirit of our triune God—
the God whose very being is “relationship”
the Creator, Spirit, Embodied Word—
is not poured out upon one people,
one place,
one nation.
The God who is both Three and One
invites us to see that
we are called to imitate Him
by forming creative,
Spirit-filled,
Embodied relationships and communities,
reaching across dotted lines,
boundaries,
and borders.
We cannot accept Christ
without also accepting each other.
We cannot love God
without also loving each other.
Discipleship is not limited to an inner circle
or a corps of elite.
The Spirit of God
is not limited
to people who look and sound like us.
The spirit of God does not reside solely
in our sanctuaries,
no matter how beautiful,
or on our own communities,
no matter how comfortable.
We cannot remain seated
in our pews
or linger forever in Adoration.
At the end of mass,
we are told in no uncertain terms,
“Go. The Mass is ended.”
Over the years,
we have sometimes mistaken
the building or the institution
for the mission.
But the Church does not “have a mission”
as much as,
the Mission of Christ has a Church.
Eucharist is our rocket fuel,
launching us into that Mission.
The spirit of God
blows where it will,
unbound by our boundaries,
empowering, expanding, inviting--
giving voice to people
the world may have forgotten.
The question God asks of us is,
“Will you be there with me, too?”
Our instincts may whisper,
“Guard the gate.
“Establish a perimeter.”
“Draw the tent curtains closed.”
“Quick, erect a fence!”
But God will continue to re-draw maps,
drain our moats,
tear down our walls,
call us to a more inclusive,
more open,
and yes,
riskier vision of discipleship
that sends us out into the world
to heal, teach, baptize and embrace.
Along the way, we might just discover
that the mightiest messages
come from the unlikeliest messengers—
and that the blessings from beyond the wall
are incomparable!
Spin the Globe.
Go and make disciples of all nations.
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