A Gospel on the Move: Practice,Proclamation,and Place in Luke-Acts

Eating Together as a Test Case for Belonging

Eating is a defining component of the ministry of Luke’s Jesus. ⁴ Early on, critics accuse Jesus of being a “glutton and a drunkard” (7:34; cf. Deut 21:20), a characterization Luke does not work particularly hard to discredit. Jesus finds himself at meals and around food regularly in Luke (e.g., 5:33–39; 7:36–50; 9:10–17; 10:38–42; 14:15–24; 16:19–31; 22:7–23; 24:28–35). Meals in Luke-Acts are not just opportune settings for Jesus’s teaching but a symbol of the kind of belonging the narratives help us imagine. Like meals today, meals in antiquity were pregnant with social significance. The details of such customs and arrangements are beyond the scope of this essay. ⁵ Yet the Gospel text itself provides a fascinating glimpse into these cultural practices. Who was gathered mattered. Jesus eats with the wrong kind of people and thus brings their opprobrium upon himself (Luke 15:1–2). The quality of your company was a reflection of your own status, but Jesus imagined an upturning of the expectation that an invitation to dine required reciprocation (Luke 14:12–14).

OPEN IN VIEWER

Stories of Jesus eating with outcasts narrate imaginative possibilities of belonging—to embrace and be embraced at a bountiful table. Jean Francois Millet (1814–1875), “The Harvesters’ Meal.” Watercolor, pastel, black chalk on paper. Louvre Museum, Paris, France. Photo: Hervé Lewandowski. © RMN-Grand Palais/ Art Resource, NY.

How people gathered mattered, yet even an invitation was not sufficient to merit the highest social status, for even where one sits at the table is significant (see Luke 14:7–11). Jesus’s words and actions at these settings were then especially poignant, particularly infused with meaning, and for Luke, perhaps, particularly central to the theological vision he casts. The meals Luke narrates are symbols and embodiments of belonging. Rather than dictate how such belonging must happen, the stories narrate imaginative possibilities of belonging. That is, Luke-Acts does not contain within it blueprints for hospitality so much as a vision of what belonging could be. The texts can reveal that our imaginations are too narrow and that, in the light of God’s welcome, still much more is possible than we can even imagine. The stories connote what it feels like to embrace and be embraced at a bountiful table.

Abundance in Desolate Places

Such bounty is central in Luke’s account of the feeding of the 5,000 in Luke 9:10–17. The context of the miracle is critical. The disciples, having just returned from a ministry like Jesus’s (9:1–6), rejoice with him. Once again, the crowds find him, yearning for healing. The disciples suggest to Jesus that he should disperse the crowd so that they might go find some food and a place to stay, “…for we are here in a deserted place” (v. 12). Notice the truncated imagination of the disciples. They are in a crowd of 5,000 men plus an unnamed number of women and children. How can such a crowd occupy a space anyone would call deserted? Plus, Jesus is in their midst! In the light of Jesus’s teaching and healing ministry, how can any place where he is present be considered desolate? Even after their experiences of God’s power in their ministry at the beginning of ch. 9, they look around, and all they see is what they do not have. They don’t see the bounty of the people’s hopes or the abundance of Jesus’s salvific presence. When Jesus asks them to give the crowds something to eat (v. 13), he is not asking for them to do something miraculous so much as asking them to believe in the abundance of Jesus’s presence, the overflowing of grace evident wherever Jesus walks. Last, notice that this is not so much a miracle of sustenance as one of abundance. “And all ate and were filled” (v. 17). And there were leftovers, “twelve baskets of broken pieces.” The table Jesus sets is not merely sufficient; it is excessive though not wasteful. It is abundant though not merely extravagant.

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God’s abundance can be seen in this detail of the miracle of the loaves and fishes on a sixth-century ivory plaque. Museo Arcivescovile, Ravenna, Italy. Photo: Erich Lessing/Art Resource, NY.

The “Sinner”: Redefining Identity at the Table

Meals in Luke are moments of healing and restoration. Such healing and restoration clarifies identity in the midst of practices of hospitality. That is, identity is not just named or claimed but something embodied and experienced at the tables where Jesus eats. Such meals are transformative spaces because of Jesus’s presence and because those who are not asked to join these meals nevertheless find an invitation in light of Jesus’s mere presence. Luke 7:36–50 features a meal hosted by a Pharisee named Simon. This distinguished host reminds us that while Jesus ate many meals with “sinners and tax collectors,” he also dined with people of status like this Pharisee. In this case, a sinner intrudes upon the festivities and washes Jesus’s feet. Simon thinks to himself that if Jesus were the prophet everyone says he is, he would know “… who and what kind of woman this is who is touching him—that she is a sinner” (v. 39). Probably noting the look of disapproval on his face, Jesus tells Simon a short parable and then forgives the woman in front of her neighbors.

In Luke, being a “sinner” is not just a marker of religious unrighteousness. ⁶ And neither is it an inclusive category like it is in so many Protestant churches where we tend to be rather comfortable in acknowledging that we are all sinners in need of grace. The use of the term in Luke is more exclusive. It doesn’t signify all of us or even most of us. It points to “those people,” people with whom we would not want to associate. “Sinners” dwell on the edges of their communities; they are people without a place, people with whom most of us would not want to share a table. Sinners do not belong. It matters very little what they may have done in their past. It matters very little what their behavior is. It’s their identity that matters. When we see “sinners,” we do not see neighbors, friends, siblings, or fellow guests at a table; we see a body to exclude.

So, Jesus’s forgiveness of this unnamed woman is not just a religious declaration of restored righteousness but a wholesale reorientation of her identity, both in her eyes and in the eyes of her neighbors. Remember how Jesus asks Simon, “Do you see this woman?” (v. 44). No, he does not see “this woman.” He does not see a neighbor or a fellow child of Abraham. So also, when Jesus declares her sins forgiven, “those who were at the table with him began to say among themselves, ‘Who is this who even forgives sins?’” (v. 49). What if their objection is not just cultic but social? That is, who is this who dares rearrange people’s standing in our midst? Jesus’s audacity perhaps is to include someone this community has deemed an outsider.

Two potential moments of conversion emerge in this story. The first is the woman whose passionate welcome of Jesus is a sign of her deep desire for the embrace of another. Her life is transformed in the granting of a new identity at a table whose host did not offer an invitation, but Jesus’s presence opens up the guest list. The second conversion is potential, possible though not narrated. Did the community that surrounds her shift their sense of who she was? Did they concur with Jesus that she was no longer a “sinner?” Did they embody her radical hospitality? I wonder if that’s the imaginative hook of this story. In our wondering of what her life might have been like in the wake of Jesus’s audacious embrace, did her neighbors follow suit? Would we in our own communities follow suit if Jesus did the same in our midst?

In this story, the gospel is on the move in that it reorients the standing of people in this community, both sinner and righteous alike. Identity is clarified as an outsider and a sinner is deemed an insider and beloved. Meals in Luke teach communities who they are but also who they might be when they embrace the “sinner” who encroaches upon our finely set tables and guest lists.

Seeing Zacchaeus as Kin

Turning to the story of Zacchaeus can bring the insight of the identity-bending power of meals into even further sharpness. The most common interpretation of 19:1–10 narrates how Zacchaeus, a corrupt chief tax collector, encounters Jesus, who dines at Zacchaeus’s house. Verse 8 then contains Zacchaeus’s words of contrition and a commitment to a new way of life. Joel Green, however, has suggested another interpretation. ⁷ In v. 8, Green argues, Zacchaeus is not projecting his behavior into the future; he is naming his everyday habits. Specifically, Green observes that the tense of the verbs didōmi and apodidōmi in v. 8 are in the present, not the future tense. Instead of the NRSV’s rendering of “I will give” and “I will pay back,” Green proposes “I give” and “I pay back.” In this way, v. 8 does not narrate a conversion so much as an opportunity to make clear to his neighbors that he is not the “sinner” (v. 7) his neighbors assume he is. Instead, he is a person doing his job honorably and honestly. ⁸

If Green is correct in his reading, then the conclusion of the narrative takes on a different resonance. When Jesus declares, “Today, salvation has come to this house…,” the nature of that salvation includes a clarification of Zacchaeus’s identity and that of his neighbors with him. “Today” is as important here as it is in Jesus’s preaching in Nazareth (4:21). This salvation cannot be deferred or delayed; this salvation accompanies Jesus wherever he goes, wherever he speaks. Salvation for Zacchaeus is exemplified by Jesus’s (re)declaration that “he too is a son of Abraham” (19:9). He is not a “sinner.” He is not the despised and corrupt tax collector his neighbors thought he was. As in the story of the woman who was an erstwhile “sinner,” the resolution of Zacchaeus’s story remains in the reader’s imagination. Did his community embrace him as a fellow child of Abraham? We simply do not know. But it may be that moment of speculative wonder that can shape our theological and moral imaginations today.

Hospitality on the Road to Emmaus

Hospitality at meals embodies the welcoming spirit of the gospel. The road to Emmaus passage is a well-known and rich literary composition that offers even more clarity on the role of meals as occasions for hospitality, and as embodiment of the gospel (24:13–35). Here I just draw attention to a few key insights in the passage. First, we can notice that when the risen Jesus joins the two traveling companions, they “… were kept from recognizing him” (24:16). This is a sentence no English composition teacher would approve, as the passive voice hides why and how they were unable to recognize Jesus. Second, narrative ironies abound in a story where these two distraught followers are aghast that the unknown traveler who has joined them is wholly unaware of the latest breaking news (v. 18). Though they hear him teaching all day on the road, they do not recognize him (cf. v. 32). Third, they recognize Jesus at the very moment he does that which most characterizes his life and ministry: he breaks bread and shares it with his friends (vv. 30–31). Notice that it is not Jesus’s voice, his face, or even his teaching that sparks their memory and clarifies their vision. Instead, it is the quotidian activity of sharing bread. ⁹ This narrative conclusion suggests that this kind of eating activity is the very embodiment of everything Jesus did and taught in the Gospel. Eating is not just an activity of taking in nutrition; eating is an act of belonging that embodies a radical trust in God and one another.

The Emmaus narrative also clarifies the reciprocity of hospitality Jesus enacts. It is the two disciples who invite Jesus, a fellow traveler, to join them for a meal; these two are the purported hosts. And yet Jesus, the purported guest, takes over the duties of the host immediately. Jesus blurs the very lines between host and guest. Too often in Christian communities, hospitality is limited to how we welcome others. ¹⁰ That is, in too many churches, hospitality is something we offer others, not something we are willing to receive. In many churches, hospitality tends to be a practice more than an identity, a way of life. Jesus’s hospitality upends expectations, making hosts of guests and guests of hosts.

The table then is not just a place to eat but a symbolic center of belonging. Who is invited? Who is excluded? The table in Luke is a welcoming space where stranger and familiar alike seek sustenance from God, and sometimes recognize the Son of God in their midst. ¹¹ At Jesus’s table, food is abundant; there is more than enough for everyone. At Jesus’s table, there is always one more spot for another guest. At Jesus’s table, salvation is something we can taste like a delicious meal. Such salvation feels like when we are gathered with family, friends, and sojourners, and relationships flourish. Such readings may not fit any specific political platform, but they do dare us to imagine the wide embrace of belonging that God’s grace entails.

The Ethiopian Eunuch: An Unusual Convert in an Unexpected Place

First, in Acts 8:26–40, Luke records the story of an encounter between Philip and an unnamed Ethiopian eunuch. It is striking that the angel calls Philip into a potentially dangerous situation by exhorting him to wander towards a “wilderness road” (cf. Luke 10:25–37!). If Philip has concerns, he does not voice them as he heads out and encounters an Ethiopian eunuch returning from a visit to Jerusalem. These two unusual travelers meet at a most unexpected place, in the middle of nowhere. The Ethiopian eunuch’s identity is complex and well studied by scholars. His race and gender have produced a great deal of excellent exegetical reflection. ¹³ With the Ethiopian eunuch, we encounter a character full of ambiguities, yet none of those ambiguities prove to be an obstacle in this encounter. In fact, what if it is precisely the ambiguity and complexity of his identity that draws Luke’s attention?

Once Philip has joined the Ethiopian eunuch’s chariot, they begin by reading a passage from Isaiah together, a passage that resonates with the Ethiopian eunuch and with the story of Jesus. The Ethiopian eunuch wonders to whom the passage refers. Philip begins by pointing to Jesus and eventually draws his companion into a story that began with a prophet’s cry. Notice that Philip’s exact words are not recorded. Verse 35 is annoyingly elliptical to the exegete; it tells us that he spoke but not what exactly he said. The next bit of dialogue is not Philip’s proclamation but another question from the Ethiopian eunuch. “‘Look, here is water! What is to prevent me from being baptized?’” What, indeed? Well, we might point to the Ethiopian eunuch’s unclear religious and ethnic identities. If he is a Jew, he joins the long line of other Jews who have embraced Jesus thus far in Acts.

But if he is a Gentile, then the story of the encounter between Peter and Cornelius (see below) becomes that much more complicated. We can imagine a whole litany of reasons that might preclude the Ethiopian eunuch’s baptism. Indeed, the textual tradition adds yet another requirement before he is baptized. Verse 37 can be found in the footnotes of many Bibles, though not in the main text, because it seems to be a later addition to the manuscript tradition. ¹⁴ This manuscript tradition suggests that the eunuch must confess Jesus with his lips. He has not yet voiced words of confession. But the predominance of textual witnesses to Luke’s narrative suggests that there is nothing that would prevent him from being baptized. This is a story of proclamation and witness and embrace. And yet what was proclaimed, what was witnessed to, or even how precisely the Ethiopian eunuch embraces the good news is not specified. Perhaps it is not what Philip says that matters, so much as to whom and where and under what call. Perhaps it is not what the Ethiopian eunuch confesses that matters so much as the trust embodied in seeking baptism in the middle of the wilderness. This fascinating narrative suggests that proclamation on the move happens in unexpected places among unexpected witnesses and unexpected hearers of this good news. If Philip and the Ethiopian eunuch meet in the middle of “nowhere,” it may be precisely because God has made what we might call “nowhere” God’s home.

Cornelius: God Makes Clean What Was Profane

Second, the extended narrative in Acts 10 detailing how Peter and Cornelius meet and are transformed by this encounter suggests something about the shape of proclamation on the move. The chapter starts with twin visions. Cornelius the centurion sees a vision of angel who recounts that his “prayers and … alms have ascended as a serial before God” (v10:4). The angel also asks him to send for Peter, which he does immediately. The next day, Peter receives a vision far more confounding than Cornelius’s in which Peter, a devout Jew, receives a command to eat unclean food. The vision is so confounding that the narrative repeats it three times. The key refrain of the vision is that “what God has made clean, you must not call profane” (v. 15). Peter must now travel with Cornelius’s slaves and a soldier in a scene paralleling Jesus’s own encounter with a different centurion (Luke 7:1–10). Jesus did not enter the gentile centurion’s home, but here, Peter does enter the home of a gentile, who in the meantime has invited his family and friends and neighbors to join him.

Unlike the Ethiopian eunuch story, this narrative states specifically what Peter had to say; we hear Peter’s witness itself. He begins, “I truly understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears him and does what is right is acceptable to him” (10:34–35). The confounding vision is now clear. Peter’s vision was not about food; the vision was about people. And now that God has declared clean the household of Cornelius, Peter loses all trepidation (see v. 28). Yet Peter’s witness ends in a most curious way. He is interrupted (“While Peter was still speaking…”, v. 44) by the dawning of the Holy Spirit upon all who had gathered. Once again, this story imagines a witness that takes a back seat to God’s activity. It is not Peter’s persuasive and correct words but his presence as a witness that matters. Even more than his presence and witness, it is God’s activity that makes the difference, and this activity occurs “on the move,” in unexpected places and surprising ways.

Proclamation on the move rests on the power of God’s presence and activity among peoples and communities we may not anticipate as worthy recipients. Notice that Peter still follows the beckoning of the vision. He still invites Cornelius’s slaves and soldiers to stay with him (v. 23), lingers even after Cornelius’s attempts to worship him (v. 25), and stays when he is nearly certain he should not be in this house (v. 28). Perhaps then witness is characterized more by courageous presence and trust in God’s call, even when it seems strange, foolish, or inappropriate. We should also notice that this is not a simple story of Cornelius’s conversion. Yes, his encounter with the Holy Spirit must have transformed him, but perhaps it is Peter and his companions who leave this scene most changed. Proclamation on the move among strangers will not change only them; it will change us, too, for God has already moved ahead of us to be in their midst.