“He left that place and came to his hometown, and his disciples followed him.”

The tendency for the reader, especially when familiar with today’s story from Mark’s Gospel, is to focus on Jesus in this scene—To watch him enter the synagogue, sit down, and begin to teach. To see his face fall as his hearers express first wonder, then skepticism, and finally offense at his words. To hear the disappointment in his voice as he quotes a common aphorism about prophets being without honor in their hometown. To see him try, without success, to accomplish the deeds of power for which he had become known throughout the country. Perhaps our heart goes out to him as we ponder our own moments of embarrassment or rejection, especially in front of a hometown crowd.

We always look at Jesus in this story. But what about his disciples? They accompanied him to Nazareth, but have slipped into the background. We haven’t given them a second thought.

This passage is actually comprised of two parts; the end of one story and the beginning of another. Jesus and his companions come to Nazareth on the heels of a whirlwind of amazing episodes—the casting out of a Legion of demons in the country of the Gerasenes; the healings of Jairus’ daughter and of the hemorrhaging woman; the calming of the storm on the Sea of Galilee. The disciples had been eyewitnesses to Jesus’ messiahship, even though they sometimes had a hard time comprehending it. But they were dedicated. They followed him from place to place, amazement to amazement, filled with the hope that he embodied.

And now, this. The world that they thought they were building, the Dream that they had hoped was unfolding, the Kingdom that they thought was inbreaking, was now riddled with doubt, uncertainty, and disappointment because of this skeptical and scandalized crowd. Did they feel disillusionment as well? Even fear? They had dropped everything to follow Jesus, knowing that they risked repercussions from both religious and imperial authorities—but now apparently to face rejection from Jesus’ own family and friends as well?

What was it like to be a follower of Jesus when things seemed to be falling apart?

The writer of Mark’s Gospel knew what it was like. He and his readers knew the fear and anxiety of being part of the fledgling Way of Jesus during years of persecution and interreligious conflict. So, he told not only the disturbing end of a series of miraculous stories, but followed it with the beginning of a new story.

Then he went about among the villages teaching. He called the twelve and began to send them out two by two.

About-face. Get to work. Too much is at stake in the present moment to dwell in the past.

Travel light, Jesus tells them. Don’t give up. And remember, you’re not alone.

The disciples are sent on short journeys; they would be in fairly well-populated areas, relying on the hospitality of others, so they don’t need an extra tunic, money or provisions. And if they were not welcome, they were instructed to move on and leave the rest to God.

Because the Good News isn’t coercive.

Their work is to preach the Good News, using words if necessary. Jesus has empowered them to serve the people they encounter; to heal the sick and to confront demons,

and to call/challenge/invite everyone to turn their lives around—to live lives of compassion, justice and care for the marginalized; to become part of the inbreaking of the Kingdom.

The disciples learned that realizing the Dream of God meant doing the good work they were called to do; persuading the persuadable where they could and not dwelling on what they couldn’t control. Traveling light includes holding things lightly, brushing the dust off when necessary.

They learned what it was like to pray with their feet.

It is no different now.

What is it like to be a follower of Jesus in these stomach-churning days?

I don’t need to tell you what you can easily read in the newspaper. Perhaps I don’t need to tell you the spectrum of feelings that have been expressed to me in the past couple of months, because you may be feeling them yourself; sadness, fear, anxiety, anger. No one has come to my office saying that they were feeling calm and sanguine about the state of affairs in our country which, on the 4^th of July just past, is two years shy of 250, and which Benjamin Franklin in 1787 was reported to have described as, “…a republic, if you can keep it.” No, “calm” is not the word of the moment.

Part of what complicates matters is that we can’t avoid the tension between religion and politics. In our weekly book group this summer we have struggled with the question of how to reconcile condemnation of white Christian nationalism with encouragement of what author Jim Wallis calls civic discipleship. It may feel uncomfortable, but the process of interrogating this tension is healthy because it causes us to take a hard look at how people of faith—and even of no faith, but of morals and ethics—see religion, politics, and scripture in a civic context.

It is possible to believe in the separation of church and state and still be a person of faith and morals. The First Amendment, through the Establishment and Free Exercise clauses, protects us (at least for the moment) from the imposition a single national religion while at the same time allowing all forms of religious expression. So then how do we reconcile our identities as both citizens and Christians? It is helpful to look at the definitions of politics and religion in a faith context.

Politics is roughly defined as the (messy) process of negotiating power relationships in the practice of governing. A moral/faith-based corollary to this would be to add that the practice of governing be for the common good. It’s not just about power; it’s about responsibility.

The dictionary definition of religion is “a particular system of faith and worship.” A civic/moral corollary to this would note that religion is a particular system of faith, worship, and practice. It’s not just about your internal spiritual life in a church/worship context; it’s about how you embody your faith among your fellow citizens and siblings in God.

Civic discipleship brings these definitions of politics and religion together in a scriptural context, using a hermeneutic, or lens, of mercy, justice, and love. For example: Luke–the Parable of the Good Samaritan; Genesis—ALL are made in the image and likeness of God; John—you will know the TRUTH, and the truth will make you free; Matthew–As you have done to the most marginalized of these, you have done also to me; Matthew again—blessed are the peacemakers; Galatians—There is no longer Jew nor Gentile…slave or free…male nor female, for all of you are one in Christ.

All of these passages point us to connection, not alienation; generosity, not greed; trust, not fear; vocation, not coercion. Civic discipleship declares that we are interdependent–bound together in our humanity–to paraphrase a James Taylor song—bound together by ties of hope and love:

“…bound together in our desire to see the world become a place in which our children can grow free and strong. We are bound together by the task that stands before us and the road that lies ahead.”

What is the task that lies before us, on the pothole-filled road that lies ahead, as followers of Jesus who teeter on the precipice of despair?

About face. Don’t dwell on what you can’t control–too much is at stake not to be present to this moment. Proclaim the Good News in word and action. Speak the truth in love; persuade the persuadable and be of good courage in facing the demons of this age. Try to travel lightly in your mind, knowing that worry is a waste of imagination. And know that, as the disciples were sent out two by two, you are not in this alone.

This is what it is to pray with your feet.

Bishop Deon Johnson of the Diocese of Missouri offers these words for the journey:

Holy God…take my hand, guide my feet, move my heart, calm my fears, adjust my sight, and lead me on. Amen.