INTRODUCTION
In the fall of 1986, I was invited to give the invocation and blessing at a banquet for the Lieutenant Governor of Pennsylvania, who was running for Governor. One of the nice things about being a pastor is that when you are asked to participate in such an occasion, they don’t expect you to give a dime and you get to sit at the head table!
So it was that Barbara and I were seated with the Governor and the first lady, the Lieutenant Governor and his wife, a major contributor who was also chairman of a corporation in Pittsburgh that makes ketchup and soup, together with the guest speaker who was once the Secretary of State in America, and a rabbi who was to say the benediction and had come with his spouse.
As the ten of us sat down and were introduced to one another, I must confess that I was impressed with our dinner partners and looked forward to the conversation we would share around the table. However, after I had offered the invocation and said the blessing, the Governor, Lieutenant Governor and their spouses excused themselves, began to “work the room” and never returned to our table.
That left Barbara and me and the rabbi and his wife with the former Secretary of State and his close friend the corporation chairman sitting across from us. Somewhere between the salad and the chicken cordon bleu, I interrupted the two men and asked the former Secretary of State, whom I knew to be an avid football fan, “Tell me, Dr. Kissinger, how are the Washington Redskins doing this year”? He looked at me and replied, “I’ve moved to New York City and now I root for the Giants.”
And that was it, the sum and total of our conversation! So we had a delightful time getting to know the rabbi and his wife, and after benediction and shalom, the headed home. Driving back to the manse, I thought of the preacher and his spouse who were leaving worship one Sunday. The pastor felt he had delivered a fine sermon and asked his wife, “Honey how many really great preachers do you think there are in America today”? Without hesitation, she answered, “One less than you think, dear. One less than you think.” So much for being seated at the head table with important and impressive people!
According to our first text from the 7th chapter of Luke, I think the people who were gathered together for the dinner party at the Pharisee’s home were probably among the movers and shakers in town. I can almost see them arriving at the door, dressed in their best and looking around the room to see who else of importance was there. And I can almost hear them talking about the latest news from Rome, gossiping about government scandals and complaining about the exorbitant taxes and poor treatment they had to endure as Jews.
As they checked out the place cards to see who was sitting next to whom, if we listen between the lines of Luke’s story, we can overhear the host asking his friends, “Guess who’s coming to dinner”? And the room started to buzz with anticipation of the arrival of this teacher named Jesus.
For most of them, it would be their first opportunity to meet this man who had stirred up the people and caused such a commotion in the countryside. Some said He was the Messiah, others believed He had political aspirations and still others thought He was nothing more than a trouble maker who was on a collision course with the religious authorities in Jerusalem.
When Jesus finally arrived at the dinner party, I imagine those guests tried to engage Him in conversation. Some of the talk might have been cordial, but most of it probably was more confrontational as they pushed Him hard on matters of the law, pressed Him to state His political views and probed His theology, to see if some of the radical things He had said in other towns were really true.
And then, without notice, a woman slipped quietly into the room, went to where Jesus was sitting and with tears in her eyes, began to anoint his feet with oil. It was a customary act in those days, a sign of hospitality. But the guests were upset with this gesture and the host spoke up for all of them when he objected, saying, in so many words, “Jesus, don’t you know who she is, a sinner with a bad reputation? How could you allow her to touch you”?
Sensing their self-righteous indignation, Jesus took a deep breath, looked them all in the eye and replied to Simon, the Pharisee: I entered your house and you gave me no water to wash the dust off my feet. But she has cleansed my feet with her tears and anointed them with oil…Therefore, I tell you, her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she has loved much. But he who is forgiven little, loves little.
As Simon’s face turned flush red and the room suddenly fell silent, Jesus could see the anger in their eyes as they murmured, “Who is this, who even forgives sins? Who does He think He is”? But Jesus turned toward the woman and said, Your faith has saved you. Go in peace. And my guess is, as she left the room, Jesus bid them all goodnight and went His separate way.
Of course, we don’t know if it happened exactly like that. Luke doesn’t give us all the details. But as we turn the pages of this gospel to the 14th chapter, it appears that the memory of that evening in Simon’s house was firmly fixed in Jesus’ mind and heart. Because, this time, as He was invited to yet another dinner party in the house of a different Pharisee, noticing how all the guests checked out the places where they were to be seated, Jesus told them a story:
When you are invited by anyone to a marriage feast, do not sit down in a place of honor, lest a more eminent person than you be invited by the host and the host comes and says to you, “Give this place to that person”…and then, you will be embarrassed.
Instead, when you are invited, go and sit in the lowest place, so that your host may say to you, “Friend, come sit in a place of honor” for those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.
Now if we agree that these stories from Luke’s gospel have much to teach us about hospitality, then perhaps the first lesson we can learn is this: real hospitality is inclusive, not exclusive.
I don’t know who will be sitting around your Thanksgiving table tomorrow, but there is one Thanksgiving that a group of folks will never forget. They had been invited to join a family in their home, and as they all sat down to eat, the mother looked at her six-year-old daughter and asked, “Dear, would you like to say the blessing”? “I wouldn’t know what to say” the little girl replied. “Well, just say what you hear mommy say,” the mother answered. So the daughter bowed her head and said, “Lord, why on earth did I invite all these people to dinner”?
That reminds me of something the poet Carl Sandburg once said. A reporter asked him one day, “Mr. Sandburg, what would you say is the ugliest word in the English language”? That grand old man thought for a moment and then said, “I think that the ugliest word in the English language is ‘exclusive.’”
Which is exactly what Jesus was saying to those self-important guests in Simon’s house long ago, and to all of us tonight. And it doesn’t only apply to those whom we invite over for Thanksgiving dinner. That lesson applies to every dimension of our lives, where we are called as Christians to be inclusive, not exclusive.
I like the sign on the front lawn of a church up in New Jersey, which says “We Reserve the Right to Accept Everybody.” And that is the way God wants it to be for people of every race, color, sexual orientation and religious creed. If that weren’t the case, then why on earth would God have made so many different kinds of human beings?
So the first lesson we can learn from these banquet stories in Luke’s gospel is that real hospitality is inclusive, not exclusive. And that leads to a second lesson, which is that real hospitality is more about quality than it is about quantity.
There’s a lot of talk in all of our denominations today about “bigger being better” - you know what I mean. How many members does your church have? How large is the budget? How much do you give away to mission? How many people can your sanctuary seat?
Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t think God is impressed with all those numbers. What God cares most about is individuals, one by one by one. And if we don’t treat one another with respect, if we fail to offer our care and compassion, if we lose sight of God’s love for each and every one of us, then we might as well take all those great big congregations, shut the doors, lock them up and throw away the keys.
And so it is with our family members and friends and homeless people and those who are lonely and lost and feel forgotten. We need to pay attention to them, one by one by one.
Dr. Fred Craddock, who used to teach at the Candler School of Theology, tells the story about preaching in a small church one Sunday and then being invited by an older lady to lunch. Craddock says “She was a widow and alone. We went to her home and she said, ‘Go into the den and read the paper or watch TV. I’ll have things ready in a minute.’
She put on her apron and got busy in the dining room. I followed after her and said, ‘Now don’t fix up all this. We eat in the kitchen at home.’ She opened a drawer of the sideboard, took out the linen napkins and tablecloth, set them on the table and then carefully arranged her finest china and silverware and long stemmed glasses each in their place. I said ‘You know, we eat in the kitchen at home.’ But she went right on fixing the table, until I finally said, ‘Look, it’s just the two of us here. We eat in the kitchen at home.’
She turned around and with a level gaze said to me, ‘Hush up and sit down.’ I said, ‘Well, I suppose I will.’ And then she said, ‘Do you have any idea what it’s like fixing a meal for one?’ And we sat there at the table in the dining room with candlelight, enjoying a feast for two.” (From “Craddock Stories” by Fred B. Craddock, Chalice Press, St. Louis, Missouri, 2001, page 55)
Do you see? Real hospitality is not a matter of quantity. It’s a matter of quality. Jesus focused His attention on that one woman as she focused her attention on Him. And something full of grace and God’s presence happened between them. Hospitality.
CONCLUSION
Which brings us to the last lesson we can learn from these stories in the gospel of Luke. Real hospitality is contagious, not contained, because when it does happen to us, we can’t wait to share it with others.
Scott Peck, in the introduction to his book “The Different Drum,” tells a parable of his own entitled “The Rabbi’s Gift.” Listen:
THE RABBI’S GIFT
“The story concerns a monastery that had fallen upon hard times. Once a great order, as a result of waves of anti-monastic persecution in the 17th and 18th centuries and the rise of secularism in the 19th century, all its branch houses were lost and it had become decimated to the extent that there were only 5 monks left in the decaying mother house: the abbot and 4 others, all over 70 in age. Clearly it was a dying order.
In the deep woods surrounding the monastery there was a little hut that a rabbi from a nearby town occasionally used for a retreat. Through their many years of prayer and contemplation the old monks had become a bit psychic, so they could always sense when the rabbi was at his retreat. ‘The rabbi is in the woods, the rabbi is in the woods again,’ they would whisper to each other. As he agonized over the imminent death of his order, it occurred to the abbot to visit the retreat and ask the rabbi if by some possible chance he could offer any advice that might save the monastery.
The rabbi welcomed the abbot at his hut. But when the abbot explained the purpose of his visit, the rabbi could only commiserate with him. ‘I know how it is,’ he exclaimed. ‘The spirit has gone out of the people. It is the same in my town. Almost no one comes to the synagogue anymore.’ So the old abbot and the old rabbi wept together. Then they read parts of the Torah and quietly spoke of deep things. The time came when the abbot had to leave. They embraced each other. ‘It has been a wonderful thing that we should meet after all these years,’ the abbot said, ‘but I have still failed in my purpose for coming here. Is there nothing you can tell me, no piece of advice you can give me that would help me save my dying order?’ ‘No, I am sorry,’ the rabbi responded. ‘I have no advice to give. The only thing I can tell you is that the Messiah is one of you.’
When the abbot returned to the monastery his fellow monks gathered around him to ask, ‘Well, what did the rabbi say?’ ‘He couldn’t help,’ the abbot answered. ‘We just wept and read the Torah together. The only thing he did say, just as I was leaving - it was something cryptic - was that the Messiah is one of us. I don’t know what he meant.’
In the days and weeks and months that followed, the old monks pondered this and wondered whether there was any possible significance to the rabbi’s words. The Messiah is one of us? Could he possibly have meant one of us monks here at the monastery? If that’s the case, which one? Do you suppose he meant the abbot? Yes, if he meant anyone, he probably meant Father Abbot. He has been our leader for more than a generation. On the other hand, he might have meant Brother Thomas. Certainly Brother Thomas is a holy man. Everyone knows that Thomas is a man of light.
Certainly he could not have meant Brother Elred! Elred gets crotchety at times. But come to think of it, even though he is a thorn in people’s sides, when you look back on it, Elred is virtually always right. Often very right. Maybe the rabbi did mean Brother Elred. But surely not Brother Phillip. Phillip is so passive, a real nobody. But then, almost mysteriously, he has a gift for somehow always being there when you need him. He just magically appears by your side. Maybe Phillip is the Messiah. Of course the rabbi didn’t mean me. He couldn’t possibly have meant me. I’m just an ordinary person. Yet supposing he did? Suppose I am the Messiah? O God, not me. I couldn’t be that much for You could I?
As they contemplated in this manner, the old monks began to treat each other with extraordinary respect on the off chance that one among them might be the Messiah. And on the off, off chance that each monk himself might be the Messiah, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect.
Because the forest in which it was situated was beautiful, it so happened that people still occasionally came to visit the monastery to picnic on its tiny lawn, to wander along some of its paths, even now and then to go into the dilapidated chapel to meditate. As they did so, without even being conscious of it, they sensed this aura of extraordinary respect that now began to surround the five old monks and seemed to radiate out from them and permeate the atmosphere of the place. There was something strangely attractive, even compelling about it. Hardly knowing why, they began to bring their friends to show them this special place. And their friends brought their friends.
Then it happened that some of the younger men who came to visit the monastery started to talk more and more with the old monks. After a while one asked if he could join them. Then another. And another. So within a few years the monastery had once again become a thriving order and, thanks to the rabbi’s gift, a vibrant center of light and spirituality in the realm.”
My friends, real hospitality is inclusive not exclusive. It is concerned with quality not quantity. And when it happens, it cannot be contained - it becomes contagious. That’s what Jesus told us long ago, and that is what He is telling us here tonight. And tomorrow, as we gather around our Thanksgiving tables, if we look ever so carefully at the place cards meant for us, they will say “By invitation of Jesus.”
In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.