Lucia Lloyd’s sermon: Scruffy Hospitality
July 21, 2019
Proper 16, Year C
Luke 10:38-42
My heart goes out to Martha. She is so dutifully working at the tasks she has been taught all her life are what she ought to do. This expectation may be so thoroughly drilled into her that, in her mind, it is beyond what she ought to do, and she would probably say it is what she has to do.
I thought of Martha and Mary when I came across a blog post on facebook about “scruffy hospitality.” The author talks about moving to Knoxville, which the Wall Street Journal described as a “scruffy little city” on the Tennessee river. He says, “After seven years of marriage, my wife and I have welcomed numerous friends into our home. Once we decide to host friends for an evening, we usually kick into get ready mode, a fast and furious sprint in the days and hours before our friends arrive. We divide and conquer the to-do list: select a menu, complete grocery shopping, mow the lawn, sweep the floors, run the vacuum, clean the playroom, wipe the bird crap off our lawn chairs (we have lots of trees), set the table, clean the playroom (again), and somehow, someway, pray all that happens before the doorbell rings.
Over the years, that to-do list has prepared us for hosting company, but it has also prevented us from welcoming friends in our home. Unwritten Southern rules of offering hospitality with excellence have affected how often we invite people in our home. ‘We should have the so-and-so’s over sometime.’ And then we delay or postpone the invitation. Why? Because the to-do list is always there, the gap between our day-to-day home and the presentable, acceptable-for-hospitality version of our home.”
This blogger then realizes that he and his wife want to learn to lay those conventions aside. Because, he says,
“inviting friends into our lives only when we are ‘excellent’ isn’t friendship. Sure, there are still times we like to go all out, spruce up the house and cook a huge, Jamie Oliver style meal. It can be fun and it’s enjoyable to do things well. But that standard of excellence is rarely possible with two children under the age of 3. Friendship isn’t about always being ‘excellent’ with one another. Friendship is about preparing a space for authentic conversation. And sometimes authenticity happens when everything is a bit scruffy.”
So this blogger from a scruffy little city talks about what he calls “scruffy hospitality”: “Scruffy hospitality means you’re not waiting for everything in your house to be in order before you host and serve friends in your home. Scruffy hospitality means you hunger more for good conversation and serving a simple meal of what you have, not what you don’t have. Scruffy hospitality means you’re more interested in quality conversation than the impression your home or lawn makes. If we only share meals with friends when we’re excellent, we aren’t truly sharing life together.
He tells us, “Don’t allow a to-do list to disqualify you from an evening with people you’re called to love in friendship. Scheduling is hard enough in our world. If [someone had a choice between] eating with kind, welcoming people in a less than perfect house versus eating alone, what do you think someone would choose? We tell our guests ‘come as you are,’ perhaps we should tell ourselves ‘host as you are.’ Hospitality is not a house inspection, it’s friendship. In an age of ever-increasing loneliness, in a time when people in our society eat 40% of their meals by themselves, can I allow myself to value tidiness over community? Sadly, I’m sensing there’s pride lurking across the threshold of my welcoming mat.
So here’s the way of repentance for us. For me and my house, we’re trying to eliminate complications, not add to them. We aren’t going to host people every night of the week (after all, I’m still an introvert), but I want more memories with friends new and old than I’ve had over the past 7 years.
So I begin to ask this question, a good question: what does it look like to welcome people into my humility rather than my standard of excellence? The playroom may not be tidy. Our kids, who are lovely and enjoyable, may become noisy and cranky around 7pm. Dinners may be sponsored entirely by Trader Joe’s frozen section rather than a handmade Jamie Oliver recipe. But why would I withhold an invitation simply because I can’t make dinner from scratch?
One thing I can expect…I probably won’t remember how accurately I trimmed the grass on our driveway on any given night we host guests. But I will remember the people who put their feet under our table.”
And then the author turns it around and asks, “What about you? Go ahead and invite someone for tomorrow night. Keep your to-do list short. Take ten minutes to pick up the house and throw something together for dinner, even if it’s from Trader Joe’s. You’re more ready than you think. And we’re all hungry for genuine conversation more than we realize.”
It strikes me that this author has made the transition from being a Martha to being a Mary. He shows that it can be done. It can be done in our social relationships, and it can be done in our relationship with Jesus.
Jesus is the kind of person who loves genuine conversation and authenticity. Jesus is the kind of guest who loves scruffy hospitality. This is what Mary recognizes and Martha misses. Martha is distracted by much serving, all the things on the to-do list, all the expectations of the way the home ought to be, has to be, the expectations of the way the food ought to be, has to be. It never occurs to her that she could grab a piece of bread, a piece of goat cheese, a handful of olives, put them on a plate, and Jesus would be just fine with that. What Jesus cares about is what’s in your heart and soul, not what’s on his plate. She thinks she is doing all this serving for the comfort of her guest. Isn’t it ironic that the things we do to try to achieve good hospitality, good relationships, can deprive our guest of the one thing he cares about most, the thing he came for in the first place: you. Martha’s in the kitchen, and she wants Mary in the kitchen with her, leaving her guest to just sit there alone. Without even realizing it, Martha can be so concerned with how she appears to a guest, that she almost don’t appear at all.
Martha has grown up in a world of rigid gender roles, and it may be that there have been plenty of guests who took no interest in a woman’s thoughts or ideas or experiences. There may have been plenty of guests who cared more about what was on their plate than what was in her heart and mind and soul. I don’t want to be too hard on Martha. Still, the wonderful thing about Mary is that she recognizes that Jesus is different. She realizes that Jesus cares about who she is, cares about talking to her, cares about her questions, her hopes, cares about her soul and her relationship with God, cares about talking to her and teaching her about what matters most. And she’s ready to be there and be herself in that conversation, in that relationship with Jesus. Mary is ready to bring her scruffy authentic self to connect with Jesus and his scruffy authentic self.
In our world too, we may be so used to the expectation that accomplishments and appearances are what matter, that we forget that there are people around us who care about our hearts and souls, and want authentic relationships with our scruffy selves. Even in our religious lives, we may, without even realizing it, get so caught up in the tasks on our to-do lists, the things we “ought” to do, the things we think we have to do, that we forget that Jesus is sitting in the next room, alone, and we’re not having any conversation with him at all.
If we’re paying so much attention to the food, the tablescape, the house, we can forget about the point of the whole hospitality enterprise, which is the relationship. Or maybe it is not simply forgetting, maybe there’s a bit of avoiding too. Because letting people see the scruffiness of your life and the scruffiness of your heart and soul is not an easy thing, not a safe thing. In some ways, it’s easier and safer to stay in the kitchen accomplishing the tasks you know how to do, than it is to take the risks of authenticity and real relationship. To be truly open and authentic may not come easily to us, and it always involves some risk that if we allow people to see who we truly are, they may not like what they see. It’s much safer to just stick to the to-do list. The trouble is that sticking to the to-do list means we miss out on real human connections, close companionship, authentic relationships, deep friendship, love. This is true both in our relationship with other people and in our relationship with Jesus. When Jesus comes to visit us, do we scurry off to the kitchen because we have so many things we ought to do, things we think we have to do? Do we make polite small talk with Jesus? Or do we want to open our true selves to Jesus, with all our scruffiness, in authenticity and humility, trusting that Jesus is the kind of guest who really does care about all of it? Do we want to open our true selves to listen to the things Jesus wants to share with us about love and God and faith and forgiveness and sorrow and joy? Scruffy hospitality opens us up to some of the most meaningful relationships with Jesus. We can, at any time, change from a Martha to a Mary. Mary chooses the better part.
I thought of Martha and Mary when I came across a blog post on facebook about “scruffy hospitality.” The author talks about moving to Knoxville, which the Wall Street Journal described as a “scruffy little city” on the Tennessee river. He says, “After seven years of marriage, my wife and I have welcomed numerous friends into our home. Once we decide to host friends for an evening, we usually kick into get ready mode, a fast and furious sprint in the days and hours before our friends arrive. We divide and conquer the to-do list: select a menu, complete grocery shopping, mow the lawn, sweep the floors, run the vacuum, clean the playroom, wipe the bird crap off our lawn chairs (we have lots of trees), set the table, clean the playroom (again), and somehow, someway, pray all that happens before the doorbell rings.
Over the years, that to-do list has prepared us for hosting company, but it has also prevented us from welcoming friends in our home. Unwritten Southern rules of offering hospitality with excellence have affected how often we invite people in our home. ‘We should have the so-and-so’s over sometime.’ And then we delay or postpone the invitation. Why? Because the to-do list is always there, the gap between our day-to-day home and the presentable, acceptable-for-hospitality version of our home.”
This blogger then realizes that he and his wife want to learn to lay those conventions aside. Because, he says,
“inviting friends into our lives only when we are ‘excellent’ isn’t friendship. Sure, there are still times we like to go all out, spruce up the house and cook a huge, Jamie Oliver style meal. It can be fun and it’s enjoyable to do things well. But that standard of excellence is rarely possible with two children under the age of 3. Friendship isn’t about always being ‘excellent’ with one another. Friendship is about preparing a space for authentic conversation. And sometimes authenticity happens when everything is a bit scruffy.”
So this blogger from a scruffy little city talks about what he calls “scruffy hospitality”: “Scruffy hospitality means you’re not waiting for everything in your house to be in order before you host and serve friends in your home. Scruffy hospitality means you hunger more for good conversation and serving a simple meal of what you have, not what you don’t have. Scruffy hospitality means you’re more interested in quality conversation than the impression your home or lawn makes. If we only share meals with friends when we’re excellent, we aren’t truly sharing life together.
He tells us, “Don’t allow a to-do list to disqualify you from an evening with people you’re called to love in friendship. Scheduling is hard enough in our world. If [someone had a choice between] eating with kind, welcoming people in a less than perfect house versus eating alone, what do you think someone would choose? We tell our guests ‘come as you are,’ perhaps we should tell ourselves ‘host as you are.’ Hospitality is not a house inspection, it’s friendship. In an age of ever-increasing loneliness, in a time when people in our society eat 40% of their meals by themselves, can I allow myself to value tidiness over community? Sadly, I’m sensing there’s pride lurking across the threshold of my welcoming mat.
So here’s the way of repentance for us. For me and my house, we’re trying to eliminate complications, not add to them. We aren’t going to host people every night of the week (after all, I’m still an introvert), but I want more memories with friends new and old than I’ve had over the past 7 years.
So I begin to ask this question, a good question: what does it look like to welcome people into my humility rather than my standard of excellence? The playroom may not be tidy. Our kids, who are lovely and enjoyable, may become noisy and cranky around 7pm. Dinners may be sponsored entirely by Trader Joe’s frozen section rather than a handmade Jamie Oliver recipe. But why would I withhold an invitation simply because I can’t make dinner from scratch?
One thing I can expect…I probably won’t remember how accurately I trimmed the grass on our driveway on any given night we host guests. But I will remember the people who put their feet under our table.”
And then the author turns it around and asks, “What about you? Go ahead and invite someone for tomorrow night. Keep your to-do list short. Take ten minutes to pick up the house and throw something together for dinner, even if it’s from Trader Joe’s. You’re more ready than you think. And we’re all hungry for genuine conversation more than we realize.”
It strikes me that this author has made the transition from being a Martha to being a Mary. He shows that it can be done. It can be done in our social relationships, and it can be done in our relationship with Jesus.
Jesus is the kind of person who loves genuine conversation and authenticity. Jesus is the kind of guest who loves scruffy hospitality. This is what Mary recognizes and Martha misses. Martha is distracted by much serving, all the things on the to-do list, all the expectations of the way the home ought to be, has to be, the expectations of the way the food ought to be, has to be. It never occurs to her that she could grab a piece of bread, a piece of goat cheese, a handful of olives, put them on a plate, and Jesus would be just fine with that. What Jesus cares about is what’s in your heart and soul, not what’s on his plate. She thinks she is doing all this serving for the comfort of her guest. Isn’t it ironic that the things we do to try to achieve good hospitality, good relationships, can deprive our guest of the one thing he cares about most, the thing he came for in the first place: you. Martha’s in the kitchen, and she wants Mary in the kitchen with her, leaving her guest to just sit there alone. Without even realizing it, Martha can be so concerned with how she appears to a guest, that she almost don’t appear at all.
Martha has grown up in a world of rigid gender roles, and it may be that there have been plenty of guests who took no interest in a woman’s thoughts or ideas or experiences. There may have been plenty of guests who cared more about what was on their plate than what was in her heart and mind and soul. I don’t want to be too hard on Martha. Still, the wonderful thing about Mary is that she recognizes that Jesus is different. She realizes that Jesus cares about who she is, cares about talking to her, cares about her questions, her hopes, cares about her soul and her relationship with God, cares about talking to her and teaching her about what matters most. And she’s ready to be there and be herself in that conversation, in that relationship with Jesus. Mary is ready to bring her scruffy authentic self to connect with Jesus and his scruffy authentic self.
In our world too, we may be so used to the expectation that accomplishments and appearances are what matter, that we forget that there are people around us who care about our hearts and souls, and want authentic relationships with our scruffy selves. Even in our religious lives, we may, without even realizing it, get so caught up in the tasks on our to-do lists, the things we “ought” to do, the things we think we have to do, that we forget that Jesus is sitting in the next room, alone, and we’re not having any conversation with him at all.
If we’re paying so much attention to the food, the tablescape, the house, we can forget about the point of the whole hospitality enterprise, which is the relationship. Or maybe it is not simply forgetting, maybe there’s a bit of avoiding too. Because letting people see the scruffiness of your life and the scruffiness of your heart and soul is not an easy thing, not a safe thing. In some ways, it’s easier and safer to stay in the kitchen accomplishing the tasks you know how to do, than it is to take the risks of authenticity and real relationship. To be truly open and authentic may not come easily to us, and it always involves some risk that if we allow people to see who we truly are, they may not like what they see. It’s much safer to just stick to the to-do list. The trouble is that sticking to the to-do list means we miss out on real human connections, close companionship, authentic relationships, deep friendship, love. This is true both in our relationship with other people and in our relationship with Jesus. When Jesus comes to visit us, do we scurry off to the kitchen because we have so many things we ought to do, things we think we have to do? Do we make polite small talk with Jesus? Or do we want to open our true selves to Jesus, with all our scruffiness, in authenticity and humility, trusting that Jesus is the kind of guest who really does care about all of it? Do we want to open our true selves to listen to the things Jesus wants to share with us about love and God and faith and forgiveness and sorrow and joy? Scruffy hospitality opens us up to some of the most meaningful relationships with Jesus. We can, at any time, change from a Martha to a Mary. Mary chooses the better part.
