Abstract
The Hospitality of Abraham
Sometime around 1410, Anton Rublev prepared his great masterpiece the Hospitality of Abraham. Following a well-established custom in the eastern Church, Rublev based his work on an earlier icon representing the same story from Genesis 18. But, again following Orthodox tradition, Rublev makes the vision his own: he has removed the figures of Abraham and Sarah and left us simply to contemplate the centrality of the Trinitarian God.
True to the eastern understanding of this central focus of Christian contemplation, Rublev draws our attention immediately to the distinctiveness of the three persons. The eye is drawn first to the Father, robed in gold as the arché or fountain of divine glory, to whom the two other figures turn with lowered eyes. But lest we think this is a hierarchy of divinity, Rublev robes all three in blue, a symbol of their shared divinity. There is only one God, albeit in three distinct persons.
So the eye moves next to the central figure of Christ, wearing an inner garment of deep red to symbolise his sacrificial death. A tree stands behind, on which we can just about see, if we look hard enough, the shape of a cross with the leaves tracing the outline of a twisted body. This is the tree of life – the tree which appears first in Eden but reappears in Revelation to bring healing to the nations. This cross makes possible our return to Eden, the new creation. Christ crucified and risen extends his invitation to return to Paradise.
Then there is the Holy Spirit, not a power, still less an abstract concept, but a real person. Always a ‘he’ (or a ‘she’? Look at the faces), but never an ‘it’. Wrapped in green, the Spirit wears the colour of nature – the liturgical colour used in many churches in this ‘ordinary season’ to remind us of the glory of God disclosed through the day-to-day beauty of nature. Green, as a wise old priest used to say, is the colour of ‘God’s working clothes’. But there is nothing ordinary about this creator Spirit, the ‘also ran’ in so much western theology. Just to make sure we get the point, Rublev places a mountain above this figure: here is the place where we encounter God - at Sinai, Carmel, Zion, the Transfiguration, Golgotha and the Ascension. So the story of our redemption becomes complete as we prayerfully contemplate this group gathered around a table: one single act of divine love, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, three persons in one glorious and undivided Trinity.
An icon is, of course, a window on eternity. The perspective is deliberately inverted in this world of prayer as we are drawn through into the presence of God. But the perspective is not the only thing inverted in this icon; so too is the story from our first reading in Genesis 18. In Genesis, Abraham offers the hospitality, lavish even by Middle Eastern standards. But for Rublev, the host is no longer Abraham and Sarah, but the holy Trinity. The table is an altar, and the sole item on offer is a chalice, a symbol of God’s Eucharistic hospitality. Abraham invited his three visitors to share the feast, but here the roles are reversed as the Trinity invites us to share a foretaste of heaven.
As many commentators have pointed out, one of the most extraordinary things about this icon is the absence – the gap at the front. Rublev has deliberately arranged the figures of the Trinity around an incomplete circle; someone is missing. The symbolism is clear. Quietly, subtly, Rublev presents us with one of the most audacious Orthodox doctrines Protestants typically find difficult to accept: deification, or God’s gracious invitation to join the Trinitarian party. George Herbert, I suspect, speaks for much of the western Church in his equally great meditation on the Eucharist: Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back. No, Lord; not me; I don’t deserve to be here. But Rublev will have none of it. Come, says the holy Trinity; inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world (Mt.25.34). Now, at last, we begin to see what it means to be made in the image and likeness of God: it means redeemed in Christ, participating in God.
The contrast between this serene vision of glory and the story which inspires it is extraordinary. In our reading from Genesis 18, these three messengers are on their way to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah. These two cities have also taken on a symbolic significance and become icons of sinful humanity under judgement. Genesis does not spare us the horror of the detail: the same God who promises to Abraham and Sarah that their childlessness is no obstacle to the fulfilment of God’s redemptive purpose moves from the oak at Mamre to rain down fire and brimstone on those who abuse the hospitality of Abraham’s nephew. In true folklore fashion, Lot’s wife will be turned to a pillar of salt because of her carelessness as God tries once more to deal with the sinfulness which led to the Flood and the destruction of the Tower of Babel. The contrast could hardly be sharper, in terms of the struggle between God’s creative generosity and God’s destructive judgement. Yet Genesis is clear: this is precisely the context within which it is necessary to contemplate the promise to give a future to a couple who are already beyond hope.
No lesser minds than Augustine and Aquinas struggled to make sense of this paradox of faith. But Rublev invites us to look beyond the immediate and see that this story contains no contradictory either-or: there is only one God in both the judgement of Sodom and the hospitality of Abraham. All these things need to pass through the window of eternity to be touched with glory. Judgement is precisely the Christian hope because the judge is none other than the Trinitarian God who calls us to share the feast. All human experience is brought into the fullness of God, through the Son who shares our humanity in every respect save sin. There can be no simplistic resolution of the horror of sin and judgement. There can only be transformation in the presence of God. Now we understand that we understand nothing. We see only the glory of divine mystery.
All well and good, Lord, but someone has to sort out this mess, says Martha. Who is going to clear up and wash the dishes? Remarkably, Luke has placed this story of Martha and Mary right after his parable of the Good Samaritan. Here, the unlikely candidate in the form of a Samaritan spells out the meaning of the commandment to love our neighbour as ourselves. True to form, Luke now complements his story with another understanding of what it means to be a disciple. Martha, in the Greek text, is not fretting about the housework but distracted by works of diakonia or ministerial service. In a real sense, she is the Good Samaritan; she embodies the Church’s ministry of care. But scripture again resists a simplistic either-or: either ministerial service or contemplative prayer. There are two commandments, and love of neighbour must be completed in attention to God. So we are brought back one last time to Rublev to contemplate the Christ who through the cross actively creates the space for us to come to the table and learn not only what it means to love our neighbour but also the Lord our God with heart and soul and strength.