The innkeeper is our guide. On a given day, without any advance notice, a traveller enters the inn, bringing with him a man who has been beaten up and is half-dead. The traveller leaves this penniless person behind in the inn. The innkeeper find himself obliged to take care of someone whom he does not know and who has been dropped off at his place by a stranger. Such innkeepers are not, like the Good Samaritan, in the grip of deep pity. As owners of the inn they are in all respects "dis-ordered"; they receive instructions from a guest; they have to choose in an emotional void; they are left to themselves; they can only wait for their guest's return. These innkeepers are held hostage by a guest! Now the Rule puts us in the role of the innkeeper: innkeepers who were lifted out of their own role, hosts who were totally "dis-ordered" by a traveller who for only a short while was a guest: the Messiah. Unasked, the Messiah has entrusted our neighbor to us: a legacy we never asked for, left us by someone who stayed with us overnight and then continued his journey. In his absence we must have compassion on his own, without having his emotions. We are responsible for a poor and suffering world solely because we are living in allegiance to the Messiah. We are the innkeeper who carries out the orders of a divine guest. Giving here loses all support and control: it is no longer rooted in our feeling or in our choice; it is no longer rooted in our status or in our knowledge. Here the only guideline is the darkness of selfless giving. The left hand no longer knows what the right hand is doing. Abba sees in secret, in the secrecy of giving. Real giving is essentially giving in darkness. This is the "more" of the expropriated innkeeper.
On the edge of the wilderness there was a small inn. A space to eat in, a few beds, and a stable for the animals - that was all. The inn was the innkeeper's life. He kept everything in good order. The rooms were spick-and-span and there was enough to eat and drink.
When a traveller entered the inn, the inkeeper made himself totally available. He tried to guess his guest's wishes. "My guest is my boss," he mused.
Often his eyes strayed into the wilderness. In a sense he expected unexpected guests. He was known as an innkeeper you could always count on, one who would always somehow meet your needs.
One evening - it was late; the guests sat outside, still chatting - a traveller approached from the wilderness. On his donkey he brought in a badly wounded man who had been manhandled by robbers. The traveller was visibly touched. Turning to the innkeeper he said: "Please take care of this man. Here is an advance on the account. I will make good the rest when I come back". He ate some bread, drank a little wine, kissed the wounded man, and disappeared into the night.
"A fine bit of generosity!" complained the guests. "He sticks us with the noise of this man's howling and then leaves". The innkeeper said nothing, bound up the wounds of the sick man, gave him food and drink, and put him to bed. Would the traveller ever come back? It did not matter to him. He did what was asked of him.
When the wounded man finally fell asleep, the innkeeper stepped outside for a moment. Quietly brooding, he peered into the wilderness - till the sun came up.
On the edge of the wilderness there was a small inn. A space to eat in, a few beds, and a stable for the animals - that was all. The inn was the innkeeper's life. He kept everything in good order. The rooms were spick-and-span and there was enough to eat and drink.
When a traveller entered the inn, the inkeeper made himself totally available. He tried to guess his guest's wishes. "My guest is my boss," he mused.
Often his eyes strayed into the wilderness. In a sense he expected unexpected guests. He was known as an innkeeper you could always count on, one who would always somehow meet your needs.
One evening - it was late; the guests sat outside, still chatting - a traveller approached from the wilderness. On his donkey he brought in a badly wounded man who had been manhandled by robbers. The traveller was visibly touched. Turning to the innkeeper he said: "Please take care of this man. Here is an advance on the account. I will make good the rest when I come back". He ate some bread, drank a little wine, kissed the wounded man, and disappeared into the night.
"A fine bit of generosity!" complained the guests. "He sticks us with the noise of this man's howling and then leaves". The innkeeper said nothing, bound up the wounds of the sick man, gave him food and drink, and put him to bed. Would the traveller ever come back? It did not matter to him. He did what was asked of him.
When the wounded man finally fell asleep, the innkeeper stepped outside for a moment. Quietly brooding, he peered into the wilderness - till the sun came up.
Kees Waaijman - on the Carmelite Rule
