I’ve often paused when reflecting on Jesus’ enigmatic words in Matthew’s Gospel: “While he was still speaking to the crowds, his mother and his brothers were standing outside, wanting to speak to him. Someone told him, ‘Look, your mother and your brothers are standing outside, wanting to speak to you.’ But to the one who had told him this, Jesus replied, ‘Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?’ And pointing to his disciples, he said, ‘Here are my mother and my brothers! For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.’”
You know the story.
Jesus is told his family is outside waiting for him. Yet, true to form, Jesus turns expectations upside down. Rather than moving immediately toward those bound to him by blood, he asks a startling question: “Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?”
Brian Henderson
Then, gesturing toward those gathered around him, he expands the circle: “Here are my mother and my brothers.”
At its simplest level, Jesus seems to be stretching the corners of our proverbial blanket. He is enlarging our understanding of family. He reminds us our lives are connected in ways deeper than biology, tribe or affinity. We belong to one another.
I think I experienced something of that one night last week.
I was in Birmingham, Ala., visiting the three congregations affiliated with the Association of Welcoming and Affirming Baptists that call the Magic City home. Under a warm, humid Southern evening and beneath a sky illuminated more by city lights than stars, we marched in Birmingham’s annual Pride parade.
As the parade reached the heart of downtown, thousands of people lined the route. I rode in the back of a pickup truck holding a sign that read, in bright and creative lettering, “Y’all Means All.”
We waved. We smiled. We called out, “Happy Pride!” And as we moved slowly through the crowd, I became captivated by the faces around us.
“What captured me most were the stories hidden behind those faces.”
There were people of every hue and shape and ability. Older adults and young children. People using wheelchairs and people wearing platform shoes. People in drag. People overdressed and people decidedly underdressed. People who likely would return home to modest apartments, others to gated communities, and still others who may have had cardboard sleeping mats tucked away in nearby alleys. Most seemed genuinely delighted simply to be there — to celebrate Pride, to celebrate community, to celebrate the freedom to fly our respective freak flags.
But what captured me most were the stories hidden behind those faces. In that crowd of thousands were thousands more stories waiting to be told. Stories of triumph and resilience. Stories of heartbreak and struggle. Stories of people who fought long and hard simply to become who they are. Stories of people still trying. Stories of individuals who, like all of us, want to be seen, known and affirmed as the human beings they always have been.
Of course, I know who my family is. I suspect Jesus knew who his family was, too.
His words never were intended to diminish those closest to him. Rather, they were an invitation to recognize a larger family — to see beyond the familiar boundaries that so often define our loyalties and our imaginations. A recent beautiful night reminded me of that larger human family of which I am a part and of which all of us are a part.
And oh, there were protesters along the parade route as well. With signs and amplified voices, they sought to tell others who they were not supposed to be unless they believed precisely as they believed. Their presence was a reminder that even now, acceptance and belonging remain contested realities for many. Yet strangely, they became part of the lesson too.
As we continue through Pride month, my evening in Birmingham leaves me wanting to live and love as graciously as I am able. It reminds me to maintain a reservoir of empathy, even for those who cannot yet see what they do not know. It challenges me to resist reducing people to caricatures, categories or disagreements.
Because this human family of ours is a beautiful, motley tapestry of love, complexity, contradiction and grace. And if we allow ourselves to lean into that reality, we may discover those we are most tempted to judge are, in fact, family members we simply have not yet learned how to recognize.
Perhaps that is what Jesus was trying to teach all along: Y’all means all.
Brian Henderson serves as executive director of Association of Welcoming and Affirming Baptists.