16th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: Gn 18:1-10a; Col 1:24-28; Lk 10:38-42

The story of Abraham 

and his visitation by the Lord

in the form of three mysterious travelers

has often been seen as foreshadowing

the mystery of the Holy Trinity.

And the story of Jesus’ visit

to the home of Martha and Mary

has often been seen as an allegory

of the active and contemplative lives.

Both of these are venerable interpretations

and worthy of our attention,

but I would like to bring into focus

something that lies in the background 

of both stories,

and that is hospitality.

Abraham welcomes the three visitors,

offering them food and shelter,

and in so doing welcomes the Lord himself.

Mary and Martha, in their different ways,

offer hospitality to the Lord Jesus,

and through this hospitality 

God is in their midst.

God calls us to radical hospitality,

for in receiving the stranger

we receive the God who receives us.

Hospitality was a key virtue in the ancient world.

In a world dominated by families, clans, and tribes, 

hospitality was a recognition of the humanity

of one who is outside my group,

a recognition of their basic dignity 

and of our common bond.

In the book of Exodus 

the Israelites are commanded,

“Do not mistreat or oppress a foreigner, 

for you were foreigners in Egypt.”

God bids them to remember 

that they were mistreated

when they were strangers,

and not to do the same 

to the strangers in their midst.

The Gospel calls us 

to an even more radical hospitality,

because through the Gospel we have received

the hospitality of God.

St. Paul writes to the Roman, 

“Welcome one another…

as Christ welcomed you, 

for the glory of God.”

In his ministry, Jesus welcomed sinners 

and ate with them;

through his cross and resurrection

he has welcomed us to new life in his body,

where we “are no longer strangers and sojourners, 

but…fellow citizens with the holy ones 

and members of the household of God.”

This welcome is what St. Paul calls,

in our second reading,

“the mystery hidden from ages 

and from generations past.”

But hospitality is hard,

particularly when we are talking about 

the kind of radical hospitality 

to which the Gospel calls us.

St. Thomas Aquinas says that all the works of mercy

are contained in hospitality (Ad Rom 12.2 §995),

because strangers come to us in all their neediness,

both physical and spiritual.

You may have to give them food and drink,

you may have to give them shelter,

you may have to instruct or counsel them,

even possibly admonish them

or bear with them patiently,

and you will almost certainly 

need to pray for them. 

Yes, the hospitality of God is a costly hospitality,

but it is also one in which God sustains us

and which promises us

nothing less that life eternal:

“Come, you who are blessed by my Father. 

Inherit the kingdom prepared for you 

from the foundation of the world. 

For I was…a stranger and you welcomed me.”

To welcome Christ in the stranger 

is to be welcomed by Christ.

In recognizing in a stranger 

the human nature that we share,

I come through Christ 

to share in his divine nature.

To make this a little less abstract,

let me suggest two examples

to help us examine our consciences

on the question of hospitality.

Since I seek to be an equal opportunity offender,

I will take examples associated with both sides 

of our current political divides.

The first, and perhaps more obvious, 

test of our hospitality

arises in the question of how we should think

about the contemporary phenomenon

of mass migration. 

Even if we differ on the details 

of this or that policy,

it seems clear that as Christians

we should always be seeking

the best way to welcome those 

who come to us seeking refuge.

This might involve ways of helping them

find a permanent place among us;

it may involve providing temporary shelter

until they can safely return to their homeland;

it will definitely involve finding a way

to treat each person as a fellow human being,

and it will definitely not involve

speaking and acting in a way 

that dehumanizes and demonizes.

As Pope Leo said in his homily this Pentecost,

“Where there is love, there is no room for prejudice, 

for ‘security’ zones separating us from our neighbors, 

for the exclusionary mindset that, tragically, 

we now see emerging also in political nationalisms.”

The second test of our hospitality 

is perhaps less obvious,

but no less important.

Every family that welcomes a child 

welcomes a stranger,

and in welcoming a child into life

we are imitating the hospitality of God

who welcomes us into eternal life.

The church’s defense of unborn life

bears witness to our belief 

that we are called to welcome the stranger,

even when that stranger’s arrival 

is difficult or demanding—

especially when that stranger’s arrival 

is difficult or demanding—

and that God’s grace can sustain us

in situations when our own power cannot.

It bears witness to 

our recognition of the humanity 

of the most vulnerable of strangers.

But it is not just pregnant mothers

who are called to radical hospitality,

even when it is difficult and demanding,

but we as a Church and as a society

are called to make sure that welcoming a child

is not more difficult and demanding 

than it has to be,

that the mother’s humanity is not denied,

and that every child is promised not just life,

but a life in which mother and child can flourish.

In light of today’s scriptures,

all of us should examine our consciences

and ask ourselves, “Have I shown to others

the welcome that God has shown to me?”

For, to quote again Pope Leo,

“No one is exempted from striving 

to ensure respect for the dignity of every person, 

especially the most frail and vulnerable, 

from the unborn to the elderly, 

from the sick to the unemployed, 

citizens and immigrants alike.”

As we seek to embody the hospitality of God,

let us pray that God would open our hearts

to see the humanity of others,

and that God, who is merciful,

would have mercy on us all.

16th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: Genesis 18:1-10a; Colossians 1:24-28; Luke 10:38-42

Video

As I suspect was the case with many of you,
I was transfixed last week by the first images
coming from the James Webb Space Telescope.
They were not only beautiful,
but they made visible 
the immense size of the cosmos,
in which vast galaxies appear as tiny spots of light,
as well as its immense age,
capturing light that originated from stars
thirteen billion years ago,
at the very dawn of the universe.

That vastness-made-visible awakened in me 
feelings like those expressed by the 17th-century
scientist and philosopher, Blaise Pascal:
“When I consider the short duration of my life, 
swallowed up in an eternity before and after, 
the little space I fill engulfed in the infinite immensity 
of spaces whereof I know nothing, 
and which know nothing of me, I am terrified. 
The eternal silence of these infinite spaces frightens me.”

And yet, at the same time, 
these very same images elicited in me 
a sense of wonder and gratitude,
and the thought that 
what is important about human beings
is not our physical place in the universe,
but the fact that we, 
fragile creatures that live
on a small rocky formation 
in an obscure corner of the cosmos,
sustained and protected 
by a thin layer of gas clinging to its surface,
limited in time and space,
can look up into those silent, infinite spaces
and bring into ourselves
the vastness and beauty of the universe 
through the miracle of thought and understanding.
Pascal went on to say:
“By space the universe encompasses 
and swallows me as an atom… 
by thought I comprehend the world. 
Man is but a reed, 
the most feeble thing in nature; 
but he is a thinking reed.”
Our discovery of the scope of the cosmos
should increase our sense of awe and wonder 
at the power of God’s creative activity
and at the immense privilege of being 
witnesses to that activity,
the glory of knowing even a small slice
of what God is doing in creation.

This sense of awe mixed with terror, 
this sense of a mystery beating in the heart of things
and holding our universe in existence,
is something we as Christians share with all people,
even those who do not call this mystery
by the name “God.”
Who knows? 
Perhaps this sense of awe and mystery
is shared by other intelligent beings—
other “thinking reeds”— 
living on other rocky formations
in other obscure corners of the cosmos.

But, St. Paul reminds us today,
our Christian faith tells us
that there is an even greater mystery 
at work in our world,
for the infinite creative force
that holds the universe in existence
has come to dwell among us in the flesh,
a fragile reed among other fragile reeds,
so that we might know the fullness 
of the riches of his glory 
and live eternally in the light of that glory.
Paul makes it his life’s work to reveal to all people
“the mystery hidden from ages 
and from generations past”
but now made known to God’s holy ones:
the mystery of the infinite power of God
present among us in Jesus Christ crucified.

In our Gospel today we see
Mary of Bethany sitting at the feet of Jesus,
heedless of her sister’s complaints,
because she sees the mystery
that Martha is too busy to recognize:
that the creative force that forged the cosmos
and adorned it with such beauty
is present in the flesh,
as a human being,
in their home,
on a fragile rocky formation
in an obscure corner of the cosmos.
Mary sits at the feet of Jesus 
because she knows that in his presence
she is in the presence of divine glory,
a glory surpassing the beauty
of the stars and galaxies and nebulae
that so captivated us this past week.
She has found the one thing necessary;
she has chosen the better part
and it will not be taken from her,
for it will lead her into eternity.

Pascal saw in the vastness of the cosmos
cause for both wonder and terror.
But he also saw within himself
an even more vast emptiness.
He wrote, “There is a God-shaped void 
in the heart of each person 
that cannot be satisfied 
by any created thing 
but only by God the Creator, 
made know through Jesus Christ.”
The vastness of creation—
the unimaginable scope of space and time—
is mirrored within us by an equally vast yearning,
and knowing this vastness without knowing Jesus Christ
can lead us to despair,
for what hope can we fragile reeds have
amidst such immensity
if all we know is our own fragility?
But in Jesus Christ God has come among us
with a human face and a human heart
to fill the empty space within our own hearts,
to reveal to us the mystery of eternal love
here on this tiny rocky formation 
in this obscure corner of the cosmos.
Pascal writes that because Christ shares 
our human condition,
“Jesus is the God whom 
we can approach without pride 
and before whom 
we can humble ourselves without despair.”

Paul tells us that Christ in us is the hope for glory,
a glory surpassing anything 
that we poor thinking reeds can conceive.
As we ponder the beauty 

and terror of the cosmos,

let us ponder as well 

the hope of glory revealed in Christ,
and let us pray that God would give us that hope,
that God would fill us with that glory,
and that God would have mercy on us all.

 

16th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: Genesis 18:1-10a; Colossians 1:24-28; Luke 10:38-42

Last week we heard the parable of the Good Samaritan,

which Jesus tells in connection with the commandment

to love God and to love our neighbor 

in the same way that we love ourselves.

The parable of the Good Samaritan cuts to something

that lies at the heart of Christianity:

love of God and love of neighbor are closely bound up together

and in service to our neighbor we are showing love to God.

The story of Mary and Martha in today’s Gospel

is recounted by Luke immediately after

the parable of the good Samaritan.

And if the parable emphasizes the importance of love’s active service,

today’s story points us toward a still higher form of love.

While Martha has got herself in an uproar

in her concern to provide fitting food and drink for her guest Jesus,

Mary sits at his feet and listens to his word.

When Martha complains about Mary’s indolence,

Jesus says that she has chosen “the better part.”

He says this even though the conventions of the day

said that a woman’s place was not at the teacher’s feet,

but in the kitchen, like Martha,

doing all the things necessary

to provide a fitting welcome for their guest.

But only one thing, Jesus says, is truly necessary.

While Martha is anxious to welcome Jesus,

Mary lets herself be welcomed by Jesus –

welcomed into the circle of his disciples.

This is not to say that the kind of service Martha offers is unimportant.

The very fact that Jesus says that Mary’s choice is better

implies that Martha’s is still good, 

and even in some sense necessary.

She herself is something of a “good samaritan”:

the active love that Martha shows to Jesus,

like the love that the Samaritan shows to the man attacked by thieves,

is in this life the ordinary form of love that we show to God.

But there is also an extraordinary form of love 

that occurs every so often:

those moments when one knows oneself 

to be fully present to God,

welcomed into God’s presence 

in the way that Mary was welcomed by Christ,

welcomed to be attentive and receptive 

to the truth that is revealed.

In the tradition of the Church we sometimes speak of this

as a “contemplative” or “mystical” form of love.

Most of us, I suspect, have some experience 

of being with someone we love,

whether this is romantic love or the love of friendship,

and feeling no need to do or even say anything,

feeling that we have been welcomed to share 

in the life of our beloved,

welcomed to drink in 

what the beloved shares about himself or herself,

welcomed in to discover in the one we love 

something deeply true about life.

When that lover or friend is God

this is what we call contemplation or mystical union.

For most of us, of course, such experience of God is not common;

we count ourselves lucky to catch even a glimpse of it in our prayer.

But when we do catch a glimpse,

when we feel ourselves truly welcomed into God’s presence,

we gain an inkling of what eternal life with God might be like:

being welcomed into a perfect love,

when time itself is frozen 

in a moment we wish would never end.

Commenting on today’s Gospel story,

St. Augustine said, 

“In Martha was the image of things present,

in Mary of things to come.

What Martha was doing, that we are now;

what Mary was doing, that we hope for.

Let us do the first well, 

that we may have the second fully” (Sermon 104).

Like Martha, we as individuals and we as a Church

seek to welcome the Lord and our neighbor 

through our active service,

and this is only right and just,

because God knows we have many needy neighbors

who hunger and thirst 

for both physical and spiritual food and drink.

But also like Martha, 

we as individuals and we as a Church

are anxious and worried about many things,

trying to read the signs of the times

so as to know how to welcome God most fittingly 

into our life in this place and time.

We need, like Mary, to let ourselves we welcomed by Jesus

to sit at his feet and drink in his wisdom,

a foretaste of the welcome we will receive in heaven.

As important as our service to God and neighbor is,

to know ourselves welcomed by Jesus,

to sit, like Mary, in intimate closeness with him,

to drink in his wisdom –

this, Jesus says, is the one thing necessary.

Because this is our destiny;

this is what gives meaning to all our labors;

this is the one thing in this world that shall remain for eternity.

St. Augustine wrote, 

“At present alleluia is for us a traveler’s song,

but this wearying journey brings us closer to home and rest

where, all our busy activities over and done with,
the only thing that will remain will be alleluia” (Sermon 255).

16th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: Genesis 18:1-10a; Colossians 1:24-28; Luke 10:38-42

In the Christian tradition,

today’s Gospel has usually been understood

in terms of two different sorts of Christian callings –

the calling to the life of active service, represented by Martha,

and the calling to the life of contemplative prayer, represented by Mary –

and the relative superiority of the life of contemplation to the life of action.

But if we read this story from Luke’s gospel in light of our first reading,

which is the story from Genesis

about Abraham’s reception of three mysterious angelic figures

who bring him unexpected tidings

of the impending birth of Isaac, his son,

then the story of Mary and Martha can also be read

as a story about hospitality.

In particular, it is a story about our hospitality

and the hospitality of God.

In our parish of Corpus Christi

we tend to think of ourselves as a pretty hospitable bunch,

welcoming all sorts and conditions of people into our community

and seeking to live together the good news of our salvation in Jesus Christ,

good news that inspires us to reach out to the stranger.

Indeed, the annual event of Artscape allows us to show our hospitality

by offering our church building as a venue for performances,

as well as offering the building itself

as one of the significant works of art in the city of Baltimore,

a space that speaks through the medium of art

of the fundamental mysteries of our Catholic Christian faith.

And, in the past few weeks,

we have had the additional opportunity to flex our hospitality muscles

in welcoming Fr. Marty as our new pastor.

It is precisely these sorts of occasions

that invite us to reflect on what it means to be hospitable.

In the ancient world, receiving hospitality was necessary for survival

when one found oneself a stranger in a strange land

and hotels, motels, and bed and breakfasts had not yet been invented.

The first reading notes that Abraham sees the three visitors,

“when the day was growing hot”

and that he offers them shade and water, as well as food to eat.

In a harsh physical environment, receiving and offering hospitality

can be a matter of life and death.

In this case, the three visitors

are messengers or angels sent from God,

so it is not so important that they receive hospitality

as it is that Abraham offers it to them.

Indeed, throughout the Old Testament God tells the Israelites

that they are to show hospitality to strangers

because God has shown hospitality to them,

taking them in when they were wandering strangers without a homeland.

Part of what it means truly to receive God’s hospitality,

is to show hospitality to others.

In the Gospel, Martha reacts to the arrival of Jesus

in a way not unlike Abraham

reacting to the arrival of his three guests:

she runs around, getting things ready,

becoming in the process, as Jesus notes,

“anxious and worried about many things.”

Indeed, she gets herself in such a state

that she asks Jesus, her houseguest,

to take her side in an argument with her sister:

“Lord, do you not care that my sister

has left me by myself to do the serving?

Tell her to help me.”

Think about this for a second:

someone comes to your house

and you try to drawn him into a domestic dispute.

This is hospitality?

It sounds more like Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.

It would be as if we asked our newly-arrived pastor

to take a side in some long-standing feud among parishioners,

and I know none of us would ever do something like that.

Martha may think she is the one being hospitable,

but in fact she has tried to put Jesus, her guest,

in a very uncomfortable position.

Moreover, she is so busy doing things for Jesus

that she cannot take the time to be with Jesus, her guest,

except to pop in to complain about her sister.

We might be inclined to forgive Martha these breaches of hospitality

since she, like many of us, is burdened with much serving.

Also, she is, after all, only doing what she thinks is expected of her

as a woman in the household.

Indeed, she probably presumed that, as a woman,

all that she could offer a religious teacher like Jesus

was her anxious, worried activity.

What she cannot imagine –

but which somehow Mary can imagine –

is that Jesus wants her to be with him,

in the position of a disciple,

sitting at his feet

and learning from him the mysteries of God’s kingdom.

Mary chooses the better part

because she chooses to be with Jesus;

she gives her guest the one thing that he really wants:

herself as his disciple.

True hospitality, Jesus seems to be saying,

is not so much a doing-for as it is a being-with.

In our everyday acts of hospitality,

all of our anxious and worried activity –

cooking food, making beds, cleaning bathrooms –

must at some point come to a stop

so that we can finally do the one thing

at which all our activity aims:

being with our guest;

giving ourselves to him or her by opening ourselves

and truly listening to what our guest has to say.

And when the one whom we are welcoming is God,

it is even more the case

that the only thing we really have to give

is our attentive presence.

We cannot really do-for God;

but we can certainly be-with God.

It is as if we show God hospitality

by accepting the hospitality God offers us.

That, after all, is all that God really desires.

And in the hospitality that we as Christians show to others –

whether through opening our church at Artscape,

or welcoming couples who wish to get married here,

or inviting people who want to explore the Catholic faith

to consider the RCIA process,

or even celebrating the arrival of a new pastor –

what we are really doing is inviting them to join us

in accepting God’s hospitality,

to join us in being-with God by being-with each other.

For it is in giving and receiving such hospitality

that we truly are corpus Christi: the body of Christ.