The Stubborn Insistence at the Heart of Hospitality [Proper 6A - Genesis 18:1-15]

The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Genesis 18:1-15

The Stubborn Insistence at the Heart of Hospitality

Don’t be distracted by that 90 year old pregnant woman.  Try, if it is possible, not to focus too much on the centenarian who just received some rather unexpected news.  Yes, I admit, it is difficult; there are plenty of unanswered questions hanging over this text from Genesis; many perplexing images conjured by this strange story; some disturbingly suggestive euphemisms included in this tale. 

Those of you who participate in our Wednesday Parish Bible Study know that I never shy from the peculiar parts of the Bible; in fact, I rather enjoy studying those sections that make one squirm a bit.  Typically, I encourage people to reflect very deeply on biblical texts, to really think about them, to dive into the details.  But today, might I ask that you think outside the womb.

And instead allow your curiosity to be piqued by these mysterious strangers.  They appear before Abraham like a desert oasis; he looks up and there they are, shimmering like ghosts in the distorting heat of the day.  He does not know them, and yet, like the father desperate to greet his long-estranged prodigal son, he runs to them.  Despite the heat, despite his advanced age, despite the many unknowns these three men represented, Abraham ran to fall down at their feet.

While his deference is admirable, it was also unusual.  In his own travels, Abraham had entered into hostile cities, expecting, in those cases, to be regarded with the contempt too often reserved for strangers in strange lands.  Multiple times, Abraham made his wife, Sarah, pose as his sister because he was convinced her beauty would make him a target of violence.  He understood that, as an alien, he had few rights and little protection.

After visiting Abraham and Sarah, the three mysterious visitors of today’s passage will journey to the towns of Sodom and Gomorrah.  There they will be greeted with violence.  They will be terrorized and threatened – because they are strangers.  Because the citizens want them to understand, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they do not belong.

 

Hostility was a survival tactic in the ancient world.  Violent behavior, hateful actions, cruelty: they helped a village cultivate a certain reputation – one that caused wandering bandits to search for a bypass.  But because one could not know, on first glance, who was a bandit, the terrible treatment had to be universally applied.

Perhaps because of his own traumatic experiences, Abraham does not wait to discover the strangers’ intentions.  He doesn’t even ask their names.  He runs to them and honors them.  He places himself in a position of great vulnerability.  It was, without question, a dangerous venture. 

One that unfolded into an extravagant gesture.  Abraham and Sarah invite these strangers into their homes.  They offer themselves as servants.  Like the woman with the costly perfume, they waste the best of their possessions on these three men – an abundance of choice flour, a fat and good calf, curds and milk.  And then rather than sit with the men as equals, or as hosts, they stood at the ready, like faithful servants.

It was all so very imprudent.  From first glance through the feast, it was the very picture of extravagance.  As if love were a reckless thing. 

I find it interesting that these guests are never named.  Their mysterious nature and shrouded identities has given rise to much theological speculation over the years.  But I think the lack of names is intentional.  Perhaps the point is that these strange visitors were indistinct.  To Abraham and Sarah they were nobodies – just anonymous desert wanders who happened upon their tent.  Not notable because of name or title. 

They were worthy of honor and extravagance simply on account of their humanity.  Abraham and Sarah show us today what it means to honor the image of God in our midst.  The three strangers were living, breathing children of God, animated by the same breath that spoke forth creation.  And that is enough because that is everything.

We live in this world with these broken human creatures.  And they are fragile and frustrating.  Their hearts infected with violence and hatred.  Their history marred with atrocities.  They disappoint us daily. 

And they, the ones with whom we share this planet, are like those people of old.  Our technology has advanced, but our flaws and our fears are the same.  We are still children of the dust – dust kissed alive by God.  And precious.  And worthy of love.

It is this stubborn insistence that is at the heart of hospitality.  We believe that each and every person is made in the image of God.  If you take that seriously, if you let that idea burrow its way deep into your heart, it should absolutely scandalize you.  It is the most devastating doctrine there is, I think.

But if you do decide to take it seriously, it will change your life.  It will change the way you treat people, the way you look at others.  You will find yourself welcoming the stranger.  You will find yourself spending your treasure to establish justice and promote peace.  You will find yourself giving voice to the cause of the oppressed.  You find that you are willing to sacrifice your personal comfort for the sake of humanity’s salvation.

It is actually not that hard to make this world better.  It’s just that the sacrifice required is terribly costly.  Because it will require us to love people more than we love our precious ideologies, our theories, our justifications, even more than the hatreds we secretly harbor.  We can make this world better by simply humanizing it.  Looking at it, and all of its flawed and frustrating people, through the eyes of our God, the God of Love, the God who kissed each earthen person to life.  We can make this world better if we just keep our promise: to seek and serve Christ in all persons.  They are the Jesus in your midst.  They are living, breathing images of God.  And that is enough because that is everything.