For the past several years, our country’s leaders have been diligently working to persuade us to live in a climate of fear. Their motivation is not new. It can be traced all the way back to the story we heard this morning from the book of Exodus. More instructional break really, than it is narrative, this section of scripture details for the Hebrew people the annual celebration of Passover…in a particular month, on a specific day, take a one-year old unblemished lamb, one per household, slaughter it at twilight on day 14, smear some of its blood on the doorposts of the home in which it is to be eaten, roast it, eat it with unleavened bread and bitter herbs, any leftovers are to be burned the next morning…clear? In addition, we find very specific instructions about the manner in which this sacred meal is to be eaten: hurriedly, with pants on, sandals secured, and a walking staff in hand. And in honor, in memory, this celebration is to be repeated each year in the same exact way; but in honor and in memory of what?
To answer that question, we must look beyond, before and around this morning’s passage to the context in which it is set. Surprisingly, these very detailed instructions are plopped down in the middle of that tragic tenth plague—the one where the so-called Angel of Death passes over the homes of the Egyptians and the Hebrews and snatches the future away from all first-born Egyptian males. If you remember, as I do, the classic movie retelling this horrible tale, then you will still hear ringing in your ears, the wailing of Egyptian mothers and the raging of Egyptian fathers as their beloved sons breathe no more. I remember that I was unable to watch that scene, because I had always been taught that God is a God of love, not of fear. No God I knew would ever, ever, act in such a cruel and capricious manner. Yet, for thousands of years, with great integrity, it is precisely God’s perceived action in this final plague that is being honored and memorialized. In sending the Angel of Death to persuade Pharaoh to set free the Hebrew captives, God is recognized as the author of emancipation. Yet, as the continuing story unfolds, the Hebrew emancipation is one that repeatedly leaves us with such unsettled theological questions and disconcerting ethical dilemmas.
Their story spans many, many chapters throughout the book of Exodus, and as we read it, we see that we are certainly not the first people on the face of the earth to be persuaded to live in fear. The Hebrew people, time and time again, chose to live fearfully. They feared Pharaoh’s power over them. They feared Pharaoh’s army. They feared ongoing slavery as much as they feared hunger and thirst in their desert freedom. They feared the Egyptians as their enemies. They feared their unknown future. They feared Moses and his new-found strength of leadership. They feared, even, ultimately, one another. And what they feared…they also attacked.
You see, this old biblical story is not really so antiquated after all. It is the same old story of living based in fear: of seeing neighbors as enemies, of fearing those who do us wrong, of focusing on differences rather than on our common creation by a loving God. And this story from Exodus is, in my mind, particularly abhorrent, because it has drawn God into the horror of violence that is based in human fear, and has blamed God for it by writing in God as its author. Living in fear is nothing new, you see…it may very well be the core of that old, old story that Jesus came into the world to rewrite.
In the little snippet from Matthew’s Gospel we just heard, Jesus is teaching his disciples how to confront a difficult member of the body. Interestingly, they are not to be allowed to run free and wreak havoc…they are to be, as we would say, dealt with. Like the Exodus passage, these instructions of Jesus are very specific. Unlike the Exodus passage, the purpose of this ritual is not freedom from enemies based in fear, but is rather restoration based in love. Jesus instructs: when someone sins against you go first, one on one, and point out the problematic behavior; if the person doesn’t listen, go again, with two or three others from the body; if the person still doesn’t listen, involve the whole congregation; and if that doesn’t work, then, says Jesus, “let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector…”
I’ve read this passage for over 40 years, and until this week, I thought Jesus meant that we were to shun the person who was obviously too stubborn or headstrong to listen to good, common sense. Gentiles and tax collectors, of course, were not high on the social list. They were “the other,” the enemy, the ones who stole your freedom and grabbed at your money, the ones whose different faith was to be condemned; they were, in the words of the Exodus passage, to be feared and to be attacked. Obviously, so I had heard from preachers through the years, obviously Jesus is instructing us to do all we can to talk with that difficult person, and then if they do not listen, to walk away with clean hands and a clear conscience.
But this week, I read two commentaries that turned such tidy human relationships on their head! These commentary authors dared to suggest a larger context for understanding what Jesus is saying in his reference to Gentiles and tax collectors. For when we look at the life of Jesus, at his choices and his activities, we see that often, he dined with tax collectors and Gentiles; often, he healed those who were considered “other” and once or twice even dared to break Sabbath law to do so; often, he welcomed these social outcasts into the crowds gathering to learn from him a new way. “Let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector?...” Seems as if Jesus is spitting in the face of the old way of living based in fear. Seems as if Jesus is suggesting, well-nigh even commanding, a new way, a way of methodical, respectful, earnest, always hopeful, restoration.
Now for the sabbatical story of the morning! While John and I were in Ireland, we spent one long afternoon and into the evening hiking up a high hill to see a magnificent arena of burial cairns. The place is called Carrowkeel, which in Irish means “the narrow quarter;” it has stood silently, respectfully, for over seven thousand years as a place of the ancestors (predating the pyramids of Egypt by some 500-800 years). One can only imagine the rituals that may have accompanied mourners who, over the centuries, trekked up that lonely Irish hill carrying the bodies of their loved ones. Unlike the Hebrews, they left no written instructions for such rituals. Yet the place is infused with a sacred energy strengthened by wave after wave of worshipers who have tuned their ears to its melody.
I was transfixed there, and delightedly skipped from one cairn to another, exploring as much as I was able, and taking more pictures than anyone should be allowed! By the time John and I began our descent, the hour was late, though there was still much light in the sky from a slow setting summer sun. We had not expected to have such a long walk that day, and consequently we ran out of water and food before arriving back at the car. Exhilarated, but clearly hungry and thirsty, we quickly drove into the nearest village, hoping to find dinner.
One pub was still open. We checked the hour, and noticed that it was past food serving time. However, we approached the bartender, apologized for the lateness of our arrival, and asked if there were any leftovers we could help them dispose of. He smiled a knowing smile—apparently we were not the first hikers to lose track of time!—and he asked what we’d like to eat. “Just a cheese sandwich would be lovely,” I replied. He smiled his agreement, and invited us to be seated wherever we were comfortable. Within just a few minutes, we were given iced water—a luxury in the isles, followed by a pot of tea for two, and a feast of a meal consisting of homemade soup, freshly-baked bread, three kinds of salad, and for each of us, a 2” thick grated cheese sandwich! Such hospitality—all delivered with characteristic Irish wit and not a shred of the inconvenience caused by having to open the kitchen again for two weary travelers.
Satisfied beyond our wildest expectations, we happily and gratefully left the pub and began the long journey back to our retreat center lodging. For the remainder of the sabbatical we talked excitedly about this being the best meal in all our travels! And I imagine that for the remainder of our lives, we shall not forget this wild, witty, generous-beyond-belief hospitality showered on us by people who chose to see us, in the words and metaphors of today’s scripture readings, not as invading oppressive Egyptians, but rather to welcome us with unbelievable generosity as the Gentiles and tax collectors we were.
You see, what I learned in that brief encounter with Irish hospitality, is this: it is precisely when we expect to be feared or ignored or shut out, that the reverse becomes such a gift of grace. I have never tasted such good food as I did in that grated cheese sandwich, and we’ve eaten in some pretty swanky places. Clearly, it wasn’t just the cheese that left such a good taste in our mouths…it was the unexpected hospitality that surrounded our meal.
Friends, such is the new way commanded by Jesus and embodied by him in nearly every party he attended with those endearing outcasts he seemed to love…live not in fear of difficult people, he teaches us…live not in fear even of enemies…rather, with wild abandon and reckless love, eat and drink with them and thereby begin to create a new world.
As we prepare to eat and drink this meal of radical hospitality, this meal in which all are welcomed by the God who has set it before us, this meal that both feeds us now and challenges us later to embody Christ in our daily living, I invite you hear again the words of the psalmist we read together earlier this morning: Teach us, O God, your ways, and we will observe them to the end…Give us understanding, that we may observe your laws with our whole hearts… Lead us…and in your righteousness give us life. Friends, here at this table, and more importantly, in our choices and in our actions and in our very living apart from but inspired by this table, we are invited to practice hospitality, Irish-style; to embody hospitality, Jesus-style!
