For When Your Hospitality Just Isn’t Radical

Yesterday, I talked a bit about stepping into the role of the stranger, the one in need of hospitality, and how God is the ultimate giver of hospitality. Today, I want to talk a little bit about what it looks like for us – you and me – to be God’s emissary in the hospitality department. What does it look like, for example, if we try to live out hospitality the way Jesus described it? I’m thinking of the parable of the Good Samaritan, who lovingly helped a stranger who was his cultural enemy (Luke 10:25-37), and of the verse wherein Jesus says, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me,” (Matthew 25:35).

I like to think I’m good at hospitality, but if I’m being honest with myself – really and truly honest – I am not.

I’m good at hostessing, at having friends over for coffee, at throwing dinner parties and showers and events. I’m good at designing menus and cooking delicious food, and setting a pretty table. None of this is very radical. For most of us, it’s easy to show hospitality to people we already know (unless we really just don’t like someone, in which case it can be downright difficult).

But I’m not so great at welcoming strangers.

A friend of a friend who’s just been introduced to me? Sure. A new colleague? No problem. Someone new at church? Of course. But the homeless woman who spends her days walking my neighborhood with a shopping cart? Eh.

There really is a homeless woman who walks my neighborhood. She’s heavy set and wears a bright purple coat, even in summer. She’s hard to miss. She gets around, too. I see her all the time, in all kinds of places within a two-mile radius of my house.

Her name is T.C.

I know this because I finally met her this weekend. When I pulled up in front of my local Christian bookstore to buy some cards on Saturday, she was standing about eight feet from the doors, leaning heavily on her overflowing shopping cart. Talk about smart, I thought with an inner chuckle. How are people going to ignore you when you’re in front of the Christian bookstore?  Nice trap.

I smiled and said hello. She responded in kind. And then I went into the store and bought my cards. It was as I was turning away from the cash wrap, bag in hand, that things got sticky in my mind.

You have to say more than hello, a voice said to me. Was it an audible voice? No. Was it God? Maybe. Him or the Holy Spirit. They like to get after me in situations like this – if they can get my attention, that is.

So I sucked in a deep breath, left the store, and walked right up to Mrs. Purple Coat. I introduced myself and asked her name.

“People call me T.C.,” she said.

I mentioned that I had seen her around, asked her how she was doing. She said she was fine – and then she asked me if I could spare any money. I wasn’t surprised. But as usual, I didn’t have any money available to hand over. I confess, I am now a by-product of our swipe-it culture. I live by my debit card.

(*Note: any basic training in dealing with the homeless will tell you never to give someone cash, anyway, because you could ultimately give them the means to commit some kind of self-harm.)

“I’m about to go grocery shopping, though,” I said (which was true). “Can I pick up anything for you at the store?”

She seemed to deliberate for a moment, then smiled and said, “No thank you, but it’s a kind offer.”

We said goodbye, and I went on my way.

As I finished my errands, I kept wondering what T.C.’s real deal was. What had she needed money for? Why didn’t I ask her? Would she have lied to me? Should I have done more?

I thought of Jesus’ words in Matthew 25. Should I have invited T.C. over to my house? Like, made her dinner? Was Jesus’ statement that literal? What does it really mean to “welcome someone in?” I have a hunch it means at least a little more than introducing yourself on the sidewalk.

I confess, I didn’t want to invite T.C. to dinner at my house, like I would a friend. I mean, I don’t know anything about her beyond the fact that she appears to be homeless. And let’s be honest – we live in a culture of suspicion. A culture of Fear of Strangers. Inviting someone off the street into your home wouldn’t just be seen as radical – it would be seen as potentially stupid. And it could actually be stupid (I know, I sound paranoid. Too many episodes of Criminal Minds). I mean, I have a two-year-old. Who knows what Mrs. Purple Coat might do to her? (Being a little sarcastic here, but not totally.)

But why didn’t I offer to buy T.C. a sandwich or a cup of coffee? I mean, she is always alone when I see her. Why couldn’t I have welcomed her a little further into my life than the sidewalk in front of the Christian bookstore? Why couldn’t I have asked her a few questions about her life? We all like to be asked about who we are, after all. That’s just human nature.

More honesty: in my mind, I was simply too busy. I was on a schedule. I had an hour to finish up my errands and get home before L woke up from her nap. Buying her a few grocery items during my already scheduled shopping trip would have been no real sacrifice. Carving out time in my schedule would have been. Would it have been a tragedy if I had been late getting home because I took an extra half hour to buy someone a sandwich and hear a little of her story? No. Do I even know if T.C. would have accepted such an offer? No. But the point is, I didn’t even try. I was too busy with my own pursuits.

Friends, isn’t that really the issue for most of us? We make time for people we already know. Making time for strangers is a much greater stretch. We are already over-scheduled, overwhelmed, and exhausted by our own lives. How can we possibly make room for strangers?

Jesus did say (and I’m preaching to myself here) that when we welcome a stranger in, we are welcoming him in. So I wonder, if we think about it that way, do we have time for Jesus? Really and truly?

Do I have time for Jesus? I honestly wonder. And I wonder, what will I do the next time he’s standing in front of me?

Mercy & grace to you, friends.

Harmony

Photo credit: Steve Rhode. License: Creative Commons 2.0