Christmas 2001 | Luke 2:1-19

*Preached at Grace North Church December 23, 2001.*

When I first moved in to my neighborhood in Oakland, I was overjoyed to discover that we had a bookshop within easy walking distance. Now, you must understand my obsession with bookstores. Some people dream of rolling in money, I dream of rolling in old books. I loved visiting Professor DeVelbis' home because I saw in him a kindred spirit, a hopeless collector of books. A friend recently came to visit and you know what we did for two full days? Traipsed from bookstore to bookstore, and nothing else. My idea of a good date has always been wandering through the aisles hand in handyeah, I know, I'm not a good prospect for a date anytime soon. So you can see why I was so delighted to discover a little bookshop in my own neighborhood. I went inside for the first time and was delighted to discover that they even carried used books! Oh, joy! Oh, heaven!

My bliss, however, was not long lived. For behind the counter I discovered the owner of the store, and he took the wind out of my sails very quickly indeed. A small, impeccably dressed man whose first language is not English, he looked at me as I approached like I was about to beat him up. I looked behind me, but no, there were no thugs there. Only little old me with my earrings and ponytail and the jeans with the mustard stain. The little man glared at me as I handed him my books, he glowered disapprovingly as he rang them up, and then without a word the put them in a back and shoved it at me.

At first I thought that perhaps he was just having a bad day. But no, repeated visits yielded no different results, which is all the more distressing since you'd have thought that he would have gotten used to me and my stained jeans by now, maybe he'd gotten the message that I wasn't going to rob him or cheat him or hurt him or whatever else was going through his head. Glower, ka-ching, shove. That's it.

Now, I like to think of myself as a nice guy. I like people, and I want to be liked, as, I think, most of us do. So it was very distressing to me to be treated with such rudeness, such suspicion. Finally, I simply stopped going to the little bookstore down the street. I don't think I'm alone; I never, ever see anyone in there. Most people I have raised the issue with have agreed with me that the man's behavior is abominable, and many, like myself, refuse to patronize such an inhospitable business.

I am amazed, in fact, that the store can even stay open. A little neighborhood bookstore must be able to count on repeat business to stay afloat, musn't it? Perhaps in this person's native country, hospitality, kindness, and a cheerful demeanor are not important in business, but in America, when you work with the public, it is essential. One friend said that she thought perhaps he had been held up at gunpoint in the past, but that is no excuse. I've been held up at gunpoint-and there's a story I'll have to tell you some time-but it didn't stop me from being friendly to strangers. A person has to look past one's circumstances to find what is truly important, and hospitality is, truly, one of those things.

Hospitality IS important. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest that hospitality is the very heart of the Gospel, and that without it, nothing Jesus ever did made any sense. When we look at the story of Jesus' birth, it at first does not appear very hospitable. Herod wants to kill him, Rome isn't making the delivery any easier, and there is no room for him at the Inn. But let us look beyond these circumstances for a moment. Heaven welcomed him in song, in the hearing of the humble shepherds. Those shepherds represent the common people to whom Jesus had come, and they traveled to welcome him as soon as they heard the news. But the powerful got in on the act, too. Whether you call them magicians, scientists, or kings, the three wise men were on their way to welcome Jesus to earth. And right there in the stable, the animals greeted his arrival personally. All creation welcomed Jesus to this planet: heaven welcomed him, the beasts of the field welcomed him, the common folk welcomed him, and the powerful welcomed him. It was a quiet, discontiguous parade, but a celebratory one nonetheless. God had come to earth, and the earth opened wide her arms and offered him her hearth.

Let's turn the telescope around, now, and consider God's hospitality towards us in that same event. First of all, it is God's universe in which our earth has a home. Scripture tells us "the earth is the Lord's" and we are welcomed by God to share it and to live upon it for free. But even more than simple, physical hospitality, God offered us much more. In the creed of St. Athanasius, which in Anglican churches is often recited at Christmastime, we are told that Jesus is both God and man, "not by conversion of the Godhead into flesh, but by taking humanity into God."

It's a short sentence in the middle of a long, interminable creed, but it is profound beyond words. It is part of our mythology that God is in heaven, people are on earth, and never the twain shall meet. The idea that an emanation from God came down to earth to visit humans is a gnostic one, not an orthodox one. This, then, is the orthodox teaching: that by becoming a human being, God did not come down to visit humankind, but rather, in assuming human form, God raised humanity, indeed all of creation, into Godself. In the incarnation, God assumes the created world, the good and the bad alike, and subsumes it into himself. That is the great mystery that we celebrate on this day: a supreme act of hospitality that none can parallel.

St. Paul makes this mystery more explicit when speaking of us as "the body of Christ." As members of Christ's body, God again welcomes us to share in his divinity. For if we are part of the body of Christ, then the second person of the trinity includes US. This is God's extra mile, this is God's giving us his coat, too, when we have only asked for his shirt. God shares with us not only this good earth, not only fellowship with him, but his very Godhood. He holds back nothing. All is given to us in an unmatchable act of generosity and hospitality.

And as the body of Christ in the world, it is our obligation, and should be our joy, to extend this same hospitality to everyone we meet. This, in fact, is the true meaning of holiness: that we are part of the whole, and relate to the whole. Holiness is not measured by what we cut ourselves off from, what sins we eschew, or what kind of people we shun. Holiness is measured by what we open ourselves up to: the experiences we embrace and the variety of people towards which we extend God's hospitality.

I was humbled at Thanksgiving. If you recall, I had a little freak-out in the Oakland airport and simply could not force myself to get on that plane. I went home and felt bad about myself. But I was the only one; for when people heard that I would be in town, I was deluged with invitations for Thanksgiving dinner. I was overwhelmed at the magnitude of such hospitality. I felt loved, accepted, and welcomed, and that is an experience of God, even if nothing else is.

This morning, at this table, Jesus invites us to dinner as well. And he doesn't care who you are. Jesus doesn't care what you do for a living, who you have hurt, what sins you have committed. Jesus doesn't care if you're a Hindu or a Moslem or a Buddhist. He even welcomes Christians to his table on occasion. Jesus doesn't even care if you are an athiest: he believes in you, even if you don't believe in him. Each week we celebrate here the mystery of God's hospitality, for all who are hungry and thirsty--whether you want for food, or for community, or for love, or for God-all are welcome to dine with us here.

This is the mystery of Christmas: Jesus comes into our lives, and welcomes us to share in the life of God. And we don't need to jump through any hoops to do it. We don't need to join any church, accept any doctrine, we don't have to DO anything. It is a gift freely given, and the wrapping is already off. All we have to do is enjoy. God is the host, he is glad to fill your cup. All you need do is drink.

This is not to say that it is always easy to play God's hostess. Not everyone will welcome your hospitality, as the cross shows us so violently and so clearly. Perhaps you even KNOW someone it is difficult to be kind to-most of us can think of at least a couple of folks like that. Christmas is a time of giving, especially when we do not expect to get anything back. Gifts are gifts precisely because they do not require reciprocity; otherwise giftgiving would simply be a form of barter. No, gifts are freely given, even if they are not received with the same kindness that they are given with.

I looked in the window of the bookstore near my home the other day, and saw the little man standing behind the counter with a Santa hat on his head, looking oddly festive in his empty little bookstore. But the scowl was still there. There's still a few days left until Christmas. Perhaps I'll stick my head in and wish him a merry one just the same. God's hospitality doesn't need to be returned to be enjoyed, after all. Let us pray.

 

God of generosity and hospitality, what do we have that does not come as a gift from your hand? What do we enjoy that is not given freely by you? Move our hearts with gratitude, that the same mind that is in you may also be in us, that we would give freely, love freely, welcome freely, all who cross our path. Help us to extend a measure of the same hospitality you have shown to us. For we ask this in the name of the gift that is above every gift, even Jesus Christ. Amen.