Hospitality from Genesis to Revelation
Prolegomena
Words—if we listen to them carefully—have much to tell us. Like people, words are living narratives; they have a history and have stories to tell. Regrettably, we do not ordinarily examine the words we speak, write, and read; we usually use words rather than study them or learn from them. We tend to pay more attention to words only when we are piqued, offended, or hurt by them, e.g., when someone uses “wrong” words or uses words “wrongly.” I find it often the case that when I listen attentively to a word, to see whence it came and what changes it has undergone through time and space, it becomes wholly fresh and alive as if encountering me for the first time, revealing its depths and dimensions that would have otherwise remained dormant in my use. Words that reveal themselves also disclose the world by opening up new paths of insight for our language and language-bound existence.
Hospitality. Hospital. Hospice. Host. Hostel. Hostile.
Hospitality: we know it; we use it; we live it—which is perhaps the best way we know any word. Yet the word itself has dimensions that are hidden from our casual, oblivious use. Getting to know this word, hospitality, can open up new readings of the Bible from Genesis to Revelation. From the very first act of God’s creation of heaven and earth (Genesis 1.1) to the eschatological vision of the new heaven and earth (Revelation 21.1), hospitality, as both a word and a worldview (or a way of life), illuminates every canonical book toward spiritual insight and nourishment. Indeed, hospitality is at the center of both creation and the history of salvation; the conceptual world of the word hospitality makes it an all-encompassing word embracing the entirety of Christian theology, piety, and mission.
In ordinary conversations, hospitality refers to “the reception and entertainment of guests, visitors, or strangers, with liberality and goodwill” (Oxford English Dictionary). Noteworthy is the obvious but fundamental analysis of human existence in which we and they, or the other, are a given, like yin-yang, that primordially constitutes the human world. Hospitality requires at least two parties in proximity or relationship—think of Abraham’s archetypical welcome of the three visitors in Genesis 18.1–8. Also notable is the word nested in hospitality, viz., hospital, which ordinarily refers to “an institution or establishment for the care of the sick or wounded, or of those who require medical treatment.” Hospitality and hospitals have to do with holistic health, a shalom-peace of completeness, wholeness, and wellness in contrast to sickness, brokenness, or division—think of the Samaritan’s hospitable care of the wounded stranger in Luke 10.29–37; think also of the etymologically related words spital (a shelter for travelers) and spittle (a house for the reception of the indigent or diseased).
Very close to hospital conceptually is the word hospice, which commonly refers to “a nursing-home for the care of the dying or the incurably ill.” Like hospital, hospice has to do with wholeness or wellness and the care of those who are broken or shattered, physically, emotionally, spiritually, and in all the various ways that human life is human. It is when we are sick, wounded, or endangered that we turn to hospitals or hospices for healing or comfort—a point worth remembering when we contemplate the more sublime theological formulations of the atonement, which itself is a composite word (at-one-ment) for the “condition of being at one with others,” derived originally from the verb to one, meaning “to make into one, join, unite.” Significantly for our theological reflection, hospice meant primarily and originally “a house of rest and entertainment for pilgrims, travelers, or strangers, especially one belonging to a religious order”—think of Knights Hospitallers, hostel, hotel, and motel, all of which are etymologically related.
At the root of all these words conceptually and etymologically is the word host, which usually refers to a person who receives or entertains other people at home. And with the Latin etymological source for host is where things become more fascinating and illuminating for theological reflection on hospitality. Host comes originally from the Latin hospes, which gives us all the words with the stem hospit-, e.g., hospitality, hospitable, hospitaler. Hospes refers to a person “who entertains a stranger” i.e., a host; but it also means sojourner, visitor, guest, or friend, as well as stranger or foreigner. As an autoantonym meaning both guest and host, and both stranger and friend, hospes is very much like the Greek xenos (ξένος) which means sojourner, visitor, guest, and friend, but also host. The autoantonymity of hospes and xenos reveals that hospitality requires reciprocity of those who give it and those who receive it, a point that is by no means trivial, as further reflection will intimate below. Complicating the matter more is the Latin word hostis, which means stranger or foreigner, and by extension also enemy; from hostis we derive the words hostile and hostility. In antiquity as in today’s world, the foreigner-stranger can often be viewed as being unfriendly or antagonistic, i.e., hostile. This reminds us that hospitality might involve risks, a point worth remembering when Christian faith is enjoyed and fellowship shared only among known friends.
Hosts and guests are two sides of the same coin, just as coming and going are two aspects or perspectives of the same movement, the autoantonymous reciprocity of which we see in the ubiquitous Greek verb erchomai (ἔρχομαι), meaning both come and go. What is significant for the verb erchomai (to come-go) and the nouns xenos and hospes (stranger/foreigner-friend; guest-host) is the interrelational ethos and ethics reflected in them, whether on the giving side of hospitality or on the receiving side. This linguistic lesson is true to human experience, in which we are either host or guest at any given time, depending on where and with whom we find ourselves in our journey through life. Hospitality, then, is a fundamental, existential, ethical human condition—not merely human activity—that discloses the reality that we and they are co-constitutional ways in which we exist in the world and know ourselves and others in the world. Like yin-yang, host and guest (as well as friend and stranger) come and go as inextricable dance partners in a never-ending sojourn that fills human life and meaning.
And the logos became flesh and pitched a tent among us . . . . (John 1.14)
Although there is no single Hebrew word in the Bible for hospitality, the practice and importance of hospitality permeate both Testaments. The word xenos and its cognates are found throughout the Septuagint (i.e., the Greek Old Testament) and the New Testament, indicating the significance of hospitality (for hosts and guests) in the ancient east-Mediterranean cultures, especially with regard to travelers and the nomadic life of Israel’s ancestors, the wandering Aramean and his heirs (Deuteronomy 26.5–22). It is in the light of that historical context of ancient Israel that we must understand the incarnation as articulated in John 1.14: the eternally and cosmically other (stranger, guest) that is the pre-creation logos in John 1.1–3 is claimed to have “pitched a tent among us” (1.14). The verb that is translated “lived” or “dwelt” (skēnoō, σκηνόω; cf. ’hl, אהל) means to “settle down” or “take up residence” and evokes the Mosaic tabernacle (mškn, משכו; also ’hl, אהל) that represented the presence of God among Israelites.
With the allusion to the nomadic, tent-dwelling language of the Exodus and Sinai traditions, the incarnation invites us to at least two paths of meditation through biblical history and theology: (1) the theme of the presence of God among us and (2) the notion that God has “moved into the neighborhood” (The Message; see also Dale Bruner’s commentary on John). The latter theme is dominant throughout most of the Bible with rich roots in the wandering, nomadic, tent-pitching life of Bedouins, which means “dwellers in the desert.” But the biblical precedent for this ethos of the ancient east-Mediterranean world goes beyond the traditional “wandering Aramean” of Israel’s ancestral history; the Bedouin ethos appears already in primeval history, at least as far back as Jabal, “the ancestor of those who live in tents and have livestock” (Genesis 4.20). In the conceptual world of biblical imagination, the tent-pitching, tent-dwelling language of the incarnation not only evokes the nomadic presence of God in the Mosaic tradition but also is as old as human history itself in terms of primeval human settlements and sojourns. In fact, even before Jabal, his recent ancestor Cain was the first to settle east of Eden (Genesis 4.16—the verb for settle is yšb [ישב] “to sit, dwell” in Hebrew and oikeō [οἰκέω] “inhabit, dwell” in Greek). In this vein, the Bible portrays Adam and Eve as not just the primordial parents of all human beings but also the first to move and settle elsewhere, being forced to sojourn from their home in Eden because of their disobedience.
Pushed to the origins of human beings, we may entertain the significance of God’s creative activity itself as an act of hospitality in the sense that God’s generous spirit generates all of reality; that is to say, God is the ultimate host creating and inviting the other, in this case, the first human beings, into a hospitable relationship expressed in the provision of home and food in the Garden of Eden (Genesis 1.29–30; n.b. God’s vegetarian hospitality extended to all animals). In a profound sense, God, in creation, provides and models hospitality for the first human beings and for all subsequent humanity. Even after the primordial disobedience, God’s provisional (i.e., providential) hospitality toward humanity continues: “the Lord God made garments of skins for the man and for his wife, and clothed them” (Genesis 3.21; NRSV). And even for the first murderer in history, God’s incomprehensibly generous spirit provides for the needs of the fugitive Cain (Genesis 4.15); although Cain leaves God’s presence, the providential mark of God goes with him as protection.
God’s providential care is shown in the God of creation and covenant, especially with Abraham and Sarah, but also in the God of deliverance in the exodus and exile alike; God is always present among the Israelites as a God who provides what Israel needs, much like a host. Israel knew God as the good shepherd of Psalm 23 who leads his people to green pastures and still waters, as well as the generous host who prepares a table feast. The prophetic tradition proclaimed the eschatological vision of an extravagant feast (Amos 9.13–15; Joel 3.18; Isaiah 25.6–8). Because Israel knew and treasured its identity as a nomadic, sojourning, pilgrim people, descendants of the wandering Aramean (Deuteronomy 26.5–22), it also held dearly the ethos of hospitality.
The spirit of wanderers who valued hospitality, both given and received, is as palpable in the New Testament as in the Old. Almost constantly on the move throughout the Gospel narratives, Jesus and his twelve disciples, evoking the twelve wandering tribes of Israel, are sojourners who often depend on the hospitality of those they visit. When Jesus sends his disciples to proclaim the kingdom of God, he instructs them to travel so light as to require hospitality from those they meet (Matthew 9.27–10.15; Luke 10.1–12). Jesus proclaims the fulfillment of the Abrahamic covenant, according to which “many will come from east and west and will eat with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 8.11). Jesus tells a controversial story to an incredulous crowd about a Samaritan who lavishes incredibly generous hospitality (Luke 10.29–37), defining a neighbor as one who practices hospitality to a wounded stranger, perhaps even an enemy. Jesus’ penchant for hospitality toward strangers and outcasts often involve stories about banquets (e.g., Matthew 22.1–14); he also finds himself as a guest or host at feasts, as in the case of Luke 15, where he is eating with tax collectors and sinners, telling stories of a shepherd, a woman, and a father, whose ecstatic joy culminates in feasts. The final judgment portrayed in Matthew 25.31–46 proposes that hospitality is the sole criterion for eschatological reward; declared blessed and righteous are those who feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, welcome strangers, clothe the naked, take care of the sick, and visit prisoners. Unmistakably, wandering and hospitality are fundamental features of Jesus’ life and teachings.
Particularly significant in the Matthean pericope regarding the final judgment is that “the king” encounters people incognito as a stranger (cf. Abraham’s welcome of the three strangers in Genesis 18). The point is that the righteous are characterized by their hospitality toward strangers because the hospitable disposition does not distinguish between strangers and kings; hospitality marks the fundamental character of the righteous and is independent of the intended receiver of hospitality. It is also the resurrected Jesus who sojourns incognito with two disciples on the way to Emmaus after the crucifixion (Luke 24.13–35) and is asked if he is the only stranger or visitor in Jerusalem who has not heard about Jesus’ crucifixion and the empty tomb (cf. the incognito appearances of Jesus elsewhere, e.g., John 20:11–18). As they near Emmaus, the two extend the stranger-sojourner hospitality of food and rest only to discover in his breaking of bread that the stranger-guest was actually their risen Lord. Tellingly, the Lucan narrative concludes with the disciples returning to Jerusalem to inform the eleven disciples “what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread” (Luke 24.35; cf. Jesus’ hospitality of bread and fish in John 21:1–14). In a wonderfully concentrated way, the themes of sojourning and feasting are interwoven to reveal again the fundamental significance of hospitality.
It is no surprise to find the importance of hospitality in subsequent missions of Jesus’ followers. Paul exhorts both Jewish and Gentile believers in Rome to “contribute to the needs of the saints” and to “extend hospitality to strangers” (Romans 12.13; cf. 15:7). He also argues against Peter and all the Jewish believers in Antioch because they reneged on table fellowship with Gentiles (Galatians 2.11–14), which would have been less than acceptable to Torah-observant Jews, very much like the Pharisees and scribes in Luke 15 who grumbled about Jesus when he ate with tax collectors and sinners. Likewise, 1 Peter 4.9 exhorts believers to “be hospitable (philoxenos, φιλόξενος = loving toward strangers) to one another without complaining” and Hebrews 13.2 urges believers “to show hospitality to strangers (philoxenia, φιλοξενία = love toward strangers), for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it” (cf. 1 Timothy 3.2). Interestingly, in both cases, the instruction for hospitality is preceded by the exhortation to love (1 Peter 4.8; Hebrews 13.1), which can be argued to be the crux of the Christian gospel.
The Christ as guest and host
Hospitality of the Christian gospel is not only in the biblical record but also in the repeated sacrament of the Lord’s Supper, the feast in which the resurrected Christ is the host and the church anticipates the eschatological feast. When the eternal logos became flesh in John 1:14, it was into a hostile world (John 1.10–11): “He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him.” The hospitable act of creation yielded a world that had become so dark that it did not know to welcome its incognito creator; the logos came home, but there was no homecoming hospitality, a point more vividly made in Matthew 2.13–18, according to which the newborn Jesus had to be evacuated to Egypt, and also in Luke 2.7, according to which the newborn Jesus had to be laid in a manger.
Notwithstanding such an unfriendly, hostile beginning, whether in John, Matthew, or Luke, Jesus’ ministry is marked by generous hospitality. Jesus is at times found as a guest welcomed by others (e.g., Mark 2.15–17; Luke 19.1–10). More significantly, Jesus is remembered as a generous host who feeds thousands at a time (Matthew 14.13–21; Mark 6.32–44; Luke 9.10–17; John 6.14), the only miracle narrative found in all four Gospels, a fact worth noting about the early church’s remembrance of Jesus. The Gospels portray Jesus as Israel’s host, evoking in at least the Jewish consciousness the experience of God as the benevolent host of its sacred history. In like manner, the unwelcome guest became for the early church and for churches of all times and places, the host of the anticipated heavenly feast that is the Lord’s Supper in worship.
According to 1 Corinthians 11.23–26, the early church celebrated the reenactment of Jesus’ last supper with his disciples not merely to commemorate his salvific death but also to proclaim boldly the return of Christ. If our reflection on hospitality begins in Genesis with creation, it comes full circle to the restoration of creation in Revelation. In Revelation 3.20 Jesus says to the church in Laodicea, “I am standing at the door, knocking; if you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to you and eat with you, and you with me.” Resonating with the Gospels and Paul’s letters, Revelation remembers Jesus as guest and host. The significant difference at the end of history is that the once unwelcome, unknown stranger-guest will be the cosmic king-host of the eschatological banquet. According to Revelation 21.1–4, the new heaven, the new earth, and the new Jerusalem will be accompanied by the divine revelation-reminder that “the home (skēnē, σκηνή = tent) of God is among mortals” and that God “will dwell (skēnoō, σκηνόω = to pitch a tent, dwell) with them as their God.”
So Christ, the unwelcome guest of the incarnation, who was both guest and host during his ministry, and who became the host of the church’s Lord’s Supper, will become the welcome guest in the cosmic consummation of creation. As such, God as creator-savior-host-guest will bring true shalom of wholeness and health: “God will wipe every tear from their eyes; Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more” (Revelation 21.4). The landscape of biblical narrative spanning creation and the restoration of creation is punctuated throughout with the theme of hospitality, which is much more than personal ethics or cultural ethos. The Old and New Testaments are bound and interwoven in the Christology of the logos that preceded creation (John 1.1) and continued in the Mosaic and prophetic traditions of Israel (John 1.17; 1.6, 23). Hospitality is nothing less than a way of understanding all of creation and salvation; it is the sum of the Old and New Testaments.
So what?
Words have a lot to say to us—if we are willing to take the time to listen. And if we do hear what hospitality is and tells us, we will at least contemplate afresh the significance of the incarnate Word, the eternal God who came to tent-dwell among us, not as a mere guest in the very home he created but as also the cosmic host inviting us to follow, bidding us to abide in him, thereby partaking in the eternal dance of the Trinity (perichoresis, περιχώρησις) in which there is no host or guest, no friend or stranger, no ally or enemy—only the dynamic dance of love, divine love, the very source of all hospitality and wholeness. Or so we might formulate in theological jargon.
But so what? What remains as an ongoing assignment and challenge for the church that understands the biblical and theological significance of hospitality is twofold. On the one hand is the intra-Christian failure of hospitality; church unity and the shared hospitality of the Lord’s Supper is an ecclesiastical hope that the Catholic, Orthodox, and Protestant traditions of the Christian faith have yet to realize. On the other hand is the extra-Christian failure of hospitality, the results of which is suspicion, and sometimes hostility, between Christians and non-Christians. The fundamental dynamics of hospitality set in motion in the Genesis account of creation still yearns for ultimate restoration in which guests and hosts can dance (perichoresis, περιχώρησις) exchanging places, playing each others’ roles, extending profound hospitality in which sinners are declared righteous, foes become friends, and foreigners are welcomed as family. In the mean time, as frustrating as reality is and as frustrated as we are at the ever imperfect church and world, we pray as the host of the earnest hope at the end of Revelation: Come, Lord Jesus!
