5th Sunday of Pentecost

June 15, 2008

People with a passing familiarity with our Holy Scripture know that there are passages in the Bible that seem redundant. There are lessons that read like study guides, under-scoring the main ideas presented in the previous paragraphs. They pointedly announce, “Hey, pay close attention here, this could be on a test!” Then there are other passages that are chock full of new ideas where material is presented for the first time. These lessons require careful reading and thoughtful parsing. Our Old Testament reading from the book of Genesis is such a passage. In its 15 verses, two essential themes are drawn out. The first centers on God’s call to hospitality, and the second concerns the contract God makes with his people after their poor choice in paradise. Both messages hold important implications for the faithful and both will be repeated often throughout our religious text. 

This morning we will consider God’s directive on Hospitality. The Abraham cycle which unfolds between Chapters 11 and 25 in Genesis is set sometime between 2000 and 1500 years before the birth of Christ. Think on that, 2000 to 1500 years before the rise of the Roman Empire. In this time, in Middle Eastern culture, the people were primarily nomads. They had no city centers, no designated neighborhoods, and no surveyed boundaries. They dwelt in tents. They made encampments. Abraham, his brothers, cousins, friends and far-flung extended associates lived transitory lives. These people moved into unknown territory. Maybe there was water 3 days away. Maybe there were shade trees 6 hours across the sand. Maybe there were welcoming people who would provide directions and share graze land. Maybe. Maybe. 

In this time, with this way of life, rootless and lawless, a code of hospitality was paramount. The ability to count on strangers to provide respite and knowledge of current conditions is what guaranteed survival. When travelers came over a dune and saw a tent grouping in the distance, their relief was immediate. Water, food, shelter would be provided. They would be taken in and cared for. They could recuperate and gather strength for the next part on their journey. They would learn of warring people in that direction and green pastures to the east, dried up streams in the south and overcrowding in the northern fields. The nomadic life was also an isolating experience. Months passed with limited interactions with others outside the family group. We were made to be social creatures so this seclusion bred loneliness. 

The Code of Hospitality in Mesopotamia in 2000 BCE not only insured survival for the wandering plainsmen, it also guaranteed human connections. Matches were made, alliances formed and goods traded, all over a shared meal when a stranger arrived at the tent door. And, apparently in this time, in this culture, the very first people to know and follow the one God, the God so powerful his name could not be spoken nor his image cast as an idol, these people expected to encounter their God in the guise of a stranger. Yahweh would come to them in personal, intimate ways, generally in the form of a visitor who was present briefly, shared a meal and a conversation, imparted an important directive and then departed abruptly their experience. Before the written record, before the prophets, the kinds, the judges, the cousin coming out of the wilderness or the Son preaching on the plain, before liturgical rites, sung psalms and evening prayers, God came to his people as a mysterious visitor. This was his way of engagement. And if this was an accepted practice, then how one welcomed and entertained a stranger at the door had instant and far-reaching implications! Maybe the visitor was just “Lud,” the Hittite goat herder, but maybe not. Did one want to take the chance of offending the Father and Creator of All? Was it not more prudent to invite the stranger in, offer him a meal, a cup of cool water, a place to rest his head? 

In our lesson from Holy Scripture’s Book of Genesis, we see that Abraham was not a remarkably kind and extraordinarily gracious individual. He was merely a product of his time and culture and religious experience. “The Lord appeared to Abraham by the Oaks of Mamre as he sat at the entrance of his tent in the heat of the day. He looked up and saw strangers standing near him. When he saw them, he ran from the tent entrance to meet them. He said, “Let a little water be brought, rest yourselves under the tree. Let me bring a little bread.” Abraham ran to the herd, took a calf, took curds and milk and set it before them and he stood by them under the tree while they ate. At this point, Abraham doesn’t know if the visitors are friend or foe, safe or hostile, well-meaning or devious. He doesn’t know. He can only hope for the best, trust the providence and goodness of God and react with hospitality. 

It is important for us to recognize this hospitality for what it is. The opening up our home to strangers, to unknown personalities and unfamiliar agendas is risky and unsettling. Hospitality is not easy, sweet virtue. It requires courage and intention. In all ages, “homes” have been human sanctuaries. They’re the place we keep the love and serenity in and the chaos and unrest out. They’re the place where we set the rules and expectations of appropriate conduct. The world may act like that, but in our homes, we behave and value this. The world at large is not a peace-filled reality. To welcome unknown, untested entities from the world into our ordered, secure safe haven is a hard call to answer. I like to think of myself as a hospitable person. I like to see myself as gracious and welcoming. For years, my kids had people spending the night at our house weekend after weekend. I kept Domino’s in business from 7^th – 12^th grade. But, when I went to D.C. for seminary, my spirit for hospitality was tested. 

My son Ash was uprooted from his friends and was forced to make new connections. One Saturday morning, I came out of my bedroom and, on my way to the kitchen to make coffee; I saw a 17-year-old body on my sofa. About that time, a cell phone rang on my dining room table. I answered it and a voice said, “Who’s this?” I gave my name and she said, “Where’s Mike?” I said, “If Mike is a large teenage boy with big feet, then he’s asleep in my living room.” She said, “Tell him he’ll have to fix his own dinner. I’m going out of town.” I said, “Who shall I say called and should I tell him when to expect you back?” She said, “He’ll know it’s from his mother and he don’t need to worry about when I’ll be back.”

So, for that night and many that followed, Mike was in my house. Mike didn’t look like my family. He didn’t talk like my family. He didn’t listen to my family’s music, but those were pretty inconsequential differences. The thing that worried me was that Mike didn’t seem to share the same values as my family. This variance made me uneasy. I was apprehensive about his effect on my “little precious!” Mike seemed to have unlimited freedom. No one seemed to mind if he was home or away, if he checked in or stayed out of touch. It was clear that completed school work was not a high priority for Mike and rules and regulations were a fluid concept for my son’s new friend. The accepted, respectful conventions I was used to from young people were not part of Mike’s standard vocabulary. 

I found myself faced with an unsettling dilemma. I understood God’s call to hospitality, to welcoming the stranger, to accepting the “other.” But I also felt a strong, protective pull. I didn’t want my child to fall under dangerous or problematic influences. I also did not want to over react. Did this young man’s lack of my style of manners guarantee that he was involved in suspect activities? Did it follow that my son would be drawn into grand larceny or some other nefarious scheme? These were anxious times for me. I didn’t like the worry and I didn’t like myself for my suspicions. At some point, I got right. I found my reason and my faith. God does call us to hospitality and God does not call us to disaster. God is often surprising and He acts contrary to human expectation. But, God, also always, ultimately prospers good. So I trusted. I threw graciousness six ways from Sunday on this young man and I let the friendship unfold and be what God intended. 

Here’s what I learned much later: While I was so worried about Mike leading my son astray, he was minding his back. Mike would tell the guys “No! Ash can’t hang with us tonight. He has a test tomorrow – go home and study, dude.” “No! Ash can’t stay out here. His mom makes him come home before 2 am. She wants to know where he is.” “No! Ash isn’t into that, he plays ball, he has to stay straight.” Mike was a guardian “angel.” 

God indeed works in mysterious ways. This week at the beach, out of nowhere, Mike’s name came up and I asked, “Whatever happened to him?” I was a little nervous. I was so hoping he wasn’t in prison. Ash just rolled his eyes and said that he was way too smart for that. Apparently, Mike graduated from high school and community college and now works for the federal government. I said, “Really? What does he do?” He’s still in D.C. He works for Homeland Security. 

So…God brought a stranger to our door, a real stranger, someone very different from us. On faith, we welcomed him in. He gave us a gift. He became a good friend to someone who suddenly found himself in a foreign place, in need of a friend. Maybe we gave a good gift in return. Maybe we gave welcome, acceptance, a safe haven, a sense of caring, a sense of purpose, and a sense that our guest was important and mattered. 

That is the essence of hospitality – treating the stranger who is sent to our door as someone who is worthy of attention and care. This is a Godly virtue. This is the action God calls us to. And in case we forget how seriously God takes hospitality, we are reminded again and again in Holy Scripture. Lessons and passages center on this theme. The message is repeated, earth is meant to mirror and mimic heaven. In heaven, there is a glorious banquet prepared and waiting. The gates are flung open and the invitations go out. The invitations go to people like us and to folk very different from us. The banquet is for us and for people who play their music too loud and who don’t care about turning their homework in and are even laissez faire in their childrearing practices. Invitations go to people who forget to say please and thank you and even those who end up in after school detention.

The only people who miss out on invitations to God’s heavenly banquet and His amazing hospitality are the folk who refuse to see God’s welcoming embrace and the folk who refuse to offer hospitality to his beloved children. 

The Lord’s appearance to Abraham by the Oaks of Mamre reminds us of our charge. Today, in our homes, our work, our church, will we be welcoming? Will we greet and embrace the strangers God sends our way? Something to ponder – seriously. Amen.