Hospitality and Counterfeit Vulnerability

Openness and Security

Hospitality is opening your life to someone else.

But, we quickly like to set boundaries on to whom, and under what circumstances we should do so—and with right: there are those who would take advantage of our hospitality.

Yet, on some level, I fear that we are too closed in western cultures, with our carefully cultivated list of entertainments—all a few clicks away–and our ability to block someone from our lives on social media or a cell phone with a few taps of the screen.

We are so keen to avoid the “haters,” any whiff of “negativity,” that I wonder if our cultural ideal might best be articulated by C.S. Lewis:

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

I remember the fear I recently experienced when I let a good friend in to babysit my son: the toys were strewn on the floor, and the breakfast dishes were in the sink. What was I doing letting this person into my house?! Surely, she would think less of me, as I went off to my doctor’s appointment. And, she was a friend there to help me out, not just a guest looking to relax in my company. The anxiety when I am a host climbs to greater extremes.

I was vulnerable: opening my home, showing the inner workings of my mostly polished exterior.

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There is a danger in showing vulnerability, of being open. Some people might react to that openness with friendship, while others might use it as an occasion to criticize or worse. It is in this space of hospitality that we find our baser and finer impulses in action. And, we learn what’s in our hearts.

I think of the story of Daniel, praying at his window in defiance of the law of his friend and ruler: Darius. Darius had ambitions for Daniel: “Daniel became distinguished above all the other high officials and satraps, because an excellent spirit was in him. And the king [Darius] planned to set him over the whole kingdom.” (Daniel 6:3). Yet, Darius also agrees that he should be held in the highest regard, as a god—and codifies this into law.

Daniel responds to this challenge from his friend, Darius: “When Daniel knew that the document had been signed, he went to his house where he had windows in his upper chamber open toward Jerusalem. He got down on his knees three times a day and prayed and gave thanks before his God, as he had done previously” (Daniel 6:10).

This is hospitality. Daniel is inviting the attention and presence of Darius and the other officials in his life. It might seem like an act of contrariness, and not like an act of welcoming–but a less open, faithful response might have been concealing his prayers from view.

Daniel made himself vulnerable, and in return was thrown into the lions’ den. This caused the king a sleepless night, with no food and much worry. Finally, morning came, and “Then, at break of day, the king arose and went in haste to the den of lions. As he came near to the den where Daniel was, he cried out in a tone of anguish. The king declared to Daniel, “O Daniel, servant of the living God, has your God, whom you serve continually, been able to deliver you from the lions?” (Daniel 6:19-20)

The rest of the story ends well. God—it turns out—has protected Daniel from the lions, and Darius and others realize the power of Daniel’s God.

Vulnerability—allowing someone else into his life—gives Daniel unprecedented impact in a hostile setting.

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Intentional Risk and The Life of God

So, do we endanger ourselves, giving access to bullies, manipulators, and those who would take advantage? Or is there more going on in this hospitality and vulnerability?

I would submit the latter is the case, here. Daniel knew of the rapport he had with Darius; despite the rather sizeable breach of trust here between himself and Darius represented by the law to only worship Darius, we are given a picture of Darius as a man who does deeply care for Daniel.

On some level, the spiritual thing to do seems to be this restorative act of allowing someone into your life, even when they are petty or thoughtless, because of the potential for redemption. I think prudence and prayerful consideration is key. But, we need to practice vulnerability, even when it sometimes seems futile.

Indeed, through one set of optics, what God did for us in inviting us into his life makes little sense: “For if while we were enemies we were reconciled to God by the death of his Son, much more, now that we are reconciled, shall we be saved by his life” (Romans 5:10).

While we were enemies, God took the initiative and reached out, through the death of his Son. And forgave much. We are told that, if we do not forgive others as we have been forgiven, we are in danger of God’s wrath: “And should not you have had mercy on your fellow servant, as I had mercy on you?’ (Matthew 18:33)

The danger of not having hospitality is that we do not participate in the life of the God who died for us: “Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 2:3-5).

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A Call to Action

Normally, this is the point where a pastor or other spiritual advisor would grab the low-hanging fruit of admonishing you to invite someone to church this holiday season, or to share your faith.

Those are good ideas, but I think they miss a step: that of reflection. Daniel learned of Darius’ decree, and decided to continue with his act of praying. There was a real-world cost in play for Daniel: his safety, his career, and his friendship with the king were on the line.

What would it cost you to be vulnerable to someone else by inviting them in? Some status? The good opinion of others? I listened to a podcast recently (“Revisionist History”), where the speaker argued that often social acceptability or appearances cost us an opportunity to do the moral or optimal choice. This is a counterfeit vulnerability: being subject to the whims of public opinion, as our social media encourage.