There you are. You’ve been sitting in the restaurant for 30 minutes, waiting for a friend to show up for your lunch appointment. You’ve checked your calendar twice to make sure it’s the right time and the right place. You’re disappointed but you’re irritated at the 30 minutes you’ve waited. And you also know that your friend will rush in the door, eager to tell the story of the delay, just as soon as you’ve driven away.
Or perhaps you’ve lived in a difficult relationship for more years than you care to count. Few of the years have been good—not really what you had wished and hoped and prayed for. It hasn’t been a partnership that nourishes and strengthens, but you’ve invested all these years of your life. How can you leave now? Perhaps things will begin to change—next week or next month or next year.
Or perhaps you’ve been watching the price of that stock dropping dollar by dollar, day by day. Each day you look at the latest quote and wonder if you should sell. But you’ve already lost so much money. How can you afford to sell now? Surely the market will turn any time now and you’ll be able to make up the loss.
Or perhaps it’s like the gorgeous burgundy crepe de chine dress that’s been hanging in the back of my closet for more years than I care to think about. You may have something just like it. It was expensive. And I’ve never worn it. I’ve never worn it and in my heart of hearts, I know I never will wear it, but it cost so much that I just can’t bear taking it to the Goodwill. And who knows, maybe the day will come when it’s just right. So there it stays, taking up closet space—filling me with guilt every time I glance in that direction.
What do these stories have in common? An accountant might say that they’re all examples of failure to recognize sunk cost. Sunk cost: An accounting term describing an irretrievable, unredeemable cost. A cost that has already been incurred. Or a cost that has yet to be incurred but will be the same under all available alternatives. A cost over which we no longer have any control. Sunk cost is the accounting term but baggage more clearly describes the impact on our lives.
No matter how much additional resource—time, caring, energy or guilt—we throw at this baggage, we cannot begin to hope to change the outcome of that initial choice. The time spent waiting for a friend who may or may not show up is gone forever and further waiting will not make it a worthwhile use of time. The time and love spent in a relationship that has never measured up to hope or promise is long since used up and cannot be brought back to life. The money which bought the now-devalued stock has been spent and that decision cannot be made again. And my dress— or any of the things we cling to past all reason—will never be anything more than they were that day in the store. Baggage is the end of each of these stories, but each of these stories begins in hopefulness—in the hope of something good coming into being. At some point in each of these stories, the awareness of loss begins to grow until it can no longer be ignored. It can no longer be ignored, and a decision—a real decision—must be made. A decision to continue to cling to the loss or to acknowledge what has been lost and move on into life.
Today’s gospel portion marks a new phase of Jesus’ ministry. Instead of leading his disciples, he is sending them out before him, sending them out to prepare the world to hear the Good News he brings. He is sending seventy people out two by two to do the work God has given them to do. Seventy people, each with his or her own hopes and fears, uncertainties and expectations. Some of them must have been absolutely aquiver with the notion that people would hear the good news just as they had heard it and embrace it just as eagerly. Some of them must have been terrified at this change in their lives, at walking out into the world with only the clothes on their backs. Some may have been filled with zeal to change the world. But all these people, with their various backgrounds, were stepping out in courage to do God’s work.
And as Jesus sends them out, he teaches them what he has already learned. He teaches them about their God-given authority to tell the Good News. He teaches them to focus on the task at hand, not to be distracted by the things around them, even their own fears or discomfort. He teaches them to go without the baggage of their lifetimes, to go without the things that would weigh them down as they begin this new venture. And he teaches them the hardest lesson of all for people embarking on a journey based in faith, trust and righteousness. He teaches them when to walk away. He gives very specific directions about recognizing the moment when hope becomes baggage.
“Whenever you enter a town and they do not welcome you, go out into its streets and say, “Even the dust of your town that clings to our feet, we wipe off in protest against you. Yet know this, the kingdom of God has come near.”
Notice, the message is the same as that given to those who welcome the seventy: “Know this, the kingdom of God has come near.”
The work the seventy are given to do—teaching, preaching and healing—doesn’t change. The difference lies in knowing the time and the place to deliver the message. The key lies in knowing when to stay the course, and when to turn our backs, when to put down the baggage of lost hope, when to shake the dust from our feet.
As we continue our journey as individuals and as a community of faith, we need to pay close attention to the things we carry with us. We need to examine closely our beliefs about ourselves, our history and our future. We need to look carefully at our losses even as we articulate our hopes. Clinging to the hope of redeeming our losses is heavy baggage. It robs us of energy, keeping us captive in fear of further loss—keeping us captive in the baggage of fear that masquerades as hope.