A Meditation on Abraham's Hospitality and Genesis 18
Sunday, November 13, 2011
1.
There’s a broad
pathway running across the grounds of Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust Memorial,
and it’s lined on both sides with trees native to the Holy Land. Israelis call it “the avenue of the righteous
gentiles”; and each tree recalls the courage of a non-Jew who acted to save
Jewish lives during the grim years of the European Holocaust. Folks like Oscar Schindler and Dietrich
Bonhoeffer. Folks like Protestants in Le
Chambon, the French Village that hid a number of Jews in that era’s darkest
days. When you walk through that
memorial, when you revisit that awful history, you can’t help but wonder what
made those particular heroes act as they did.
When so many others kept silent.
Where does that kind of courage, that kind of compassion come from?
Now, last week, we’re
walking through that part of the memorial that marks the deaths of one million
children. One million. It’s a dark hall, only partially illuminated
by hundreds of tiny candles. It’s so
dark we have to hold a handrail as we work our way around the room. From above, a voice reads the names, and the
ages, of the Holocaust’s youngest victims.
One after another after another, after another.
And we emerge from
that dark hall, nineteen of us, Jews and Christians, onto the “avenue of the
righteous gentiles.” I can only speak
for myself, but I’m devastated. It’s my
third time through, but I’m devastated all over again. That so much cruelty exists in the world,
that a good bit of it takes cover in the name of religion, even my
religion. I’m trying to imagine one
million children, one million who didn’t grow up to bless the world with wisdom
and wonder. This would be Grant
Erickson’s generation, Carol Roberts’ generation, Joanna Hildebrandt’s
generation. One million. And now I’m standing on the “avenue of the
righteous gentiles.” And I’m looking at
the little plaques at the foot of each tree, the plaques with the names of
those who did what they could. Those who
put their lives at risk to save others.
I’m shaken by the question that stares back at me---the question posed
by each one of those plaques. Would I
have been among those risktakers? Would
I have been counted among the righteous gentiles? What about me?
It’s not so much a
matter for speculative as it is a question of discipleship for me. And maybe that’s why I can’t shake my memory
of that day, that avenue, those trees.
What does the Lord require of me, in my own generation? What kind of courage, what kind of
compassion, what kind of public life embodies the gospel of my Christ? In so many ways, the church was silent during
the Nazi scourge. But there were
some. And there are choices to be made
now, I think, important choices about the ways we follow Jesus in our own time
and place. I don’t want to be counted
among the silent. I want to be counted
among the righteous gentiles.
2.
What made this last
trip to Israel and Palestine so powerful, I think, was the diversity of our
delegation. I walked those paths at Yad
Vashem, I revisted that awful history—alongside Jewish friends I love and
admire. And when we went to the West
Bank—to see something of the Israeli occupation of Palestine—we did that
together too. Jews and Christians,
priests and pastors and rabbis, musicians and therapists and activists. When we sat down to process those
experiences----the Holocaust Memorial one night, the terrible consequences of
occupation another----we brought very different perspectives to the
conversation. Sometimes those differences
created tension, as they do. And when
they did, we chose to go slow, to listen carefully, to make space. And always----and this is something of a
miracle----always our delegation of nineteen hung in there long enough to affirm
the value of our community. Even and
especially when we disagreed. Even and
especially when the heat was hot, and the stories were painful.
It takes time and
effort to build that kind of community.
And it takes spiritual maturity, spiritual discipline too. Most of us have heard of the Islamic idea of ‘jihad.’ And it’s so often misunderstood and
disfigured in the western world. But my
friend Tahir Anwar----who’ll be coming to speak in worship just two weeks from
this morning----tells me that ‘jihad’ is fundamentally a spiritual
discipline. I know he’ll be talking
about this when he’s here. ‘Jihad,’ he
says, has to do with fearlessly examining one’s life and then removing every
obstacle to spiritual devotion and compassion.
‘Jihad.’ Examination and
devotion.
If that’s what it
is, I kind of think our delegation was engaged in ‘jihad’—together. Do you see what I’m saying? ‘Jihad’---in its deepest, truest
sense---invites self-examination, self-critique, compassionate conversion. ‘Jihad’ insists on honesty and integrity; and
it resists the impulse to blame the other, to demonize the other. And that’s what our little group did—relentlessly,
for two solid weeks in a troubling place.
Day by day, night after night, we spoke honestly and listened carefully
and looked for ways to practice faith and pursue justice. Together.
Friends, if that’s what ‘jihad’ is, if that’s even part of what ‘jihad’
is, it’s hard work. And it takes time.
3.
I want to turn, for
a moment, to the old story we’ve read this morning. Because it’s a story Jews and Christians and
Muslims cherish together. About a
spiritual ancestor we share and honor. Above all, Genesis 18 is a celebration
of hospitality and human community.
Abraham doesn’t know the three pilgrims who come wandering his way in
the hottest part of the day. They’re strangers.
From strange places, with strange habits, wandering around strangely in
the white-hot afternoon. So what does Abraham
do----and let’s remember, this is the great spiritual ancestor of Jews and
Christians and Muslims----what does Abraham do?
He leaps to his feet, sprints to greet these three pilgrims and bows
lovingly before them! Just close your
eyes for a minute. Imagine this
scene. Let it play out. Abraham’s sitting by the tent. Abraham’s noticing the three dusty men in the
distance. Abraham’s leaping to his feet
and running to greet them. For all the
differences among the three Abrahamic faiths, and there are differences,
this is where it all comes together.
This is the tradition we share.
Abraham’s hospitality. Abraham’s
courage. Abraham’s grace. Remember this when the imam comes in a couple
weeks. We’re brothers, we’re sisters, and
Abraham makes us so.
There’s also a kind
of delicious ambiguity in the text today.
The tale begins with the bold pronouncement that “God appeared to
Abraham at the Oaks of Mamre...” Now the
old rabbis go back and forth on what this means. Does it mean that Abraham was deep in prayer when
all this happened? That he was engaged
in some kind of ecstatic experience, some kind of inspired meditation? One or two of the old rabbis note how wild it
is that Abraham turns aside from the God-event to rush out and greet the pilgrims. Even God can’t hold his attention...in the
joyful moment of recognition...as he rushes from the tent to make new friends! Here’s a man for whom hospitality is
everything!
But there are other
ways, subtler ways perhaps, to read the text.
Could it be that God appears to Abraham precisely in the arrival of
three strangers. That this is how God
works in the world. As we encounter
difference. As we make space for the
other in our moral universe. As we greet
a neighbor and explore shared interests together. As we wash one another’s feet and prepare
feasts for one another.
I guess I want to
read the story that way: I want to celebrate here the moral genius of the three
Abrahamic traditions. The Maker of the
Universe, the Creator of Huge Galaxies and Tiny Grasses, the Great I-AM: God
visits us in the arrival of guests from afar.
God meets us in our concern for the other. And most importantly, God is honored,
worshipped in our turning from daily tasks (maybe even prayer) to feed and love
the neighbor. Even and especially the
neighbor we don’t understand all that well.
4.
In terms of our
study this fall, our exploration of four core practices in Christian life, I’m
finding in Genesis 18 a challenge, a provocation, an encouragement. And it’s about discipleship. It’s about taking Jesus seriously, and Moses,
and Mohammed, and Abraham. Don’t you see
Jesus now as a relentless practitioner of neighborliness? Isn’t this what his life is all about? He’s a daring practitioner of
hospitality. No walls, no barriers, no
fears. You just can’t grasp Jesus’
ministry or his call in your life, I’d have to say, without trying
neighborliness in your life. Without
experimenting with a little hospitality.
So when you walk by
the COPA table after worship, I want you to think about discipleship. Keep discipleship in mind. Because we haven’t invested ten years,
thousands of volunteer hours and tens of thousands of dollars in COPA simply to
pat ourselves on the backs. COPA is
about discipleship in the 21st century: learning a new practice of
neighborliness and public life; making common cause with friends in places we
can all too easily avoid. Friends in
places like Watsonville and Salinas. Roman
Catholic immigrants. Jewish
colleagues. Out-of-work union
folks. What we’re doing this Wednesday
evening is taking another step toward these neighbors, another big step in
building a regional coalition, another big step in neighborliness and
compassionate politics. It’s really
about discipleship for me. It’s about
that ‘avenue of the righteous gentiles.’
And when you arrive
here on the 27th, and you find Muslim friends gathering in this holy
place, and you sit down to listen to an imam speaking about his faith, I want
you to think about discipleship. I want
you to imagine yourselves on that ‘avenue of the righteous gentiles.’ Because if there’s one thing we know about
our faith, it’s this. Our faith is a
hospitality faith. Our faith is a
neighborly faith. Our faith is a
footwashing, feast-sharing faith.
And in this
century, following Jesus has to mean stepping out of the comfort zone. Following Jesus has to mean busting through
walls to embrace new friends on the other side.
Following Jesus has to mean building a community in which Muslim friends
and Jewish friends and Christian friends can work, and laugh, and struggle in
peace. In one big tent. By the Oaks of Mamre.
The good news, my
friends, is this: It begins with us. We
get to choose. Praise God. It begins with us.
