I
I imagine that whilst the prodigal son sat at meat with his father and
their guests, there may have come to the door a weary tramp begging
food and lodging. The elder brother would probably refuse hospitality,
saying, "You are not even my sinning brother, and shall I harbour
_you_?" The father in his wine might cry a welcome--"Let him come in
for the sake of my son found this day; he also was a tramp upon the
road." The prodigal would say to his steady-going, sober elder,
"You say he is not your brother; but he is mine, he is my brother
wanderer." "Oh, come in then," the elder brother would retort; "but
you must do some work--we can't encourage laziness. You may have
shelter and food, but to-morrow you must work with us in the fields
till midday."
This counsel of the elder brother has endured, and is accounted wise.
But this type of hospitality is not of that sort that was rewarded,
say, in Eager Heart. It is scarcely what the writer to the Hebrews
intended when he said, "Let brotherly love continue. Be not forgetful
to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels
unawares." Of those who wander about the world there are many ordinary
men who would be ready to do a morning's work for their board, but
there are also gods in disguise. There are mysterious spirits who
cannot reveal the necessities of their fate; souls whom if we could
recognise in their celestial guise we should worship, falling down at
their feet with the humility of the cry, "I am not worthy that thou
shouldest come under my roof."
There is another important objection to the complexion of the elder
brother's hospitality. Perhaps the tramp would of his own accord have
volunteered to work with them next morning. If so, the tramp was
deprived of his chance of giving in return. What would have been his
gift has been made his price. He should not have been asked to pay.
No one asks a brother to pay for food and shelter. And are we not all
brothers? True hospitality is a sign of the brotherhood of man, and
the open threshold symbolises the open heart. Inhospitality is the
sign that man will not recognise the stranger as his brother.
There are two sorts of hospitality, that which gives all it has and
that which gives what you want--the former growing out of the latter.
The one is prodigal and overflowing generosity, almost embarrassing in
its lavishness, the other the simple and ordinary kindness that will
always give what it has when there is need; the one the hospitality
of Mary who poured out the precious ointment, the other the simple
hospitality and homely kindness of Martha; the one is the glory of
sacrifice and is of one day in a year or of one day in a life, the
other is a sacred due and is of every day. The latter should at least
be universal hospitality. It ought to be possible for man to wander
where he will over this little world of ours and never fail to find
free food and shelter and love. I know no greater shame in national
development than the commercialisation of the meal and the night's
lodging. It has been our great disinheritance.
But, of course, it would be folly to demand hospitality or to attempt
to enforce it. It is like the drunken cobbler who said to his wife,
"You don't love me, curse you, but by God you shall if I have to kill
you first." Even if a paternal government made a law that hospitality
was obligatory and that whoever asked a night's lodging must be
given it, then at one blow the whole idea of hospitality would be
annihilated. Hospitality must be something freely given, flowing
genially outward from the heart. When in the _Merchant of Venice_ the
Duke says, "Then must the Jew be merciful!" and Shylock asks with true
Jewish commercialism, "On what compulsion must I, tell me that?" then
Portia gives the eternal answer--
The quality of mercy is not strained,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
Need it be said mercy and hospitality are in many respects one and the
same, and that when Portia says, "We do pray for mercy and that same
prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy," it is like
saying, "We pray for hospitality in heaven and that prayer teaches us
to render hospitality here," like "Forgive us our trespasses as we
forgive them that trespass against us." We shall never be homeless,
either here or hereafter, if we love one another.
The shelter and food given one for the love of God are "sanctified
creatures." Sleeping in a home for the love of God is more refreshing
than sleeping at an inn for a price. One has been blessed and one has
also blessed in return; for again, hospitality, like mercy, blesses
both those who give and those who take. Throughout a night one has
helped to constitute a home, and the angels of the home have guarded
one. One has lain not merely in a house but in a Christian home, not
only in a home but in the temple of the heart.
It is sweet in a far-away land to be treated like a son or a brother,
to be taken for granted, to be embraced by strange men and blessed by
strange women. Sweet also is it for the far-away man to recognise
a new son or a new brother in the wanderer whom he has received. I
remember one night at the remote village of Seraphimo in Archangel
Government, how a peasant put both hands on my shoulders and, looking
into my eyes, exclaimed, "How like he is to us!"