Delivered on Sunday, November 16, 2003

at First Parish in Bedford

"The Arabs Used to Say"

Naomi Shihab Nye

From: Prayers for a Thousand Years

The Arabs used to say,

When a stranger appears at your door,

feed him for three days

before asking who he is,

where he’s from,

where he’s headed.

That way, he’ll have strength enough

to answer.

Or, by then you’ll be such good friends

you don’t care.

Let’s go back to that.

Rice? Pine nuts?

Here, take the red brocade pillow.

My child will serve water

to your horse.

No, I was not busy when you came!

I was not preparing to be busy.

That’s armor everyone put on

at the end of the century

to pretend they had a purpose

in the world.

I refuse to be claimed.

Your plate is waiting.

We will snip fresh mint

into your tea.

Matthew 25:31-40: When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, and he will put the sheep at his right hand and the goats at the left. Then the king will say to those at his right hand, "Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me." Then the righteous will answer him, "Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you? And the king will answer them, "Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me. (NRSV)

I’ve had an old Chassidic story on my mind lately. The story goes like this.

Deep in the forest, there was a monastery that had fallen on hard times. Once thriving, things had now become so bad that there were only four monks and the abbot left, all over seventy. The monastery was clearly dying.

Despairing over the monastery’s decline, the abbot decided to visit a wise rabbi and seek his counsel. The rabbi welcomed the abbot and listened carefully to him. But, when the abbot finished his sad tale, the rabbi only shook his head and said, "I know how it is. The spirit has gone from the people. It is the same in my town. Almost no one comes to synagogue anymore."

The two men wept together. Then they read Torah and spoke of many deep things.

Eventually the abbot had to leave. As the two men embraced, the rabbi said, "I’m sorry I had no advice for you. The only thing I can tell you is that the Messiah is one of you."

The abbot returned to the monastery, He sadly told the monks, "The rabbi couldn’t help, We just wept and read the Torah together. The only thing he did say was that the Messiah was one of us. I don’t know what he meant."

The monks pondered. What did the rabbi mean? Is the Messiah really one of us?

The abbot maybe?

Or, Brother Thomas who is so clearly a holy man?

Surely not Brother Elred, who is too crotchety. But, when you come right down to it, in retrospect Brother Elred is always right about things.

Brother Phillip maybe. No, Phillip is so quiet and passive. Still, when you really need someone, Brother Phillip has a way of magically appearing.

Maybe the rabbi meant one of the visitors who come here from time to time. Has the Messiah been here and we didn’t even know it? Or is he on his way?

Surely the rabbi didn’t mean me! I’m just an ordinary person. ….But… what if he did mean me? Oh God, I am not the Messiah am I? I couldn’t be that much for you, could I?

As the pondering continued, the monks began to treat each other deep respect, just in case one of them really was the Messiah. And they began to treat themselves with respect, too. Just in case…

Occasionally hikers coming through the forest would visit the monastery, sometimes stopping to pray in the dilapidated chapel. They began to notice something strangely compelling about the monastery. For one thing, the monks radiated love and respect.

People began to make special trips to the forest, just to be in the presence of the monks. They brought their families and friends to show them that special place.

Some of the younger men began to talk to the old monks. And then one young man decided to take orders. And then another joined. And another. And another. Within a few years, the monastery was thriving again, Thanks to the rabbi’s gift, it became a vibrant center of light and spirituality.

Well, that is how the story is told. But the story doesn’t end there. As we know, success stories have their associated challenges.

Eventually, of course, the monastery became so crowded that they had to add on a new building to house all the monks and to accommodate all the visitors. Pretty soon, it grew hard to know everyone well, and some folks missed the intimate feel of the smaller group. With time, the monastery developed new programs, and the need for scheduling and planning grew exponentially. Eventually, the abbot had more work than any one person could handle, and the monastery brought in an assistant to give him a hand.

The monastery handled the challenges well, despite a few inevitable bumps in the road. Every so often, the abbot and the monks remembered the rabbi’s message, and that helped them to manage. The rabbi’s message reunited them with a vision much older than themselves or their little community—a vision that asked them to risk changing themselves by imagining and living as though the gift of holiness dwelt among them. That vision is what I call "religious hospitality."

Religious hospitality welcomes the sacred in all creation and believes that touching that sacred center will change the world. Religious hospitality finds its roots in love and compassion, its wings in building bridges and increasing understanding among people. Committing ourselves to such hospitality—keeping it at the heart of all we do—we practice over and over again the welcome of every person as inherently worthy. We become like the monks in the story, stretching our hearts and imaginations to discover the most sacred in our own hearts and in the hearts of others.

Religious hospitality has deep roots, stretching all the way back to ancient Judaism and early Christianity, as aptly described in Christine Pohl’s book, Making Room. Think about it: Survival throughout the ancient Near East required hospitality. Days were blistering, nights cold, and water scarce in the desert. There were no Comfort Inns, no restaurants. There were no hospitals for the sick and no social institutions to help the most needy and vulnerable. Instead, communities marshaled their forces to tend to the needs of their members. Travelers depended on the hospitality of the communities they passed through. And so ancient Near Eastern cultures considered hospitality a sacred duty.

Judaism deepened the religious practice of hospitality. The Exodus story, central to Judaism, depicts Israel as a nation of strangers, or aliens, welcomed into God’s land. In return for God’s hospitality, Israel was to offer like hospitality to strangers. For the first time, love entered into the equation: Commandments in Leviticus enjoin the ancient Israelites both to love their neighbor as themselves (19:18) and to love aliens as themselves (19:34). Social justice messages appear again and again in the Hebrew Bible, with God reminding Israel to care for the most vulnerable.

Jesus’ message came from the heart of Judaism. Roger’s reading from the book of Matthew—perhaps the most famous of Jesus’ teachings on hospitality—reflects the kind of care Jews were expected to extend to the vulnerable and powerless. And as the early Christians began forming their new communities, they fostered the belief that religious hospitality required them to welcome others as Christ had welcomed them.

In addition, because Christianity held out the promise that Christ would return someday, the early Christians believed any stranger could actually be Christ. Early Christian communities therefore welcomed strangers with a mixture of deep respect and gratitude—especially strangers as humble as those mentioned in the Matthew text: the hungry, the thirsty, the sick, the naked, the prisoner.

Listen, for example, to these words of Saint Benedict, founder of the Benedictine religious communities that were and still are legendary for their hospitality.