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.