Let mutual love continue.Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.Remember those who are in prison, as though you were in prison with them; those who are being tortured, as though you yourselves were being tortured. [Epistle to the Hebrews 13.1-3]

There was a season in many Church traditions, where we offered the elements of communion with as much expedience as possible. Tiny, symmetrical cubes of post-crust white bread, accompanying thimbles of grape juice.  

Moreover, if the bread was prepared many hours before, it could disintegrate when too much enthusiasm was exhibited by those receiving.

What is communicated when we speak of God’s hospitality, then offer the elements in such an astringent way? The body and blood of Christ, for you…

The central act of our shared lives is the worship of an extravagant, generous God; when the sacraments are measured out so carefully, communion can almost become a dissociative exercise.

The hospitality of God is measured in the gift of Jesus Christ, by which any constraints of expedience or implied risk are rendered meaningless in comparison.

Where does this leave our hospitality, in worship and beyond?

When we baptise, there needs to be an abundance of water, particularly when drought is integral to our experience of life in Australia.

When we break bread and share wine, imagine there being sufficient so that anyone hungry for food and justice can come for a second and third helping, whether they are the host, or receiving for the first time.

The hospitality we offer to strangers will be influenced by the God we worship, to whom we are discipled. If baptism is measured with an eye dropper, and communion with a laser level, our welcome to strangers and guests will be similarly disabled.

We can mistake hospitality for the tolerance shown an unwelcome visitor. Hospitality is not “allowing someone to enter our perimeter”, but the welcome of a kettle boiling, and a chair made ready.

The author of Hebrews is probably making reference to some Old Testament stories, where holy visitors (angels?) make surprise appearances to Sarah and Abraham, and soon afterwards to Lot, who lived in Sodom. The angels received generous hospitality in both places, even to the extent of Lot protecting his guests from the assault of other men in the city. Sodom’s sinfulness is the failure of its hospitality, its violence towards those in need.

This is more than tolerance, more than welcome; it is generosity and safety. Lot acts as host, even at risk to himself – and his family.

We are called into “embedded” ministry, where we identify with those who are suffering, as though we are suffering ourselves.  This identity is the reason we offer hospitality, because we know what it means to be hungry, to value shelter, to need the care of others.

Remembering others is not reduced to the short, uncomfortable stanza during the Intercessory Prayers. It is reshaping our action and our worship around those who are tortured and imprisoned. It is breaking bread, acknowledging the generosity of God by whom our daily bread is given and, in the same moment, naming the brokenness of lives and bodies and communities and cities.

Remembering is also the prophetic assertion that this suffering is not the entire story told in Jesus Christ. Our identity with those who suffer, the reason we serve others, is our affirmation that justice and forgiveness – and resurrection – are the inherent consequence of being named and loved by God.

We wait for the sounds of God
and the sounds of the sacrament:
the breaking of the bread
and the gushing of the wine
the pain of sorrow and the pulse of hope
the echo of our name and the bread in our teeth
a cup on our lips and breathing at our side
as we wait for the sounds of God
the breaking of the bread
and the gushing of the wine.                        (Gary Trompf, “Your Will be Done”)

In the hope of the Spirit’s breath, we remember forward that God is not done. God is not yet done.