The crop has been prodigious this year, ruby red jewels spilling over sidewalks and fences. Because I have a peculiar cast of mind, it reminds me of God’s abundance: not one crimson maple leaf but millions in this harvest season. In a reading earlier this week (Jn. 1:47-51), Jesus promises Nathanael, “you’ll see greater things.” Or: “Stand back. You ain’t seen nothing yet.” Indeed: if we look back over the long arc of a life reflectively, we might well be astonished. The great blessing is seeing God’s generosity in human beings.
I was an awkward only child, saved from isolation by cousins and friends. I saw one recently, which took me back over the 60+ years we’d been friends. As a teenager, I’d happily joined her large family for dinner—her dad an attorney who was the St. Thomas More of the 20th century; her mom a gracious baker of apple pies, never bothered by an extra kid or two at the table among her own crew. Their conversations were always lively, and I was lucky to be included in such a vibrant group.
Fast forward: her brother and his wife invited me for dinner two weeks ago, and I felt the same way. He makes the hors d’oeuvres and entertains us in the garden while she cooks a delicious dinner of fresh, healthy ingredients and a home-made peach tart with cream she whips just before serving. In an era when so few people entertain, it was a welcome return to the warm courtesies of another time. My 13-year old grandson is learning: at a recent family lunch, he not only baked banana bread heavily loaded with chocolate chips, but also made a loaf for each guest to take home.
Another friend assures me of “my” room in her home whenever I visit her city. The home is exquisitely decorated; guest rooms are stocked with plush robes and extra toiletries in case visitors have forgotten toothbrushes. I look forward to breakfasts with piles of pastry from a special bakery, and conversations with my friend and her husband, both in health care. I know little about their world, but admire the compassion, practicality and humor they bring to it.
A sister at a local retreat house welcomes guests with warmth, making them all comfortable despite their multiple needs. Some are visually impaired, some have mobility issues, some want to be left alone and some want to chat: she sorts it all and provides elevensies: mid-morning trays of scones. A whole team of housekeepers and kitchen staff back her up, creating a space where I can read or write to my heart’s content without domestic duties. The quiet, unheralded service reminds me of St. Alphonsus Rodriguez, praised in Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem, who became a saint through years of watching the door in Majorca, attentive to each visitor’s needs.
My spiritual director exhibits an intangible hospitality by listening to my rambles and rants with a genuine, non-judgmental interest. He has welcomed the whole messy enchilada that is myself, month after month for eleven years. The way he sees, accepts and encourages all of me gives a heartening glimpse of a God who welcomes every last cranky corner of us.
What do these examples of hospitality teach us of the divine? We learn from the negative: the ungrateful tenants in today’s parable respond to the vineyard owner’s generosity with brutal violence to all his emissaries, including his son. In a minor key, picture the disappointment on a child’s face when the pre-scheduled zoom partner doesn’t show up or the invited guests don’t come to the birthday party. I am never like these, God says, and shows us a different face:
Jesus was hostess at the last supper; his doing women’s work of washing feet and serving food epitomizes hospitality. God Creator welcomes us again and again into a beautiful world, and Spirit blesses us with rich relationships, creative ways to thrive.
