The story came to mind in the latter stages of sermon preparation. It wasn't either one of the biblical passages that had given rise to the sermon, but all of a sudden it seemed more germaine. The specimen on the homiletical dissection table this week was the practice of "welcome" -- what the biblical writers more commonly referred to as "hospitality" -- and the passages we had read aloud encouraged it because of the rather pragmatic possibility that we could be "entertaining angels unaware" (Hebrews 13:2). Such a motivation sounds fine on the surface, but uncomfortably self-serving the longer you sit with it. It reminds me of the now rather embarrassing memory of showering all kind of pastoral attention on the elderly widow in a previous pastorate whose contribution represented something over 10% of the church's annual budget. I suppose it was "pastoral care," but it was self-serving at its core.
The truth is, whatever the long-term and hypothetical prospects might be, hospitality can quite often be expensive in any of a number of ways. Often times it is delightful, but quite often it is inconvenient, disruptive, and depleting. Those liabilities notwithstanding, it is, according to scripture, the right thing to do.
That's when the widow of Zarephath came to mind. Struggling through a drought centuries before the time of Jesus, she and her son were on their last bit of flour and last drop of oil. It was, as far as they could see, to be their last meal. There were exactly zero prospects for more. Then the prophet Elijah, a guy from almost a hundred miles away, drops in and invites himself to supper.
The tension in the story is dramatic, but familiar: the tug-of-war between the "ought to" and the "want to;" between the relational and the comfortable. The widow chooses the former and the threesome sat down to dinner. And it all worked out happily because, as a "reward" for her hospitality to God's servant her pantry was never exhausted until the famine ended. Which makes it a dangerous story, as well. How many television preachers have used this story to cajole offerings out of those who can least afford it?
I'm guessing that Elijah's promise of plenty played little role in the widow's decision. There were, after all, no guarantees. I'm guessing that she simply chose to do the right thing by way of another human being despite the likely consequences, convinced that an extra day of life lived parsimoniously was not all that much worth living.
We are put here, after all, into each others keeping. Wrangle, then, if we must about border
fences and illegal alien benefits and deportations; but meanwhile, the widow is mixing up her last bit of flour and her last drop of oil and with actions, moreso than words, speaking...
..."welcome."
The truth is, whatever the long-term and hypothetical prospects might be, hospitality can quite often be expensive in any of a number of ways. Often times it is delightful, but quite often it is inconvenient, disruptive, and depleting. Those liabilities notwithstanding, it is, according to scripture, the right thing to do.
That's when the widow of Zarephath came to mind. Struggling through a drought centuries before the time of Jesus, she and her son were on their last bit of flour and last drop of oil. It was, as far as they could see, to be their last meal. There were exactly zero prospects for more. Then the prophet Elijah, a guy from almost a hundred miles away, drops in and invites himself to supper.
The tension in the story is dramatic, but familiar: the tug-of-war between the "ought to" and the "want to;" between the relational and the comfortable. The widow chooses the former and the threesome sat down to dinner. And it all worked out happily because, as a "reward" for her hospitality to God's servant her pantry was never exhausted until the famine ended. Which makes it a dangerous story, as well. How many television preachers have used this story to cajole offerings out of those who can least afford it?
I'm guessing that Elijah's promise of plenty played little role in the widow's decision. There were, after all, no guarantees. I'm guessing that she simply chose to do the right thing by way of another human being despite the likely consequences, convinced that an extra day of life lived parsimoniously was not all that much worth living.
We are put here, after all, into each others keeping. Wrangle, then, if we must about border
fences and illegal alien benefits and deportations; but meanwhile, the widow is mixing up her last bit of flour and her last drop of oil and with actions, moreso than words, speaking......"welcome."
3 comments:
Like I shared on Sunday, I am reading these and enjoying them.
Wow. Great post.
Reminds me of a comment a parishoner made to me...
"We are put here not to see through each other, but to see each other through."
Amen.
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