Entertaining Angels: Tales of Christian Hospitality

Theological Letters

This comes from a speech I offered this past weekend in South Carolina. When the host invited me to speak at so fine an event as this, I gladly accepted — how could I refuse? But the invitation raised a question in my mind. Those who know my work know that I speak like a relic of the ancient past, yammering on about metaphysics. So what would I, someone who, in this day and age, dares to call himself a metaphysician, have to say about hospitality? Believe it or not, I’ve found some thoughts, tucked away in the recesses of my mind, to share with you. And fear not, those thoughts are not on the metaphysics of hospitality. Rather, taking a lesson — one of countless in my life — from the Teacher of teachers, one who is more than the Wisest of Men, being Wisdom itself, I begin with a story — three, in fact — on hospitality.

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Our first tale begins in a high country, where a weathered patriarch sits in the door of a tent, the flap fluttering in the arid wind, the sound nearly drowned out by the bustle of countless men setting up camp and the chorus of flocks and herds beyond number. He shifts in his seat, wincing from a fresh wound — a mark, carved into his very flesh, from the God to whom he is bound by covenant. The rush of pain serves as a reminder, though he needs none.

The midday sun hangs high overhead, its blistering gaze heavy upon the old man. He shields his eyes, squinting up at the golden disc, and remembers. Shamash. That’s what he used to call it. There was a time when he believed the blazing orb was a god, the source of all truth and justice, the eye of heaven watching over the affairs of men. But that was before the fateful day that cleaved his life in two, like a beast laid open for covenant: The day he heard a voice — one unlike any other he had heard before or since — the voice of one robed in light and veiled in dark clouds of unknowing, a voice that bid — nay, commanded — him to leave all — homeland, kin, and his father’s house.

Since that day, his life has been marked by the twin rhythms of wandering and waiting. The wandering has carried him through Egypt and famine, into foreign lands that now house his altars of uncut stone, stained with the blood of sacrifice, memorials of both worship and supplication. And hovering beneath this wandering march is the constant thrum of a low note, never resolved — Wait. And over all of this hangs promise, promises he would think impossible if they were not spoken by that voice.

The old man turns his gaze to the encampment sprawled out before him. Servants move with purpose between the tents, shepherds tending flocks so numerous that the earth groans beneath their weight. His beloved nephew is no longer among them precisely because the blessings were more than the land could bear, their combined numbers threatening to drink the very river beds. The parting of ways still weighs heavy on his heart. The old patriarch cannot deny what he sees, the fulfillment of prosperity busying itself before his eyes. But what gnaws at him, churning his gut is the unfulfilled promise — the impossible one. An heir. A son.

The voice had spoken of descendants more numerous than the sands beneath his feet — of children’s children and of nations. Yet, he now approaches his hundredth year upon the earth, his body bent and weathered like the oak trees upon this plain, his wife’s womb dried up, barren like the wilderness that surrounds them. That voice: Can it speak life to the dead?

Movement on the horizon interrupts his wandering thoughts, like an answer to his unspoken question. A stranger walks toward him, shimmering from the heat of the earth. The old man squints, protecting his eyes from the relentless sun. The stranger is without supplies, without weapons, without beasts — perfectly vulnerable. Something stirs within the old man’s chest. Empathy. Compassion. The knowledge of what it is to wander the paths of uncertainty.

He forces himself to his feet — another wince — and calls for a servant, bidding him to fetch water for the approaching traveler. As the servant scurries away, the old man looks again at the traveler. He stops, breath catching. This is not one stranger but three. How had he not seen them before? They walk together in perfect unison, as if moved by a common will. His gaze is drawn to the middle figure: His appearance is like a son of man, and yet, somehow his face seems veiled by some otherworldly radiance. Recognition washes over the patriarch’s face like water over parched rock. He knows who this is.

Without hesitation, the old man forces himself into a run, age falling away like a discarded garment, the lingering pain overshadowed by urgency. His hurried approach displays complete abandon, unbecoming of a man of his years and stature, but he cares nothing for decorum or appearances. As he nears the three, he does not pause or slow but casts himself upon the dry earth, his face pressed against the dirt with reverence. “Lord,” he gasps, voice muffled against the hardened ground, “if I have found favor in your sight, pass not by your servant.” The words tumble from his lips, pleading with the traveler to sit beneath the oaks and rest, that he, the patriarch of this place, might serve him.

The center figure, robed in red and purple, speaks with that fateful voice that causes mountains to smoke and tremble: “Do as you have said.”

The old man scurries to his feet, energized by the presence before him. He hurries to his tent, casting open the flap to find his wife. Snatching her into his arms, he bids her, “Grind flour!” She examines his face, bewildered by the frenzied intrusion, unsure what to make of the urgency. He persists, “Quickly! Make cakes.” She nods as he beams, kissing her firmly before racing out of the tent with joy.

He shouts to servants, giving to each urgent commands, sending them running in all directions — Wash his feet! Fetch milk and butter! Prepare the calf! Hold nothing back; no offering is too extravagant! The old man watches with trembling hands as the servants obey, making ready the meal.

Before long, all is prepared, and the patriarch lays the offering before his guest beneath the shade of the oak of Mamre. He again prostrates. The three sit, other worldly in appearance, examining the food laid before them. The three receive it but do not eat. The gesture itself suffices.

Face still pressed to the earth, the old man hears his name — a name given him by the one seated before him — “Abraham.” He replies, “Here I am,” a call and response that has forever changed his life. “Where is your wife, Sarah?” Abraham answers plainly, “She is in the tent, my Lord.”

Upon the heels of his answer hangs anticipation, a moment pregnant with promise, as if Abraham somehow knows what comes next. Then, the silence is broken with the impossible, “I will surely return to you this time next year, and Sarah, your wife, shall have a son.” The words would seem impossible if uttered by mortal lips. Yet, when cast upon the air by this voice, they ring out like seed upon fertile soil, destined to bear fruit.

Knowing deep within his soul that the one who has spoken will bring it to pass, Abraham sobs, his body quaking with release and joy that the waiting is over, that the time of promise has finally arrived.

But the moment is interrupted by a question: “Why did your wife laugh?” The question is a revelation. The old man had not heard laughter.

Abraham looks back to see Sarah burst forth from the tent, her face flush with embarrassment, her eyes wide with fear. “I didn’t laugh,” she protests, her voice shaking with denial.

“You did,” the voice replies gently but firmly.

The three rise and turn their gaze toward the horizon. Over the ridge looms two cities that cut into the pale sky, Sodom and Gomorrah. The LORD bids the old man to walk with them, and together they descend.

Our second story carries us into the deserts of Egypt. Trekking across the blistering sand is a young monk. His robes, once dyed with rich color, are now bleached by fifteen years of wandering. As John pulls the old garments, now thin as parchment, over his head to shield him from the sun, his mind drifts back to the life he abandoned in Scythia. Marble columns rising toward painted ceilings, servants hurrying about in obedience to his father’s voice, well-paid tutors teaching philosophy and rhetoric — a life of affluence. But despite having every luxury and privilege one might hope for in this world, something stirred within him, a hunger that no earthly feast could satisfy.

The hunger pulled him from Scythia, first, to a monastery in Bethlehem and then deeper into the deserts of Egypt. Fifteen years have passed — years of caves, humble cells, all night vigils, and countless prostrations. He has sat at the feet of elders whose faces bear the scars of battles fought, not with flesh and blood, but with invisible powers. He has stood witness to the transformative power of God manifest in a former murderer — a man who towers above others with skin black as night, his hands, which formerly dealt death, now rising in prayer and to offer bread to beggars.

Yet, like an athlete never satisfied with his training, always pushing himself to further heights, John presses on in search of still greater spiritual rigor. Experience has taught him that each virtue mastered reveals another vice lurking in the shadows of his heart. So, he presses forward, never satisfied, never at rest.

Only days ago, word reached his ear that he is required back within the world he left behind: He has been bid to return to Constantinople and serve under a bishop whose preaching is so renowned that many whisper his mouth is made of gold. Though John’s heart resists leaving the solitude of the desert, one lesson he has learned well is obedience. So, he journeys now to one final monastery, one final lesson before turning his sights Northward.

As the young monk lifts his gaze, his eye spots the structure, rising from the desert like a fortress, its stone walls honey-colored in the midday sun, its cells countless, its bell towers like javelins cutting into the clear sky. John surveys the sprawling fortress built by men who, like him, have fled the bread of the world for the Bread of Heaven.

He pauses, taking in the sight. Suddenly, a voice cuts through the silence, “Peace be to you, stranger.”

John turns to see an old monk in the shadow of the gate, his skin weathered with wrinkles that measure his years, but his face beams with a radiance not of this world. The elder smiles, eyes bright, penetrating as if looking through John to his innermost parts.

“Geronda,” John replies. “A word” — the traditional greeting of one seeking wisdom from a father in the desert. The elder stares without reply, only a smile. The silence grows thick, uncomfortable. Did he hear him? Unsure what to make of this, John continues, “I’ve come seeking wisdom, father. I wish to know what I must do to be saved.” Still no reply, so he persists: “For fifteen years I have sought out holy men, learning how to put to death the passions, striving to run in such a way that I might win the prize. I have fasted, prayed, and kept vigil. But I wish to learn more. What help might you offer? What lesson?”

The elder’s smile deepens, now exuding an unearthly love. Without a word, he bids John follow and leads him into the monastery.

John’s footsteps echo off the stone walls as the elder leads him on. The inner chambers of the monastery are cool in comparison with the desert sun. The halls and cells are dim, lit only by streaks of sunlight dancing with dust and the flicker of scattered candles. The long hall soon opens to a large room housing long wooden tables — the trapeza. With extended hand, the elder gestures for John to sit. The young monk obeys, preparing himself for the lesson. But before a word is spoken, the elder departs, leaving John alone.

Time passes. John prays quietly, thumbing a prayer rope, muttering in repetition, Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. He has learned to keep watch over his mind, but he permits one thought: Perhaps this is a lesson in patience.

The streaks of sunlight have now grown long, showing the passage of time, when John suddenly hears voices approaching. One by one, a parade of monks flood the room. John stands with respect as they enter, but he is stunned by what he sees. Each monk who enters walks with laden arms — platters and vessels. Suppressed joy is written on their faces but John’s breath catches at the offerings: freshly cooked fish glistening with fat, warm bread, honey dripping from the comb, wine crimson like blood, dates and figs piled high, cheese and olives, butter and cream. Each tray is more decadent than the last.

Perplexity washes over John’s face as he wonders to himself, “Is this a test? Are we not in the midst of a great fast?”

With the table now richly laden and the monks joyously surrounding their guest, the same elder from the gate — the abbot of this monastery — enters, standing at the head of the table. He smiles at John before making the sign of the cross and then prays, blessing the feast. “But how can one bless a feast that breaks a fast?” John wonders to himself, so aghast that he forgets to make the sign of the cross. As the abbot says, “Amen,” the monks tear into the meal, breaking bread, pouring wine, partaking with joy — eyes fixed on their visitor.

The abbot watches John with affection. The young monk’s distress grows. He stares at the elder, wondering if he, too, will partake. As if reading his thoughts, the abbot reaches out, takes bread, and sops up oil from a plate before biting in with joy, never once breaking eye contact with John.

Scandal washes hot over the young monk’s skin. He has crossed rivers and sand in search of virtue, striving to climb rung by rung, renouncing the world and the desires of the flesh, mortifying the passion for earthly food in search of the Bread of Heaven. The feast laid bare before him makes mockery of his pilgrimage. Could it be that these men are not beacons of holiness but charlatans, whitewashed tombs appearing clean on the outside but inside full of dead men’s bones?

The abbot’s gentle gaze remains unbroken as he chews and then swallows. Reading the thoughts hidden in John’s heart, the elder offers a gentle command, “Speak.”

John can take no more. The words burst forth: “The fast!” The monks pause and the chorus of food and dishes slows to a still. “Why have you broken the fast?” John cries. “I came to learn the yoke of Christ, to find the narrow way that escapes so many. But instead, I find a table of decadence, one so like the world I left behind!”

Silence settles in the hall as his protest echoes off the stone walls. The abbot looks on him with compassion, beaming with love. From his aged lips comes, not rebuke, but a patient wisdom that lives in only those who have suffered and done battle with demons. Like a father speaking to a small child, the elder replies, “My son, we fast always — day upon day, season upon unrelenting season, our passions dulled by the barren wilderness that our souls might hear the quiet voice of God. This we have always. But you we do not have always. We have laid before you a feast — for you, the stranger at our gate — that you might taste, not our poverty, but the fruit of our fasting: the love that God has poured into our hearts for all men.”

The words hang in the air, piercing John’s heart — but not with a sting of shame. No. The cut is gentle, like the blade of a skilled physician, lancing a wound. In John Cassian’s zeal to learn all manner of discipline and rigor he had lost sight of the fruit these are meant to bear: love of God and love of neighbor, who bears the image of God.

Our third story begins once again in the desert with a monastic traveler. But his strides carry him, not toward a monastery, but toward a market. Abba Agathon walks the dusty road with two wicker baskets slung over his shoulder. His garments are plain, the simple robe of a monk who owns nothing but the knife tucked into his belt — the blade he uses to cut reeds to make the baskets he now carries. His face is gaunt from fasting, his height and frame perfectly average. Only one thing marks him as peculiar: a smooth stone sitting firmly in his mouth, where it has sat for three years now, teaching the monk silence.

He is the pupil and this lifeless rock his teacher, reminding him that the tongue is a rudder that steers the whole man, a small instrument capable of setting the entire body ablaze with the fires of Hell. So he carries this stone in his mouth, day after day, week after week, like a bit steering him toward the Kingdom of God.

This monthly journey to the market has become his ritual. He sells what his hands have made, keeps only a fraction for himself — only what is required to survive — and gives the rest to the poor. The coins he earns today will buy perhaps a handful of grain for himself. The rest will disappear into the hands of those who have even less than he.

He walks, his body moving across the sands while his thoughts have descended into his heart where he prays.

“Abba!” Agathan stops at the voice. He turns with surprise. A filthy man sits crumpled on the roadside, his legs twisted beneath him — useless. How had Agathon walked past without seeing him? The beggar’s clothes are little more than rags, his skin caked with dirt and sweat, his smell offensive. But Agathon does not recoil. He sees what others might not: the image of God — Christ himself.

“Abba,” the crippled man says again, his voice weak but insistent, “will you carry me to town?”

Agathon does not speak. He cannot with the stone filling his mouth. He simply nods. He cinches the wicker baskets tightly over his shoulder and bends down, taking the man into his arms and raising him up. The man’s body is deadweight, his legs dangling lifelessly, but Agathon adjusts, straightens, and begins walking.

As he carries the beggar one step after the next, the young monk glances at his newfound companion. Abba. Strange he had called the monk by this name. Agathon was young when he entered the monastery, barely more than a boy when he abandoned a world of comfort and ease for struggle and prayer. But he pursued divine virtue with such single-mindedness that the elder monks began calling him “Abba” long before his years warranted the title. But why had this one offered such a greeting? He would ask, save his second companion — the stone in his mouth.

The monk’s body is frail from fasting. The weight of this stranger, whose smell fills his nostrils, requires every ounce of physical strength the monk can muster. Step after step he nears his destination.

As the two men reach the market, the contrast strikes the monk, as it always does. In the monastery, silence is palpable, rarely broken except by the chants of hymnody or prayer. But here, words flow constantly, a sea of unbridled tongues and unceasing noise.

Agathon sets his companion down in the dirt beside his usual spot, where he comes to hawk his wares month after month. The man slumps against the nearby wall, watching as Agathon displays his baskets, waiting for God to provide a buyer.

The wait is not long. A woman inspects the basket, nods approvingly, and hands over a few bronze drachms. Agathon moves to pockets the coins when he hears from the ground behind him, “Abba.” The crippled beggar’s voice cuts through the noise of the market. Agathon turns. “What did you sell it for?”

Agathon does not speak. He simply extends his hand, opening his palm to show the bronze coins.

The beggar peers at them, and then looks up at the young monk. “Will you buy me bread?”

Agathon thinks nothing of his boldness. He had planned to give his excess to the needy. Why not this stranger? The monk calculates — enough for bread, certainly. He can buy a loaf for the beggar and still have a bit left for himself. Agathon nods and moves toward a woman selling unleavened cakes. But his stride is interrupted.

“Not those.” The monk pauses. “The kind from the baker near the fountain — the dark bread with honey.”

Agathon knows the bread he means. The monk looks at his newly earned coins. That will take all the money he has. But he glances at his second basket, knowing he has one more to sell. So, he nods, turns, and buys the bread.

When Agathon returns, the crippled man tears into the loaf with obvious hunger, crumbs falling onto his ragged tunic, but he refuses to let any escape. The sight pleases the young monk. Agathon stands nearby, waiting for his second basket to sell.

Soon, a merchant examines it and tests its strength. Pleased, he buys it. More coins. Agathon holds them, already calculating how much grain he might purchase for the journey back to the monastery. But the moment is again interrupted.

“Abba,” the beggar says again. “What did you get for that one?” Again, Agathon opens his hand in reply. The beggar smiles and looks up at him, “Will you buy me wine? A skin of it from the merchant over there — at the edge of the square.”

Agathon knows the cost. It will take everything he has. He will walk back to the monastery with nothing, his belly empty, his provisions gone. But he looks at the beggar, seeing in him Christ himself, reclining in the dust of the earth. God will provide, he thinks. So he buys the wine.

The cripple drinks deeply, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Agathon turns to leave. The walk back will be long. He has no food, no water. But God provides. God always provides.

The monk turns to leave when, “Abba.” The voice again stops him. He turns and looks at the beggar. “Will you carry me back to where we met?”

Agathon feels the weariness in his bones, his strength sapped from the journey, the heat, and from carrying the man this far. His stomach is hollow. He has given everything, and now he is asked to give more. He looks at the man, whose face shows no shame in the asking.

Agathon nods. He bends down and takes the man once again into his arms, starting the long walk back. Each step is heavier than the last. Sweat soaks through his tunic. His legs tremble with exhaustion. But he presses on, pouring out what little strength remains.

When they reach the spot where they first met, Agathon sets the man down gently. He straightens, stretching his aching back, and prepares to journey alone, back to the monastery.

But as he turns to leave, the beggar stands.

Agathon watches in disbelief, confusion washing over his face. Moments earlier, the man’s legs were twisted, lifeless. Now they support him perfectly. Was he deceived, taken in by some fraud?

But before another thought can form in the monk’s mind, the man’s countenance changes. His face seems to glow, radiant with light not of this world. “Agathon, you are filled with divine blessings, in heaven and on earth.” Realization washes over Agathon’s face — he has been entertaining an angel.

The monk drops to his knees, pressing his face to the dirt. When he looks up, the man is gone. And in his place, untouched by dust or wind, sits a skin of wine and a loaf of bread.

In Hebrew theology, hospitality and care for the stranger is of utmost concern, a spiritual duty as high as any other. For the Hebrews, the command — and it is a command — is linked with the fact that they, too, were once strangers in a strange land (Lev 19:33-4).

Added to this is the reminder that many have, unknowingly, entertained angels or even the Lord himself. Abraham entertained angels at Mamre, one of whom was Christ himself, according to the Eastern Church fathers. These angels then visited Lot, and he deemed his duties to them so severe that he was willing to offer his own daughters to the crowd at the doors to protect his guests — a wild story to say the least. To this we might add Manoah, who did not allow the angel to depart before he had partaken of his hospitality (Judges 13:15), or the story of Tobias in the Book of Tobit who traveled with the archangel Raphael, or the road to Emmaus, where disciples entered Christ without recognizing him. Paul himself, in his letter to the Hebrews, exhorts his readers to hospitality with this very reminder — that their virtue is often tested in precisely this way: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it” (Heb 13:2).

Setting aside tales of celestial visitors in disguise, we might add Rahab who was spared from the judgment brought upon Jerhico because of her care for Joshua’s spies. This we might contrast with the harsh judgment cast upon those who do not show hospitality: Gideon castigates the elders of Succoth and Penuel for their unwillingness to expand money as a show of hospitality (Judges 8:5-9); the men of Israel made war on the Benjamites for their severe breach of hospitality (Judges 19:22, 20:17); and Nabal’s death is a divine punishment for having failed to offer hospitality to King David and his men (1 Sam 25:2-38).

Why? Why the deep concern for hospitality in the ancient world? No doubt the treachery of the Ancient Near East played a significant part in this. The wilderness was a dangerous place. Travelers faced dangers from elements, from beasts, from robbers, and even those, like the Amalekites, who simply took pleasure in having their way with vulnerable travelers for sport. When recounting his righteousness, Job draws attention to his housing of the stranger, lest he sleep in the street: “the stranger did not lodge in the street, but I opened my doors to the traveler” (Job 31:32). One who could find no hospitality would find himself vulnerable and in grave danger — exposed, susceptible to any who might take advantage.

The willingness to see one vulnerable, alone, in need and care for him was a sign of virtue, of love of neighbor — a virtue God himself would test by sending angels. There was no obligation to do so, of course, no policing that might come down upon one if he were to choose to rob, steal, rape, or murder. And yet, despite this fact, despite the only watchful eye being the eye of Heaven, the one who, nonetheless, chose to care for the stranger as if he were his own — even more than his own flesh and blood, as in the case of Lot — proved that the love of God dwells within his heart. And this is the love of neighbor to which God calls his people.

In the New Testament, of course, this command is singled out as the heart of the commandments. When Christ is asked what is the greatest commandment, he replies simply but profoundly, “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.” But to this, Christ adds a further lesson found in the sheep and the goats: Whatever you do to the least of these you do unto me.

To all of this, John Chrysostom adds an important observation. One happily entertains a celebrity or one of great renown, but the beggar, the commoner, the nobody, to entertain these has no gain. It is born from concern for them, treating the person as an end in itself, as an icon of God. This is the love we are to cultivate, a love that looks to the person and what might be offered, not what might be gained in return. As Chrysostom says of Paul’s exhortation to hospitality, “He did not say, Be hospitable, as if they were not, but, Be not forgetful of hospitality... Do you see how great was the honor, how great the gain! … They entertained them without knowing it. Therefore the reward also was great, because he entertained them, not knowing that they were Angels. For if he had known it, it would have been nothing wonderful.” (Hom. 33, Heb.) Or as Chrysostom says elsewhere, one cannot claim to recognize Christ in the chalice — that is, in the Eucharist — if he fails to recognize him in the beggar. Of those who cultivate such a love as this, Basil of Caesarea proclaims, “God will receive you, angels will extol you, all people from the creation of the world will bless you... You will receive eternal glory and the crown of righteousness as a prize for rightly disposing of your wealth... Then it will be said of you as it is in the psalms: He gave alms and helped the poor: his righteousness will endure for ever” (Hom. De Caritate).

We see such lessons in the story of Abraham and of Agathon — amongst others noted above. But in John Cassian, we see another lesson, one that contrasts fasting with feasting in a manner important to hospitality.

Christ teaches that fasting is impossible when joy is present. When the Pharisees and John the Baptist’s disciples see that Christ’s disciples are not fasting, they inquire why. Christ does not rebuke them for the question — presumably, some asked in good faith. Instead, his gentle reply highlights a fundamental incompatibility between joy and gladness, on the one hand, and fasting on the other. The friends of the bridegroom cannot fast while he is present, he explains. The metaphor calls to mind a celebratory event — the arrival of a bridegroom at a wedding — and asks whether one might fast in such a circumstance. Christ’s claim is stronger than saying fasting would be inappropriate. Rather, Christ claims that the friends of the bridegroom cannot fast while he is with them — or more literally, they have not power to fast (μὴ δύνανται). Why? Because, as Chrysostom observes, when joy and gladness are present, fasting cannot be.

This juxtaposition between joy and fasting illuminates several truths. The first concerns the nature of the disciples’ eating in the story. Christ does not advocate that one indulge the passion of gluttony. Heaven forbid! — He is not an advocate of sin. — Rather, Christ defends the actions of his disciples as suitable: Being filled with joy because the Messiah has come, they suitably eat with gladness.

The second concerns the hypocrites. Because of their hardness of heart, which blinds them to Christ, they cannot enter into this joy; for they do not recognize the bridegroom. And this is why they do not abstain from fasting.

The third concerns a practice of the Saints. Within a number of stories, we find monastics who set aside their fasting for the sake of hospitality — like in the story of John Cassian. When asked why, the answer echoes what we find here: They can always fast, but they cannot always celebrate you. Or put more strongly, how can they possibly fast given the joy of your arrival?

And so, here today, we enter into the joy of hospitality — a suitable feast, where fasting cannot be present because of the joy of the event before us, and where we, once strangers, celebrate together. Gagimarjos!