this week's thoughts on radical hospitality

As some of you know, I was on the 10 year undergraduate plan because from time to time I would leave college to work with the Farm Workers union or some other social activist bunch; eventually I finished my studies and went on to seminary, but my parents were surely convinced that I would never get the job done given my commitment to the cause of peace and justice. So, in 1980 when I announced that I was going to Mississippi for three months to work among the black, rural pulpwood cutters – literally the heirs of share croppers and slaves – doing labor organizing in an aggressively “right to work” state, let’s just say that they were less than thrilled.

Funny what we do to our parents, isn’t it? And what’s funnier still is how God gets us back when we have children who often do to us what we did to them, right? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to say to our daughters, “What are you, nuts?” only to sense my own Mom and Dad looking at me in bemused irony.

At any rate, off to Mississippi I went to discern whether the Lord was really calling me to work in a local church or give my time, talent and treasure to more direct social justice ministries. It was a full and wild time, let me tell you, and I am grateful I went because it became clear to me in Mississippi that I belonged in a church. Perhaps I will say more about that at another time because what I really want to tell you is what happened one night when I was returning to a local Mennonite farmer’s place for sleep. Our daughter, Jesse, was with me – she was almost 5 years old – and we were coming back from visiting former share croppers around Philadelphia, Mississippi.

You might recall that Philadelphia was the place where Goodman, Schwerner and Channey – three civil rights workers in Dr. King’s movement – were run off the road, shot dead in their car one night by law enforcement officials in the Klan and then dumped in a nearby pond. As Jesse and I were headed home that night, we took a short cut and the car engine died – nothing I could do would bring it back to life – so we decided to walk home in the dark.

The stars were bright and the moon was full so we could see our way along the old country road and I didn’t mind walking the two miles back to the farmhouse with my daughter. We could always find a way to have fun – when all of a sudden – and this is the gospel truth – from out of nowhere we found ourselves surrounded by about 5 or 6 wild, barking vicious dogs. I’m not kidding – this pack of wild dogs formed a circle around us and was barking savagely at us – and I had visions of an ugly and violent death. Jesse whispered, “What should we do, daddy?” and I said, “Be very, very still” as I lifted her slowly onto my shoulders. “We’re going to try to inch our way out of this.” But as we tried that only seemed to make the dogs crazier… so I told her we were going to have to pray and wait and call out for help. About a quarter of the mile over the hill was a farm house – I can still see the lights on from the woman’s television – she was watching “Dynasty” – so I started calling out for help loud and deep.

Now I don’t know how long we were in that circle of fear with the dogs only inches away crying out for our lives – it felt like an eternity – but eventually the porch light came on and the woman came out with a broom to chase the dogs away. She asked us a few questions about why we were wandering that back road at 10:30 at night – and then she invited us inside to sit and rest and take a cup of tea before her husband got back who would drive us to our farm house.

In that strange and often hostile place, in a town broken by fear and polarization, two Yankee strangers met an angel of the Lord in that Southern kitchen and we’ve never been the same since: story number one about the power of hospitality. Story number two is from a time in the life of Frederick Buechner, a writer and Presbyterian minister, whose oldest daughter once did battle with the demons of anorexia nervosa. His words of that horrible and holy struggle are well worth the effort and I commend them to you all – part of which are these:

I remember an especially dark time in my life. One of my children was sick and in my anxiety for here I was in my own way as sick as she was. One day the phone rang and it was a man I didn’t know very well then though he has become a great friend since, a minister in Charlotte, North Carolina, which is about 800 miles or so from where I live in Vermont. I assumed he was calling from home and asked him how things were going down there only to hear him say that no, he wasn’t in Charlotte. He was at an inn about twenty minutes away from my house. He’d known I was having troubles, he said, and he thought maybe it would be handy to have an extra friend around for a day or two. The reason he didn’t tell me in advance that we was coming must have been that he knew I would tell him for Heaven’s sake not to do anything so crazy, so for Heaven’s sake he did something crazier still which was to come those 800 miles without telling me he was coming so that for all he knew I might not even have been there.

But as luck would have it, I was there and for a day or two he was there with me. He was there for me. I don’t think anything we found to say to each other amounted to very much or had anything particularly religious about it. I don’t remember even spending much time talking about my troubles with him. We just took a couple of walks, had a meal or two together, smoked our pipes, drove around to see the countryside and that was about it… (But) I have never forgotten how he came all that distance just for that, and I’m sure he has never forgotten it either. I also believe that although as far as I can remember we never so much as mentioned the name of Christ, Christ was as much in the air we breathed those few days as the smoke of our pipes was in the air or the dappled light of the woods we walked through. I believe that for a little time we both of us touched the him of Christ’s garment, were both of us, for a little time anyway, healed.

I love those words – so simple, so clear, so beautiful: what I make of them is that the practice of hospitality begins with simple acts of kindness – but not Oprah Winfrey’s random acts of kind-ness – these acts are intentional. They are commitments. And they are born of the conviction that faith becomes healing when our words become flesh. The writer, Dorothy Bass, of Valparaiso University, has noted that there are three key commitments that congregations must embrace in order to deepen our commitment to hospitality.

The first is that radical hospitality requires community – we really can’t do it all by ourselves – not only because caring for the stranger is sometimes dangerous, and it is, but also because left to our own devices most of us will get lazy, worn-out and resentful. We need one another’s encouragement, you see, if we are to practice real hospitality. Remember Abraham’s argument with the Living God? It was all about saving the community: will you sweep away the righteous along with the wicked? And tell me how many does it take to keep us whole? 50? 45? 40? 20? 10? For the sake of even 10, said the Lord, I will spare the whole community.


The same commitment to community is found in the story of the disciples who Jesus on the Emmaus Road. It comes at the end of Luke’s gospel and holds a host of fascinating insights. For our purpose today, however, let me just highlight this: the story takes place after Christ’s death on the cross. Apparently a few of the disciples have not yet heard or experienced the blessing of resurrection, so they are leaving Jerusalem in grief and confusion. And as they are travelling out of the city they meet Jesus – the resurrected Jesus – whom they don’t recognize. That is, they meet a stranger on a journey. As they walk and talk the disciples tell the hidden Christ their woes and Jesus speaks to them of the scriptures – how everything that has taken place is according to God’s word and will result in blessing and hope for those who have eyes to see.

When they get to a fork in the road Jesus says he must leave them – and remember they still don’t recognize him because of their broken hearts – but they ask him to stay for supper. And the Bible gives us these words – and they are crucial so listen carefully – and here is what happened: “he sat down at the table with them. Taking the bread, he blessed and broke it and gave it to them and at that moment, their eyes were opened and they recognized Jesus and then he was gone.” Their eyes were opened to the Living God when they sat together at table and broke bread with the stranger. The story continues as the disciples rush back to their friends to share the good news they had found: they returned to offer encouragement and support – and the community grew in courage and faithfulness because of that broken bread. First, we need one another to help us grow in this commitment.

Second, a lot of what we need to learn and practice takes place around a table. Have you notice how important the open table of Christ’s feast is to the practice of hospitality?Around Christ’s table the community learns a new way of living by practicing the table manners of the Messiah rather than high society. “Gather us in, Lord, the lost and the lonely, the broken and breaking, the tired and the aching who long for the nourishment of your feast. Gather us in, Lord, the done and the doubting, the wishing and wondering, the puzzled and pondering who long for the company found at your feast. Gather us in, Lord, the proud and pretentious, the sure and superior, the never inferior who long for the leveling found at your feast.”

At Christ’s table we learn the table manners of God’s kingdom – what else happens around the table of Christian community? We learn and experience communion at the table, right? The reality of joy and forgiveness and hope and commitment all at the same time; and we learn about generosity, too, don’t you think? Some people don’t like church potlucks but I believe they are a sacred blessing because they let all of us share a little so that everyone can have enough. Potluck suppers teach us that we don’t have to do it all; if everyone does their part and brings one dish then the whole community can be nourished. And potlucks are full of surprises, too. That’s why old Garrison Keillor likes to say that the Three Wise Men or kings or Magi were really bringing covered dishes to the humble home of Joseph and Mary for the first Christian potluck supper.

Blessings abound, you see, when we gather around the Lord’s Table: we learn the manners of the Messiah, we are nourished and encouraged to become our best selves, we are surprised and delighted by the bounty of sharing and we come to realize that we don’t have to do it all, just our part.

And that is the third insight I want to leave with you: we don’t have to do it all – just our part – because, dear friends, God really is in charge and we are not and our part is really very, very simple. When my dear friend and mentor in ministry, Dolores Brown, died a few years ago in Tucson, her nieces found this note in her desk that brings it all together concerning doing our part for community and hospitality. Her wisdom continues to bless me from even the other side of the grave when she says:

Lord, thou knowest that I am growing older so keep me from getting too talkative. Release me from trying to straighten out everybody else’s affairs. Keep me from reciting endless details and give me wings to get to the point. Give me grace to listen to the tales of others pains, help me endure them with patience, but seal my lips as to my own aches and pains. Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally it is possible that I may be mistaken. Keep me reasonably sweet; make me helpful but not bossy so that I may have a few friends at the end.

All I can add to that is: Amen!