on hospitality, pt. 2

the stories we tell ourselves

In our culture, we are particularly wary of strangers. From a young age, we are told to not talk to strangers, to avoid people who might not want to be bothered, to mind our own business. These aren't necessarily bad things–often they are extremely useful in keeping us safe. However, as Jessie said last week, “we’ve gotten really good at keeping the wrong people out, but now we can’t seem to find the latch to open that gate back up.” 

We are stuck in this pattern of closing our doors to anyone that might potentially be harmful or even uncomfortable to us, and forgetting that we can walk out of our doors and through other people's. And as Robert said, hospitality "doesn't belong in our cultural narrative anymore." We no longer see strangers as people to welcome in. Rather, we see them as a threat, to our safety, to our well-being, to our comfort, to our routine, to our convenience. And we've been very busy telling stories that perpetuate this narrative. 

Narrative and storytelling are so important to being a human because language–the building blocks of story– creates culture. It is what defines the way we live and the patterns of our behavior. Simply put, stories are important because we believe them, and we are empowered to act in a certain way based on the stories we are surrounded with. We can use stories for extreme good; for example, a person is empowered to forgive their father because they watched a film in which a son forgives his father, and restores the relationship. We can also use stories for extreme harm; for example, the systematic oppression and dehumanization of people of color in films that portray them as servants, slaves, sidekicks, and villans, rather than as the leading characters we are taught to look up to. This is why representation is so important, because stories allow us to imagine the way our relationships, choices, patterns, and future could potentially look. And we don't see this only in fictional stories, but, even more powerful, through social media and our news sources as well. 

This causes us to ask: what stories does our current culture tell us about strangers? What sort of stories make Netflix's Top 10? What content fills our news feeds? How are strangers and marginalized people portrayed? What parts of their stories are highlighted?

Consider our obsession with violence and true crime. Think of TV shows such as "The Watcher," about a man who writes chilling notes threatening to break in and murder the family that has just moved into a new house. In a more benign sense, recall tales of neighbors who spy and meddle, peeking into other people's private business. Less terrifying, but just as unsettling. How does all this affect our behavior? 

It's not that these kinds of stories are fake, because unfortunately, "stranger danger" is a present reality. But what would it take for us to seek out stories of redemption rather than terror, stories where relationships were created because of radical hospitality? Stories that embody Hebrews 13:

"Don’t forget to show hospitality to strangers, for some who have done this have entertained angels without realizing it!" 

What would it look like for us to change the narrative, to start telling good stories in our own small spheres of influence that demonstrate the love of Jesus bleeding into relationships, infusing our interactions with kindness rather than hostility? 

Jesus was always changing the narrative–taking what people thought and flipping it upside down. And we have spent every day since trying to set things back the way they used to be, before Jesus made everything uncomfortable, different, and risky. 

He preached a whole sermon riffing on the statement, "you have heard it said… but I say…" He spent time with people who seem to us dirty, immoral, and dangerous. In response to the question, "who is my neighbor?", a question that 2000 years later we really haven't stopped asking, he tells a story that seems so backward to us. He tells of a man who was nearly fatally beaten and dumped along the side of the road. A leader of the religious establishment walks past him as he is dying. A priest walks past him, and chooses not to get his hands dirty either. Then, a stranger from a different country sees him, pays for him to have a place to stay and get well, provides food for him, and covers any additional expenses that he racks up. 

"Which of these people was a neighbor to the man along the road?" Jesus asks. Of course, it is the outsider, the stranger, the man that actually saw and responded to what he saw with compassion and a movable heart. The man who took action, who made room, who leaned in instead of running away. The man who welcomed him in. The man who loved him. 

This is the narrative Jesus tells about neighbors, asking us both explicitly and implicitly who is our neighbor? And when we see our neighbors who need love, which narrative will we believe about them? The narrative projected to us by our society and our politics? Or the subversive, counter-cultural, quiet narrative from Jesus?

Through our stories, our language, and the power of the Spirit within us, may we learn to soften our borders, changing the narrative from a frightened apprehension to a radical love.