My sister lives in Portland, Maine, and earlier this year my son and I made the journey north for a visit. While there we wanted to seek out the quintessential Maine experience: cool walks on the Atlantic coast, lobster, local beer, and, of course, L.L. Bean. All of you mail order aficionados out there know exactly what I’m talking about.
Just a short pilgrimage north of Portland is the town of Freeport, which is nationally recognized as an outlet shopping Mecca and the flagship, bricks and mortar L.L. Bean compound is the anchor. Millions of flannel-wearing, Adirondack chair-loving, monogramed towel-hunting shoppers show up each year to literally spend days trekking through thousands of square feet of merchandise. There’s even a Ben and Jerry’s ice cream shop in the store’s courtyard, not far from the huge outdoor iconic Bean Boot.
I learned recently, though, that there is a different sort of pilgrim altogether that makes his or her way to L.L. Bean. And they’re not seeking the hiker’s high one gets from roaming the grounds, nor are they even interested in Ben and Jerry’s. Rather their destination is the L.L. Bean returns desk. Back in 1912 when the company was founded, in order to promote loyalty and confidence in his customers, Mr. Bean himself coined the store’s now legendary guarantee:
“Our products are guaranteed to give 100% satisfaction in every way. Return anything purchased from us at any time if it proves otherwise. We do not want you to have anything from L.L.Bean that is not completely satisfactory.”
And over 100 years later Mr. Bean’s company firmly stands by its founder’s promise. The legend is indeed true, you can take anything you’ve ever purchased from L.L. Bean and return it at any time for any reason and receive store credit. The radio show This American Life did a story on this phenomenon and exposed some of the moral complexity behind it. In fact, they go so far as call the returns desk a “moral Berumuda triangle,” as in those who sail into it often find themselves trapped in a moral dilemma: “I’ve had these lambskin wool slippers for fifteen years. They’re deeply loved and disintegrating. But I could return them and get a new pair for free, no questions asked. What’s a well-meaning, albeit budget conscious consumer to do?”
It turns out there is a spectrum when it comes to the consciences of these returns desk pilgrims. Employees report that they get all kinds. Some come in to make legit returns like, say, their turtleneck didn’t fit so they wanted an exchange. However, one dissatisfied customer came back carrying a broken Adirondack chair just an hour after purchasing it wanting another not because it was defective but rather the ropes he used to tie it to the top of his car with were. People have brought in used bedding, forty year-old flannel shirts they got from a thrift store, wet camping gear used just for one weekend outing, and even half-eaten cookies they’d bought that day at the snack counter. And L.L. Bean has taken it all back with a smile.
It’s known within the store that only employees with certain personalities can work at the returns desk. Employees are trained not to imply any judgement upon customers’ return requests. No questions, no conditions, not even a meaningful pause — regardless of how morally questionable the return might appear to be. The normal rules of retail don’t seem to apply at L.L. Bean. Instead of working to ensure that the cause for a return be worthy the store has effectively taken the opposite tact. Instead, it simply says to its returns desk pilgrims, we’ll take it all — all your tattered, all your broken, all your well-loved goods — we’ll take it all.
Today is Christ the King Sunday, the day traditionally reserved for the final Sunday during the season after Pentecost. Today caps off the stories and parables we’ve heard these last few months chronicling Jesus’ earthly ministry. And we are reminded of the unique, paradoxical quality of Jesus’ kingdom. Just thinking of Christ as a King is somewhat ironic, I think — particularly if you consider the kings of Jesus’ day, whose authority and power were derived from a certain social hierarchy that elevated the “haves” and disregarded the “have-nots.”
And yet this king tells stories about the joy found in dropping everything to recover a single lost sheep or sparing no expense to throw a grand party for a wayward, prodigal child. This king considers the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick, and the imprisoned to be worthy of no less than royal treatment. Indeed, “least of these” are the kings and queens of Jesus’ kingdom.
By the standards of the world we actually live in, this is absurd. Why treat the stranger as royalty when they have not yet proven themselves worthy of that treatment, much less the imprisoned, who have proven to be untrustworthy. It’s risky. It’s not good business sense. No, in our world we tend to base our decisions on a quid-pro-quo type economy. We behave a certain way, we expect a certain outcome. We work hard, we see results. We break the law we get punished. Why wouldn’t we expect our relationship with God to follow the same pattern? Surely we have to be healthy, clothed, law-abiding, well-fed, and socially connected to get God’s attention. Surely we have to work hard at salvation to get it. Right? Nope, says Christ the King, salvation is freely given. In Christ’s grace-filled kingdom the throne room is filled with the “least of these.”
From the perspective of this kingdom it seems Jesus has his priorities mixed up, but the moment you put yourself in the place of the lost sheep or a wayward child, a recipient of Jesus’ open arms in spite of — because of — your brokenness, the true majesty of Christ’s kingdom is revealed.
I’m not going to ask for a show of hands but I’ll bet a few of us, myself included, have gamed the system once or twice when it comes to returns desks. And there are a number of times when I’ve been turned away because I didn’t have my receipt or I had failed to read the fine print and just missed the 30-day window. Now, returning used monogramed bath towels is one thing, but when it comes to approaching that desk, hand in hat, trying to return the used, broken parts of my life I’m comforted to know that God and L.L. Bean have something in common. No questions, no conditions, not even a meaningful pause — we’ll take it all.
The Last Sunday After Pentecost, Year A