Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. (Heb 13:2)
Some stories bear repeating. And I think it’s been a long time since I told this story, which took place more than twenty years ago. The location is the eastern cape of South Africa, in the area that was once the Zulu kingdom, where is found the Umzimvubu River, a word that means “the home of the hippopotamus,” although there have not been any hippos living in the river for a long, long time, and also the Anglican Diocese of Umzimvubu. I traveled there when I served as chaplain to the Archbishop of Perth, and our diocese of the Australian Church had a companion relationship with the Diocese of Umzimvubu.
There are two stories I have repeated many times from that journey because the experiences were so transforming. I hope their effects on me will not fade. And it’s important to renew the memory from time to time. I think it might do you some good, too, but I’ll only tell one of those stories today.
A group of about five or six of us was staying for a while in a remote part of the diocese, as guests of a lay leader in the church whose name was Gilbert. After a long drive on the bumpiest roads I have every driven, and after worshiping with Gilbert in his little church - the occasion for the other story I often tell of this journey - we parked our vehicles in a clearing beside the road, and walked a short distance to the edge of stream that was maybe ten or fifteen yards across.
To cross the stream, there was a kind of cable car, or flying fox set up: a box made of wood and metal that could hold two or three people, who could pull themselves, by a rope, across the stream to the other side to reach the small compound where Gilbert and his family lived. The flying fox/cable car had a dab or two of blue paint on it, and Gilbert had wryly dubbed it “the Blue Train,” after a famous luxury train that travels between Pretoria and Cape Town. We visitors had brought boxes of provisions with us, so that feeding us would not be an undue burden. But we were told by the local bishop to expect warm hospitality.
That evening we gathered for dinner. Gilbert and his family laid out a feast for us, with roast chicken and many vegetables, rice, and potatoes, and an array of other bowls and dishes with all kinds of tasty things for us to eat, as well as bottles of soft drinks. We felt honored, and we were not at all sure that the many children of Gilbert’s extended family would normally eat as well as we ate that night. I thanked Gilbert as profusely as I could, and I assured him that, while much appreciated, such a feast was not necessary, and that we would be happy to eat whatever the family would normally eat.
“No, no,” Gilbert said, “ I must do this for you; I must do it.”
“We’re grateful,” I replied, “but please don’t feel obliged.”
But Gilbert repeated, “I must do it; I must.”
We went off the next day to work on repairing a ramshackle building that was to be used for the church for some reason or another. At the end of the day, we returned, over the stream, via the flying fox. After washing up, we gathered again for a meal. A feast was prepared for us, similar to the one the night before. As we ate, I thanked Gilbert and his family for their generosity; and I reiterated that we would be perfectly happy to eat whatever they would normally eat as an evening meal, and that such extravagance was not necessary.
“No, no,” Gilbert said, “ I must do this for you; I must do it.”
The next day, we crossed the stream, went to our work, and returned, via the Blue Train, to the compound. And when we gathered for dinner, Gilbert told us that he had acceded to our request, and we would eat just as the family would normally eat that night. It was clear that Gilbert found the wisdom of serving us such a meal dubious at best, and it felt as though he had agreed to do so only because we had insisted. The meal, as I recall, was exceedingly simple: large loaves of fresh, home-baked brown bread, and a big pot of boiled cabbage. It was not much, but there was plenty of it. We thanked Gilbert and his family for their kindness; and no one went to bed hungry.
The next day unfolded as the previous one had, and this would be our last night staying with Gilbert and his family. We took the Blue Train back across the stream, and when we gathered for the evening meal, the familiar feast was laid out for us. Amid my words of effusive thanks, I repeated my assertion that such extravagant generosity was not necessary, as far as we were concerned.
“No, no,” said Gilbert, “ I must do this for you; I must do it. For I could be entertaining angels.”
Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. I have often told this story of the generous hospitality that Gilbert and his family showed to us as an illustration of this well known text from the Epistle to the Hebrews. To this day, I have not had another experience in my life that better exemplifies Christian hospitality, nor an experience that so embodies the meaning of this biblical text.
The church asks us to pair the injunction to offer hospitality to strangers with Jesus’ teaching that “all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” Coining a phrase that we would do well to inscribe on our hearts, Jesus says, “when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, ‘Friend, go up higher.’”
Friend, go up higher.
As I reflected on Gilbert’s deeply genuine and generous hospitality to a group of people who amounted to strangers, I asked myself what I might have learned from that experience. I wonder what would happen if Gilbert showed up to my home, unrecognized by me all these years later, if by some wonder he and his family were to be transported here to Philadelphia for a visit. What would the circumstances of such a visit be? And where would I seat Gilbert, if I failed to recognize him for who he is? What place would I give him at my table, in my home, in my life?
I know that Gilbert would not sit down, of his own accord, at the place of honor. Perhaps he would not even deign to take a seat at all. And although I know full well how Gilbert would treat me, and that no honor was spared when I was his guest, would I have the instincts that I know he possesses, and would I have the grace to say to him, “friend, go up higher.”
I have reason to doubt that I have learned the lessons as well as I should have.
Our Lord goes on, “When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.” I thank God that I can lean on the church when I hear Jesus say these words. For in this parish, we have, for nearly twenty years, invited the poor to sit down and eat here, not only to be fed, but to be served here at our table on Saturday mornings.
When churches, like ours think of hospitality, our minds easily turn to Coffee Hour, to meatballs, and cucumber sandwiches, and mimosas, none of which is problematic, in and of itself. But the Gospel calls us again and again to remember the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind, to remember those who have not as much as we have, and not as much as they need, and to open our doors, like our hearts, and to spread a table for guests such as these, who can never repay us, nor should we wish them to.
To quote Gilbert: We must do it, we simply must, because we could be entertaining angels.
Come to think of it, I expect we have entertained more than a few angels on Saturday mornings over the last nineteen years. Thanks be to God!
Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
28 August 2022
Saint Mark’s Church, Locust Street, Philadelphia
