Scripture can be found here…
A lot of time has gone by since we last saw Sarah and Abraham. 24 years, to be exact. Abraham is 99 years old, and Sarah is 89. And the intervening years have seen God’s promise to them in jeopardy, multiple times; those years have also seen Sarah in particular try to manipulate the promise into happening, sometimes with devastating results. (We’ll talk about that next week.)
For now, we have this couple, who are hanging out at home on a warm summer day, when some strangers drop by.
And there are signs that something uncanny is about to happen… hints that God is near.
First, Abraham is sitting near the oaks (or terebinths) of Mamre. These trees are mentioned in a number of different contexts in scripture, and to a certain extent their significance is downplayed. But they’re associated with ancient religions: sacred trees, signs of those thin places, God-spaces we talked about last week. Abraham is seated near these symbols of strength, holiness, and wisdom.
Also, Abraham is sitting in the entrance to his tent. Doorway, entryways, arches… these are all thresholds, what we might call liminal spaces. Abraham is planted between two different states of being—he is neither in nor out. Abraham is a in a space where anything can happen.
Then, the Lord appears.
Or maybe, three men appear.
Maybe those are one and the same… maybe the three men are the Lord. Or, maybe it’s the Lord and two friends.
Or angels. Maybe they are angels.
Into a holy place, into a place that is a threshold to another state of being, come strangers whom the text can’t even decide how to describe.
Abraham sees the strangers, and runs to them, and bows down to the ground, and says, “My lord, if I find favor with you, do not pass by your servant. Let a little water be brought, and wash your feet, and rest yourselves under the tree. Let me bring a little bread, that you may refresh yourselves, and after that you may pass on—since you have come to your servant.”
I can’t decide what’s happening here. Does Abraham sense who this is? Does he become pretty sure, pretty fast, that these strangers are, somehow, emissaries from the Lord?
Or, is this how Abraham treats every stranger who passes by his and Sarah’s tent?
Whichever it is, his hospitality is exemplary. No, more than that. It’s stunning. Sarah makes three individual loaves of bread. Abraham chooses a fine specimen from his flock, and has a servant prepare it. This is no ten-minute rest stop for the strangers. This is hours of welcome. Hours of kindness. Hours of opening up one’s home, and resources, to utter strangers.
This is an extraordinary act of hospitality.
But everything I’ve ever learned about ancient near eastern hospitality weighs on the side of this being normal. Extraordinary hospitality is normal. It’s expected. In fact, the rules of hospitality exist because life in and near dangerously hostile places such as wilderness and desert require it. It’s required that all of society abides by social mores that expect us to welcome the stranger, rather than to lock and load when we see an unfamiliar face (or a face of a different color) on our threshold. It’s expected, because lack of hospitality means death—and we all want the door to be opened by a kindly face when we’re in dire straits. In those circumstances, we want everyone to be our brothers in arms.
And scripture itself suggests this to be true: all hospitality should be extraordinary. The author of the New Testament Letter to the Hebrews says, “Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.” (Hebrews 13:1-2)
That author believes that Abraham and Sarah did not know to whom they were offering water and bread and meat and refreshment and rest. The assumption goes, they had no way of knowing they were entertaining angels. The passage continues,
“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.” (Heb. 13:3).
I would add, remember those who are being killed with impunity—your black siblings; your trans siblings. Remember those who are being lynched. Remember them as though you, and your kin, were the ones being killed. The ethic of scripture is one of hospitality borne of the deepest kind of compassion.
Abraham stands under the sacred oak while the strangers—now his guests—enjoy their meal. And suddenly, one of these guests speaks to Abe in the most intimate of terms. After asking where Sarah is, he ventures,
“I will surely return to you in due season, and your wife Sarah shall have a son.” (Gen. 18:10)
At this point, the story comes to a bit of a halt. The narrator takes a minute to tell us in no uncertain terms how very, very unlikely this is. How outrageous is this prediction. Abraham and Sarah are old, the narrator says. Like, super-old. You know those monthly things that happen to people of childbearing age? Not Sarah, not any more.
As if listening to the narrator go on and on and on, Sarah starts to laugh. And she laughs hard, and she laughs loud—loud enough for the guests to hear her.
But, you know, at this point in the story, it’s Sarah who is standing in the entryway to the tent. It’s Sarah who’s standing at the threshold, in the liminal space, where, tradition and folklore and mysticism tell us, anything is possible. Anything. Even skeptical laughter that turns to joy-filled laughter. Even a belly laugh that turns into a son whose name, Isaac, means, “laughter.”
Scripture loves a miraculous pregnancy. It’s easy to focus on the baby and to forget that new life comes in many forms. For some, it looks like a little child. For some it looks like a big calling. For some, it looks like a change of heart, a letter to the soul that helps to let a new reality in. For some, it looks like a turning tide ushering in just the tiniest glimpse of God’s reign of justice, love, and peace.
Where, in your world, do you see signs of new life? Where in your life, do you sense the need to be opened to the God of justice, love, and peace? Where do you observe hints that God is near?
This week, I heard this reminder: God is present and active in every situation in our lives. New life is always within our grasp. God is always near. Each new day… each new moment… we are standing on the threshold, and God is with us, and anything is possible.
Thanks be to God.