by Rev. Dr. Marilyn Sewell

First Unitarian Church

Portland, Oregon

OPENING WORDS

Good morning!

We come here today

In this house of worship

To give thanks,

To renew our vows,

And to be strengthened,

That we might ever more fully love.

I was raised a Southern woman, and to be Southern is to be hospitable.  When a guest came to our home, he was welcomed warmly and given the most comfortable chair.  Guests were always invited to dinner, without exception, and heaping bowls of lovely food put before them.  When they began to take their leave, they were always urged to return—“Now ya’ll come back real soon, you hear?”

But Southern hospitality went only so far.  It did not extend to Black folks, and it was not offered readily to strangers, or Yankees, as we called them—people not from the South.  Now with African Americans, it’s not that whites were not polite—because we were all raised to be polite—but in a paternalistic kind of way.  Blacks in the 1950s where I grew up were treated like children that had to be cared for—and of course were treated as servants.  So long as they—and the term was “stayed in their place”—everything was peaceful, but if they did not, if they dared to behave as equals, then all hell broke loose.

And as for Yankees, well, they were outsiders and it took a long, long time for these strangers to be trusted, should one move to town.  Fear was deeply imbedded in Southern social structure, and so the surface geniality, the soft words, could turn to hostility and to violence.  That was kind of crazy-making—these church-going, God-fearing, easy-moving folks could turn on you if you challenged their way of life one small bit.  Believe me.  I’ve seen it more than once.  Hospitality was really a convention that operated within strictly defined boundaries.  What did we lose from that insularity?

Today I don’t want to talk about that kind of hospitality.  I don’t want to talk about the “hospitality industry.”  I don’t want to talk about the surface politeness that most of us learned when we grew up.  I don’t want to talk about the “Won’t you come in?” and “How are you?” kind of verbal niceties that lubricate our social interactions.  There’s nothing wrong with these.  But I want to go further.  I want to speak of radical hospitality—radical, from the Latin radix, meaning “root”—or a hospitality that comes from a deeper place, from a spiritual center.  Hospitality that has a moral and ethical dimension.  I want to talk about an openness—not just to friend or family, not just to the known, but to the unknown—hospitality to the stranger, that is transforming and redemptive. 

It is no accident that there are stories in the Hebrew and Christian scriptures of God’s messengers and angels disguising themselves to test the hospitality of humans.  You remember the story of Jacob wrestling with the angel.  And similar stories in Greek mythology.  Remember Baucis and Philemon?  In Ovid’s tale the gods Jupiter and Mercury disguise themselves as mortals, and roam the earth looking for rest.  A thousand doors are shut in their faces.  But at last they are welcomed by an old man and an old woman Philemon and Baucis.  Though they were poor, they, as Ovid wrote, “faced their poverty with a cheerful spirit.”  The old couple set a table for their guests, offering the best they had, some cabbage from their garden and some of their precious bacon. But then something mysterious happens.  The mixing bowl keeps filling itself.  The old couple become frightened, worried that their food isn’t good enough for their guests, and they consider killing their beloved goose.  But before they can kill it, the goose runs to the guests, and the guests reveal themselves as the gods they are, Jupiter and Mercury. 

The gods disguise themselves—why?  Because the Sacred comes to us in subtle ways—what do you expect, a burning bush?  And the stranger may well be the means by which we are saved.  The stranger is the one who is most likely to shake us up, to make us look at ourselves and at the world in a different way.  And another thing:  what we fear in others—those very qualities—are often the very things we fear in ourselves.  And so to welcome the stranger from without, we also welcome the stranger within.  We grow toward wholeness in this way.  

This story of Baucis and Philemon—it’s interesting that a couple living with so little was willing to share so much—but that is congruent with my experience.  I remember one time when as a graduate student in theology, I did a wedding in the wine country in of California—the wedding was way down a winding state road, many miles from nowhere.  On the way home, my old Capri broke down, and I found myself there in the pitch dark on this lonely road in my robe and high heels, with my brief case, walking along the shoulder, scared to death, hoping that I would come upon a farm house before I was found by some serial killer they have there in California.  Well, cars zoomed past me, one after the next.  Big cars, fancy cars—probably cars from the very wedding I had just performed.  But no one stopped.  Then a car did stop.  “Do you need a ride?” The man said.  The car was an old, broken-down Chevy, and the man peering out the window looked to be Hispanic.  Hesitating, I moved closer, and I saw that the car was packed with men, women and children—a Hispanic farm family returning from a long day’s work in the field.  “Jump in, we’ll make room for you,” he said.  And I did, and they did, and they took me to a telephone—and then waited there until they were sure I had contacted someone from the wedding and help was on the way.  They were tired, they were hungry, and yet they did this for me.  “I was a stranger, and you took me in.”

Are you familiar with that line?  It’s from the 25^th chapter of Matthew, and the words are put into the mouth of God at judgment day:  “For I was hungry, and you gave me meat: I was thirsty, and you gave me drink: I was a stranger, and you took me in: / Naked, and you clothed me: I was sick, and you visited me: I was in prison, and you came unto me./  Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when did we see you hungry, and feed you? Or thirsty, and give you drink? When did we see you a stranger and take you in?  When were you naked, and we clothed you?  Or when did we see you sick or in prison, and did we come to you?  And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, you have done it unto me.”

Radical hospitality—reaching out to the stranger, giving even that which we may even need ourselves, giving sacrificially—is transforming, redemptive.  This kind of hospitality comes from a tender, sacred center within us and touches the sacred center in another.  It is that kind of touch, that kind of touch, to that center, that will change the world.  I have to remember that when I become—well, angry and overwrought over some news story that is disheartening—I have to remember, don’t cover over that tender center, that vulnerable place, that’s where the sacred lives.  I say to myself, you don’t dare put a wall of anger and resentment over that place—you don’t dare harden your heart.

I want to share with you a story from one of my favorite writers, Terry Tempest Williams.  She is telling of an experience she had while making a pilgrimage to Avila in Spain, where St. Teresa of Avila lived.  I’m guessing that she must have been going through a very dry period in her own life.  She had been reading Teresa’s Autobiography, and had randomly opened it to this line:  “And God converted the dryness of my soul into a great tenderness.”  There at a fountain she encountered a peasant who had walked many miles to get water from the fountain. This is how she describes the encounter:

“The small plaza is quiet.  I walk to the fountain and wash my face and hands and arms.  The water is cold and invigorating.  I wash my face again.

“An old man with a black beret dressed in a white shirt with an olive green cardigan and grey slacks comes to the fountain carrying a plastic sack with two gallon water jugs.  He is wearing blue canvas slippers.

“I learn he is from one of the outlying pueblos in the mountains, that he makes this journey once a week to collect water for his wife from this particular fountain.  . . . . His wife is especially devoted to Santa Teresa de Avila.  She believes this water restores the spirit and all manner of ailments.  He invites me to drink the water with him.

“. . . .  He is a small and handsomely weathered man.  He lifts his weary legs over the steps of the fountain, stoops down and then with great deliberation begins to fill each bottle.   . . . .  The old man fills one with about an inch of water, enjoys several sips, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and fills it again.  The old man gestures to one of the two bottles he has just painstakingly filled.  . . . .  At first I do not understand.  Perhaps he is offering me another drink? 

“‘Gracias, pero no.’

“He persists.

“‘Para mi?’

“He nods.  He hands me one of his bottles.  I hardly know what to do.  The old man had walked so far for this water.  What will his wife say when he returns home to the mountains with only one bottle?  How to receive this gift?  What can I give in return?  I hold the jug of water close and feel its refreshment even against my skin.

“‘Gracias, senor, para tu regalo.’

“‘De nada.’

“The old man nods and smiles and slowly shifts his weight on his right hand to ease himself up.  He bends down and puts the other bottle in his bag.

“After he is gone, I look back toward the fountain.  <And she remembers more words from Teresa’s work:> ‘For tears gain everything; and one kind of water attracts another . . . .’” Heart to heart, spirit to spirit. 

Being open to the stranger, giving and receiving from the heart, oh, this is a dangerous endeavor.  Let that be said.  We must be vulnerable.  We could be hurt.  But another question must be asked:  how dangerous will I become if I close down my heart?  Stretching hurts, but stretch we must.  This tender heart-place is the only place for the Sacred to enter.

Every Sunday we have visitors here to the church.  I’m always so very happy to have you here—let me say that, so pleased to greet you after the service.  It is you folks, you strangers, who will see us with new eyes, who will tell us things we need to know, who will bring new ideas, new ways of being to us.  So, welcome!  We could decide, oh, we have enough members now, enough children in our R.E. program—but most of you know that we are planning a building for educational purposes and for social justice purposes on this site behind Salmon Street Sanctuary, just north of here.  We have outgrown our space—our religious education program for children in particular is crammed, jammed full, and we don’t want to turn people away.  We want to make space for those who want to come here.  And we want in particular to serve those strangers in need.

You know, people come to church for a reason.  I came because I was devastated after being separated from my husband, and I desperately needed a community.  Why did you come for the first time?  I hope you were welcomed.  And I hope you see the Sacred in each person you encounter here this morning, whether known or unknown.  Let me tell you something:  each is carrying more pain than you know.  Each has the capacity to open some little-known place in your own soul. 

We are told, all too often, that the world is a fearful place.  ut it is a mistake to believe that our greatest need is safety.  Our greatest need is connection.  To touch one another in those places of authenticity.  To know that we are one.  Yes, even the stranger.  If we are open, maybe especially the stranger may take us some place we dearly need to go, and though we may not notice at first . . . we may find that strange person has angel wings.  So be it.  Amen.

PRAYER

Holy One, we know You come in many disguises.  Help us to be curious and ready, that we might not miss you when you come to call.  Forgive us when we become insular and small, for we know that you would not have us so—we are called to be large and loving persons.  Give us courage, O Holy One, to keep these trembling hearts open.  Amen.

BENEDICTION

Go now, and see the Sacred in each one you look upon.  Go in love and go in peace.