Let the Dust Fall
Fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time
“Whatever place does not welcome you or listen to you,
leave there and shake the dust off your feet
in testimony against them.”
Gospel: Lk 10:1-20
There’s a line from the Psalms that’s been echoing in my heart this evening as I sat with today’s readings: “I was for peace, but they were for fighting” (Ps 120:7).
Sometimes, it really does feel that simple. You show up in good faith, with open hands and honest words, and what comes back at you is suspicion, sarcasm, even hostility and rejection.
Jesus seems to have anticipated that his disciples would face opposition. But whereas the conservative corner of Christendom often makes much of its so-called persecution as a badge of honor and a sign of righteousness, Our Lord seems to take quite a different approach in today’s Gospel.
When he sends the disciples out two by two, he gives them clear instructions, not only on what to do but how they are to be. Vulnerable. Dependent. Peaceful. They are to travel light: no staff, no sandals, no money bag. In other words, he doesn’t want them to have any means of defense, escape, or self-sufficiency. They are to rely entirely on the hospitality of others. And if that hospitality is not offered—if they peace in which they come is met with hostility or rejection—they are instructed to simply shake the dust from their feet and move along.
It’s a surprisingly quiet act. There’s no condemnation, no shouting match, no scornful goodbye. Just a soft, symbolic gesture: I came in peace. You didn’t want it. Very well. I’m moving on. I’m not taking your rejection with me.
This, I think, is a model of Gospel nonviolence. It’s not about being passive in the face of wickedness. It’s not about people-pleasing or endlessly subjecting ourselves to harm. And it’s certainly not about hating those who reject us, returning violence for violence. No, the Lord’s invitation is to live in freedom, “the freedom of the children of God” (Rom 8:21): to offer peace freely, without needing it to be accepted, and to moving on without bitterness or resentment when it’s not. In other words, to step out of the scapegoat mechanism that forms the basis of merely human religion and culture into the freedom that is the mark of the divine life in us.
It seems to me that living in the freedom of the Gospel—the choice to act without rancor, to walk away from rejection without bitterness, to move on to those who will receive us—also does not mean apathy or silence in the face of injustice. Quite the opposite. The Kingdom we proclaim is one of justice and mercy, healing and liberation. And so when we witness harm—when migrants are stripped from their homes, when the sick are cut off from care, when the vulnerable are targeted by policies cloaked in “greatness”—we are called to speak out, stand up, and bear witness. But we do so in the Spirit of Christ: without violence, without hatred, without letting the dust of others’ cruelty cling to our hearts. After all, we are called not to win culture wars, but to build the Kingdom of peace, one act of love at a time.
I don’t know about you, but I needed the reminder today.
In recent weeks, I’ve faced my own share of rejection—some subtle, some more explicit—as I’ve tried to speak and live with greater integrity about who I am. Some people have responded with curiosity, affection and support. Others, not so much. I’ve been surprised by the reactions of some whom I didn’t consider particularly close friends who have come to stand alongside me, and others I considered my closest allies who have all but abandoned me.
Rejection hurts. But today’s Gospel reminds me that rejection doesn’t necessarily mean failure. It just means that wasn’t the place.
Not everyone will welcome us. Not everyone will welcome the Lord. Even in his own hometown, remember, Jesus was met with skepticism and resistance: “He was amazed at their lack of faith” (Mk 6:6).
So what are we to do?
We keep going. We keep offering peace. We stay open. And when peace is not returned in kind, we don’t fight. We let our peace return to us. We don’t carry the dust of their rejection in our sandals. We shake it off and move on for greener pastures.
And maybe most importantly? We rejoice. As we move from one place to the next, like the disciples returning from their mission, we hold fast to the good that did happen there. The people who did receive us. The healing that did occur. The grace that did break through to hardened hearts—including our own.
I’m not suggesting we live in a kind of pollyannish state of denial or false optimism. It’s about living in the freedom that Jesus offers us: the freedom to receive the good and leave the bad behind. We move on, not out of spite, but out of love: love for God, love for the truth, love for our dignity, and love for the people and places still waiting to receive the peace of his Kingdom.
It struck me that when Jesus says it will be more tolerable for Sodom on the day of judgment than for those who reject his disciples, he’s reframing an old, old story. The sin of Sodom, in this context, is not what we so often think. It is inhospitality: the refusal to receive the messengers of God in peace. The people of Sodom met them with violence. That is what draws God’s judgment. And that makes his instruction all the more radical.
Even in the face of such rejection, he says, do not retaliate. Just walk away. Let that dust fall. Let your peace return. And go on your way, bearing the Gospel still to those who have ears to hear it.
Reflection Questions:
Where in your life are you being invited to offer peace, even though it may not be returned?
What dust are you still carrying that might be holding you back from living in freedom?
How might your voice, your presence, or your choices become a sign of the Kingdom of peace in a world marked by tremendous injustice?