Sent Small
A Reflection on Luke 10:1-11, 16-20
Have you ever noticed who ends up saving the world in most stories? It’s one thing when Superman saves the world because he’s Superman. But in so many of our favorite stories, the hero is the one we least expect. The one who isn’t the strongest or smartest. Not the ones with power or prestige.
In The Lord of the Rings, Frodo Baggins is a small, quiet hobbit from a quiet, unknown village. He’s not a warrior with an army. No royal blood. That was Aragorn. Frodo just has a ring he doesn’t want and a journey he didn’t choose.
And somehow, he’s the one.
Harry Potter is an orphan with a lightning scar, who doesn’t even know magic exists when the story begins.
But it’s not just fiction.
Rosa Parks was a tired seamstress on a bus.
Greta Thunberg was a teenager with a handwritten sign outside Swedish parliament.
Over and over, it’s people with deep resolve, quiet faith, and a willingness to go
who end up changing things.
In Luke 101, we read about Jesus sending out 70 (or 72, depending on which translation you read) people to announce the good news that the Kingdom of God has come near.
He doesn’t send celebrities or scholars.
He sends ordinary folks with no bags, no money, no power, and no particular skill.
They are told to bring peace, stay where they’re welcomed, and walk away where they’re not. Jesus sends them small, but somehow, through them, the kingdom of God draws near. Maybe it still works that way.
Jesus sends them with a strange set of instructions: “Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals…”
He sends them with no safety net, no backup plan… vulnerable on purpose.
He sends them out ready to receive hospitality as much as to offer it.
When I used to lead youth on mission trips, we’d sometimes bump into this truth. We’d go thinking we were there to help, and we were. We painted, built, and served. Those things mattered. But what stayed with us was always the people we met. The welcome we received. The shared meals, the unexpected laughter, the moments of connection. We encountered the Kingdom in the peace we offered and the work we did, but even more so in the peace we received in return.
Jesus tells the 70 to go empty-handed. Why?
Because the Kingdom of God isn’t about Superman—swooping in to save the day. Jesus tells them to go rely on hospitality as much as he does to offer it. He tells them to let someone else feed, house, and care for them.
That’s not how I typically think about ministry. I think about giving and doing—showing up with something to offer.
But what if part of being sent is learning that the Kingdom of God isn’t another way of drawing a line between the haves and have-nots? What if, in God’s Kingdom, we need each other? What if all are welcome because in the Kingdom of God, we all have something unique, beautiful, helpful, and necessary to bring to the table?
That feels different. Maybe even uncomfortable. But, as I lean into my discomfort, I recognize that in my need and my smallness is where grace flows most freely. Hospitality in God’s Kingdom is not one-directional; it’s a shared table. Not just swoop in and save the day, but stay and share the load.
So Jesus sends them out small, dependent, and open, and he also tells them what to say when they get there. Peace.
It reminds me of the old Tim Burton movie Mars Attacks, a spoof of alien invasion stories like War of the Worlds. In one early scene, a huge crowd gathers to witness the Martian saucer landing in the desert. The Martian Ambassador walks down the ramp and announces, “We come in peace”—right before blasting everyone with a ray gun.
It’s funny because it’s absurd. But it also holds a mirror up to me.
I’m conditioned to lead with skepticism.
To protect myself. To assume the worst.
Or I think peace comes after I’ve made our point—after I’ve defended, corrected, or controlled.
But Jesus flips the script.
He says: Start with peace.
Start with peace, because that’s who you are. That’s who I am.
And here’s the beautiful part:
If someone receives it, wonderful.
If not? It comes back.
I lose nothing by leading with peace, because peace is the posture of someone who knows they’re already loved. And I know I am loved. Immeasurably and completely loved. Leading with peace is trusting that God is already working, even before I say a word.
“Peace to this house.”
That’s the strategy.
That’s what they bring with them.
“If they welcome you…”
“If they reject you…”
Either way, the good news doesn’t change. Neither reception nor rejection alters the truth: “The kingdom of God has come near.”
I don’t control the outcome.
I’m not responsible for the response.
I’m responsible for carrying peace with me wherever I go, and offering it freely.
What if peace was my first instinct, not my last resort?
God who sends and knows,
God, who walks the long road of peace,
Send me again with open hands and a steady heart.
Teach me to trust the slow work of love.
To bless what I do not understand.
To receive what I cannot earn, and speak peace, even when the world is loud.
When I am dismissed, emind me: the Kingdom still comes near.
Make me brave and gentle.
Rootde din grace.
Here I am, Lord.
Send me again and again.
Amen.
For the full context of this post read Luke 10:1-11, 16-20