All Are Welcome in this place…

Too often, our default answer tends to be “no”. We are too easily a critic. We are eager to point out how to do things differently, or better, correctly, or more efficiently. We act just like the Pharisees in Matthew’s gospel (Matthew 12:6). Instead of seeing hungry men, the Pharisees see trespassers and rule-breakers. They saw what was in front of them, and they were correct: these men were trespassing and breaking rules. Jesus takes a moment, and tries to teach them to see a bigger picture, to see beyond the black and white of rules. Though Jesus makes some excellent points, his most important lesson in this exchange is a little cryptic: “I tell you something greater than the temple is here.” What does THAT mean? When people are caught up in enforcing rules, speaking to them in allegories or metaphors or puzzles does not clarify things. What Jesus said was “I tell you, something greater than the temple is here.” Perhaps what he meant was the temple is not a place as much as it how we treat each other; when we are kind, we create shelter and community for each other. We do this by saying, “you are welcome”.

There is plenty of trouble in the world. Much of it comes down to division. We are divided many ways. We are divided left and right, have and have-not, black and white, rich and poor, educated and not, insured and not, we have homes — or we are refugees, we feel safe — or not, hungry — or not. Our lives either look like the promise of the Resurrection, or the darkness of Good Friday. In March, I traveled with Marquette University’s Lutheran Campus Ministry to Nicaragua on an accompaniment mission trip. We were privileged to eat at and stay in the homes of locals who welcomed us, who had nearly nothing but shared whatever it was that they did have.

If you are as old as me, you would remember unrest and rebellions, and bloody fighting, in Nicaragua. Maybe you think of it as unstable or unsafe, because that is all we know. Nicaragua is plenty poor, but is working hard to be independent, and to have their new story and new identity emerge. We learned a LOT about Nica and the people and the history and the land while we were there. I’d like to share two quick stories, one about unity and one about grace.

Nicaraguan people live either in the cities, low on the coast, or in the mountains, out of reach. The city people don’t really know the mountain people, and the mountain people don’t come down to the city. In 1980, after an uprising that overthrew a corrupt dictatorship, the new government realized that they needed support of everyone, even those in the distant mountains. An enormous grassroots outreach was organized. The government invited anyone who knew how to read, and was willing to teach others, to gather in the plaza on a specific date in downtown Managua. Over 60,000 people showed up, many were teens in high school. The government gave quick training and supplies, then sent them out to the hill country, to go door-to-door, and teach others to read in a one-on-one initiative. The participants left the city, on motorbikes and bicycles, on horseback and on foot, and traveled out to the campo. In five months, this group created permanent and profound change: the literacy rate moved from 45% before the program began in March, to 85% when it completed in August. Faced with enormous obstacles, not many resources, and an unstable new government, Nicaragua decided to unite, and to work to create access to education so that everyone could have a fair chance in the new Nicaragua. They created their own unity; rather than dividing the haves and have-nots, they traveled hard roads on foot to spread the word. When an unannounced guest knocked on the door, and asked, “are you interested in the reading event that is happening across the country?”, he was welcomed, and fed and sheltered, before moving on to the next house or next village. He didn’t ask “do you want me to teach you to read?”, since that spoke to the division that existed. Rather, he said, “would you like to be part of this?”, and found himself welcomed…because that is what the mountain people do for their neighbors, and this visitor seemed neighborly. He was, after all, Nicaraguan. This literacy outreach built a binding sense of nationalism, uniting the rural and urban communities, who — up until then — had been very separate. The campaign won a UNESCO award, but that’s not why it was done. It was done to bridge the gap between the educated, and those without. If the idea of going from village to village, teaching strangers, connecting with the poor, sounds familiar, it should. To me, it sounds like how Jesus taught: his teachings were invitations, to be sure, but they are also commands: Love your neighbors. Forgive each other. Care for the poor and the marginalized. Live a simple life. Put the needs of others before your own. Those are the rules, and through them, we can build community, and unity.

My other story is about grace. But first, let’s look again at Jesus and his followers, and the Pharisees telling them they were wrong. Because there is some grace at work here. How hungry did they have to be, to eat grain right off the stalk? Jesus could have argued with the Pharisees who were judging their behavior. But he didn’t; he just quietly taught. When we were in Nicaragua, we were told that our host families would give us the best bed, the freshest food, the sun-warmed water for bathing, and maybe even would slaughter a chicken or pig for us. Though they had almost nothing, they would provide their best for us. We were quietly taught about being made welcome. One very hot day, we stopped for lunch at a “restaurant”. A restaurant in the campo is a table set in someone’s yard, with a grass roof over it. You sit there, and the people in the house bring you the food they cooked, and you pay them. No menu, just whatever they had cooked that day. So we ate. And it was delicious. There was beet and cucumber salad, beans and rice, chicken, cheese, sweet tea and fresh juice. Afterward, we were so full, and didn’t have anywhere to be for about an hour. Some of us sat back in our chairs, dozing, others put heads down on the table to rest. A few played cards. Some read. It was very quiet and still. Then silently, two boys emerged from the house. They were about six and eight years old. Each carried a mattress on their heads. These boys were bringing us their beds. They saw we were tired, and they brought us their own beds, outside to the dirt yard, so we could stretch out and nap. Of course, when someone brings you their own bed, you HAVE to nap. We stretched out on these mats, two or three to a mattress, and napped like champions. There was no saying “oh, no, really, you don’t need to do that…”; there was only, “oh my goodness, GRACIAS.” They quietly — without saying a single word — welcomed us so completely. They fed us when we were hungry, gave us drink when we were thirsty, and when we were tired, they gave us to rest.

Being gracious takes work. It is not comfortable for us. But here is what graciousness leads to: it leads to living in grace, and with grace. It means that when you are in need, and someone offers you comfort, whether that is a listening ear or a good meal or a ride when your car is broken-down or a smile in a storm or even a warm bed and roof over your head, you accept. You grasp the hand that is extended toward you, and let them guide you to safety and care. In turn, when you are able, you reach your hand out to someone in need. You provide the meal, the place to sleep, the hot coffee, the time to listen. When we accept the hand offered us, and then reach back and help those coming behind us, we create a circle, we create a community. We host each other. And we become the Body of Christ. We need to remember that the essence of the word “hospitality” — HOSPES — is that guest and host are identical; if not in that moment, in some moment. Whatever our current role, it is temporary. Time and seasons pass, and eventually the host goes traveling and becomes the guest, the guest returns home and becomes host. The non-distinction between guest and host is what hospitality should be. Wherever we create a welcome, build community, promote unity, we become a shelter to each other; we are the temple, and we act as Jesus taught. We live as a Body of Christ.

Our dialogue is a little backwards. The guest says “thank you”, and the host says “you’re welcome”. We should reverse this. We don’t need to wait to hear the gratitude; our default should be “you are welcome”, as a greeting. Welcome first, the gratitude will follow, and it will be filled with grace.

(note: My influences are not limited to my own experiences; one of the books I read in Nicaragua was “God’s Hotel” by Victoria Sweet, and one of the essays I read upon return was “The Challenge of Easter” by Fr. James Martin, S.J. Both resonated profoundly, and are highly recommended, and certainly helped shape this piece. Photo cred: Carolyn Lewis)