Luke 10:1-9
After this the Lord appointed seventy others and sent them on ahead of him in pairs to every town and place where he himself intended to go. He said to them, "The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few; therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest. Go on your way. See, I am sending you out like lambs into the midst of wolves. Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals; and greet no one on the road. Whatever house you enter, first say, 'Peace to this house!' And if anyone is there who shares in peace, your peace will rest on that person; but if not, it will return to you. Remain in the same house, eating and drinking whatever they provide, for the laborer deserves to be paid. Do not move about from house to house. Whenever you enter a town and its people welcome you, eat what is set before you; cure the sick who are there, and say to them, 'The kingdom of God has come near to you.'
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“The church is a hospital for sinners, not a hotel for saints.”
Perhaps you’ve heard this quote before. Depending on who you talk to, this is a quote attributed either to St. Augustine or Dear Abby. Take your pick.
All failures of attribution aside, it is a quote that endures because it tells us something important: the church isn’t meant to be a place where you have it all together before you walk in the door. The church should be a welcome space for those who are doubting, hurting, and in need.
The problem with this quote, however, is that it assumes that hospitals and sinners are wholly distinct from hotels and saints. And that, my friends, isn’t the case.
Remember, first, that Martin Luther described us, in our life of faith, as being simultaneously sinner and saint. We are at once in need of redemption and also the ones who have already been redeemed.
And then, this business of hospital versus hotel. I’m not a Latin scholar, so y’all can correct me if I’m totally wrong about this, but a little research seems to reveal that both “hospital” and “hotel” come from the same Latin root, “hospes,” which means, at the same time, guest, visitor, stranger, and host. This root gives us not only the words hospital and hotel, but also hostel, hospice, hospitable, and hospitality.
These overlapping words reveal a deep truth: that places of welcome are also places of healing. We are all guests in need of respite. We are all hosts in service and compassion to others. Hospital and hostel, hospice and hospitality, the lines between welcome and healing blur together.
This isn’t just a linguistic reality. It is a deeply theological reality. All we have to do is look at the life and witness of Jesus to see this.
Today, we commemorate St. Luke. According to history and tradition, Luke was a Gentile convert to Christianity, familiar with the plight of the outsider, and he was also a physician, familiar with the plight of the suffering. Accordingly, Luke’s gospel focuses on a version of Jesus who offers radical welcome and deep healing, piled one on top of the other, two sides of the same coin.
Take today’s gospel reading, for example. As Jesus sends out seventy followers into new and Gentile territory, he tells them how to be good recipients of the hospitality they will receive, and in places where they receive hospitality, they are also given the power to heal diseases. Places of hospitality become places of healing. And this, Jesus says, is what it looks like when the kingdom of God comes near.
Places of hospitality become places of healing. This is what the kingdom of God looks like.
I want to show you one picture of what this looks like in our day and age. I want to introduce you to a very special man named Mohamed Bzeek, a man who, I believe, is living out the welcome and healing of the kingdom:
The kingdom of God, reflected in a Libyan-born Muslim man opening his home to sick children. Hospitality and healing, two sides of the same coin.
This is what Jesus was all about. Every act of healing and every act of welcome was never an end, in and of itself. Everything Jesus did pointed to the bigger vision of God’s kingdom in which humans and nations and even creation itself will find holy and lasting rest.
Healing, at it’s heart, isn’t just about miracle cures or unexpected recoveries. Healing is not and will not ever be a matter of cheating death for good.
Healing is simply about souls and bodies being at rest. “Come to me,” Jesus says, “all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” This is Christ’s invitation, his welcome, his healing hospitality.
We find healing when we take refuge in the one who is from everlasting, who himself knew suffering, even unto death.
And we bring healing to the world when we offer each other gifts of rest and welcome.
Sometimes we are Christ to one another.
Sometimes others are Christ to us.
Sometimes we are the ones suffering in body or spirit, who pray for miracles. Sometimes we are the ones who bring flowers and soup, who research cures, who administer treatments, or who sit in grief with those who have run out of options.
Some of these things look like acts of healing. Some of them look like acts of hospitality. All of them look like the kingdom of God.
Today, our worship honors all the healing work that Christ is doing in and among us and through us, by his life-giving Spirit. Today, we anticipate the possibilities of this Spirit to cure our bodies and to comfort our hearts. We bless those in our midst who Christ has sent into the world as healers and caregivers. We pray for ourselves and for others.
This space we share together is a sacred space, not just today, but always. This space is both a hospital for sinners and a hotel for the communion of saints. It is a hostel for those weary from the journey. It is hospice care for we who are mortal. It is a place of hospitality for you and a place of peace.
May the sacred space and the sacred moments we share today give us new glimpses of God’s kingdom. May we know and live out the healing power of Christ’s welcoming embrace. And may we find in those arms the rest that we seek.
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