Be My Guest
Pentecost 14 C
Ecclesiasticus 10:12-18
Heb. 13:1-8
Luke 14:1, 7-14
How often have we said in deferring to
another, “Oh, please. Be my guest”? Probably it was a
gesture of courtesy, nothing more. Although, if truth be told,
extending such an invitation might have made us feel slightly pleased
with ourselves and our generosity of spirit.
Today’s readings have much to say about such invitations and the
implications of hospitality. In Luke, we find Jesus as a dinner
guest at the home of a Pharisee, where the host and his other guests
have the itinerant preacher and rabble rouser under a microscope,
waiting for him to say the wrong thing, make the wrong move. It
doesn’t take long, as Jesus immediately questions the seating
arrangement. There is, apparently, much jockeying for positions
of honor, suggesting that the spirit of the evening is more competitive
than convivial. Jesus points out that an assumption on the part
of a guest that he should be given the highest place is symptomatic of
self-serving pride. In a familiar motif, he reminds the assembled
throng that those “`who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who
humble themselves will be exalted.’” [Luke 14:11]
Jesus goes on to admonish any host against inviting to the feast only
those whom he knows and with whom he is comfortable, particularly
if such an invitation is extended with the hope of reciprocation.
Instead, he tells them, “`. . . when you give a banquet, invite
the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be
blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the
resurrection of the righteous.’” [Luke 14:13-14]
The society of Jesus’ time was not unlike ours where status is an
important cultural value; one-up-manship, a means of advancement; and
where paybacks do apply. In God’s kingdom, however, hospitality
is not about hierarchy and competition, but rather about openness,
inclusion, humility, and compassion.
Yet sometimes even the church reinforces our worldly perceptions of
favor. As a child growing up in St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church, I
could not take communion because in that era only confirmed members
were welcome at the altar rail. I eagerly awaited my twelfth
birthday when I would finally be eligible to take the confirmation
class. Looking back, I see that, my confirmation was, indeed, a
liturgical rite of passage; however, I must confess, it also bred in me
a sense of being initiated into an exclusive club. At God’s
table, at last, I was one of the “chosen.”
What a blessing that our theology of the table now reflects a broader
welcome—that our sacramental meal is not based on any criteria other
than our common humanity and God’s great forgiving, healing, and
empowering love.
Hospitality, whether at God’s table or ours, is, purely and
simply, welcome. Welcome to all, the “poor, the crippled,
the lame, and the blind” [Luke 14:13]– welcome to anyone who is hungry
or in need. A welcome with no strings attached and where judgment
and selectivity have no place.
In Luke, Jesus directs his words straight to the Pharisees, and
by extension, to us. We are to look beyond the clothing, the
cleanliness, the achievements, the behaviors of others to find Christ
in all whom we meet. Today’s reading from Hebrews gives a sober
reminder: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by
doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.” [Heb.
13:2]
In our lives most of us have experienced rejection, whether as a result
of something as minor as being picked last for the spelling bee or
athletic team, or as monumental as the betrayal of a mate or business
partner.
Such experiences help us to empathize with the feelings of isolation
and alienation that rejection breeds. Unsettling as it may be,
Jesus asks us to examine our own practices of hospitality. We
cannot know who in our midst is the angel we should be entertaining,
because, in truth, the potential lies in each person with whom we come
in contact. Granted, the prospect is not always a comfortable or
convenient one. But it is always a holy one.
By way of illustration, permit me to share an abridged version of a
story by Tina Foster Caldwell from a 2003 volume of the journal
Weavings. [Caldwell. Weavings, “His Name Is Glenn. Vol. XVIII, No. 5, Sept./Oct. 2003, p. 36-38]
“Come on, T.J, let’s get going,” I repeated to my four-year-old for the
umpteenth time. I balanced the lasagne in one hand, the baby in
another, and waved encouragement to my son with my leg. “We’ve
got to get this dinner to the homeless people.”
On the way to church T.J. (as always) was shooting rapid fire questions
at me. “What are homeless people? What do they look
like? Why are we taking them dinner? Will they talk to
me?” And the most important question, according to T.J., “Do they
like trains?” I can’t remember my answers. I’m sure they
were vaguely politically and psychologically correct, approved by
child-rearing gurus and homeless advocates alike.
Although we arrived at the church late, our guests were later still,
which led to an anticlimactic moment for my child. “When are the
homeless people going to be here?” I answered with a parental
cliché, “Just be patient, Son.”
Finally the bus arrived, and our guests alighted, filing quietly into
the gym. T.J. ran and hid behind my legs, suddenly shy. I
felt myself also becoming shy–not a natural trait for me–and
stuttering, wanting to say the right things. Welcome? How
was your day? What does one say to someone so far removed from
the life my family knows? For as little as I knew to say, our
visitors could have been a group of Kurdish refugees with no knowledge
of the English language. I was ashamed of myself. After
all, I’m from West Virginia, where poverty is no stranger. Had I
“raised above my raising” so much that I couldn’t communicate with
people who were down on their luck? Good grief.
I gave up on true communication and opted instead for silliness,
cracking lame jokes as I helped serve dinner. Then seconds.
Then thirds. These people were hungry! My self-centered
concerns about whether they would like the meal or not were a waste of
time. They just wanted some good, hot, food and plenty of
it. Thankfully, we did have enough and as I watched them fill
their stomachs, I felt my heart become equally full.
Of course with the 20/20 vision that comes with hindsight, I see now
that we didn’t have enough, because we fed only them and not
ourselves. I should have been sitting down right beside them,
eating my soupy lasagna next to a woman who spent her days on the
sidewalks. By standing there serving them, I put myself into the
role of the benevolent benefactor instead of the role of human being
willing to break bread with a new friend. However, the real
lesson came when we were leaving the church.
I gathered my family and we were walking toward the door, when one of
the guests started walking alongside us. T.J. decided one new
person wasn’t nearly as intimidating as fifteen, so he piped up,
“What’s your name?”
“Glenn,” the gentleman answered. “What’s yours?”
“T.J.” He paused. “Do you like trains?” (This can make or break a relationship with my son.)
“Yep,” answered Glenn. And he smiled. A snaggle-toothed
grin that could have belonged to any grandfather on this earth.
He and my beautiful, cherubic child exchanged some more equally
pertinent information.
On our way home, the barrage of questions flowed forth like a
stream. “Where did you say Glenn lives? Why couldn’t we
stay and play with Glenn longer? Can we have Glenn over to our
house to play?”
The pat, vague, politically correct answers wouldn’t come.
Instead, I wanted to ask T.J. the questions. How did you do it,
Baby? What made you think that a tired, hungry, not-so-sweet
smelling “homeless person” might be a train-loving human being with
whom you could connect on a very real level? Was it really as
simple as this? Was it as easy as asking the man his name?
Next time, I’ll find out. But, next time I won’t have to ask
because my son will remember. His name is Glenn.
Included in the book Celtic Daily Prayer are prayers for a house blessing. The words of the kitchen litany seem particularly appropriate this morning:
I would welcome the poor
and honor them.
I would welcome the sick
in the presence of angels
and ask God to bless
and embrace us all.
Seeing a stranger approach,
I would put food in the eating place,
drink in the drinking place,
music in the listening place,
and look with joy for the blessing of God,
who often comes to my home
in the blessing of a stranger. [p. 147]
When that stranger comes to us, may we take a lesson from
T.J. and say with humility and love, “Please, Glenn, be our
guest.”
AMEN.
Laura Shoffner
September 2, 2007
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