November 9, 2011: Solemn Evensong & Holy Eucharist
Blessed Willibrord of Utrecht
Isaiah 55:1-5; Luke 10:1-9
Cannon Chapel, Candler School of Theology, Emory University
O God, be merciful to us and bless us. Show us the light of your countenance and come to us. Amen.
Tonight, we find Jesus preparing for his long journey to Jerusalem; to the city where he will be greeted with accolades and praises and shouts of hosanna and where the people meet him with palms, shouting triumphantly, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”
Of course, in the back of our minds, we all know what comes just a few days later. The shouts of joy turn to shouts of terror and violence. Soon, the people will cry, “Crucify him, crucify him!”
But tonight, as Jesus is preparing to walk the road that will lead to his suffering, his pain, and his death, he takes a moment to address seventy of his friends and followers who are to accompany him along the way.
One might expect Jesus to appoint several people to carry provisions or supplies for the long and hot journey to Jerusalem. One might even expect Jesus to make arrangements for some of his friends to carry tents so that they may spend the night along the road.
But Jesus doesn’t do any of that. In fact, he sends out the faithful with the instruction that they travel with no purse, no bag, and no sandals. And Jesus tells the departing seventy that they are to depend only on the kindness and hospitality of others to sustain them along the way, eating and drinking only that which is put on the table in front of them.
“Remain in the same house, eating and drinking whatever they provide, for the laborer deserves to be paid. Do not move about from house to house. Whenever you enter a town and its people welcome you, eat what is set before you; cure the sick who are there, and say to them, “The kingdom of God has come near to you.””
Even in the midst of Jesus’ journey into suffering and death, and even in the midst of Luke’s narrative becoming more and more eschatological, Jesus makes a powerful statement urging humility, thankfulness, and graciousness amidst even the most miserable conditions. Even when the stakes are at their highest, even when it has become a matter of life and death, Jesus urges hospitality and openness to the strangers in our midst!
Hospitality, as most of us understand it today, is sharing from one’s abundance; or, the act of those who can afford it, giving to those who are in the greatest need. Such hospitality is vital for our society and vital for us to live out our lives as Christians in faithful obedience to God.
But Luke paints a different portrait of hospitality in this passage. Here, Jesus gives us a glimpse of a type of hospitality that is more mutual; a type of hospitality that is dependent upon the denial of self-indulgence, rather than on donations from our excess.
After all, the houses that the seventy visited were not imperial palaces or mansions of well-to-do first-century Palestinians. The houses where Jesus’ followers would have been welcomed are the houses that barely had enough food to put on the table for their own family, let alone additional hungry and thirsty guests.
Jesus urges the seventy to visit the homes of the men and women who could least afford it. He urges the seventy to be gracious in receiving what their hosts have to offer. And he urges a sense of hospitality that bends social customs and reaches towards mutual respect and love for God. For it is in this mutual relationship that we discover that the kingdom of God comes close to us.
Blessed Willibrord, the saint whose life and ministry we celebrate today, was sent from Northern England to convert the people of present-day Netherlands to Christianity in the seventh and eighth centuries. He never built for himself a palace that would have accompanied his office if he had he remained closer to Rome or England. He never ordered the construction of an enormous cathedral that is fitting of an archbishop’s see. Instead, he constructed numerous small churches and abbeys across the land for the people to gather in community to worship and pray.
Even today, his remains cannot be found in a grand cathedral, but in the quiet abbey that he often visited, seeking retreat and quietness.
Willibrord’s life and legacy is still honored among Christians today in both England and the Netherlands as a sign of their nearly 1500 year-old relationship of mutual hospitality with one another.
His life also serves as a reminder to us, that we are to be gracious guests and hospitable hosts in all that we do, no matter how much or how little we have to offer or how much or how little we receive.
As Willibrord knew well, God is calling each of us to a life of mutuality—a life of sharing graciously with one another. But God is also calling us deeper and deeper into a life of mutuality with Godself.
I often forget this. I suspect that at some time or another, all of us forget this.
But the reality is that we can never experience the fullness of a mutual relationship with one another unless we open our hearts and our minds to experience the fullness of a mutual relationship with God.
In a few moments, we will share in the church’s sacred act of mutual hospitality as we celebrate Christ’s gift and sacrifice of himself in the Holy Eucharist.
As we pray together for the Holy Spirit to bless and sanctify these gifts, we are united at once with each another and with God. It is in these liminal moments that we can glimpse what a life of mutuality really is.
Recall the words of the Prophet Isaiah: “Come, all who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price! Listen carefully and eat what is good! Incline your ear to me; listen, so that you may live!”
As we come to the table, we find ourselves confronted with the reality of our own ungratefulness, but we are nourished by the unsurpassed hospitality and love of Christ Jesus our Lord. And we are reoriented to God so that we may truly live, feasting on that which is very good, indeed.
In this meal, we are met with a host that gives us more than we could ever ask for or desire. And in this meal, we are given the opportunity to begin again—to go forth from this place, reminded of the Risen Lord’s desire to draw us deeper into God’s love for us; and for us to share that love with every person we meet—stranger or not.
A few weeks ago, a dear friend of mine shared with me an ancient hymn written by St. Ephraem who lived in the 4th century in present-day Syria. It reads, “In your bread hides the Spirit that cannot be consumed; in your wine is the fire that cannot be drunk. The Spirit in your bread, the fire in your wine: here is a wonder welcomed by our lips. The seraph could not get his fingers close to the hot coal that could only approach Isaiah's mouth; neither did the fingers take it, nor the lips swallow it; but the Lord granted us the ability to do both things. The fire rained down with anger to destroy the sinners, but the fire of grace comes down on the bread and remains there. Instead of the fire destroying man, we ate the fire in the bread and we were revived.”
When we receive the crisp, dry bread and hear, “The body of Christ, the bread of heaven;” and when we grasp the chalice containing the wine and hear, “The blood of Christ, the cup of salvation,” we become partakers in the eternal mutuality that is the Risen Lord.
And it is in this banquet that we can hear the words of Christ Jesus, whispering to our hearts: “The Kingdom of God has come near!”
Amen.
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