Lean On Me
I can’t help but wonder why it often feels easier to talk to complete strangers about the most important things in our lives than it does to talk with family or friends. Over the past few weeks, I’ve noticed something striking. Without any awareness that I’m a minister, people I’ve encountered—while walking outside, sitting in a café, or at the gym—have opened up about their grief. Ordinary moments have become spaces of unexpected honesty. I’m grateful for these conversations, but I find myself wondering what makes them possible.
I think part of the reason is that, with a stranger, we don’t have to manage being cared for. When we share with loved ones, we often carry the weight of their reaction—their worry, their need to fix things. We end up tending to their emotions while trying to express our own. With a stranger, that pressure disappears. There is less fear of burdening someone and less fear of judgment. A stranger is not embedded in our story. There is no history to navigate, no expectations to uphold. In that moment, we are free to simply be ourselves—honest and unguarded. I came across a phrase that captures this beautifully: temporary sacred space. These brief encounters—on sidewalks, in cafés, in passing—can become holy ground.
In many ways, this is how Jesus moved through the world. He was often a stranger to those he met, and yet people spoke to him with remarkable honesty. He created space not by fixing or controlling outcomes, but by being fully present. As Hebrews 13:2 reminds us, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.” Strangers are not just random—they can be bearers of grace.
I have come to see these encounters as gifts. They reveal what people carry, what they value, and how even a simple moment of presence can shift someone’s day. In some ways, we are given these same opportunities every Sunday. New people walk through our doors, each carrying their own story. I often wonder what brought them here, what they are seeking, and how the Spirit is already at work within them. This is where "Lean on Me" by Bill Withers resonates so deeply: “Lean on me, when you’re not strong, and I’ll be your friend. I’ll help you carry on.” There is a quiet theology here. Jesus doesn’t offer charity—he offers solidarity. He walks alongside, listens, and shares the load.
Perhaps the invitation is not only to be someone others can lean on, but also to learn how to lean on others—even strangers. To receive, not just to give. Because being a person of faith is not simply about being strong for others. It is about being open enough to admit when we are not. And maybe the sacred work is this: to recognize that every encounter holds the possibility of grace—and that in both giving and receiving, we are never as alone as we think.
Rev. Karen