Preparing a Place for One Another

Last Sunday, we heard the story from Luke’s Gospel where Jesus is invited to dinner at the home of a Pharisee named Simon. As Jesus takes his place at the table, an uninvited woman makes her way into the scene. She weeps at Jesus’ feet, wets his feet with her tears, and then wipes them with her hair. On top of that, she anoints Jesus’ feet with perfumed oil that she has brought with her in an alabaster jar.

This is extravagant hospitality! And Jesus let’s his dinner host know about it. He turns to the woman and says to Simon, “Do you see this woman? When I entered your home, you didn’t give me water for my feet, but she wet my feet with tears and wiped them with her hair. You didn’t greet me with a kiss, but she hasn’t stopped kissing my feet since I came in. You didn’t anoint my head with oil, but she has poured perfumed oil on my feet.” In short, where Simon falls short, the woman with no name in this story has a lot to teach us about what hospitality looks like, and why it’s so important.

Reflecting on that story last week, I recalled a time when some people in our church family took a page from the nameless woman with the alabaster jar. It was June of 2015. There had been a racially-motivated shooting at Mother Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, South Carolina, where people were having a Bible study. Nine of them were killed in that terrorist attack. Ripple effects of shock and grief went out across the nation, prompting us to host a vigil at Friends Church that was open to the whole community.

The event happened to take place during the holy month of Ramadan, where our Muslim neighbors observe fasting from sunup to sundown each day. The sun would set during the vigil, but the program would not end for some time after that, meaning that any of our friends observing a Ramadan fast would have to wait that much longer to eat anything. A few of our church members anticipated this. They didn’t know much about Ramadan, so they did a little research and learned that the daily fast is often broken with dates and water. The church members made sure we had dates and bottled water on hand. Sure enough, some of our Muslim neighbors did attend the vigil. At sunset, when those church members approached them with sustenance to break their fast, they were overwhelmed at the hospitable gesture. It didn’t take much preparation, but that thoughtful kindness made our Muslim guests feel like they were not just welcome to attend the vigil, but that they belonged there in our community as we gathered in solidarity to grieve, lament, and cry out for justice.

The woman who made her way into Simon’s house wasn’t welcome there; and Simon’s thoughts about her—that she was a sinner—made it clear that she didn’t belong. So, she forced her way into the scene to show everyone there what extravagant hospitality looks like, and why it matters. It mattered so much that Jesus made a point to draw everyone’s attention to it.

Fast forward to when Jesus is about to be arrested and taken away from his disciples. He tells them, “In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?” (John 14:2). That Bible verse is often read at funerals as a comfort for the bereaved. But I wonder if it’s also a charge to Jesus’ followers—then and now—to be like him in preparing places for one another in the everyday spaces that welcome some, but not all; or that say, “All are welcome, but not everyone belongs.”

Practicing faithful hospitality is important for the sake of the whole community—the whole world—that God so loves. Extending that communal kindness might sometimes be daunting when we don’t know what our guests need. That’s okay. Hospitality sometimes requires humility, where we learn how we can best prepare to receive our neighbors, and where we might make mistakes or fall short of doing it right. But still we try and try and try again to prepare a place where all belong until the spaces we share look more like where Jesus goes to prepare a place for all of us.