Proper 6 / Ordinary Time 11 / Pentecost 2
Preaching
Lectionary Preaching Workbook
Series VIII, Cycle A
Theme For The Day
We are called to practice the virtue of hospitality, which -- at its best -- goes beyond merely providing a bed and a meal.
Old Testament Lesson
Genesis 18:1-15 (21:1-7)
Three Strangers Promise Abraham And Sarah A Son
Abraham and Sarah receive a visit from three mysterious men -- although the narrator gives away the surprise in the very first verse, explaining that it is the Lord who comes to see them. For this reason, this story has long been viewed in Christian hindsight as evidence for the Trinity. Such a meaning would hardly have been apparent to the original readers of this story, however, nor to generations of Jewish or Muslim interpreters afterward. Fastidious about the ancient laws of hospitality, Abraham spares no effort or expense in entertaining his guests. They respond by giving him a blessing beyond imagining. There is whimsical humor in this passage in the sly way the visitors inquire about the absent Sarah; then inform Abraham that his elderly wife will have a baby. Sarah laughs, and we laugh with her -- for we know how the story comes out. Her laughter, now, is rueful and ironic, but in nine months' time it will become genuine joy. The optional verses from chapter 21 tell of the fulfillment of the promise with the birth of Isaac.
New Testament Lesson
Romans 5:1-8
Hope Born Out Of Suffering
This passage offers a heady brew of Pauline theology. Having introduced the idea of justification by faith in earlier verses, Paul now speaks of the benefits resulting from it. They are peace (v. 1), grace (v. 2), and hope (v. 3). Hope is something in which Christians can truly boast. Not only that, but Christians can rejoice even in the midst of sufferings (v. 3). In the verses that follow, Paul follows a tight chain of logic that leads from suffering, to endurance, to character-building, to hope. Christian hope, therefore, is not obtained easily or without pain. Yet, when a believer is tested by fire and comes out the other side not only intact, but stronger than before, this is truly grounds for boasting. The hope of which Paul speaks is no airy optimism, but rather a rock-hard, resolute confidence that comes of having endured fiery trials.
The Gospel
Matthew 9:35--10:8 (9-23)
The Laborers Go Forth Into The Harvest
These several pericopes tell of Jesus' sending-out of the disciples. The first one, 9:35-38, serves as sort of a prologue: "The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few" (v. 37). The crop is ready to be picked, but there are only a dozen field hands. What will God be able to accomplish with so few? Plenty, as it happens. The principal part of today's reading, 10:1-8, lists the names of the twelve disciples, then details the powers Jesus is bestowing upon them so they may heal the sick and speak with authority. The passage ends abruptly in the middle of the pericope. In the optional verses that follow, Jesus instructs the disciples to travel light and to move quickly through the land (verses 9-10). There is a sense of urgency to their mission: If one village does not receive them, they are to move on to the next, giving those inhospitable people no second thought (v. 14). The way before them will be difficult, and there will be persecutions and sufferings. They will be going forth "like sheep into the midst of wolves" (verses 16-18). Yet even so, when they are called upon to give testimony, God will tell them what to say (verses 19-20). The reason for the urgency of their errand becomes apparent in verse 23: "truly I tell you, you will not have gone through all the towns of Israel before the Son of Man comes" -- a difficult text to preach, given Jesus' apparent understanding that the parousia would soon take place.
Preaching Possibilities
"Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it." Good advice, from the letter to the Hebrews. That familiar verse refers to the story we read as our Old Testament lesson -- the story about Abraham's encounter with three mysterious strangers by the oaks of Mamre.
If you were going to film this scene for a movie, you could begin with an aerial shot of a vast, barren desert -- hot, dry sand as far as the eye can see. The camera lens would pick up a tiny patch of green; then would zoom in to an oasis, shaded by giant oaks, hundreds of years old. Under one of the oaks is a tent with its flaps open to catch whatever slight breeze there is. Just inside the tent, sitting in the shade, is a man who appears to be as old as the trees. His hair is white, his face deeply lined and weather beaten. His eyes are closed. Sweat glistens on his brow. The man sits motionless, except when he moves his arm to swat the occasional fly.
The man, Abraham, is a nomad. Every once in a while, he and his wife Sarah, aided by their kinfolk and servants, pack up their tents and drive their livestock to another watering-hole, but wherever they may find themselves encamped, the scene at noonday is very similar. Sun overhead, barely a hint of wind, blazing heat that makes every breath almost painful. The only thing you can do in those sunbaked midday hours is sit as motionless as possible -- and wait.
Waiting is something Abraham is very good at. Years before, the Lord made a covenant with him. The Lord promised to give him a male heir to make his descendants as numberless as the stars. But the fulfillment of that promise has moved as slowly as the desert wind at noonday.
Abraham looks up and out of the bright, shimmering mirage appear the figures of three men walking slowly toward him. Who they are, and where they have come from, he knows not -- and about the nature of their business, under the noonday sun, he knows even less. But, as soon as he sees them, Abraham rouses himself. He rises and greets these strangers as guests -- bowing low, as is the custom. He calls for water so they may wash their feet. He invites them to stay for a meal and calls out to Sarah, bidding her to begin the preparations.
It's the law of the desert. The arrival of a stranger is a sacred occasion -- and woe to those who neglect to offer their guests the best of everything!
The three guests are never named in the biblical narrative -- but it's clear they're more than ordinary humans. Those three are messengers sent from God. They are angels and they've come to deliver the message Abraham and Sarah have been waiting for all their lives.
Sarah -- at her advanced age -- is going to have a baby! Her response to this news is to throw back her head and laugh. Laugh, Sarah, at the absurdity of it, the irony of it -- the sheer, unbridled joy of it! God is good. After all these years of waiting, God is good!
How many people do we encounter in a typical day? Many days, it's dozens, maybe even hundreds, if a place of commerce or mass transit is in our plans. How many of these people we meet are strangers?
Unless we live in the smallest of towns, most of us in our culture have been taught to treat strangers very differently than Abraham did in his. We're taught not to make eye contact, not to converse (unless business calls for it), to interact with that other person as little as necessary. In some urban settings, rules like these are a matter of security, even survival -- but their net result is to impoverish our culture. Somehow, when we abandon the tradition of welcoming the stranger, we've discarded something very valuable -- something essential to our very humanity.
Hospitality is far more than merely a social grace. Very often, it can meet the deepest of human needs. "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers," says the tragic figure, Blanche DuBois, in A Streetcar Named Desire. Who's to say if that stranger we encounter is just as dependent on the kindness we have to offer?
When we are so bold as to welcome the stranger, there's no telling what may happen or how God may use the encounter for good. Abraham and Sarah found that in offering a blessing, they received one far greater. There are blessings a-plenty to be received in reaching out to those around us, but far more important is the blessing we have to give.
Prayer For The Day
Lord, may we never forget
how when we ourselves were wandering,
lost and alone,
you took us in,
made us welcome,
fed us with the bread of life
and the cup of salvation.
We feel the strong force
that presses our eyes to the sidewalk,
that causes us to avert our glance,
that leads us to ignore our sisters and brothers --
our neighbors,
whom you charge us to love
as our very selves.
Make us, Lord,
into hospitable people:
who know how to love
as you first loved us.
Amen.
To Illustrate
The road-weary business traveler steps out of a taxicab, suitcase in hand, and climbs the steps of a downtown hotel. "I'd like to check in," he says to the doorman.
"Right this way, sir," the doorman replies, ushering the man through the revolving door. He directs him not to the front desk but to a machine resembling an ATM. A sign posted on the machine instructs the traveler to insert his credit card, punch in his room preference, and the machine will issue him his key.
They say this sort of thing is the wave of the future in major hotels. "Automatic check-in kiosks," they call them. No human interaction is necessary.
There's something troubling about this rush to efficiency that replaces the smile of the desk clerk with a glowing computer screen. The system's far from perfect, technically speaking; news articles announcing the system's roll-out reported that one in ten transactions failed. Some machines have even issued keys to rooms that are already occupied.
Yet, even if they work out the bugs, this still isn't the greatest idea. Hotel chains take pride in belonging to the "hospitality industry" -- but there's precious little hospitality in inserting a credit card into a slot. The new machine may be able to greet you by name (at least, once you've swiped your card), but can it smile back? Can it chat about the weather? Can it share a few sympathetic words on a bad day?
Of course it can't. Sometimes, there's nothing to replace old-fashioned human interaction.
***
The late Erma Bombeck addressed the importance of hospitable listening some years ago in a newspaper column she wrote. It wasn't her typical humorous column, but it had an important message. The column continues to be circulated more than thirty years after she wrote it.
Erma was getting ready to leave on a business trip, but no one would leave her alone, it seemed -- not her son, not the three people who called her on the phone to chat about nothing, not even the cab driver who drove her to the airport. Finally, she arrived at the departure lounge -- and here she tells the story in her own words:
At least there were thirty whole beautiful minutes before my plane took off -- time for me to be alone with my own thoughts, to open a book and let my mind wander.
A voice next to me belonging to an elderly woman said, "I'll bet it's cold in Chicago." Stone-faced, I replied, "It's likely."
"I haven't been to Chicago in nearly three years," she persisted. "My son lives there."
"That's nice," I said, keeping my eyes on my book.
"My husband's body in on this plane. We've been married 53 years. I don't drive, you know, and when he died a nun drove me home from the hospital. We aren't even Catholic. The funeral director let me come to the airport with him."
I don't think I ever detested myself more than I did at that moment. Another human being was screaming to be heard and in desperation had turned to a cold stranger who was more interested in a novel than in the real life drama at her elbow. She needed no advice, no money, no assistance, no expertise -- all she needed was someone to listen.
She talked numbly and steadily as we boarded the plane, then found her seat in another section. As I hung up my coat, I heard her say to her seat companion, "I'll bet it's cold in Chicago." I prayed, "Please, God, let her listen."
-- Erma Bombeck, "Please, Listen!" Chicago Sun-Times, February 26, 1977
***
There's a memorable story from Guideposts magazine about a children's Christmas pageant that took place in London, Ontario. Among the children who signed up for that pageant was a large, ungainly boy named Ralph, who didn't fit in all that well with the other children. He tended to be rather slow-thinking as well. The teacher in charge of the pageant wasn't sure what to do with him. Figuring the role of the innkeeper, with only a few lines, was pretty harmless. So she gave him that role.
It didn't work out that way. As the teacher describes it:
"The play progressed without any major mishaps until Joseph appeared, walking slowly, tenderly helping Mary to the door of the inn. He knocked hard on the wooden door.
Ralph was ready and waiting.
'What do you want?' he cried out, pushing the door open with a rude gesture.
'We are looking for lodgings.'
'Look for them elsewhere.' Ralph looked straight ahead, but he spoke with conviction. 'The inn is full.'
'Kind sir, we have asked everywhere in vain. We have traveled far and are very weary.'
'There is no room for you.'
'Please, good innkeeper, this is my wife, Mary. She is heavy with child and must find a place to rest for the night. Surely you must have some small corner for her. She is so tired.'
Ralph looked down at Mary. There was a long pause. The audience became tense with embarrassment.
'No, begone!' I coached.
Ralph just stood there.
Three times I prompted him from the wings, each time louder than the last. The angels backstage with me were becoming anxious, too. At last, Ralph automatically repeated the words he had learned in those long weeks of practice: 'No, begone!'
Joseph sadly placed his arm around Mary and started to turn away. The innkeeper did not return to his inn as directed. He stood there watching the forlorn couple, looking perplexed, with his mouth opened, his brow creased with concern, his eyes filled with tears. Then suddenly, this Christmas pageant became different from all the rest.
'Don't go, Joseph. Please don't go,' Ralph called out. 'Bring Mary back.' His face brightened with a big smile. He stretched out his arms.
'You can have my room!'
And my eyes filled with tears. The glory of God shone about them, and in only a moment, the choir of angels entered caroling their Christmas song."
-- "Trouble at the Inn," Guideposts, 1966
We are called to practice the virtue of hospitality, which -- at its best -- goes beyond merely providing a bed and a meal.
Old Testament Lesson
Genesis 18:1-15 (21:1-7)
Three Strangers Promise Abraham And Sarah A Son
Abraham and Sarah receive a visit from three mysterious men -- although the narrator gives away the surprise in the very first verse, explaining that it is the Lord who comes to see them. For this reason, this story has long been viewed in Christian hindsight as evidence for the Trinity. Such a meaning would hardly have been apparent to the original readers of this story, however, nor to generations of Jewish or Muslim interpreters afterward. Fastidious about the ancient laws of hospitality, Abraham spares no effort or expense in entertaining his guests. They respond by giving him a blessing beyond imagining. There is whimsical humor in this passage in the sly way the visitors inquire about the absent Sarah; then inform Abraham that his elderly wife will have a baby. Sarah laughs, and we laugh with her -- for we know how the story comes out. Her laughter, now, is rueful and ironic, but in nine months' time it will become genuine joy. The optional verses from chapter 21 tell of the fulfillment of the promise with the birth of Isaac.
New Testament Lesson
Romans 5:1-8
Hope Born Out Of Suffering
This passage offers a heady brew of Pauline theology. Having introduced the idea of justification by faith in earlier verses, Paul now speaks of the benefits resulting from it. They are peace (v. 1), grace (v. 2), and hope (v. 3). Hope is something in which Christians can truly boast. Not only that, but Christians can rejoice even in the midst of sufferings (v. 3). In the verses that follow, Paul follows a tight chain of logic that leads from suffering, to endurance, to character-building, to hope. Christian hope, therefore, is not obtained easily or without pain. Yet, when a believer is tested by fire and comes out the other side not only intact, but stronger than before, this is truly grounds for boasting. The hope of which Paul speaks is no airy optimism, but rather a rock-hard, resolute confidence that comes of having endured fiery trials.
The Gospel
Matthew 9:35--10:8 (9-23)
The Laborers Go Forth Into The Harvest
These several pericopes tell of Jesus' sending-out of the disciples. The first one, 9:35-38, serves as sort of a prologue: "The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few" (v. 37). The crop is ready to be picked, but there are only a dozen field hands. What will God be able to accomplish with so few? Plenty, as it happens. The principal part of today's reading, 10:1-8, lists the names of the twelve disciples, then details the powers Jesus is bestowing upon them so they may heal the sick and speak with authority. The passage ends abruptly in the middle of the pericope. In the optional verses that follow, Jesus instructs the disciples to travel light and to move quickly through the land (verses 9-10). There is a sense of urgency to their mission: If one village does not receive them, they are to move on to the next, giving those inhospitable people no second thought (v. 14). The way before them will be difficult, and there will be persecutions and sufferings. They will be going forth "like sheep into the midst of wolves" (verses 16-18). Yet even so, when they are called upon to give testimony, God will tell them what to say (verses 19-20). The reason for the urgency of their errand becomes apparent in verse 23: "truly I tell you, you will not have gone through all the towns of Israel before the Son of Man comes" -- a difficult text to preach, given Jesus' apparent understanding that the parousia would soon take place.
Preaching Possibilities
"Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it." Good advice, from the letter to the Hebrews. That familiar verse refers to the story we read as our Old Testament lesson -- the story about Abraham's encounter with three mysterious strangers by the oaks of Mamre.
If you were going to film this scene for a movie, you could begin with an aerial shot of a vast, barren desert -- hot, dry sand as far as the eye can see. The camera lens would pick up a tiny patch of green; then would zoom in to an oasis, shaded by giant oaks, hundreds of years old. Under one of the oaks is a tent with its flaps open to catch whatever slight breeze there is. Just inside the tent, sitting in the shade, is a man who appears to be as old as the trees. His hair is white, his face deeply lined and weather beaten. His eyes are closed. Sweat glistens on his brow. The man sits motionless, except when he moves his arm to swat the occasional fly.
The man, Abraham, is a nomad. Every once in a while, he and his wife Sarah, aided by their kinfolk and servants, pack up their tents and drive their livestock to another watering-hole, but wherever they may find themselves encamped, the scene at noonday is very similar. Sun overhead, barely a hint of wind, blazing heat that makes every breath almost painful. The only thing you can do in those sunbaked midday hours is sit as motionless as possible -- and wait.
Waiting is something Abraham is very good at. Years before, the Lord made a covenant with him. The Lord promised to give him a male heir to make his descendants as numberless as the stars. But the fulfillment of that promise has moved as slowly as the desert wind at noonday.
Abraham looks up and out of the bright, shimmering mirage appear the figures of three men walking slowly toward him. Who they are, and where they have come from, he knows not -- and about the nature of their business, under the noonday sun, he knows even less. But, as soon as he sees them, Abraham rouses himself. He rises and greets these strangers as guests -- bowing low, as is the custom. He calls for water so they may wash their feet. He invites them to stay for a meal and calls out to Sarah, bidding her to begin the preparations.
It's the law of the desert. The arrival of a stranger is a sacred occasion -- and woe to those who neglect to offer their guests the best of everything!
The three guests are never named in the biblical narrative -- but it's clear they're more than ordinary humans. Those three are messengers sent from God. They are angels and they've come to deliver the message Abraham and Sarah have been waiting for all their lives.
Sarah -- at her advanced age -- is going to have a baby! Her response to this news is to throw back her head and laugh. Laugh, Sarah, at the absurdity of it, the irony of it -- the sheer, unbridled joy of it! God is good. After all these years of waiting, God is good!
How many people do we encounter in a typical day? Many days, it's dozens, maybe even hundreds, if a place of commerce or mass transit is in our plans. How many of these people we meet are strangers?
Unless we live in the smallest of towns, most of us in our culture have been taught to treat strangers very differently than Abraham did in his. We're taught not to make eye contact, not to converse (unless business calls for it), to interact with that other person as little as necessary. In some urban settings, rules like these are a matter of security, even survival -- but their net result is to impoverish our culture. Somehow, when we abandon the tradition of welcoming the stranger, we've discarded something very valuable -- something essential to our very humanity.
Hospitality is far more than merely a social grace. Very often, it can meet the deepest of human needs. "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers," says the tragic figure, Blanche DuBois, in A Streetcar Named Desire. Who's to say if that stranger we encounter is just as dependent on the kindness we have to offer?
When we are so bold as to welcome the stranger, there's no telling what may happen or how God may use the encounter for good. Abraham and Sarah found that in offering a blessing, they received one far greater. There are blessings a-plenty to be received in reaching out to those around us, but far more important is the blessing we have to give.
Prayer For The Day
Lord, may we never forget
how when we ourselves were wandering,
lost and alone,
you took us in,
made us welcome,
fed us with the bread of life
and the cup of salvation.
We feel the strong force
that presses our eyes to the sidewalk,
that causes us to avert our glance,
that leads us to ignore our sisters and brothers --
our neighbors,
whom you charge us to love
as our very selves.
Make us, Lord,
into hospitable people:
who know how to love
as you first loved us.
Amen.
To Illustrate
The road-weary business traveler steps out of a taxicab, suitcase in hand, and climbs the steps of a downtown hotel. "I'd like to check in," he says to the doorman.
"Right this way, sir," the doorman replies, ushering the man through the revolving door. He directs him not to the front desk but to a machine resembling an ATM. A sign posted on the machine instructs the traveler to insert his credit card, punch in his room preference, and the machine will issue him his key.
They say this sort of thing is the wave of the future in major hotels. "Automatic check-in kiosks," they call them. No human interaction is necessary.
There's something troubling about this rush to efficiency that replaces the smile of the desk clerk with a glowing computer screen. The system's far from perfect, technically speaking; news articles announcing the system's roll-out reported that one in ten transactions failed. Some machines have even issued keys to rooms that are already occupied.
Yet, even if they work out the bugs, this still isn't the greatest idea. Hotel chains take pride in belonging to the "hospitality industry" -- but there's precious little hospitality in inserting a credit card into a slot. The new machine may be able to greet you by name (at least, once you've swiped your card), but can it smile back? Can it chat about the weather? Can it share a few sympathetic words on a bad day?
Of course it can't. Sometimes, there's nothing to replace old-fashioned human interaction.
***
The late Erma Bombeck addressed the importance of hospitable listening some years ago in a newspaper column she wrote. It wasn't her typical humorous column, but it had an important message. The column continues to be circulated more than thirty years after she wrote it.
Erma was getting ready to leave on a business trip, but no one would leave her alone, it seemed -- not her son, not the three people who called her on the phone to chat about nothing, not even the cab driver who drove her to the airport. Finally, she arrived at the departure lounge -- and here she tells the story in her own words:
At least there were thirty whole beautiful minutes before my plane took off -- time for me to be alone with my own thoughts, to open a book and let my mind wander.
A voice next to me belonging to an elderly woman said, "I'll bet it's cold in Chicago." Stone-faced, I replied, "It's likely."
"I haven't been to Chicago in nearly three years," she persisted. "My son lives there."
"That's nice," I said, keeping my eyes on my book.
"My husband's body in on this plane. We've been married 53 years. I don't drive, you know, and when he died a nun drove me home from the hospital. We aren't even Catholic. The funeral director let me come to the airport with him."
I don't think I ever detested myself more than I did at that moment. Another human being was screaming to be heard and in desperation had turned to a cold stranger who was more interested in a novel than in the real life drama at her elbow. She needed no advice, no money, no assistance, no expertise -- all she needed was someone to listen.
She talked numbly and steadily as we boarded the plane, then found her seat in another section. As I hung up my coat, I heard her say to her seat companion, "I'll bet it's cold in Chicago." I prayed, "Please, God, let her listen."
-- Erma Bombeck, "Please, Listen!" Chicago Sun-Times, February 26, 1977
***
There's a memorable story from Guideposts magazine about a children's Christmas pageant that took place in London, Ontario. Among the children who signed up for that pageant was a large, ungainly boy named Ralph, who didn't fit in all that well with the other children. He tended to be rather slow-thinking as well. The teacher in charge of the pageant wasn't sure what to do with him. Figuring the role of the innkeeper, with only a few lines, was pretty harmless. So she gave him that role.
It didn't work out that way. As the teacher describes it:
"The play progressed without any major mishaps until Joseph appeared, walking slowly, tenderly helping Mary to the door of the inn. He knocked hard on the wooden door.
Ralph was ready and waiting.
'What do you want?' he cried out, pushing the door open with a rude gesture.
'We are looking for lodgings.'
'Look for them elsewhere.' Ralph looked straight ahead, but he spoke with conviction. 'The inn is full.'
'Kind sir, we have asked everywhere in vain. We have traveled far and are very weary.'
'There is no room for you.'
'Please, good innkeeper, this is my wife, Mary. She is heavy with child and must find a place to rest for the night. Surely you must have some small corner for her. She is so tired.'
Ralph looked down at Mary. There was a long pause. The audience became tense with embarrassment.
'No, begone!' I coached.
Ralph just stood there.
Three times I prompted him from the wings, each time louder than the last. The angels backstage with me were becoming anxious, too. At last, Ralph automatically repeated the words he had learned in those long weeks of practice: 'No, begone!'
Joseph sadly placed his arm around Mary and started to turn away. The innkeeper did not return to his inn as directed. He stood there watching the forlorn couple, looking perplexed, with his mouth opened, his brow creased with concern, his eyes filled with tears. Then suddenly, this Christmas pageant became different from all the rest.
'Don't go, Joseph. Please don't go,' Ralph called out. 'Bring Mary back.' His face brightened with a big smile. He stretched out his arms.
'You can have my room!'
And my eyes filled with tears. The glory of God shone about them, and in only a moment, the choir of angels entered caroling their Christmas song."
-- "Trouble at the Inn," Guideposts, 1966
