Enjoy this . . . unsanitary . . . reflection on being a gracious guest for the sake of love and the gospel. -Paul
A barista at my favorite coffee shop asked me to come over to a party. I didn't know what kind of party it would be. Flying solo, I went to the party with potato salad in hand.
It was not the kind of party I would throw. That is for sure. By the time I got there, (almost like the time Jesus went to the wedding), people had been drinking for some time. There was dancing. Lots of it. And lots of fun. And lots, I mean lots, of alcohol. Not the kind of party this pastor is used to going to.
But the quinoa was to die for. Having finished one round, I returned to the food in the kitchen to get some more. There, standing right next to me was a classic Portland woman. Tattoos. Pant leg rolled up from the bike ride. Unshaved armpits. She saw me standing over the quinoa.
She says to me—toasted from an evening of drinking—"Good quinoa, right?"
I yell over the music, "Yeah, I'm here for seconds."
She looks at me. Then down at the quinoa. Then back up at me. And with her left hand she scoops a large handful of quinoa into her dirty hand, looks up at me, and puts it into my mouth. As she does, she says, "That's good quinoa."
I'm not one for unsanitary eating experiences. I'm not one for drunkenness. But, as a pastor too often cloistered into the safe confines of the church—which is so used to hosting the world—I was pushed out of my bounds. I was forced into being a guest.
The church of "condescension"
I didn't lead the quinoa lady to a personal relationship to Jesus. But I experienced Jesus.
Mission will never be sanitary. The minute it is, I almost wonder if we should be calling it mission.
Mission will never be sanitary. The minute it is, I almost wonder if we should be calling it mission. Don't just be a good host. Be a good guest too.
Last spring, Theophilus (the church I pastor) had a special opportunity to host Dr. Amos Yong—one of the leading theological voices in the Pentecostal world—at one of our worship gatherings.
For his homily, Yong showed us a side of Luke's Acts narrative that few of us had ever seen; at least, a side I'd never seen. He described it as God's "condescension" in our world.
During his three-year ministry, Jesus is depicted through the gospels as the God who "condescends" to the level of people—to our level in our world and into our neighborhoods. Through a series of Gospel snippets, Yong showed us how Jesus, again and again, condescended to the level of the neighbor, the outcast, and the religious. God "condescends"; or, you might say, God comes down.
As a reflection of Jesus's condescension, the early church chose the same method. As our movement spread through the ancient world, the early church "condescended" itself by continuing to participate in community life—attending weddings, debating in public halls, visiting grocery stores, and spending time with their neighbors. And often by being guests.
The gospel spread in the ancient world because the church was willing to be a guest in the world.
One of the more memorable instance of this is in the final seasons of Paul's life. In Acts 28, his ship is wrecked on Crete and is subsequently "guested" on an island of barbarians who show him "unusual kindness" (the Greek text uses the word philanthropoi, or "philanthropy").
Yong made a strong case—the gospel spread in the ancient world because the church was willing to be a guest in the world. And through guests, the gospel can make its way into the hearts of the hosts.
Being guested
But from my perspective, American Christianity has, for too long, prided itself as the world's host; thinking that the church's only fitting role is in welcoming the world into our doors. The world, in this model, must learn to "condescend" itself to the church. But those days are long gone. We can no longer understand ourselves primarily as the host.
Rather, we must embrace being guested.
American Christianity has, for too long, prided itself as the world's host; thinking that the church's only fitting role is in welcoming the world into our doors.
Two things account for our discomfort with the posture of a guest. First, we assume that it is the Christian thing to do to love our world and not be loved back. In fact, we interpret being hated as a sign that we are doing the work of Jesus. But the story of Paul shipwrecked on Crete reminds us that—there at least—he was more loved and welcomed by barbarians than he was by some churches where (based on more than one account from his life and letters) he was hated, maligned, and often outright rejected. Paul was willing to be guested.
Mutual love, in the narrative of the Bible, is a necessary aspect of living in the world. But from my experience, many Christians just don't know what to do when they experience the "unusual kindness" of their non-Christian neighbors, co-workers, and politicians. This, I think, is due to the fact that we've interpreted being hated by the world as a sign of God's approval of our lives. We have forgotten that sometimes the rivers of God's unusual kindness flow from the least expected mountain springs.
Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, many Christians simply don't have the time to be guests. We don't have the space to say yes. We don't have the boldness to accept the invitation—if we are even asked in the first place.
New Testament scholars tell us that the first miracle in the Gospels is Jesus turning water into wine at a wedding. I think that's wrong. Our tendency is to emphasize the miracle of a God who can turn water into wine (a miracle, indeed!). But we fail to recognize the miracle that precedes that. The first miracle isn't that Jesus turns water into wine at a wedding.
The first miracle is that Jesus is the kind of God people want to come to their wedding.
Invited, incarnate
Jesus was invited. And, as the incarnation of God, even Jesus had time to say yes. Most of us—myself included—simply don't. What takes up our time? Church. Work. Family. Admirable things, don't misread me. But we have too often failed to include saying "Yes" to invitations as the holy work of a holy people in the world. A guest can only be made where someone has time to be a guest.
How can you be a guest? How can you condescend to your neighborhood? Where can you put yourself so that God might send someone to shove a dirty handful of quinoa into your face?
If we escape our role as a people placed in the world, we betray the cross. We betray Golgotha. We betray the resurrection.
If we escape our role as a people placed in the world, we betray the cross. We betray Golgotha. We betray the resurrection. Because at the cross, as God's people, we are guests of the crucified. It is there that we encounter a God who enters so deeply, so profoundly, and so passionately into a world of sin as a condescending God that we find ourselves as anything but hosts of the crucified. We are invited into his life; never the other way around.
The compelling words of Ernst Käsemann still stand strong. In his article "Guests of the Crucified," Käsemann writes prophetically about the role of a church who knows its place:
Of religious movements there are enough to spare. Many are more profound, stronger, and more fascinating than Christianity, so again and again Christian communities squint to the right and the left, make comprimises, borrow this and that, and betray Golgotha.
We are more fascinating than real Christianity. Because real Christianity enters the world, sits down, and eats.
A.J. Swoboda is a pastor, writer, and professor in Portland, Oregon. He is @mrajswoboda on Twitter.
