On Hospitality and Boundaries

Beyond "us" and "them"

When you think about “boundaries” in your personal or domestic life, what picture do you see? Often we imagine some sort of wall or fence, an outer boundary distinguishing public from private space; a barrier with a few doors or gates.

Such pictures encourage binary thinking about our relationships to others: there are those inside and those outside; us and them; known and unknown; kindred and stranger; safe and risky. But what about “host” and “guest”? Where do they fit into these bifurcations?

Photo by CEphoto, Uwe Aranas

I would like to suggest that they don’t really fit at all, especially if we are trying to discern a uniquely Christian form of hospitality. The host/guest relationship brings paradox, role reversal, entitlement, gift, and a capacity for surprise that doesn’t work well when our boundaries are monolithic or cast in concrete.

As I’ve explored questions related to biblical hospitality through this newsletter, many of the comments have put forward important questions about creating and maintaining boundaries, even as we open up places that are usually considered private, namely our homes.

Before we can discuss some practical ways we discern and maintain wise boundaries, it’s important that we open our imaginations to a picture of boundaries that aren’t dependent on high walls and fences. I’ll use my own home as an example. My husband and I own 1.7 acres in the North Carolina Piedmont. Our house is a large corner lot in an old suburban neighborhood, and so on two sides the boundaries of our home are visual and definite: even my preschool children know that where the soft grass of our yard yields to the paved streets that run along the southeast and southwest edges of our property, they go from being “at home” to “abroad.” On the other two sides of our property the boundary lines are more organic: to the northwest, our neighbors’ fence marks a portion of the property line, and to the northeast, a small empty lot completely overgrown with pine, holly, and walnut trees establishes a rather wild boundary.

Move nearer the center of our little shire, and you find more diversity of space: the large garden, intentionally planted in the open field at the southern tip of our land, intentionally open to sunshine and curious passers-by. Climb the hill to the north and you cross the driveway and find yourself more secluded under walnut and oak trees. This is where we keep the children’s playlet and the chicken coops — a more bounded area for the littles ones in our care.

And then of course comes the house: walls of brick, a door of wood, lots of windows. Inside: the kitchen and sitting rooms, full of chairs; the bedroom doors that close when guests come; the quiet basement with its boxes of memories.

With so many types of boundaries, so many places of opening and enclosure, our heart can more easily make room for many kinds of entry: we imagine the neighbors walking by who stop to talk in the garden; the new friends who come and sit under the shade of the trees; the formal guests we invite to the table; the family members to whom no doors are shut.

In medieval England, it was a practice in the spring of each year for the whole community to walk around its parish, “beating the bounds.” As they prayed for a good harvest and protection from illness, the men, women, and children would remind themselves where God had established their lives: they would note the river that marked the parish line here; the stone or tree that marked it there. It was an act of collective memory and responsibility, because until we know where we are—with what beauties and resources and vulnerabilities—it’s hard to feel at home enough to welcome anyone else.

Something like this “beating of the bounds” is the first act of hospitable boundary-keeping. We must prayerfully map the place God has established us. We need to undertake this mapping both physically and spiritually, but it’s important to it physically first: think about where you live, its interior and exterior space. Think about your rooms, your furniture, the groceries in your pantry. Especially if your physical home is small, you might extend this map to the other places you inhabit — the parks, the coffeeshops, the walking trails or greenways.

Ask yourself: what boundaries in my home are absolute, definite, locked? Which boundary lines are permeable, beautiful, open? Who comes in and out of my home, and why? How do the different spaces in my life create room for different types of guests and kindred?

Walk through your home, inside and out, praying. Attend to the doors, the windows, the places to sit. Think about who (if anyone) usually shares these spaces with you. Imagine who could share these spaces with you. Note your reactions — offer to God any hope or fear or other feelings that emerge.

This physical mapping will probably lead you into considering your emotional and spiritual boundary-lines: perhaps there are certain seasons you are eager to welcome others, and other times you want to close all the doors. Or maybe there is a certain kind of work or recreation that makes it easy to invite others in, while other work is better done privately.

Once we have really traced the diverse boundaries already defining and surrounding our homes, we can start to think about what these boundaries mean: about which guests can come through which doors, about safety, sacrifice, community, and beauty.

Next time we’ll talk about safety and sacrifice, but in the meantime, as always, drop your thoughts in the comments. What metaphors for boundaries do you find helpful? In my next newsletter I’ll be tackling some of the specific challenges with boundaries y’all have already shared, so feel free to add to the list in the comments, as well.