Some context may be helpful. The Book of Ruth is
set during the time of the Judges when, we are told,
“there was no king in Israel; all the people did what
was right in their own eyes.” That is, there was little
sense of shared responsibility or concern for the
common good. It was a “get what you can, fend for
yourself, tighten the circle, ignore the needs of others,
especially outsiders,” kind of time.
There is a famine in the land of Judah. Naomi and
her husband Elimilech go in search of food to sustain
their lives and the lives of their growing sons. They
do, in other words, what many have done across the
centuries. What many do in our own time. They flee a
familiar land of scarcity in search of security, in search
of a future. They cross the River Jordan and arrive in
Moab as refugees. There they find sustenance, and
their sons find wives from Moab—Ruth and Orpah.
Still, life is not easy for outsiders. Elimilech and his
sons die far from home.
Naomi is left. Naomi is the picture of vulnerability in
the ancient world. A widow living in a foreign and
often hostile land. No sons to take her in. No pathway
to provision. No family in the land. She pursues the
one plan that stands a chance. She will go home,
back to Bethlehem. There she will pray that her
extended family will welcome her. Before she goes,
Naomi gathers and blesses her daughters-in-law, now
widows themselves, and instructs them to return to
their families, to return to their mothers. After all, they
are young. They will have another chance at marriage
and family. Hesitantly at first, Orpah does as told,
returning to her family in Moab. We cannot blame her.
It is prudent and judicious. Wise and careful. Forward
thinking. No one could blame Orpah for her decision.
And then there is Ruth. We are not told what animates
her defiant response, but I think we know. What we
are told is this: Ruth simply will not leave Naomi to
return to Judah alone. They are going together.
Their prospects are bleak. We are not told in this
story, but Scripture is filled with directives about the
kinds of boundaries that Ruth and Naomi have now
crossed. Command after command not to marry
foreigners. To keep separate. To maintain ritual purity.
To remove yourselves from “them.”
Well, in Judah, Ruth is “them.” A poor, widowed,
Moabite woman living in Bethlehem at the time of
the Judges, when self-preservation was the law of the
land, and caring for the stranger held no value at all.
And here is what should astound us about this
moment: Ruth, fully aware of the risk, chooses to put
herself in danger. She will travel with her mother-inlaw to a foreign country. And there she will be the
refugee. She will not speak the language. She will
not know the culture or the religion. And, yes, she will
hear the whispers. Not from around here. Doesn’t look
like us. Moabite woman. Have you heard that accent?
I think she’s just here for a handout. You see, Ruth’s
decision makes no logical sense. There is only this:
Ruth loves Naomi. That love, forged in shared grief, is
more than friendship. They are family now, and Ruth
will not let Naomi journey alone. She makes a lifealtering sacrifice.
Where you go, I will go. And then, the most audacious
statement of all: your people will be my people. It is
a pledge, a promise of fidelity, a radical commitment
that redefines family. It’s one of those beautiful
moments that we love to lift up and remember in a
sentimental way. We add it to the list of scripture’s
greatest hits as a memorable passage of scripture.
But be careful. Don’t bypass the raw courage that
Ruth’s love requires. Yes, these two women may
be united by an unbreakable bond, but they face
impossible circumstances.
We’re hearing this story in church on a Sunday
morning, and so I must come clean and confess a
curiosity about the Book of Ruth. The voice of God
is not heard in this story. God never appears as a
character in the narrative. Ruth and Naomi have
fallen on unexpected hard times, but unlike Job’s
memorable conundrum, there is no indication that
God played a role in their circumstance. Back in the
Book of Genesis, Abraham and Sarah leave their land
and move to a faraway place, but they go because
God instructs them to go. Not so in the Book of Ruth.
These women receive no clear divine instructions. No
series of miracles and plagues. No sign in the clouds.
No voice from a burning bush. No manna falling from
the sky. No failsafe guarantee of divine presence with
Ruth and Naomi. The leap they take comes without
the promise of sacred safety net.
Which is precisely why this passage deserves a
place on our greatest hits. The story of Ruth and
Naomi looks like our stories. As much as we may
love the Biblical narratives of unmistakable divine
intervention, for most of us, those stories read more
like legend than blueprint. We are far more familiar
with the hidden God, the behind-the-scenes God, the
quiet God whose gentle prodding may be confused
with coincidence.
And so, this morning, if you want to know where
God is in the story of Ruth and Naomi, you need
to consider the words and actions of two strong
women who simply do what must be done to care
for the ones they love. These women—familiar
with the persistent pain of grief and the bitter sting
of exclusion—have the gift of courage. When the
harshness of life is too much to bear, they find a
strength that they cannot manufacture on their own—
only receive. And it is in that strength that we find
God in this story.
I’ve been thinking about those moments when God
chooses anonymity, those moments when God acts
and speaks through the words and deeds of ordinary
people with extraordinary courage. I’ve been thinking
about those times when you and I are called to
speak words of truth, even in shaking voice, and then
discover that we are strong enough, we are brave
enough, we are faithful enough to follow where those
words lead us.
Your people will be my people. A pledge. A promise. A
radical redefinition of family.
Speaking of family, and of the presence of God in
this story, I do want to fast forward a bit. Spoiler
alert. Despite all those clear commands in the Book
of Deuteronomy against marrying a foreigner, Ruth
the Moabite woman plays a leading role in the story
of God’s people. If you read ahead, you will find her
name in the genealogy of Israel’s greatest king. David
was her great grandson. Ten generations later, in the
Gospel of Matthew, we find Ruth’s name again in a
genealogy, this time in the trunk of the family tree of
Jesus of Nazareth.
Your people will be my people.
You see, from beginning to end, this is the story of
scripture. This God who keeps tearing down the
dividing walls that we insist on building. This God
who insists that we welcome the stranger, invite the
outsider in, care for the neighbor whose life feels so
distant from our own. This God who keeps putting
us in direct contact with people who challenge our
assumptions about who belongs and who does not.
This God who even places them deep in our family
tree, reminding us that the strangers we are prone to
dismiss, ignore, or fear are our people.
Your people will be my people. If we believe those
words, we begin to see the face of God in every
human face.
In the face of every child whose life has been cut down
by gun violence, and every parent whose weeping
knows no end—your people will be my people.
In the face of every young person struggling for
acceptance because of who they are or might
become—your people will be my people.
In the face of every refugee longing for homes to
which they cannot return, and all who face the utter
cruelty of rejection—your people will be my people.
In the face of all who live in communities torn apart by
crime and violence, and all those who seek to restore
and maintain peace—your people will be my people.
In the face of leaders called to put power to proper
use in ethical ways—your people will be my people.
In the face of those set adrift by jobs that have left
town and a world that seems to be slipping away—
your people will be my people.
In the face of friends who search in vain for meaning,
and all who consider ending a life that seems to no
longer hold purpose—your people will be my people.
In the face of every suffering child of God, no matter the
cause of that suffering—your people will be my people.
It is a pledge and a promise—the kind of words we
speak and then must live into. It is also a gospel
truth: God has created us to be one human family.
Oliver, Edmund, Lola. Your people are my people
because we are all God’s people. Friends, whenever
we ignore this foundational truth, we capitulate to a
self-righteous narrowmindedness that excludes the
very ones God calls us to embrace. Listen to this:
Anyone you are tempted to dismiss is the very one
God invites you to welcome.
So let us be brave enough to turn to the neighbor
we struggle to love, the stranger whose presence
unsettles us, the person whose perspective we
cannot understand, the friend from whom we’ve
grown distant, the human being who, by providence
disguised as happenstance, is standing right in front
of us, and to them speak this pledge, this promise,
this truth.
I belong to you, and you belong to me. We all, all, all
belong to God. Amen.