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The Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained strangers without knowing it. Remember those who are in prison, as though you were in prison with them, and those being tortured, as though you yourselves are being tortured.” Whenever we read from the Epistles each Sunday, we are drawn into the intimate details of communities very much on the margins of the Roman Empire. Scattered here and there throughout the ancient Mediterranean, these small, embattled groups of Christians attracted the dregs of society, those with nothing left to lose, slaves, criminals, the poor and maimed and outcast. On one level, it is impossible for us to conceive of what life was like for these wretched of the earth. There was no safety net, no protection, no security, no rights. For them, there was only their waking terror of being crushed by humiliation or the sword. We cannot conceive of such a world. But this does not mean that this world does not exist, either then, or now. In Darfur today, in our detention center at Guantanamo Bay, in countless other forgotten, dark corners of the world, those first century conditions of utter depravity are very much alive and well. We just don’t see them, or choose not to see them. The remarkable thing about our scriptures, and our New Testament Epistles in particular, is not only do they recognize the wretched and the outcast, but they categorically assert that in their midst, this is where God is found and experienced. In strangers and prisoners, the Letter to the Hebrews proclaims, you may be entertaining angels without knowing it. What a bizarre conception! Among the very people we fear and loath most in our society, angels are making their visitation. Strangers and Prisoners. Today, there are more 2 million of our fellow citizens incarcerated, more by far than other country in numbers and as a percentage of the population. The vast majority of these are condemned to a life of violence, recidivism, and despair. And there are untold numbers of strangers in our gates, illegal immigrants, refugees, exiles, all of whom face the ignominy of deportation and imprisonment. Among these, Hebrews maintains, the heavenly hosts abide. Among these, the angelic powers descend to earth. Among these, there is light, and hope, and redemption. Here God can be found. Not among the proud and arrogant, as Ecclesiasticus tells us today. Not among those who choose to be first in the well, Jesus says in our Gospel. But among the lowest of the low, the very last of the last. I know this. Because, five years ago, one such angel came to us as a family. His name is Harold. And I’ll never forget the day Jeannette came home to dinner to ask the five of us if Harold could come live with us. Jeannette had met Harold through her work with Partakers, a prison ministry she had started in 1997. Harold, she explained to us, was getting out of prison after a 27 year sentence for second degree murder. He had no place to go. As an African-American man now in his late fifties, every door he knocked on remained shut. Would we take him in, she asked? Well, for me and our two younger children, this was lunacy. Letting a felon, much less a murderer under our roof, was tempting fate in the worst way. It was clear that the majority ruled against this. No way. Forget it. Why us? But Jamie, our oldest, said “Harold can have my room.” And that’s how our adventure began. He arrived with little more than a bag under his arm. On his way into Westwood, he checked into the police station, to register himself as an ex-felon. He was articulate, bright, and soft-spoken. Slowly, Harold began to tell us his story. In prison, Harold had received a college degree in the B.U. Baccaulareate program. He had excelled. A genius in Math, he eventually was named valedictorian of his graduating class. “The prison class, you mean?”, we asked him. No, he said, of the entire graduating class. Even so, all that Harold could muster in the way of work was an offer to be a paralegal for near minimum wage at a small law office downtown. Each day, he rose early, ironed his shirt and pants, and walked to the one bus that left for the city each day, and each day, he returned on the one bus that returned to our leafy suburb . It was grueling, but Harold never complained. Long after dark, we would hear him come in through the front door and let out a big sigh. It was the sigh of someone arriving in the only place he was welcomed, the only place of hospitality. Harold took to Jamie immediately, and they would spend long hours talking about politics and the plight of the poor. Eventually, Colleen and Martin also warmed to Harold. Each night, over dinner, he would ask them about school, their hopes and dreams. Jeannette and I were warmed in his presence. Eventually, Harold shared things more personal. He talked about his early life in New York. The drugs. The crime. The murder of the convenience store clerk three decades earlier when he was in a heroin induced fog. He had never gotten over it. The look was in his eyes. Not a day went by when he didn’t do back and wish he could reverse it all. He told us about his prison time. One day, out in the yard at Norfolk penitentiary, a young man jumped on his back from behind. At first he thought it was hostile. But when he turned around, he recognized it was his now grown son. He was in for first degree murder. Harold came to share with his deep regret. One weekend, he invited his daughter from the Bronx to visit. She brought along her 7 year old son, Harold’s only grandchild . For most of that weekend, Harold played with like any normal grandfather. We have pictures of him bouncing up and down in on in the backyard. Eventually, Harold preached at St. John’s and spoke widely in the Boston area through Jeannette’s organization. His smile, his integrity, his brutal honesty disarmed everyone he met. There was something in Harold that very hard to put a finger on, something far beyond all our attempts to describe it. A stranger had made a visit, and it was if we were in the presence of someone who knew us from the very beginning. A hardened prisoner had left his cell, and taught us all what it meant to be free. But for the five of us, who were graced by the six months Harold lived in our home, there was an even more lasting impression. We had been touched by an angel. Touched, I believe, in the same way that fledgling community of the Hebrews were touched each time they welcomed the least and forgotten into their midst. And this much I know. I believe in angels, because of Harold. Because of him, I know each time I open a heart to a stranger, each time to a prisoner, each time to someone forgotten or lost along the way, we dare to be touched by one who creates all things from nothing, who redeems all thing sullied and broken, and who sustains all things till the end of time. |
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