It was Thursday afternoon this last week. There I was, there I was, in the kitchen. Slicing. Dicing. Huuaaahhh! I tell you, I was a cuttin', cookin' machine! Those poor innocent vegetables didn't stand a chance. Yeah, I took 'em downtown. I showed them who was the boss. Onions. Garlic. Bring it on! Mushrooms. Green peppers. Is that the best you've got, I'm still standing!

You see, I was making the Sauce. The sauce with a capital "S." Because this wasn't just any sauce, rather this was the be-all and end-all of sauces, this is what most normal sauces only dream of becoming, this was the Holy Grail of sauces. An inbreaking of the future kingdom of God, to taste it -- to taste it was a religious experience.

Of course, I should mention that I didn't just make one sauce, no, I rose to a higher level, I made two sauces. Count 'em. One. Two. Two sauces. Because I didn't know who was coming. I was having the young adults over to my house. It was the first church event meal I was hosting at my home. Sure, a lot of young adults said they "might come", or they "wanted to come", or they'd "like to come," but I didn't have anything as formal as a list, so who knew?! So I made two sauces, one with meat, and one without, for the possible vegetarians who might come. I couldn't help it, that's just the kind of considerate guy that I am.

Well, a few people came, we had some fun, we talked, we played some games, I won the last game we played, then we partook of the Sauce. Giddyup, it was good. I was reminded of a little known scientific fact that food tastes better when it is shared. I don't know why that is, researchers are still working on that one, maybe the taste buds become more alive and sensitive, who knows. I must say, though, that when the evening was over, and I offered the leftover sauce for the guests to take home, I was puzzled that no one took it. Hmm.
Anyway, I know what you're thinking. I know. You're thinking, "Man, Craig really needs to get out more." Well, you may be right, but the point is, the point is. . . The point is I like to eat. That's the point. I like to eat. No, I love to eat. Eating and I, we're like this. Thank God for food. Can I get an "Amen"? Amen.

That's one thing I've really enjoyed about the home gatherings I've attended. Yeah, it's nice to get to know you all better, yada, yada, yada, but the food, yeah, that's what I'm talkin' about. Especially the desserts. Fruit. Cake. Or better yet, chocolate almond ice cream. Chocolate -- almonds -- and ice cream --- a holy trinity, three and yet somehow one, melting together in your mouth. Umm, umm, good. My taste buds respond in silent doxology.

But unlike my home gathering with the young adults and its non-existent guest list, these other home gatherings were a bit more organized. There were lists out in the narthex for people to sign up. The lists helped to give an idea of how much food to prepare, as well as who was coming. But the lists never seemed to correspond exactly to who actually showed up, so as I drove to the home gatherings, there was always a question of who would be coming to dinner or dessert, a question of who I would be meeting and getting to know better. Not to mention the questions about the food and dessert we would be having.

I think that is kind of what happened in our Scripture lesson from Luke this morning. Jesus was the new guy in town, kind of like the new rabbi, the new pastor in town, and Simon the Pharisee, well, he's a considerate guy, he wants to welcome Jesus, so what does he do? He has a home gathering of course. He passes around a sign-up list, he has Jesus and several people over for dinner. They have a nice meal, and Simon thinks the evening is going well, they have some nice chocolate almond ice cream for dessert. It doesn't mention that in your version, but Biblical scholars believe that chocolate almond ice cream was a staple of the ancient diet. Anyway, just as they are enjoying their ice cream, this woman shows up. Not just any woman, that wouldn't be so bad, but a woman of the city, Luke tells us, a sinner, no less. The houses in those days were open and allowed easy access for visitors to come in, so it wasn't her action of coming into the house that was offensive, rather it was more . . . well . . . it was more who she was that was the problem. She should have known better than to come. Simon was embarrassed by her presence. Didn't she have any sense of shame? After all, she was definitely NOT on the list. Her presence was out of place, it was awkward.

I imagine that Katherine Hepburn's and Spencer Tracy's characters in the 1967 movie Guess Who's Coming to Dinner felt similar to Simon the Pharisee. In that blockbuster movie, which I imagine many if not most of you have seen, Hepburn and Tracy play the Caucasian parents of a daughter who brings to dinner the man she wants to marry. Much to their surprise and dismay, however, when their daughter shows up with her new fiancÈ, they are shocked and mildly horrified to discover that he is an African-American, played by the actor Sidney Poitier. His presence makes them feel awkward and uncomfortable. Really he should know better, white people and black people don't mix, and they certainly don't marry. He is out of place, audaciously thinking that he could marry their daughter. There are boundaries of propriety that need to be maintained, after all.

We aren't Simon the Pharisee or the parents in the movie but I think we sometimes share their tendency to build walls in our heads. To keep out the people that are different, the ones that makes us feel awkward. People of different political beliefs, different educational backgrounds, different socioeconomic levels. Some churches take their children out of the worship service, because, well, "they're disruptive and we want to worship in peace." You don't need me to tell you that some churches don't welcome gays and lesbians, because, well, "that's not the kind of lifestyle we want to support." One growing movement among churches is to have satellite churches or church groups that put people together on the basis of age or interest, so that you can worship with people that are like you. Isn't that what we are looking for when we look for a new church home, we look for a church with people like us, people that make us feel comfortable, not awkward? But what are we doing to invite people to church who aren't like us?

Our gospel story this morning is rather like Luke's version of Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? Simon the Pharisee invites Jesus to his home, but not into his heart. Rather, Simon neglects the basic acts of hospitality, he fails to kiss Jesus and wash his feet. Instead, he uses the dinner as an occasion to observe and judge Jesus. When Jesus allows the unclean, sinful woman to touch him, Simon's sense of superiority is confirmed. Simon's reaction toward the woman, and then towards Jesus, is much like the initial reaction of the parents in the film.

In startling contrast to the false hospitality of Simon, we are shown the genuine hospitality of the woman. She humbles herself before Jesus, she gives him ointment, she uses her hair and her tears to clean and bless Jesus. She is an outsider, yet she lets Jesus into her heart. In response, Jesus accepts her and sends her on her way in peace. The relationship between Christ and the woman is rather like the relationship of the interracial couple in the Guess Who's Coming to Dinner movie. For both pairs, somehow their way of seeing is different. They don't see the divisions, they don't see the sin, or rather, maybe they are aware of it, but it doesn't seem to matter. It's as if they have lost the guest list, they don't know who is invited and who isn't, or better yet, they don't care. They've become blind to such things.

I wonder what it is about outsiders that often makes them so hospitable. It is the Samaritan, a member of a socially outcast group, that provides hospitality to the beaten man along the road to Jericho. You go on mission trips to foreign countries and the hosts often sleep on the floor so you can have their bed. I am reminded of the book, "The Places In Between," in which the Scotsman Rory Stewart tells of his walk across Afghanistan, unarmed, after the US invasion a few years ago. Every where he went, he was offered hospitality in the homes of the local people. That kind of hospitality is humbling.

Both the movie Guess Who's Coming to Dinner and the gospel lesson today are not really about the food, they aren't even about the dessert, rather they are about who is welcome at the table. If that is true for both of these stories, that is especially true for Luke's gospel as a whole. Indeed, the title of Luke's gospel could very well be, Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. In Luke's gospel, it sometimes seems that Jesus and others are always eating. Jesus eats with Levi, the repentant tax collector, and gets into a fight with the Pharisees. Jesus feeds thousands of people in a miracle of multiplication. Jesus eats again with the Pharisees, heals on the Sabbath, and again gets into a fight with them. The prodigal son returns and they have a big feast. Jesus eats with Zacchaeus, another repentant tax collector.

Why all this eating with such a seemingly random collection of people? These dinner table stories are so central to Luke's gospel, because for Luke, the eating together is a picture of life in a redeemed community. For Luke, heaven happens, the kingdom of God is present, at the dinner table. Eating together creates and sustains a community. Not just any community, but an unlikely and insane community of saints and sinners, Pharisees and tax collectors, women and outcasts, Jews and Gentiles, in other words, God's community. It is when they eat together that miracles happen. Loaves and fishes are multiplied, tax collectors like Zacchaeus repent and give hoards of money away, fathers are reconciled to wayward sons. It is when they eat together that Jesus takes the bread and says, "This is my body, broken for you. Do this in remembrance of you." And in Luke's gospel, where is the resurrected Christ first recognized? He is first recognized at the dinner table in Emmaus -- in the breaking of the bread, in the fellowship at the table, the eyes of the disciples were opened, and they recognized Jesus.

God still calls us to the same radical hospitality at the dinner table.

When and where that hospitality occurs, miracles happen. I am reminded of the story of Nelson Mandela's inauguration. For his inauguration banquet, he had the choice of who to put in the seats of honor in the front row. Should he put the Western leaders there to strengthen ties with them? Or should he put African leaders there and deepen those important relationships? In the end, he did neither. Instead, in the front row at the inauguration banquet he sat his former prison guards. It was a signal of his commitment to a reconciled community.

That is what this table is about, that is what communion is about. It is the central act of our faith. It isn't just that the church family that eats together stays together, it is that eating together is what makes us a church family. When we eat together at an open table, where all are welcome, we witness to a different kind of community, and guess who comes for dinner? Guess who comes for dinner? The risen Christ, he is present when we eat together as a Christian community. As I ponder that fact, I can't help but wonder, maybe we need to eat together as a congregation more often. Who knows, maybe we should even celebrate communion more often.

I took a religion class on Apocalyptic Literature when I was in college, and I still remember what the professor said when he described his own vision of what heaven was like. It was like a great big dinner, a great big barbeque with family and friends and perhaps even some strangers. They were outside, it was a beautiful day, the kids were running around playing games and getting wet in the sprinklers. Later on, when the light began to fade, they would begin trying to catch fireflies. The adults were sharing stories and laughing together. There was plenty of food and the barbeque sauce was to die for.

But more than the food, what made it special was the people. Guess who was there for dinner? All sorts of unexpected people. There was long-lost brother Joe, who had somehow been released from prison and was here now for the first time in years. There was younger, runaway sister Beth. Who knows how she made it here, but what a delight to see her. There was prodigal son Kevin, who had just reconciled with his parents that had missed him so. There was old aunt Marge, who had come to the barbeque from the nursing home and looked 20 years younger. There was Ms. Stephens who had come out of the hospital, it must have been a miracle. They were all there. And not just them, but others too, others that had even come from the beyond the grave -- like Grandpa Hightower, Aunt Jane, and that old curmudgeon Ike Orloff. They were all there, eating together, laughing together, a communion of saints. It was good, and God was smiling.