In 1997, Rosaria Butterfield was a professor at Syracuse University. She was in a long-term lesbian relationship, an active member of a Unitarian Universalist cult, and hostile to Christianity. But today, she is a trophy of God’s grace, a disciple of Christ, the wife of a Presbyterian pastor, a homeschooling mom, and a Christian author and speaker. What happened? Hospitality happened.
One day, she received a letter from a pastor named Ken in response to an article she had published in the paper. In his letter, Ken invited her to his home for dinner hosted by his wife (Floy) and him. Rosaria later wrote: “Ken and Floy did something at the meal that has a long Christian history but has been functionally lost in too many Christian homes. Ken and Floy invited the stranger in… Since the beginning, the journey on which the Lord has taken me has been a great adventure, and this simple meal in a pastor’s home and the unlikely circle made by a radical lesbian feminist professor and two strong Christians in their 70’s…was the first leg of this journey. Before I ever set foot in a church, they were willing to bring the church to me.”
We find the beginning of the long Christian history of which Rosaria spoke in the simple but powerful hospitality modeled by Abraham and Sarah in Genesis 18 and see that the Christian home should be an oasis of grace to the glory of God.
As the curtain of Genesis 18 opens, we find Abraham sitting at the door of his tent. You’ll remember that back in Genesis 3, the Lord came walking through Eden in the cool of the day (Genesis 3:8); those pleasant golden hours of evening. But here in Genesis 18, He comes in the “heat of the day” (Genesis 18:1), when the sun was high; when the heat was shimmering on the horizon. In arid Canaan, the heat of the day was not enjoyed, it was endured from the cool shadows of one’s tent.
Years ago, I participated in a short-term mission trip to Mexico. Now, Mexico is oppressively hot in the summer; so hot that we slept in hammocks; so hot that every day after lunch, businesses closed and the streets emptied as people hid from the sun in their homes for siesta. And it is then, during siesta, the most uncomfortable and inconvenient time of the day, that we find Abraham not napping, but perched attentively at the door of his tent, as if waiting, hoping for visitors. And wouldn’t you know it? Visitors showed up. But not just any visitors: “He lifted up his eyes and looked, and behold, three men were standing in front of him” (Genesis 18:2a).
One of the best things about superhero movies is that we, the audience, know the hero’s secret identity while the people in the story have no idea! We know that the awkward Clark Kent has a Superman suit beneath his clothes and glasses. We know that the billionaire Bruce Wayne has a bat cave beneath his mansion. We know what happens if Bruce Banner gets angry. Though Abraham was unaware at first, Moses tells us in Genesis 18:1 and 19:1 these three visitors are the Lord with a pair of angels in man-suit disguises. The author of Hebrews may have had this episode in mind when he wrote, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares” (13:2). Nevertheless, this episode displays three lovely and commendable features of Abrahamic hospitality.
Abrahamic hospitality is insistent. When Abraham saw these strangers, he didn’t retreat into the darkness of his tent, avert his gaze, act busy, or fake sick. He burst, like a sprinter off the line, into action:
“When he saw them, he ran from the tent door to meet them and bowed himself to the earth and said, ‘O Lord, if I have found favor in your sight, do not pass by your servant. Let a little water be brought, and wash your feet, and rest yourselves under the tree, while I bring a morsel of bread, that you may refresh yourselves, and after that you may pass on-since you have come to your servant.’ So they said, ‘Do as you have said’ (Genesis 18:2-5).
Well, what choice did they have? Abraham wasn’t going take no for an answer! Lydia displayed the same Abrahamic hospitality in Acts 16:15, “after she was baptized, and her household as well, she urged us, saying, ‘If you have judged me to be faithful to the Lord, come to my house and stay.’ And she prevailed upon us.” You see, Abrahamic hospitality is insistent. But why? Can we chalk it up to ancient cultural norms? Sure, but only in part. But there is something more; something universal. Abraham knew what it felt like to be welcomed, loved, and served by the God who sought him when a stranger in Ur of the Chaldeans. It seems Abraham believed the truth Jesus would speak in the fullness of time, “it is better to give than to receive” (Acts 20:35). Abraham knew that the greater blessing of hospitality was oftentimes bestowed upon the host rather than the guest. So, he is insistent.
Abrahamic hospitality is humble. See how Abraham, the wealthy and powerful master of his home and decorated military captain, humbled himself. He stooped to take the form of a servant, bowing before his guests, calling their leader, “Adonai,” or “my lord” (a bit of delightful irony there!). See how careful Abraham was to downplay the cost of hosting these uninvited guests. He called it “a little water” and “a morsel of bread.” As if to say, “It is no trouble really! Won’t you let me serve you?” And after prevailing upon his guests to stay, Abraham did not plop down on his lazy boy, crack a beer, and bark orders at Sarah. He rolled up his sleeves and served beside his wife. While she baked, he was busy butchering and buttering. During supper, Abraham, like a waiter, stood by, happy and ready to meet his guests’ every need. He is humble.
Abrahamic hospitality is generous. The “little water,” Abraham offered was a costly commodity in Canaan, no matter the amount. What Abraham called “a morsel of bread,” was actually a sumptuous feast. “Three seahs of fine flour” (Genesis 18:6), amounts to about 40lbs of flour, not course bread flour, but the fine flour we use for biscuits. And Abraham didn’t select a weak sick calf, but one that was “tender and good”—that is, healthy, delicious, and valuable (Genesis 18:7).To top it all off, he filled his guest’s cup with fresh milk and he set curds before them; that’s butter cream (Genesis 18:8). He is generous. Can you see the three guests resting in the cool shade of Abraham’s oak? Can you see their dry cracked feet soaking and softening in the water? Can you see the banquet spread before them? Can you smell the biscuits and roasted meat? Can you taste the butter and the milk? Abraham’s home was an oasis of grace.
This caliber of hospitality (insistent, humble, generous) is deeply convicting, is it not? Too often, we extend halfhearted invitations and breathe a sigh of relief when declined because we anticipate the burden rather than the blessing of hospitality. Sometimes our goal is not to bless, but rather to impress our guests with our possessions, our Von Trapp children, our surgically sterile homes, and Michelin star cooking. We are artificial, encouraging people to come as they are without expecting them to accept us as we are, usually leaving our wives and mothers to shoulder the bulk of the preparations and cleanup.
The word “hospitality” comes from the Greek xenophilia. If xenophobia is the “fear of strangers,” xenophilia is the “love for strangers.” Who does not have room to grow in this spiritual discipline? How do we do that? How do we push through our natural fear to a supernatural love for the stranger? By remembering. By remembering what it felt like to wander lost and alone, the joy of being welcomed into God’s heavenly family, the relief of soaking our soul in his mercy, and feasting upon his grace. “Remember,” Paul said, “that we were [once] separated from Christ, alienated from the commonwealth of Israel and strangers to the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world. But now in Christ Jesus [we] who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ” (Ephesians 2:12-13).
You see, we can love the stranger because we have been saved by a stranger-loving God. What would happen in our communities if our neighbors knew what the insides of our homes looked like? If they saw a family transformed by Christ? If they heard you pray and witnessed your family’s worship? If they experienced Christian love beneath the shade of your tree in an oasis of grace? Maybe there would be more trophies of God’s grace like Rosaria Butterfield. It is not enough to wait for people to come to church. We must bring church to them through the grace of Abrahamic hospitality to the glory of God.