The Reverend Kirk T Berlenbach

Proper 5, Year C

June 6, 2010

In today’s reading from Kings we hear the story of the prophet Elijah and a woman who is known only as the Widow of Zarephath. Of course the real action of the story revolves around her son’s death and Elijah bringing him back to life. The story closely parallels the Gospel lesson where Jesus performs a very similar miracle, which only emphasizes the fact that we are to focus our attention on that part of the story. However, at the beginning of the lesson something else happens that is extraordinarily important, both as part of the larger context but also on its own.

When Elijah first approaches the woman he appears to behave like a total jerk. We must not white wash this fact. In essence this is what he does. He appears at the town and, upon seeing the woman tells her to bring him some water. Then, as she is bringing him the drink he makes a further demand and tells her to bring him something to eat. She protests that she has nothing prepared and in fact, describes the depth of her poverty when she tells him that she has only enough food left for one last meal which she is going to cook for herself and her son and then they are going to lay down to die. Yet even in response to such pathos, Elijah doesn’t back off. If anything he becomes even more insistent and tells her that she must first take a portion of the tiny amount she has left and use it to cook something for him. And then, once she has taken care of him, then she can go about her plan of cooking and dying. It should be noted that then he finally starts to make nice with her by offering her all sorts of flowery promises about how G-D will magically refill her meal and oil jars, but to me that really besides the point. From the very beginning he acted with what can only be described as an air of superiority and entitlement. How in the world could Elijah be a prophet of G-D and yet also act like a bully towards this poor and desperate woman?

The key to understanding Elijah’s behavior lies not in his status as a prophet nor is it because of the fact that he was a man in a society where mean held all the power and women were little better than property. In fact, for the time, Elijah’s demands would have been perfectly acceptable and expected. What she did, she did not out of servitude or fear but because the hospitality code of the day required it of her. Hospitality was not simply an idea, it was the foundation for a way of life. Offering hospitality to the stranger or traveler was a clear and absolute obligation that applied not just to women, but to everyone. If a traveler came into town one was morally obligated to offer them water, food and shelter. If it was not immediately offered the traveler had every right to ask for it, just as Elijah did. Even though she had so little the widow was still willing to meet this social and religious obligation and ultimately that act is rewarded when the prophet later brings her son back to life.

But this phenomenon of radical hospitality is not just a relic of the ancient world. The famed author, Nikos Kazantzakis, who is best known for his books, The Last Temptation of Christ and Zorba the Greek, describes his own experience of receiving a similarly generous welcome, even though it comes at great cost to the host, in his autobiography, Report to Greco. Set less than a century ago on the island of Crete, Kazantzakis is travelling and after arriving in town, looks a place to stay for the night. As was the custom, he seeks out the house of the priest.

The door opened. Standing in front of me was an old man with a snow-white beard and long hair flowing down over his shoulders. Without asking who I was or what I wanted he extended his hand.

“Welcome. Are you a stranger? Come in.”

I heard voices as I entered. Doors opened and closed, and several women slipped hastily into the adjoining room and vanished. The priest had me sit down on the couch.

“My wife, the papadhia, is a little indisposed; you’ll have to excuse her. But I myself will cook for you, lay the table for your supper, and prepare a bed so that you can sleep.”

His voice was heavy and afflicted. I looked at him. He was extremely pale, and his eyes swollen and inflamed, as though from weeping. But no thought of misfortune occurred to me. I ate, slept, and in the morning the priest came and brought me a tray of bread, cheese and milk. I held out my hand, thanked him, and said goodbye.

“God bless you, my son,” he said. “Christ be with you.”

I left. At the edge of the village and old man appeared. Placing his hand over his breast, he greeted me.

“Where did you spend the night, son?” he asked.

“At the priest’s house.”

The old man sighed. “Ah, the poor fellow. And you didn’t catch wind of anything?”

“What was there to catch wind of?”

“Hi son died yesterday morning. His only son. Didn’t you hear the women lamenting?”

“I heard nothing. Nothing.”

“They had him in the inner room. They must have muffled their laments to keep you from hearing and being disturbed….” (pp 312-3)

Needless to say, Kazantzakis was incredibly moved by this supreme act of generous hospitality. No one, not even according to the strict standards of the past, could have faulted the priest for sending him away to stay with someone else. And yet the priest did not. Setting aside the unendurable grief of losing his only son, he welcomed in this traveler, cooked him a meal with his own hands and personally ensured that he was able to rest peacefully that night by instructing the gathered mourners to muffle their cries. And he did this, without the inducement of a promised miracle. He did it for a guest who as not a prophet or messiah, but only a wandering young man.

Even though this occurred less than a century ago it is difficult, if not impossible to imagine doing the same today. While we might be willing to offer something simple like food or a bus token or a couple of bucks to a beggar or give a traveler directions on how to get where they are going, we are also committed to keeping a safe distance. Even if we give generously to charities or volunteer many hours of our time in soup kitchens or homeless shelters, how many of us would go to the next level and open our own homes to a travelling stranger or beggar?

So what are we to do? I do not have a clear answer. With my children as primary concern and worrying about my wife’s comfort level and the security of my stuff, I would not just invite a the stranger who just knocked on my door to stay the night. I cannot ask you to take a risk that I am not willing to take myself. There are exceptions, such as the real life story that inspired the movie, “The Blindside,” where a wealthy white southern family takes a poor black youth off the street and into their home and then ultimately adopts him. But most of us would never even consider such a risky move. And it is not because we are not willing to give. The fact is that the times have changed. In centuries past only the lowest of the low would have even considered taking advantage of the host who offered them hospitality. But now, how can we be expected to trust that the stranger seeking shelter in our home would be so honorable? Yet we cannot neglect that offering what we have for the sake of others is absolutely central to our faith.

As our society becomes more and more fragmented, teaching us to worry only about ourselves and our own families and friends, it is all too easy to forget that it was once an absolute duty to care for others, even total strangers. It is rare that we meet anyone who asks to stay in our home anymore, yet how often do we meet people who are in need of feeling welcomed? Some of those we encounter them as homeless people on the street, but there are many others, who might indeed have a place of their own to stay, who still are in need of a welcome.

Right now the streets of our neighborhood are filling with people, most of whom do not live here, and although it all seems to be just one big party, a few of those folks out there right now are feeling lost or lonely. They are in need of someone who will smile at them or even better speak to them, someone who will take the time to ask their name and, in the midst of that sea of humanity filling the streets, of someone who will take the time to treat them as a human being. By simply taking the time to have a conversation, or by engaging them enough to make eye contact, by spending more time than the least amount possible, we begin to experience a little more of what it means to offer the radical hospitality that the Widow showed to Elijah or that the Priest showed to Kazantzakis. For in offering that kind of welcome we not only live out our faith, we also sometimes welcome G-D.