June 29: The Third Sunday after Pentecost

He couldn’t look the other way. Born in 1828, Henri Dunant grew up in a deeply religious family. His parents were known to help the poor and sick in their city, and they brought up their son to do likewise. When he was 24 Dunant started a local chapter of the YMCA in his hometown of Geneva. From a young age, with the example of his parents, he took to caring for others. At the age of 26, Dunant moved on from working for the YMCA and tried his hand in business. Though his day job had changed, his convictions remained the same.

A few years later, Dunant was working on a deal that required him to get some water rights for a piece of land. The major snag was that he needed to get these rights directly approved by the Emperor, Napoleon III, who was deeply involved in a war in northern Italy. But Dunant needed to talk with him. This was a huge business deal, and he needed to get it going. So he traveled to the emperor, who was still on the front lines. And what the 31-year-old saw there changed his life. There, in Solferino, Dunant saw the aftermath of one of the biggest battles of the 19th century.

Forty thousand soldiers from both sides were left on the battlefield, wounded and in need of care. But when he looked around, no one seemed to be caring for them. And he couldn’t look the other way. So he went into town and rallied the local population to come help him on the battlefield. He convinced them that all the wounded needed care, no matter what side they were on, reminding them with the phrase, “All are brothers.”

Today’s Gospel reading comes at a pivotal point in Jesus’ life and ministry. He’s called and sent out the twelve. He’s been travelling around, teaching them a new way of seeing the world, preaching the kingdom of God and healing the sick. He’s fed the five thousand and his glory is revealed upon the mountain alongside Elijah and Moses. His ministry is in full swing, and things are going great. By all metrics, he was succeeding and could have had a long tenure in Galilee preaching, teaching, and healing.

But in today’s reading, he turns to his ultimate focus: “When the days drew near for him to be taken up,” Luke writes, “he set his face to go to Jerusalem.” “…He set his face to go to Jerusalem.” No doubt Jesus knew what was waiting for him in Jerusalem. He knew how he’d be received — the pain, the sorrow, and death that were sure to come. But his mind was made up. He was heading to Jerusalem. There was only one way forward. He knew that through his work there, this world would be flipped upside down, and life, and love would conquer the powers of sin and darkness that so kept this world in chains. He had to go to Jerusalem.

This phrase, “he set his face to go to Jerusalem,” communicates more than just that he had a new travel destination. It was his goal, his end, but it’s also the means for Jesus and those who wished to follow him. It is to choose love in the midst of fear. To choose the kingdom of God above all other kingdoms. To choose and follow the way of life that actually leads to healing and peace.

After Luke writes that Jesus has set his face, we immediately find others who are wavering to do likewise. First, James and John, seeing the Samaritans refuse to accept Jesus, ask Jesus if he wants them to command fire to come down from heaven and consume the Samaritans. While such an ask does have Biblical precedent, Jesus rebukes their desire for vengeance, even telling them a few verses later the lesson of the Good Samaritan.

Then we find others who say they’d like to follow Jesus, but first they must take care of some things at home. And Jesus, rather bluntly, tells them, if you want to follow me, you must set your face to where mine is looking now, without delay.

I don’t particularly like this response from Jesus. I want some compassion from him: “Of course, say your goodbyes. Pack a nice bag. Enjoy a last meal with the family before setting off.” I want him to allow a final send-off like Bilbo Baggins before I head out on our great adventure. But for Jesus, there’s no time to lose.

When I started the ordination process, one of the canons of the diocese sat me down in his office. I didn’t know what he wanted to talk to me about, but I knew he wasn’t messing around. And he looked at me with eyes I’ll never forget as he said, “If you do not pray, you will die.” …“If you do not pray, you will die. You will have no ministry. You will dry out.” A bit dramatic, but it stuck.

After receiving this advice/warning, I was called into Bishop Curry’s office where he, with a bit more nuance, reminded me of the need for prayer. “I pray every morning,” he told me. “I do morning prayer every day whether or not I want to, and whether or not I feel anything while I’m doing it. I do the prayers no matter what, as I think the grace of God works through the prayer whether or not I’m conscious of it.”

The canon and bishop were telling me to set my face toward Jerusalem because there is no other way forward.

“Every day I want to speak with you,” Marie Howe writes in her poem called “Prayer.”

“Every day I want to speak with you. And every day something more important calls for my attention- the drugstore, the beauty products, the luggage I need to buy for the trip…”

Her poem beautifully captures how our attentions are so stretched. We have dishes to wash. Kids, parents, ourselves to take care of. Phones beeping and buzzing, pulling us away from our present. We have deadlines and carpools. We have fears and anxieties. We have wounds that need bandages. And it’s so difficult to find the space and time and patience to sit with any of these. “Even as I write these words,” Howe’s poem ends, “Even as I write these words I am planning to rise from the chair as soon as I finish this sentence.”

After coming back home to Geneva, Henri Dunant set his mind to organizing a neutral body that would care for all who needed it. And in a short time, Dunant had created the Red Cross.1 But he went bankrupt, as his business soon dried up. He was kicked out of Genevan high society and lived in severe poverty the rest of his life. But he couldn’t look the other way. His face was set towards Jerusalem. And decades later, after his story and work had been rediscovered, he was awarded the first ever Nobel Peace Prize.

We aren’t all called to start the Red Cross. But we can ask ourselves how we are to set our faces towards Jerusalem. How is Jesus calling us to follow in the way that leads to true life, true fullness, true peace? What might we need to say goodbye to? What might we need to let go of? Do we need to stop spending our time calling down fire from the heavens? Do we need a little fire lit under us to get us going? Or do we need to finally ask for that hand to help hold us along the way? Do we need to face that fear we’ve been denying, exposing it to the light of Jesus’ grace? Do we need to just pray, no matter what words might come or not come out?

“When the days drew near for Jesus to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem.” May God give us the grace, the courage, the strength to do likewise.

Amen.

The Rev. Daniel J. Reeves

1 https://www.nobelprize.org/prizes/peace/1901/dunant/biographical/