To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can't see, can't hear
Can't know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren't always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon, within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty
In beauty.
(From Cries of the Spirit,
edited by Marilyn Sewell,
Beacon Press, 176-177)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Reading:
from Reaching Out: The Three Movements of the Spiritual Life
by Henri Nouwen
The first characteristic of the spiritual life is the continuing movement from loneliness to solitude. Its second equally important characteristic is the movement by which our hostilities can be converted into hospitality. (65)In our world the assumption is that strangers are a potential danger and that it is up to them to disprove it. When we travel we keep a careful eye on our luggage; when we walk the streets we are aware of where we keep our money; and when we walk at night in a dark park our whole body is tense with fear of an attack. …
It really does not have to be so dramatic. Fear and hostility are not limited to our encounters with burglars, drug addicts or strangely behaving types. In a world so pervaded with competition, even those who are very close to each other, such as classmates, teammates, co-actors in a play, colleagues in work [Might we add "members of a congregation"?], can become infected by fear and hostility when they experience each other as a threat to their intellectual or professional safety. Many places that are created to bring people closer together and help them form a peaceful community have degenerated into mental battlefields. (69)
When we have become sensitive to the painful contours of our hostility we can start identifying the lines of its opposite toward which we are called to move: hospitality. …
Hospitality … means primarily the creation of a free space where the stranger can enter and become a friend instead of an enemy. Hospitality is not to change people, but to offer them space where change can take place. It is not to bring men and women over to our side, but to offer freedom not disturbed by dividing lines. It is not to lead our neighbor into a corner where there are no alternatives left, but to open a wide spectrum of options for choice and commitment. It is not an educated intimidation with good books, good stories and good works, but the liberation of fearful hearts so that words can find roots and bear ample fruit. It is not a method of making our God and our way into the criteria of happiness, but the opening of an opportunity to others to find their God and their way. The paradox of hospitality is that it wants to create emptiness, not a fearful emptiness, but a friendly emptiness where strangers can enter and discover themselves as created free; free to sing their own songs, speak their own languages, dance their own dances; free also to leave and follow their own vocations. Hospitality is not a subtle invitation to adopt the life style of the host, but the gift of a chance for the guest to find his (or her) own. (71-72)
Poverty makes a good host. This paradoxical statement needs some more explanation. In order to be able to reach out to the other in freedom, two forms of poverty are very important, the poverty of mind and the poverty of heart.
Someone who is filled with ideas, concepts, opinions and convictions cannot be a good host. There is no inner space to listen, no openness to discover the fit of the other. It is not difficult to see how those "who know it all" can kill a conversation and prevent an interchange of ideas. Poverty of mind as a spiritual attitude is a growing willingness to recognize the incomprehensibility of the mystery of life. The more mature we become the more we will be able to give up our inclination to grasp, catch and comprehend the fullness of life and the more we will be ready to let life enter into us. (103-104)
A good host not only has to be poor in mind but also poor in heart. When our heart is filled with prejudices, worries, jealousies, there is little room for a stranger. In a fearful environment it is not easy to keep our hearts open to the wide range of human experiences. Real hospitality, however, is not exclusive but inclusive and creates space for a large variety of human experiences. (106)
Poverty of heart creates community since it is not in self-sufficiency but in a creative interdependency that the mystery of life unfolds itself to us. (107)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sermon
Last October Vanessa gave a wonderful sermon, "Coffee in the Desert and Other Lessons in Hospitality," which I enjoyed reading. In it she referred to the story of Abraham and Sarah and "entertaining angels unawares." It's a wonderful story, worth telling again. I will expand it a little.
Abraham and Sarah, leading a nomadic life, are encamped on a semi-arid plain. You have to imagine the scene. I visualize western Kansas or eastern Colorado -- some vegetation, but nothing luxuriant. The tents for the servants, the flocks grazing in the distance, but aside from a distant herder or two, no other signs of humans -- just gently rolling plains under a wide-open sky. Abraham and Sarah are quite old, ancient really. They've left their native land under a strange dictate that told them to move to a new land and that, if they served God, God would make them the parents of generations as multitudinous as the stars in the heavens. They have been wandering for years, and haven't conceived even one child, much less a multitude. And now Sarah has long ago passed through menopause, so the hope of conceiving a child has been dashed.
It is a beastly hot day, and old Abraham is trying to avoid the midday sun by sitting under the shade of the tent's opening. That's the setting.
Suddenly Abraham sees three humans approaching almost from out of nowhere.
Now imagine you're in Abraham's shoes, out in the middle of nothing, and three strangers suddenly appear before you. Most of us, like Nouwen suggests in the reading, would probably be sizing up these folks intently. "Friend or foe?" we'd be asking ourselves, looking for any cue. "Is there anything familiar? Anything comfortable that can relieve my anxiety? Are there hostile or friendly looks on their faces? What kind of backup do I have if they are not friendly? Should I signal my servants to gather round? How far away is the phone and 911?" Those might be some of thoughts rushing through my surprised mind. But Abraham apparently has none of those.
The story tells that as soon as he sees them, he leaps to his feet, rushes toward them, bows low and insists: "Sires, if I have deserved your favor, do not pass by my humble self without a visit. Let me get you some water to wash your feet and a little food to eat. I would be most honored if you spend some time with me before you continue your journey." (Isn't it amazing that Abraham assumes they are to be honored before he knows anything about them!)
They respond, "Do by all means what you say."
At that point Abraham rushes inside the tent and directs Sarah to make a generous portion of breads. Then he runs out to his herd and chooses the finest calf to be boiled in milk. Abraham himself serves the strangers as they eat in the shade of a tree.
One of the strangers asks, "Where's Sarah?"
Abraham points to the tent.
"About this time next year," the stranger says, "I will be back this way, and Sarah will have a son."
Sarah can hear the conversation -- the walls of the tent are thin -- and she laughs to herself: "Ridiculous. I can't have any children anymore, and Abraham is ancient."
The stranger then says, "Why is Sarah laughing? Is anything impossible for God?"
It's very interesting how this story goes on. Abraham discovers that they are headed to Sodom and Gomorrah to confront the citizens with their sinning ways. Compassionate Abraham tries to argue them out of killing all the inhabitants of the sinful city. You probably remember that Sodom and Gomorrah are destroyed except for Lot and his family. But they are destroyed, as most liberal scholars interpret the story, not because of homosexuality, but because of how the strangers are treated. Instead of extending hospitality to the strangers, they persecute them. It, too, is a story about hospitality. But I want to focus this morning on the first part of the story -- Abraham's generous welcome to the strangers. If you want to read more, it's told in Genesis, Chapter 18.
What inspires me about this story is Abraham's generosity. He extended himself and the best of what he had to the strangers, having no idea what they would bring him. And what did they surprise him -- and Sarah! -- with? The news that they were to have the son they had long given up hope for.
Put aside any literal readings of the miracle. I invite you to reflect on this question: "What surprises or gifts can strangers bring you?"
Henri Nouwen, liberal Christian, makes the UU affirmation that every human bears a gift. Hospitality, as he defines it, is making the space that allows the other's gift to emerge. I love his understanding of hospitality. To say it again, when I extend hospitality to you, I give you the space to be yourself, to encourage the gift within you to emerge and be known.
"Hospitality … means primarily the creation of a free space where the stranger can enter and become a friend instead of an enemy. Hospitality is not to change people, but to offer them space where change can take place. It is not to bring men and women over to our side, but to offer freedom not disturbed by dividing lines. It is not to lead our neighbor into a corner where there are no alternatives left, but to open a wide spectrum of options for choice and commitment. It is not an educated intimidation with good books, good stories and good works, but the liberation of fearful hearts so that words can find roots and bear ample fruit. It is not a method of making our God and our way into the criteria of happiness, but the opening of an opportunity to others to find their God and their way. The paradox of hospitality is that it wants to create emptiness, not a fearful emptiness, but a friendly emptiness where strangers can enter and discover themselves as created free; free to sing their own songs, speak their own languages, dance their own dances; free also to leave and follow their own vocations. Hospitality is not a subtle invitation to adopt the life style of the host, but the gift of a chance for the guest to find his (or her) own."
How often do we extend that kind of graciousness to a stranger? Think of how differently we would treat strangers, were we confident that every one has a gift to be revealed.
As Nouwen observes, too often in this world we shut out the other; we cut ourselves off from the other for all kinds of reasons.
I invite you to reflect.
What kind of stranger do you automatically extend yourself toward, trusting that some gift will surprise you?
What kind of stranger do you withdraw from, fearing what hurt?
One of Nouwen's most compelling insights is this: How hospitable we are to others relates directly to our hospitality toward ourselves. To use an example from my life: I have a relentless inner critic. Nothing is good enough for my internal voice. After I have said or done something, the analysis begins: "How could you have said that!" "Why didn't you do this instead!" You get the picture. I suffer with this voice, and my natural tendency is to try to shut it out. So guess what happens when I meet a stranger who strikes me as the kind of person who is never happy, never satisfied with what I can do. Am I likely to welcome them in -- "Stay awhile, my friend, let's eat and talk and share some time before you go along on your journey"? No way! I'm much more likely to withdraw or, at best, keep at a wary distance, hardly a gracious hospitality. I don't want to make space for that person. I want to keep him or her out of my space.
Does that work? Pema Chodron observes that the universe keeps sending us the message we need to learn until we learn it. Shutting out my critic, internal or external, doesn't keep them out of my life. The universe keeps sending them to me.
The invitation is to change my relationship with these painful parts of me and my world. It is for me to develop hospitality toward those I fear. It is to create the space for the gift the stranger bears to emerge.
I love the Rumi poem about being a "guest house":
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
Welcome and entertain them all!
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
Be grateful for whoever comes,This being human is a guest house
every morning a new arrival.
some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows
who violently sweep your house
empty of all its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be cleaning you out
for some new delight.
meet them at the door laughing
and invite them in.
because each has been sent
as a guide from the beyond.
So I often pray, "May I be the laughing host who invites in my carping critic. 'Make yourself at home. Would you like some tea? Tell me your story.'" Sometimes I can be in that wonderfully hospitality place; other times not.
How about you? What strangers do you exclude, as often as not, because they remind you of parts of yourself that you would rather keep estranged? Is it the person who strikes you as opinionated, dogmatic? In turn, do you fear that your opinions won't be heard, respected? Is it the person who is dull, lethargic? In turn, do you fear your own inclination to depression? Is it the person who wears clothes and jewelry that signal "lower class" or "higher class"? In turn, are you ashamed of your own class standing? Is it the person in emotional turmoil? In turn, do you fear being overwhelmed by your own pain? Is it the person who has a radically different view of the world, of politics, of values? In turn, do you fear the weakness of your own identity? Is it the person much older, or younger? In turn, do you fear your aging?
How about you? Whom do you welcome into your circle laughing, happy to include? Whom do you greet with stone face, happy to see disappear? And what does that say about the parts of yourself that you welcome or fear?
How do we cultivate this hospitality to others -- to ourselves?
Two of his jewels are what he calls "poverty of mind" and "poverty of heart." I would use the word "openness" or "inclusivity" instead of "poverty," but the power of Nouwen's observation remains.
If we are to create that free space that allows the other to emerge, trusting that life will enter both of us through that interaction, then we need to be in that mind space that delights in celebrating the mystery of existence. We must be open to surprise, to creativity, and to new perceptions. When we stuff our minds with our certainties, we lose that free space. Nourish the attitude of Joy Harjo's poem: "Open your whole self/ to sky, to earth, to sun and to moon/ to one whole voice that is you/ and know there is more/ that you can't see, can't hear/ can't know except in moments/ steadily growing, and in languages/ that aren't always sound but other/ circles of motion."
The same goes for our hearts. When our hearts are constricted with fear, anger, craving, we lack the room to create open space for the stranger. The seven-day silent retreat I do each year is an opportunity for me to practice opening my heart -- expanding its spaciousness. Sharon Salzberg, one of the teachers there, has written a book, A Heart As Wide As the World. That's quite an aspiration! (My inner critic goes nuts when it hears ideals like that!) Nevertheless, I learned a lot about myself as I witnessed where my heart opened and where it constricted. I was rewarded with the experience of what it feels like to open my heart even more.
Some of us are blessed with naturally open minds and hearts. For such lucky ones, hospitality flows naturally. But others of us need to be intentional about a spiritual practice to foster the opening of our minds and hearts. Reading about hospitality, reflecting on our hospitality and practicing hospitality can be such a practice. Would it be useful to your soul to do so?
Might the practice of hospitality deepen the kind of community that we offer in this congregation? Would you be willing to experiment with expanding the hospitality that you offer here?
I close with these words of aspiration:
May we do the inner work and the outer work necessary to increase our hospitality to all parts of ourselves and others.
May we move from fear to trust.
May we be so open, that like Abraham, we extend our most gracious hospitality to the stranger, never knowing when we may be entertaining angels unawares -- and always remembering that we, in turn, are angels to others. Amen.
The sermon in a Unitarian Universalist setting is never the last word on any subject, but rather an invitation to further dialog.
You may want to read other visitors' comments on Rev. Paul Ratzlaff's "Entertaining Angels Unawares" .
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