Luke 10:1-24 · Jesus Sends Out the Seventy-two
Mimosa Pudica
Luke 10:1-10, 16-24
Sermon
by Robert C. Cochran
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Have you ever seen a mimosa plant? When touched, the fern-like leaves of the mimosa pudica fold inward and droop downward. This action has a domino effect: the touched leaf folds and droops, and then the next, and the next. It looks like the plant is literally shriveling up and dying right in front of you. Mimosa is a Greek word meaning to mimic. Pudica is Latin for “shy,” “bashful,” or “shrinking.” So, I guess you could say that the mimosa pudica is mimicking shyness.

The mimosa pudica is known by many names. In the U.S. and England it is also known as “Sensitive Plant,” “Humble Plant,” “Shame Plant,” “Prayer Plant,” “Tickle-Me-Plant,” and “Touch-Me-Not.” In Spanish, it is called, mori-vivi (“I died, I lived”). In Tonga, it is called mateloi (“false death”). In Hindi, it is known as chhui-mui (“that which dies upon touch”). In Burmese, it is called hti ka yoan, which means “crumbles when touched.” In Indonesia, it is putri malu (“shy princess”). In Bengali, it is known as lojjaboti (“the bashful girl”).

Two weeks ago, I spoke to you about evangelism. I told you that this is the way a Lutheran witnesses to the gospel: “I Love To Tell The Story.” In the last two weeks, have any of you made a conscious effort to do this? Did you tell a friend or a lonely, hurting, or lost stranger about Jesus or about how the good news of God’s grace has made you less afraid, or about how the church Jesus left for us has changed your life? No, I didn’t think so.

There was a young preacher who delivered his very first sermon to his new congregation, and everybody thought it was a marvelous treatment of tithing and evangelism. The next week, he gave the exact same sermon, and people thought that that was a little strange, but it was a good sermon, so they let it go. When he gave the exact same sermon for the third straight week, people were furious. A committee was put together (with churches there are always committees!) and they knocked on his parsonage door. “Why have you given us the same sermon three times?” they asked. “You haven’t done what I told you to do, yet!” was his reply.

A recent study showed that only 2% of Lutherans have ever shared their faith, so I suppose it would be a miracle if one sermon made much difference. When it comes to sharing our faith story, why are we Lutherans (and those of many other denominations, I suppose) such mimosa pudicas? Are we “Sensitive Plants,” “Humble Plants,” or “Shame Plants”; in other words, are we too sensitive, are we too humble, or are we just ashamed of the gospel?

Are we “Touch-Me-Nots,” “Shy Princesses,” or “Bashful Girls”? Are we cold, haughty, or insecure? For whatever reason, we are definitely chhui-mui, that which dies upon touch. When the opportunity comes for us to make a spiritual connection with someone, we fold inward and shrink down. The most important thing to us in these moments is not the Gospel of Jesus Christ or our mission to spread it but, rather, we care only about protecting ourselves. What if our intentions are misinterpreted or we’re asked a question we can’t answer, or people think we’re weird or obsessive, or someone yells at us or just turns his/her back and walks away?

No one knows for sure why the mimosa shrivels up at first contact. Is it worried that it will be consumed or damaged? Is it shaking off harmful bugs? It also closes up if any of its leaves feels direct heat. Because it grows like a weed and has a tendency to become fuel for grass fires, it fears heat. It also fears cold: it closes up at night and opens in the morning.

We too fear that we might be eaten up, beaten up, or pestered by those we evangelize. And when it comes to the Spirit of God, we fear being caught up in the fire as much as we fear freezing to death by its absence in our lives. Let’s face it, we’re much more comfortable speaking of our heavenly Father than we are of speaking of the crucified Son or the Holy Ghost. But we are Christians, and you can’t spell Christian without Christ, and you can’t know God without knowing the Spirit that Christ sent to be with us until he returns! We must find a way to put aside our fear and move from that which dies upon touch to mori-vivi (“I died, I lived”).

It takes the mimosa about thirty minutes to return to its original open state from an encounter with heat or touch. We could probably learn to shake off a bad evangelism encounter much quicker than that! Jesus told us how in today’s gospel lesson.

First, he assured us that the harvest was plentiful. We do not have to go out and gather seed, plant it carefully, water it, watch over it. God has planted seeds of faith everywhere, then nurtured and guarded them. They merely need to be harvested.

So, when we start to shrivel up as we face the task of sharing our faith, we need to know that the person in front of us has been carefully prepared for that moment. He/she has already experienced God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The harvester merely collects the bounty from another’s work.

You’re not telling the people you share your faith with anything they don’t already know. What you’re doing is helping them understand what they’ve already experienced in life by making a personal connection. They see how your experiences connect with theirs and thus see theirs in a whole new light: the very light of Christ.

The British writer Ben Johnson once said that William Shakespeare’s gift was that he wrote “what was often thought but never so well expressed.” Shakespeare wasn’t a genius because he was a master of original thought; his genius was that he mastered the art of expressing the thoughts we all have in a new, clearer way. We don’t read Shakespeare to understand him better; we read Shakespeare in order to understand ourselves better. He told his stories to help us better understand our stories and our lives.

We tell our faith stories to others so they will see and understand their stories more clearly and thus see how God is working in their lives. In this way, we help them move one step closer to God, one step closer to finding meaning and purpose in life.

If we run out of personal experiences to mine for God’s presence, what story do we have to tell? How about this one, from Isaiah (66:10-13)?

Rejoice with Jerusalem, and be glad for her, all you who love her; rejoice with her in joy, all you who mourn over her — that you may nurse and be satisfied from her consoling breast; that you may drink deeply with delight from her glorious bosom. For thus says the LORD: I will extend prosperity to her like a river, and the wealth of the nations like an overflowing stream; and you shall nurse and be carried on her arm, and dandled [bounced] on her knees. As a mother comforts her child, so I will comfort you; you shall be comforted in Jerusalem.

We are those who love Jerusalem because we are people of The Book. Their story is our story; our fate is tied up in theirs. God tells us in our times of Exodus and Exile, as he told the people of Israel, “Rejoice and be glad, that I may nurse you, comfort you, and bounce you on my knee like a loving mother.”

My grandfather used to bounce me on his knee as he sang, “Shook, shook, shook rice. Schultz zen zie fus. Iskenbey rita bey, iskenbey dollar bey.” Or some such thing. It used to weird me out something fierce!

I used to ask every person I met who spoke German what this meant, but nobody had any idea. I finally asked grandpa at the end of his life (he lived to be 100) what he was singing. It was all low German (Plattdeutsch) mixed with the fractured English of German farmers.

“Shook, shook, shook rice” is the sound of sleigh bells.

“Schultz zen zie fus” (some guy named Schultz is making a big fuss).

“Iskenbey rita bey, iskenbey dollar bey” (he bought a horse, and it wasn’t worth a dollar).

Our being bounced on God’s knee is nothing like my experience of being bounced on my grandfather’s knee. It is the gentle, soothing, comforting actions of a loving mother: there is no confusion or disorientation or shake-up or shake-down.

God knows that we Americans are lost and frightened and shocked by what we have been experiencing as a nation since 9/11, and God wants to comfort us and nurse us, and return us to joy and peace. We come here to this place to be comforted, to be fed, to rejoice, and to be glad. So, God is calling us away from hopelessness and despair, and, in today’s gospel, God is calling us into mission.

Jesus sent out seventy disciples to heal the sick and proclaim the nearness of the kingdom. He sent them out in twos: no one was to walk alone. We heal and proclaim in community; God works through congregated people. We are sent to gather the harvest: people are waiting for us, desperate to be brought in. The way will not be easy, and we are to rely totally on God for what we need.

If the message is rejected, we are to simply walk away, but it is essential that we deliver it. If we do this, we will watch Satan fall from heaven like a flash of lightning, we will tread on snakes and scorpions without being harmed, we will live in the kingdom now... free from fear, free from despair, free at last, free at last, great God almighty, free at last!

So, what about our fears of being eaten up, beaten up, or pestered by those we evangelize? As I promised, today’s gospel has an answer for that. “Whatever house you enter, first say, ‘Peace to this house!’ And if anyone is there who shares in peace, your peace will rest on that person; but if not, it will return to you.” No one can take away the peace you find in the Lord. Offer that peace to those to whom you witness: if they accept it, wonderful; if not, it returns to you unaltered. As you proclaim that the kingdom of God is near at hand, there’s no time to worry about what people think of you because of your proclaiming it. After all, spreading the good news is a life-and-death matter, for the listener and the teller!

CSS Publishing Co., Inc., Spirit works: Cycle C sermons for Pentecost Sunday through proper 12, by Robert C. Cochran