Faith in the Public Square: A Theology of Hospitality
Isaiah 58:7
When
I think about hospitality, about Grammy Braddock. That woman always had
people in her house. It was inevitable – she had 16 children. Every
Christmas Eve we would go to her tiny apartment at the senior living
complex. Every room would be stuffed with Braddocks. Our family
overflowed into the sidewalks and parking lots. She never had much
money, but she always put some food out – mashed potato salad with green
peas sticks in my memory for some reason. And she always had gifts for
her 55 grandchildren – a pair of mittens or a box of chocolate covered
cherries. When we arrived, she would go into her bed room and pick
something from her stockpile of gifts, wrap it up, and hand it to me as
if she had seen this box of mints in the store and thought only of you.
When
I think about hospitality, about Grandma Hudson. She had more money
than Grammy Braddock and lived in a bigger house. It was also stuffed
with people – and animals. Holidays were not just for the family.
Friends would come over. Friends of friends would come over. Friends of
friends would bring their pets over. Sometimes we would bring our
elderly neighbor to my grandparent’s house, just so she wouldn’t be
alone on the holidays. My grandmother welcomed anyone in and treated
guests as part of the family. Even her annoying neighbors had a spot at
the table.
My parents also had the gift of hospitality.
I remember a bike rider stopping by our house in CT. He was on a long
distance ride and he needed a place to pitch his tent for the night. My
parents offered our yard. They all stayed up long into the night
talking, eating, and laughing with this visitor. His trip became a
yearly event – the biker in the back yard. I also remember how my
parents hired unemployed guys to do odd jobs around the house, knowing
full well that my father and brother and me could do it ourselves.
I
remember the older woman who lived down the street. Mildred would walk
by the house every day, deadhead my mother’s flowers by the mailbox, and
then scream for my mother to come out of the house. “Debby.
Deeeeebyyyyy!” she would screech. When my mother appeared, the Mildred
would ask “Is your dog tied up.” Mildred was deathly afraid of dogs. Of
course, all of her screaming would make Natasha, our 200 pound malamute,
go wild --lunging for the mailbox until her chain yanked her back.
Mildred became a member of the family – the strange spinster aunt who
trembled and cried a lot.
I like to think that I have
inherited the famous gift of hospitality, but something may have gone
wrong. I remember a dark, windy November night out in Western New York.
Zoe was just a baby. Chris and I sat down for dinner in the parsonage
when we hard a knock on the door. I opened the door to a young, scruffy
man with severe Tourette ’s syndrome looking for odd jobs and a few
bucks. There was no work to do – all our leaves had long ago blown over
into the neighbor’s yard. We invited him in for dinner. Unfortunately
for him, I was on my latest diet kick, and had cooked a disgusting
casserole with turkey, artichokes, and cottage cheese. He ate it without
complaint and, but politely declined seconds. However, when Chris
offered him a peanut butter sandwich, he inhaled three of them down.
I
imagine you have a hospitality story. Maybe it is about a time you were
treated kindly -- a meal, a warm embraces, reassuring eye contact, a
kind smile, gestures respect and acceptance. Your birth story is a
hospitality story. How were you welcomed into this world? Hopefully, you
received hospitality in the form of nourishment, nurturing, and joyful
reception, all of which led to a profound sense of safety and security.
That kind of deep welcome gives people space to meet, to express
ourselves spontaneously, and to be ourselves. As I have mentioned in
other sermons, this kind of welcome is what’s supposed to happen in the
public square. Strangers make room for diversity, for difference and
disagreement, for new thoughts and new insights. And as Christians in
the public square, we make room for uncorrupted love., heartfelt
tolerance, and sincere questions, and delight in our commonalities.
Maybe
you have a different hospitality story. Perhaps yours is a story of
rejection. The word hospitality actually comes from a Latin word,
meaning “guest.” “Hospitality” is also connected to the Latin word
hostio, from which we get the English word “hostility.” It means to give
retribution or to pay back. A hostio is a victim – one who is treated
with hostility. Hospitality and hostility – they come from the same
root. The first pays a stranger with kindness. The second pays back a
victim with revenge. Our attitude is what determines whether a stranger
ends up as a friend or an enemy. We hear plenty of hostility stories.
Many of us have lived them. Some of us have starred in them. The point
is, we offer and accept genuine hospitality to the degree that we have
experienced such in our own lives. The process can be formative or
de-formative.
Hospitality has the power to heal
democracy because hospitality requires us to open our hearts to the
“other.” The challenge faced in our individual lives and in our homes
is the same challenge faced in the public square. It’s the challenge of
letting strangers be who are and what they are, and allowing them to
open us up to another reality. Hospitality demands that we have courage
to engage the most strange, the most unusual, and the most bizarre that
we encounter. In other words, hospitality provides safe space for deep
democracy to take root – a system where there are no strangers, no
outsiders, and no closed hearts.
When I think of
hospitality, I think of the story of Chinue Sugihara. Sugihara was a
Japanese diplomat in the 1940’s, stationed as a border guard in
Lithuania. The Japanese authorities ordered him not to help the Jews.
Jews who fled from Poland into Lithuania needed permission to pass
through the Soviet Union and Japan in order to continue to other
destinations. One day not long after he took up his post, Sugihara found
three hundred desperate people, some who had walked all the way from
Poland, standing outside his consulate, begging for his help. He had
already been officially forbidden to help any Jews seeking to escape the
Nazis. He knew to act was to endanger not only his own life, but also
the lives of his family. Sugihara made a decision after consulting with
his family and listening to his five-year old son ask, ‘If we don’t help
them, won’t they die?’”
Before his arrest and
deportation Sugihara issued more than two thousand exit visas. At one
point his hand was so worn from signing these documents he had to put on
ice packs to continue. In fact, even after being dismissed from his
post, even after his family was ordered to an internment camp, even
while riding on the train to his imprisonment he continued to write
those exit visas, one paper at a time. And now it is said that there are
50,000 Jewish descendants of Sugihara. One man made a huge difference
with his act of creative resistance, with his dedication to radical
hospitality. How inclusive will we be? How will we, as Americans, find
it in our hearts to welcome more people into our democracy?
It’s
not an easy question. We all have areas in our lives that we are not
willing to examine. I imagine the same is true with our public and
political habits. We don't always realize that we are being inhospitable
to people who are different than us. Exclusion can be very
unintentional. But that doesn't mean it isn't real, or that it doesn't
need to be reckoned with in our institutions, from our homes and our
churches. The idea of welcome goes beyond shaking someone's hand or
offering a drink. True welcome means realizing that we are made better
when we allow the backgrounds of others to help shape everything we're
about. And as Christians, we have a faith that helps us ask some
important declarations when we meet those who are different. We say:
"You and I are equally dependent on God."
"You and I are both made in the image of God."
"You and I have the same dignity."
"You and I can learn from each other."
"You and I need each other."
"You and I can be safe with one another."
"You and I can enjoy each other."
"You and I can listen to each other."
"You and I can be reconciled to one another."
Ysaye
Maria Barnwell of Sweet Honey In The Rock puts the issue before us
across time and categories. Her song calls to attention how too many of
us see others in categories. She asks us whether they are worthy to
share space as neighbors and family members. I can’t sing it, but I can
pray it. Would you pray with me?
Would you harbor me?
Would I harbor you?
Would you harbor me?
Would I harbor you?
Would you harbor a Christian, a Muslim, a Jew, a heretic, convict, or spy?
Would you harbor a runaway woman or child, a poet, a prophet or king?
Would you harbor an exile, or a refuge, a person living with AIDS?
Would you harbor a Tubman, a Garrett, a Truth, a fugitive or a slave?
Would you harbor a Haitian, Korean, or Czech, a lesbian or a gay?
Would you harbor me?
Would I harbor you?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bp7JD5DP5FQ
Amy Oden, And You Welcomed Me: A Sourcebook on Hospitality in Early Christianity (Abingdon:2001).
http://faithepchurch.org/files/Documents/Discipleship%20Resources/Hospitality.pdf
http://www.theafricanamericanlectionary.org/PopupCulturalAid.asp?LRID=225
http://www.c3exchange.org/archive/homeland-hospitality/
http://www.c3exchange.org/archive/the-real-sin-is-violent-and-inhospitable-treatment/
http://www.fcs-bilotta.com/documents/1ca%20Hospitality%20Story,%20Process.pdf
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