Ministry of Proximity
A MEDITATION ON LUKE 6:17-26
It’s hard to remember what life was like before March 11, 2020.
I remember sitting in a room downstairs at the government building as city leaders explained what a pandemic would mean for churches. We listened, nodding, trying to wrap our minds around the idea of a “shelter in place” order. None of us imagined just how much those words would reshape our lives.
Churches scrambled. We figured out how to stream services, how to connect with people who couldn’t leave their homes. And for churches, one of the big questions was: What do we do about communion?
At first, it didn’t seem like a big deal. The lockdown would last a few weeks—then Easter would come, and we’d be back together. But weeks turned into months, and suddenly, the very heart of our worship—gathering, hearing God’s Word, sharing a meal, being sent out—was happening through screens.
I’m grateful for the technology that kept us connected. But I don’t think anyone would argue that we can fully replicate what happens in a physical church gathering space online. Worship is more than watching a sermon—though I’ll admit, it is easier when you can pause for a snack if the pastor drones on. But communion—the sacrament of presence—felt different. Harder.
I missed it. I missed watching people from all walks of life travel up the center aisle. I missed looking them in the eye, placing bread in their hands, and reminding them of who they are and who God is. Some things just aren’t the same from a distance.
In some ways, worship was easier in those days. I led services from a table in my office downtown. No distractions. No chaos. No one falling asleep in the back pew. And this introvert? Far less exhausted every Sunday. But it wasn’t the same. And I never want to go back—because ministry will never happen best from a distance.
Ministry isn’t something to deliver like a package or produce like a show. It’s not a product to consume or a performance to critique. In its best form, ministry happens with and among people. Ministry is presence.
And this is exactly what in the, “Sermon on the Plain” in Luke’s gospel.
Jesus doesn’t stay on the mountaintop, delivering wisdom from above. He doesn’t analyze suffering from a safe distance. He comes down. He stands among the people. And when He does, everything changes.
So what would it mean for me to do the same?
"Jesus came down with the twelve and stood on a level place, with a great crowd of his disciples and a great multitude of people from all Judea, Jerusalem, and the coast of Tyre and Sidon. They had come to hear him and to be healed of their diseases; and those who were troubled with unclean spirits were cured." (Luke 6:17-18)
It’s a small detail, easy to overlook. But it changes everything.
This isn’t Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount, where Jesus preaches from above, speaking over the people. Here in Luke, Jesus descends. He steps off the high place and stands among them.
And who was in that crowd? Who was He standing with?
Not the religious leaders. Not the powerful or the privileged. Jesus stood among the sick, the desperate, the ones who had nowhere else to turn. He stood with the ignored, the overlooked, the people deemed unworthy by nearly everyone else.
He stood among bodies broken by disease, among people carrying wounds—some visible, some hidden deep. He stood at the edges of society, where suffering is not a concept but a lived reality.
And He didn’t stand apart.
He didn’t offer healing from a safe distance. He didn’t send down words of comfort while keeping Himself untouched by the weight of human pain.
He stepped into the crowd. He met their eyes. He stood where they stood.
It’s easy to focus on what Jesus said, but just as important is where He said it. Because Jesus’ ministry wasn’t just about words—it was about where He chose to stand.
And that raises a question:
Where do I choose to stand?
Do I stand at a distance, analyzing problems instead of entering into them? Do I position myself above, where it’s safer, where I can keep my hands clean? Or do I follow Jesus down—into the mess, into the need, into the unfiltered reality of people’s lives?
Because that’s where Jesus is.
And that’s where everything changes.
It’s one thing to admire where Jesus stood. It’s another to ask where I stand.
It’s easy to give advice, admiration, and critique of the work others do from safe distances. It’s easy for me or anyone else to talk about God’s love, justice, and mercy from the pulpits and social media posts; from the comfort of my home and neighborhood, where struggle and suffering can feel distant and theoretical.
It’s easy for me to talk about love without ever loving someone who makes me uncomfortable.
It’s easy to talk about justice without ever engaging in the pain of those who cry out for it.
It’s easy to call myself compassionate while keeping my hands clean of the actual work of compassion.
But Jesus—the one who, as a christian, I want to pattern my life and work after — came down.
What could that mean for me?
What could that mean for anyone?
What would it mean to sit in the grief of a friend instead of offering easy words and moving on?
What would it mean to engage in uncomfortable conversations about injustice instead of dismissing them as “too political”?
What would it mean to place myself in proximity to the poor, the rejected, the suffering—not as a savior, but as a fellow human?
It’s one thing to say, “We love our neighbor.” It’s another for our neighbors to say, “They love us.”
The temptation is to look to big stories and big examples of people doing big work in exotic places, but could never imagine myself doing.
I’m glad there are people to do that work. Maybe it’s you. But for me/many/most of us, I wonder if standing among and with starts closer to home. Who is my neighbor? How can I get to know them more? What do they need? What do I have that might meet them in their place of need? How can I share what I have with them as an expression of God’s love and care?
Jesus doesn’t just stand among the suffering—He looks them in the eyes and calls them blessed.
“Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.” (Luke 6:20)
It’s an astonishing statement. It doesn’t make sense by any earthly measure. The world tells us that blessing looks like success, security, comfort, and power. But Jesus says the kingdom of God belongs to those who have none of those things.
Then He turns to those who have everything—the rich, the full, the laughing, the well-spoken-of—and He speaks a woe.
“Woe to you who are rich, for you have received your consolation.” (Luke 6:24)
This is not a simple reversal of fortune. Jesus isn’t saying that wealth, comfort, and good reputation are inherently bad. But He is saying: If those things have made you distant and out of touch with people who are suffering, if they have insulated you from the pain of the world, if they have kept you standing above rather than among, then you have already received your reward.
Jesus doesn’t curse the rich—He laments for them.
Because what a tragedy it would be to have everything the world offers, but to miss the very presence of God standing among the broken.
What a tragedy it would be to be so full of what I think I need that I leave no space for the kingdom that is breaking in among the poor, the hungry, the grieving, the marginalized, and the rejected.
And so, this passage does more than challenge me to stand where Jesus stands. It invites me to see with His eyes—to recognize blessing where the world sees only lack, and to feel the weight of what I lose when we choose distance over proximity.
If Jesus stood among the suffering and called them blessed, where does that leave me if I choose to remain distant?
So what do I do with this? How do I step down from my safe places and stand where Jesus stands? It may not be as dramatic as selling everything and moving to the margins—but it will require movement. It will require a shift in how I see, how I listen, and how I show up.
It’s one thing to admire Jesus’ ministry among the suffering. It’s another to step into that space myself.
Jesus didn’t just talk about the kingdom—He moved toward the people who were told they didn’t belong. He didn’t love from a distance. He walked into the pain. He shared meals with the rejected. He touched the untouchable. He called the unseen blessed.
And if I am His follower, I are called to do the same.
But let’s be honest—this is hard.
It’s hard to step out of comfort.
It’s hard to risk reputation.
It’s hard to get close enough to others that it begins to cost something.
And yet, this is where Jesus is.
This is where grace stops being an abstract concept and takes on flesh.
This is where the kingdom of God is breaking in.
So, what could it look like for me to step toward instead of away?
Maybe it starts by truly listening to a voice I’ve ignored.
Maybe it looks like choosing presence over platitudes—sitting in grief instead of rushing to fix it.
Maybe it means rethinking how I define blessing—not as comfort, but as closeness to Christ, even if that is among the hurting.
Maybe it’s as simple as asking: Who in my life needs to know they are seen, loved, and not alone? And then reminding them they are.
The good news is, I don’t have to do this alone. In fact, it’s better if I don’t. Participating with Jesus in God’s Kingdom come happens best in community. Maybe that’s why anytime Jesus sent the disciples out, he sent them 2x2.
And here’s the thing. Jesus doesn’t send us out apart from Jesus. Jesus walks with us in every step, and remains with us always. That’s the promise of the great commission. He doesn’t just say, “GO!” Jesus promises he will be with us as we do, until the very end of the age. Jesus has already gone before me. Jesus stands with me in the mess, the margins, and the mystery.
So the question isn’t just Where does Jesus stand?—but Where will I? Where will we?
Where is Jesus calling me to move closer? Who is He calling me to stand with? And what small step can I take to follow?
Because when we stand where Jesus stands—when we move toward, rather than away—we don’t just bring the kingdom closer. We find ourselves standing in it.