All Things in Common
Where do you feel safe? Where do you feel comfortable? Where do you feel like you belong, like your needs are met, like nothing can touch you? Where do you feel like if you were to make a mistake, or a hundred mistakes, you could still be embraced unconditionally? When I was in seminary in New Jersey, I lived with my uncles for a year and a half. There was a lot to love about living with them. The hospitality, the sense of comfort and acceptance. The experiences I would have, just tagging along with them. The sense of home. One of the greatest things about living with them, though, was meeting all the people I otherwise never would have. From Broadway stars and famous musicians, like the drummer from the band Bleachers, who regularly plays with Taylor Swift, to political experts who appear on CNN and are asked to write opinion pieces for the New York Times. Mixed in with all the renowned and recognizable people I got to meet were the Boldens, an older couple called Papa Frank and Mama Penny. Every Sunday, Frank and Penny host Sunday Dinner at their home, inviting people from all walks of life to eat together. They would host family, church friends, neighbors, seminary students, friends of their friends. The devoutly religious and the militantly atheistic. Citizens and recent immigrants. It was simultaneously an honor and a given, to be invited to Sunday Dinner at the Boldens’.
The first Sunday I was invited to their house for dinner, I went because I had nothing else going on. I did not know what to expect, only that I was going to get a home-cooked meal, and being a grad student who commuted and spent a lot of time on the road, that was enough for me. When we got there, we had barely stepped through the door when Penny rushed over to embrace us, planting a big kiss on each cheek. Even me, whom she had never met before. I was handed a glass of some of the best red wine I had ever tasted, and then followed the crowd out back to the deck, being introduced to people as I went. Once we were outside, conversation flowed easily, genuine interest was shown, connections were made. At one point, everyone went inside to replenish their drinks and refill their appetizer plates from the charcuterie board, and I stayed outside. Before long, Frank walked over and said “Sam? I’m Frank. Come here, I’ve got a job for you.” So, I followed him over to a green container with a crank attached to the side. He sat down, turned the crank for a minute or two, then told me to sit there and keep turning it until he came back. So, I did, and after about ten minutes he came back over and said “that should be good. Do you know what you just did?” Then he opened the container, showing me the homemade strawberry ice cream I had just churned by hand, and said “you just made us dessert. Thanks, Sam!” And then he carried it away to harden up in the freezer.
Week after week, I went back. There was a core group of folks who were there each week, and other folks who were just passing through, or who only came once in a while. Some drove hours to be there each week. Others took trains and buses. And it wasn’t just for Penny’s cooking, as amazing as that was, nor was it for the fine wines and imported cheeses. It was for the hospitality, the sense of belonging, the community that would work to understand even if they didn’t get you at first. It was for a place that encouraged conversations about the two topics that other dinner parties would forbid (religion and politics), and that welcomed differing opinions as long as you were prepared to unpack them. Whether you had yet to finish second grade or were working from multiple graduate degrees, this was a space where conversation was encouraged, and where you were expected to join in. But not just to join the conversation, but to lend a hand in the kitchen, set and clear the table, entertain the little kids, and wherever there was a need. To join in sharing your story, your dreams, your struggles, your beliefs, and to be a recipient of the same from others. They celebrated birthdays, they celebrated with me when I got engaged, they sent me with their best when I graduated, and, now that my sister is there, they’re doing it all over again.
This isn’t the norm, at least not in all places and spaces or for all people. For many, there is no place like this, not even on a temporary basis. It was a place of safety and comfort, not because everyone agreed or no one was ever challenged, but because even if you took a different stance Papa Frank would still serve you dessert at the end of the night and invite you back the next week to elaborate on why you think or feel the way you do. And Mama Penny would still bust your chops, shake her finger at you, and give you a great big hug. Trust, in that space, is the default. By default, you are let in, you are fed, and you are given the floor. The door is not meant to keep out those who need shelter, food, or company. Mostly, the door is to keep the dogs inside. But more than anything, the door is there to be opened, to show that there is a physical space for each of us, and that all we have to do is accept the invitation—that is simultaneously an honor and a given, something unique and individual, and still universal. God’s grace lies in the door that opens not just to the smart sheep or the accomplished sheep or the agreeable sheep or the familiar sheep. God’s grace is in the door that opens not just to the white sheep, the straight sheep, the wealthy sheep, or the sheep that conform to our traditional models of gender or family.
God’s grace is in the door that opens to the sheep who earnestly seek to be a part of the flock, and who need the shelter and safety of the closed door to know that this isn’t conditional and that no one is itching to get rid of them. This is the grace of a community that gathered in the midst of Roman occupation, when it wasn’t acceptable or normal to do so. When this apostolic community gathered, as they do in this passage from Acts, they did so in a way that wasn’t normal. They met across the boundaries drawn by class and social status. There were those whose needs—whether they be spiritual, social, or economic—were not being addressed by society at large. So they met with those who were called to seek wholeness of spirit and wholeness of body together, who were so driven by the call of the Spirit and by their faith in Christ, that they emptied themselves of what they had for the sake of others. They lowered their own economic statuses for the needs of others, blurring the lines between family and strangers. They met in places where they could keep the door closed—not to keep out neighbors, but so that it might be opened to those in need, and closed to keep the marginalized safe.
Christ the gate is not about keeping out the tired, the poor, the huddled masses. Christ the gate is about establishing a community that cares for one another, that tends to the unmet needs of strangers and friends, that seeks to follow the example of the Christ who put all of himself at risk for the sake of those he loved. Christ the gate is not an excuse for exclusion, or a means of justifying locking the doors of our hearts, our communities, or our nation to keep out those we would rather not see or encounter. The grace is in our willingness to accept the invitation of a gate that will open to us, and in our willingness to step into a community that is intentional in how it welcomes, interacts, and grows together. Each of us is invited, to take part in this welcome, to step through this gate, to be a part of a community that is not normal, is not simply an activity or part of the weekly routine. Each of us is invited, personally and as a whole, to encounter the grace of a door is open to us. Let us eat together. Let us disagree, not in passive silence but robust conversation. Let us hold one another in comfort and safety, without condition. Let us know one another. And, together, may we listen for the voice of the shepherd, who calls us in and sends us forth. Amen.