I have a thing about kitchens. There’s something about the time cooking together as a family, about gathering around the table together to eat and talk about the day, and even cleaning up together afterwards, that is so uniquely special and indescribable. Even through my job at a local juvenile detention center, I see it. The kids respond differently around the dinner table than anywhere else – whether we’re setting the table, eating, or cleaning up; they open up in ways that they don’t otherwise. They trust; they receive provision not only for their bodies but for the child within them that needs stability, safety, and someone to talk to. Perhaps it sounds nerdy – but there’s something in my heart that longs for that time in the kitchen with people I care about, that longs to cook and fellowship and provide for more than myself, that aches to see a full table instead of one lonely chair awaiting me.
Especially as we draw near to Thanksgiving with its memories of family get-togethers at my Grandparents’ home each year, with cousins elbow-to-elbow at card tables heaped with food, my desire for a full kitchen grows. So imagine what happened to my heart this morning when I read Nehemiah 5:17 in the New Century Version: “Also, I [Nehemiah] fed one hundred fifty Jewish people and officers at my table, as well as those who came from the nations around us.” I know the verse sounds so simple, but think about it. Nehemiah’s country was in slavery. He was an exile. His people had no government of their own, no rights, and no real property. He had so little – and yet he took it upon himself to provide for over one hundred and fifty people each and every day, to allow them to feast in his home. He provided out of his nothingness so the people of God could convene together, encourage each other in the work they were doing, discuss strategies for how best to continue in God’s plan, and be reenergized for the work ahead of them. And he didn't run out of food. He didn't have to go begging for help. In fact, the next verse says, "I never demanded the food that was due a governor, because the people were already working very hard." He gave freely to those people he could bless. Who does that remind you of? Jesus and the 5,000, perhaps? The King of Kings, the Bread of Life, provided food for the masses more than once, so that they could be encouraged with the company of other like-minded believers, develop a sense of community, discuss what they were learning (so they would remember it better), and be reenergized for the trip home and the ministry of witness God prepared ahead of each of them.
That isn’t the only time that radical hospitality appears in the Scriptures, though. What about David welcoming Saul’s Grandson to his table in 2 Samuel 9? Or the widow woman who fed Elijah, despite her own destitution, in 1 Kings 17? Or the man who fed one hundred prophets with just a few loaves of bread in 2 Kings 4:42-44? This idea of welcoming people to your table, even when you have nothing, and extending radical hospitality is a long-standing tradition of the Bible.
Yet, as I’ve thought about this all day long, letting the verse that initially caught my attention roll around on the inside of me, I’ve been unsatisfied, convicted, restless with my own lack of action. My table, on so many nights, is empty. My husband is at work and night classes, so I spend the night with leftovers on the couch, trying to stir myself to do homework (mostly unsuccessfully, I might add) … But Nehemiah fed over one hundred and fifty people each night at his home. His home was a place of open doors, community, fellowship, provision … Why isn’t my home that way? Why isn't my home, on even a smaller level, ministering to even one person, like Elijah and the widow? Something in me wants to justify my behaviors and say it is because I'm young, just married, and therefore we don't have enough to feed anyone but ourselves ... but that's not true. I know that. I cleaned out the refrigerator tonight. There was plenty of moldy evidence that we have more than we need, and still, there is nothing but an empty house here ... one in need of a good cleaning maybe, but empty all the same. I've tried inviting a few of my friends before, told them that they are always welcome for dinner, and still no one comes. So how do I go ahead and cultivate radical hospitality, the way my heart longs to and the way that the Bible declares is right? How do I go ahead and fill my home and give from the little we have? How do I trust God to create community that is energizing and fulfilling and worthwhile in my home? Look to Luke 14 with me; verses twelve through fourteen speak directly to this issue, but allow us to look at the parable that follows instead.
Starting in verse 15 and going through 23, in the Barclay, "When one of the guests heard this, he said: 'Happy is the man who is a guest at the feast in the Kingdom of God.' Jesus said to him: 'There was a man who planned to give a big dinner to which he invited a large number of guests. When the dinner was due to begin, he sent his servants to tell those who had received invitations: 'Come! Everything is now ready.' They all unanimously began to make excuses ... (21) The servant came back and reported to his master. The master of the house was furious. He said to the servant 'Hurry out to the streets and the lanes of the town, and bring in the poor and the maimed and the blind and the lame.' The servant said: 'Your orders have been carried out, and there is still room for more.' 'Go out into the roads and the hedgerows,' the master said to the servant, 'and bring them in, even if you have to compel them to come. I want my house full." The Clear Word translation of verse 23 says, "Then their master said, 'This time go outside the city into the country lanes and outlying communities and urge people to come so that my house can be full of guests." See? God longs for His kitchen to be full, too. He longs with a great longing to see His home filled; He longs to provide, to reenergize, to strengthen, to encourage - and for some reason, not all the "church" people want to come. They make excuses, like the friends I've invited to the apartment before. So God gets desperate - directing His servants to go way out of their way, to do whatever is necessary, to compel them to come in. Do you know what the word "compel" means? In the 1828 Webster's dictionary, the word "compel" means: "to drive or urge with force, or irresistibly; to constrain; to oblige; to necessitate, either by physical or moral force. To force; to take by force, or violence; to seize." That's how serious God is about this. His Son died to kidnap us from the hedgerows of sin the devil had tangled us up in. And while God will not physically beat people into coming to His table, He will compel them with all the urgency of the ages, pursuing their hearts in a way that is irresistible and ultimately leads to their salvation. And such must we do if we want to be radically hospitable. It requires tenacity, ferocious friendliness and hospitality ... We must push ourselves to branch out, to quit simply asking people we're good friends with to come over, people who already know Jesus and are lukewarm about it. We need to ask people who don't yet know Jesus, who are struggling in life and need the support and the fellowship, the people who have no other friends, the people who have no other choices ... The point is to minister to the needs of our neighbors, to share with people, to evangelize, to fill our homes with opportunities for Kingdom work to be done and an edifying to occur ... We need to begin inviting other people in, passionately extending welcome to those in our lives, looking even to the country lanes and hedgerows of our acquaintances to begin understanding what a powerful thing it is to come to the table together ... Because Jesus is inviting us to a deeper level of fellowship with Him and with each other, and we can't afford to keep making excuses.
Comments
Post a Comment