Radical Hospitality

The first of three posts about areas of focus where we can make a difference

Sunset over Montreal, from my studio window. Oil pastel on paper, approximately 5” x 7”.

I first encountered the term “radical hospitality” when I was writing my biography of Bishop Gene Robinson, the first openly-gay man to be elected a bishop in the Anglican Church. Gene used this phrase often in his sermons and speeches, explaining that it meant going beyond our normal notions of hospitality toward friends and family — people we consider part of our own group and are comfortable with — to include those that are considered “other”. At the time, twenty years ago, your sexual identity definitely put you into categories of “accepted” or “other”, not only in institutions like mainstream churches and in other workplaces, but also in many people’s own families. It was a hard-fought battle to gain legal rights that — up until recently — seemed secure. The persecution and attacks that leaders like Gene Robinson endured were vicious and relentless, just as the women who campaigned for equal rights were attacked, and likewise all who fought in the civil rights movement. Whenever Gene spoke, he recalled those earlier struggles, reminding us that we all stand on the shoulders of those who came before us.

What might this idea of radical hospitality look like today? Well, let me ask you, “Who are you comfortable having coffee with at work, talking to on the street, or inviting into your home? And who are you not comfortable doing that with?”

By now, most progressive people make no social distinctions on the basis of sexual identity. But do you have a colleague or neighbor who is trans? Have you extended yourself to that person?

How often do you talk with or socialize with people of different religions or ethnic groups, or even with those of a different skin color?

How do these questions make you feel? If the answer is “somewhat uncomfortable,” or you find yourself feeling defensive, you aren’t alone, but I’d like to encourage you to sit with those feelings for a little while. The reason we feel uncomfortable is that we are tribal people, whether we acknowledge it or not, and we instinctively like to hang out with people who are like us and don’t challenge our idea of who we ourselves are. And it’s not necessarily indifference, dislike, racism or any other -ism — we also fear rejection and avoid socially awkward situations. Even extroverted people can become shy at the thought of talking to people of different backgrounds or identities. Don’t worry, I’m not suggesting that you invite your MAGA neighbor over for a beer and a political discussion in the backyard. Rather, the notion of radical hospitality is that we look for those who are hurting, those who are being persecuted, those who may be feeling isolated and fearful, regardless of the group into which we may have slotted them, and gently extend ourselves as human beings.

I am well aware that this isn’t easy. You can start off with eye contact and a smile. I was in a public restroom in downtown Montreal the other day, and an older Muslim woman, about my own age, with full head covering and a long, conservative manteau over her clothes, was washing her hands at the next sink. She looked up and saw me looking over at her in the mirror. I smiled, her eyes lit up, and she gave me a big smile back; I could see in her eyes that this moment of mutual recognition meant something, and I hope she could see it in mine. I stop to talk to the oud player on the street. I smile at the young, covered Muslim women on the metro. I talk to young ethnic parents with their kids on the trains, dealing with the same stuff that young parents everywhere are dealing with. In these public settings, nobody is going to glom onto you or ask more of you than you can reasonably give. But do we all have to travel in our own isolated bubbles? Can’t we be more human with each other, at a time when so many are anxious about their future, anxious about their children, and anxious about our world?

Our diverse, urban, multi-ethnic congregation at Montreal’s Anglican cathedral provides many opportunities for us to leave our natural comfort zones and move into greater relationship. Many workplaces, organizations and institutions do this as well; what might we do if we took the idea of radical hospitality more seriously? What would our own lives look like, and what would our communities and our world be like if we did?

And now I want to flip the question around. When we’re members of a majority or dominant group, there’s always a tendency to play the gratuitous generosity card, and to pat ourselves on the back for our openness…because it doesn’t cost us much. (The white savior complex hides itself in very benign forms, not just high-profile photo ops of celebrities “doing good in Africa”.) So if you should decide to invite that colleague or neighbor for a cup of coffee, I’d like to suggest that you use it as an opportunity ask some questions, and then quietly listen, and learn something from that person’s reality and their experience of the world that you both inhabit.

To go further — what would it mean to you to realize that a person or a group that is not your own is extending radical hospitality to you? What happens when we ourselves are very much in the minority, as many members of minority groups are all the time? Are we willing to experience this?

I have been in many situations like that. When you’re willing to learn, to confront your own deeply-held notions, and not be a cultural tourist, you see and hear how others see your own group, race, religion or country — and it’s often the opposite of comfortable. I’ve felt myself squirm and rebel inside; I’ve watched my instinctive reactions and had to work through feelings of anger, hurt, and a lot of defensiveness. But this is how we grow. Now, I can’t even begin to express how grateful I am for the hospitality I’ve received and for what these friends from other cultures, religions, sexual orientations and gender identities, and other ways of being have taught me.

My friend Bryce Tolpen, author of the Substack Political Devotions, wrote movingly in a post titled My Monstrous Innocence about his own movement away from the “safe” community that had formed his earlier identity to a much broader place where he was no longer recognized and affirmed in the same way, but welcomed and encouraged in the human growth he sought. In the former community, he was revered as a kind of “hero child”, so long as he accepted its beliefs, behaviors and values. This allowed and encouraged him to stay in a state of unquestioning innocence about certain moral, religious, and political matters — he mentions American racial history — by accepting the community’s authority. However, a different, internal authority — his own conscience — began to assert itself in his life, causing him to question these values. He credits the writings of philosopher and theologian Paul Tillich with helping him think through this dilemma. Tolpen writes:

One doesn't have to leave a community, of course, to move away from a rotting state of innocence. In fact, one may leave a community or join one precisely in order to maintain that innocence. Leaving and joining aside, the main concern in Tillich's essay is how one develops "the courage to be." To develop it, he says, one moves from what he calls moralisms, which allow us to base our identity on an external authority's notion of right and wrong, to morality, which is "the self-affirmation of our essential being."

Since this dark night of my conscience, my involvement in communities has become healthier. These communities have led me to new experiences that I wouldn't have allowed myself to choose because of my mistaken need for innocence. In my old age, I have finally sought out many new acquaintances who are not of my tribes. It's fun.

Most people have not moved, in Tillich's sense, from moralisms to morality. Many who haven't are minors, and their innocence is healthy. Many others who haven't are young adults, and their innocence is sometimes regrettable. Many others who haven't are older, and their innocence is often dangerous, as mine was.

How can innocence be dangerous? Innocence protects an identity that society has constructed for me. I cooperate with society—and with groups I join in our society—by submitting to moralisms. In other words, I behave. As long as my personal behavior is good, I can ignore my calling to public life, a calling that rejects moralisms but requires morality.¹

In his essay, Tolpen quotes James Baldwin’s letter to his young nephew about how to live in America:

You must accept [whites] and accept them with love. For these innocent people have no other hope. They are, in effect, still trapped in a history which they do not understand; and until they understand it, they cannot be released from it. They have had to believe for many years, and for innumerable reasons, that black men are inferior to white men. Many of them, indeed, know better, but, as you will discover, people find it very difficult to act on what they know. To act is to be committed, and to be committed is to be in danger. In this case, the danger, in the minds of most white Americans, is the loss of their identity.²

Today, as we can see, Baldwin’s words are still true, and the dangers have not only changed but, for many of us, increased. Fundamental racism is alive and being acted upon every day as the administration tries to rewrite history, and dismantle decades of progress, education, and legislative protection. In addition to racism directed against Blacks, discrimination and persecution of essentially every other group that is not white and male has been added. Hate crimes as well as dententions and harassments are on the rise against Jews, Muslims, Sikhs, Latinos, South Asians, Asians, and every other visible minority; trans people and even pregnant women in conservative states are targeted. Just imagine what it is like for your colleagues and neighbors. Can’t we each extend ourselves a bit more?

It seems to me that one path forward for each of us is to examine our own innocence and the reasons and ways in which we shy away from being more inclusive, open, and generous. We can begin to take small steps toward an embrace of “radical hospitality” and to learn from those who are not like us. We should neither waste time mourning the loss of programs and protections, nor wait for the large systems to correct themselves; it is up to each one of us to do what we can to make a better world in the spaces closest to us, here and now.

1. Paul Tillich, Theology of Culture, pg. 136

2. Notes of a Native Son, in Collected Essays, by James Baldwin, The Library of America 98 (New York: Library of America, 1998), 128-29.