Last week we started a series of sermons on the spiritual life and I introduced Henri Nouwen’s idea that there are three movements in that life.The movement from loneliness to solitude (reaching out to yourself), the movement from hostility to hospitality (reaching out to others) and the movement from illusion to prayer (reaching out to God).
But I realised that I didn’t say much about Nouwen himself and why he's someone worth listening to.
Nouwen was a Dutch Priest and academic who had a very successful career, teaching at both Yale and Harvard, speaking all over the world and writing over 40 books. But as he reflected on his life he realised that he didn’t like the person he was becoming in that rarified environment.
So quite late on in life he responded to an invitation to join a movement called L’Arche; an initiative setting up care homes where folk with profound disabilities could live in community with their assistants. He moved to France and became a member of the first L’Arche community, of which there are now 100 worldwide.
It changed his life, and in his later years he wrote a great deal about the gifts that disabled people bring into our lives; how they help us re-connect with what’s truly important in being human.
Nouwen tells a story of how, as a priest, he’d often be called on to lead services in l’Arche and say blessings over the residents. One day one of the residents called Johnny came up and said “Henri – I want a blessing” – so Nouwen made the sign of the cross over him and said “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit” – that’s what he’d always done and that’s what was expected of him in that tradition. And Johnny said – "Henri – that doesn’t work. I want a real blessing!"
Later that day there was a service. Johnny came up to him again and said “Henri – I want a blessing." But this time the wee man stood in front of him and wrapped his arms around him and put his head on his chest. And Nouwen realised that what Johnny needed more than anything was just to be held and to have good things spoken over him in God’s name. So that’s what Nouwen did – he wrapped his arms around Johnny, almost hiding him in his clerical robes – and he said “Johnny - you are the beloved of God. You are chosen and special. You have good gifts to share with all of us. We in this community love you, not because you do great things, but because God loves you just as you are.”
And Johnny detached himself with a big smile and sat down saying “That’s right, Henri! That’s right”. And after that, all the disabled folk wanted that kind of blessing. And so did some of the assistants!
What was the difference?
Well in that second form of blessing, Nouwen created a space where good things could be shared in a way that was unhurried, attentive and deeply personal. And it seems to me that there we have the very essence of hospitality.
“Practice hospitality” – the word says.
That doesn’t just mean have folk round for a bite to eat, though it certainly does mean that.
It means practicing a way of life with friend and stranger that’s generous with your time and your attention. It means making space that’s not rushed; where you’re really present; where you’re receptive and open to the other, while still being yourself. Where you choose to see the potential in the stranger, rather than the threat.
For many of us, that attitude won’t come easily. God will need to teach us to be more hospitable.
There’s something in us that’s naturally defensive and private. John Donne said that no man is an island, but in terms of skin and flesh and bone that’s exactly what we are. We’re all self-contained little units and to be honest, we quite like it that way. Within the limited range of family and a few close friends, we’re secure, but going beyond that takes us out of our comfort zones. We’re not hostile to others, to use Nouwen’s phrase. But we are guarded; closed off. We give very little away. We need to move from hostility towards hospitality
I wonder how much of our hostility is about fear? Fear of causing offence, or taking offence. Fear of the unknown. Fear of folk knowing our business. Fear of being found wanting. Here’s a story you know well which flags this up.
As Jesus and his disciples were on their way, he came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to him. She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet listening to what he said. But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. She came to him and asked, “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!”
It changed his life, and in his later years he wrote a great deal about the gifts that disabled people bring into our lives; how they help us re-connect with what’s truly important in being human.
Nouwen tells a story of how, as a priest, he’d often be called on to lead services in l’Arche and say blessings over the residents. One day one of the residents called Johnny came up and said “Henri – I want a blessing” – so Nouwen made the sign of the cross over him and said “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit” – that’s what he’d always done and that’s what was expected of him in that tradition. And Johnny said – "Henri – that doesn’t work. I want a real blessing!"
Later that day there was a service. Johnny came up to him again and said “Henri – I want a blessing." But this time the wee man stood in front of him and wrapped his arms around him and put his head on his chest. And Nouwen realised that what Johnny needed more than anything was just to be held and to have good things spoken over him in God’s name. So that’s what Nouwen did – he wrapped his arms around Johnny, almost hiding him in his clerical robes – and he said “Johnny - you are the beloved of God. You are chosen and special. You have good gifts to share with all of us. We in this community love you, not because you do great things, but because God loves you just as you are.”
And Johnny detached himself with a big smile and sat down saying “That’s right, Henri! That’s right”. And after that, all the disabled folk wanted that kind of blessing. And so did some of the assistants!
What was the difference?
Well in that second form of blessing, Nouwen created a space where good things could be shared in a way that was unhurried, attentive and deeply personal. And it seems to me that there we have the very essence of hospitality.
“Practice hospitality” – the word says.
That doesn’t just mean have folk round for a bite to eat, though it certainly does mean that.
It means practicing a way of life with friend and stranger that’s generous with your time and your attention. It means making space that’s not rushed; where you’re really present; where you’re receptive and open to the other, while still being yourself. Where you choose to see the potential in the stranger, rather than the threat.
For many of us, that attitude won’t come easily. God will need to teach us to be more hospitable.
There’s something in us that’s naturally defensive and private. John Donne said that no man is an island, but in terms of skin and flesh and bone that’s exactly what we are. We’re all self-contained little units and to be honest, we quite like it that way. Within the limited range of family and a few close friends, we’re secure, but going beyond that takes us out of our comfort zones. We’re not hostile to others, to use Nouwen’s phrase. But we are guarded; closed off. We give very little away. We need to move from hostility towards hospitality
I wonder how much of our hostility is about fear? Fear of causing offence, or taking offence. Fear of the unknown. Fear of folk knowing our business. Fear of being found wanting. Here’s a story you know well which flags this up.
As Jesus and his disciples were on their way, he came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to him. She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet listening to what he said. But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. She came to him and asked, “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!”
“Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”
If hospitality means "making space where good things can be shared in a way that’s unhurried, attentive and deeply personal. A space where you’re present and receptive to the other"
then for all that Martha's invited Jesus and his entourage into her home, is she exercising hospitality of that kind?
No! She’s rushing, she’s overbusy, she’s inattentive, she’s not present to them.
Why?
I think it’s because she’s afraid. She’s afraid of not living up to expectations. Hostesses are supposed to do this and this and this and if I don’t do it, then I’m a failure. Word will get round that I’m a poor hostess! I have a reputation to maintain!
And Jesus looks at her with kindness and says “Martha, Martha. You are worried and upset about many things. Put down your pots and pans. Come and sit here with us. I don’t want your food right this moment. I want your company”.
I wonder how many of us are crippled by the fear of not living up to expectations. We miss the opportunity to act hospitably because we feel the pressure of the things that must be done.
I can’t have those people round. The house is a mess.
I can’t see you that evening, I’ve got too much on.
I’ll put off that phonecall ‘til I’ve got the time.
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve kicked myself because I’ve realised, with hindsight, that I’ve been in too much of a rush; expectations have dragged me away or kept me away and I’ve missed a real opportunity to be with someone in a meaningful way.
So here’s an exercise we could all try this week. Force yourself to linger with someone. Don’t run away to whatever it is you have to run away to; take a deep breath and stay, and ask God to redeem the time. Make that hospitable space where good things can happen
But there's another story I want to bring into this:
Jesus entered Jericho and was passing through. A man was there by the name of Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was wealthy. He wanted to see who Jesus was, but being a short man he could not, because of the crowd. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore-fig tree to see him, since Jesus was coming that way.
When Jesus reached the spot, he looked up and said to him, “Zacchaeus, come down immediately. I must stay at your house today.” So he came down at once and welcomed him gladly.
All the people saw this and began to mutter, “He has gone to be the guest of a ‘sinner.’ ”
But Zacchaeus stood up and said to the Lord, “Look, Lord! Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount.”
Jesus said to him, “Today salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost.”
There’s a lovely irony in this story and I don’t know if you’ve noticed it before this morning. It’s Zacchaeus’ house they go to, but it’s Jesus who’s offering hospitality.
Let’s look at our definition again:
Hospitality means making space where good things can be shared in a way that’s unhurried, attentive and deeply personal. A space where you’re present and receptive to the other. And thats' exactly what Jesus does here.
Look at what he does. He stops what he’s doing – he was on his way somewhere, but he stops. He calls Zacchaeus down by name and opens up a space where they can spend time together: “I must stay at your house today”. And he did all this in the face of a crowd who hated Zacchaeus because he’d colluded with the Romans to rip them off. They’d banished him. He was an outcast in his own village.
But Christ chose to see the potential in the stranger, not the threat. He was bigger than that. More sure of himself and his God.
And that one hospitable exchange, in the face of years of hostility, was enough to completely turn Zacchaeus’ life around.
It isn’t always as dramatic as that, of course. But the principle still holds true. It’s hospitality that overcomes the strangeness of the stranger and creates the possibility of their becoming friends.
I wonder who the strangers are in our midst? Chances are they don’t come from a different country or speak a different language. More likely they’re people who work in the same company; or live in the same street; or sit five pews ahead of us. Or maybe they’re folk from within our own extended family.
And their strangeness - or stranger-liness - isn’t about differences in culture or religion. It’s just about the fact that we haven’t ever got to know one another, or we lost touch with one another a long time ago.
Who’s coming to mind just now as I speak? Is there someone you feel you should be making more of an effort with just now? What could you do to open up an hospitable space for them this week?
There’s so much more we could say on this, but if you’ve heard the central message this morning, that’s enough. Hospitality’s not getting the best china out and serving up a great meal; not just that, anyway. It’s an approach to life. An approach to the people we come across on our journey that’s generous, unhurried and open.
It’s Henri Nouwen opening his arms and making a space for blessing; It’s Martha putting down the pots and pans for a while and finding a space on the floor beside Jesus; it’s Jesus making space for the one person that nobody else could be bothered with.
And the more you read about Jesus, the more you see how that hospitable approach coloured almost everything he did.
He ate with Pharisees and prostitutes; preached love for enemies; healed untouchables; praised Gentiles for their faith; found time for individuals in the midst of the crowd. He made space to visit and chat and teach and heal. He made time to play with the children. He never allowed himself to be driven on by others’ expectations when something good was unfolding right then and there.
He kept solitude, drank deep of his Father’s love for the world, and returned to the crowds replenished and ready to give.
And like Henry Nouwen, he opened his arms in blessing on the cross, and encircled not one beloved individual, but the whole beloved world.
"Practice hospitality" the Scriptures say. Are you beginning to see just what that means?
The movement from hostility to hospitality, Nouwen writes “is the movement in which we become less and less fearful and defensive and more and more open to the other and his world, even when it leads, as it did with Christ, to suffering and death”
May God bless us with souls deep and wide enough to be truly hospitable.
Amen
If hospitality means "making space where good things can be shared in a way that’s unhurried, attentive and deeply personal. A space where you’re present and receptive to the other"
then for all that Martha's invited Jesus and his entourage into her home, is she exercising hospitality of that kind?
No! She’s rushing, she’s overbusy, she’s inattentive, she’s not present to them.
Why?
I think it’s because she’s afraid. She’s afraid of not living up to expectations. Hostesses are supposed to do this and this and this and if I don’t do it, then I’m a failure. Word will get round that I’m a poor hostess! I have a reputation to maintain!
And Jesus looks at her with kindness and says “Martha, Martha. You are worried and upset about many things. Put down your pots and pans. Come and sit here with us. I don’t want your food right this moment. I want your company”.
I wonder how many of us are crippled by the fear of not living up to expectations. We miss the opportunity to act hospitably because we feel the pressure of the things that must be done.
I can’t have those people round. The house is a mess.
I can’t see you that evening, I’ve got too much on.
I’ll put off that phonecall ‘til I’ve got the time.
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve kicked myself because I’ve realised, with hindsight, that I’ve been in too much of a rush; expectations have dragged me away or kept me away and I’ve missed a real opportunity to be with someone in a meaningful way.
So here’s an exercise we could all try this week. Force yourself to linger with someone. Don’t run away to whatever it is you have to run away to; take a deep breath and stay, and ask God to redeem the time. Make that hospitable space where good things can happen
But there's another story I want to bring into this:
Jesus entered Jericho and was passing through. A man was there by the name of Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was wealthy. He wanted to see who Jesus was, but being a short man he could not, because of the crowd. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore-fig tree to see him, since Jesus was coming that way.
When Jesus reached the spot, he looked up and said to him, “Zacchaeus, come down immediately. I must stay at your house today.” So he came down at once and welcomed him gladly.
All the people saw this and began to mutter, “He has gone to be the guest of a ‘sinner.’ ”
But Zacchaeus stood up and said to the Lord, “Look, Lord! Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount.”
Jesus said to him, “Today salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost.”
There’s a lovely irony in this story and I don’t know if you’ve noticed it before this morning. It’s Zacchaeus’ house they go to, but it’s Jesus who’s offering hospitality.
Let’s look at our definition again:
Hospitality means making space where good things can be shared in a way that’s unhurried, attentive and deeply personal. A space where you’re present and receptive to the other. And thats' exactly what Jesus does here.
Look at what he does. He stops what he’s doing – he was on his way somewhere, but he stops. He calls Zacchaeus down by name and opens up a space where they can spend time together: “I must stay at your house today”. And he did all this in the face of a crowd who hated Zacchaeus because he’d colluded with the Romans to rip them off. They’d banished him. He was an outcast in his own village.
But Christ chose to see the potential in the stranger, not the threat. He was bigger than that. More sure of himself and his God.
And that one hospitable exchange, in the face of years of hostility, was enough to completely turn Zacchaeus’ life around.
It isn’t always as dramatic as that, of course. But the principle still holds true. It’s hospitality that overcomes the strangeness of the stranger and creates the possibility of their becoming friends.
I wonder who the strangers are in our midst? Chances are they don’t come from a different country or speak a different language. More likely they’re people who work in the same company; or live in the same street; or sit five pews ahead of us. Or maybe they’re folk from within our own extended family.
And their strangeness - or stranger-liness - isn’t about differences in culture or religion. It’s just about the fact that we haven’t ever got to know one another, or we lost touch with one another a long time ago.
Who’s coming to mind just now as I speak? Is there someone you feel you should be making more of an effort with just now? What could you do to open up an hospitable space for them this week?
There’s so much more we could say on this, but if you’ve heard the central message this morning, that’s enough. Hospitality’s not getting the best china out and serving up a great meal; not just that, anyway. It’s an approach to life. An approach to the people we come across on our journey that’s generous, unhurried and open.
It’s Henri Nouwen opening his arms and making a space for blessing; It’s Martha putting down the pots and pans for a while and finding a space on the floor beside Jesus; it’s Jesus making space for the one person that nobody else could be bothered with.
And the more you read about Jesus, the more you see how that hospitable approach coloured almost everything he did.
He ate with Pharisees and prostitutes; preached love for enemies; healed untouchables; praised Gentiles for their faith; found time for individuals in the midst of the crowd. He made space to visit and chat and teach and heal. He made time to play with the children. He never allowed himself to be driven on by others’ expectations when something good was unfolding right then and there.
He kept solitude, drank deep of his Father’s love for the world, and returned to the crowds replenished and ready to give.
And like Henry Nouwen, he opened his arms in blessing on the cross, and encircled not one beloved individual, but the whole beloved world.
"Practice hospitality" the Scriptures say. Are you beginning to see just what that means?
The movement from hostility to hospitality, Nouwen writes “is the movement in which we become less and less fearful and defensive and more and more open to the other and his world, even when it leads, as it did with Christ, to suffering and death”
May God bless us with souls deep and wide enough to be truly hospitable.
Amen
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
ReplyDelete