IVP - Strangely Dim - Stuff About Hospitality Archives

Schmoozing, Stalking & Social Compacts

There are two ways to violate a social compact: (1) fail to live up to your end of the deal, or (2) fail to end the relationship where it is supposed to end. I experienced both over the past week at a national conference I attended. Gathered together were some two thousand people, each of whom came to the conference for their own complex network of reasons. Among those reasons were invariably the chance to stalk someone famous, the chance to schmooze someone influential, the chance to convalesce after a significant time of uninterrupted hurriedness, the chance to grow personally and professionally, and--let's be frank--the chance to eat more than perhaps one ought.

These were, at least, some of the reasons I attended. The problem with schmoozing and stalking, however, is that your prey does not necessarily approach your social compact in the same way as you. They have, it's fair to say, their own prey to pursue, and so while they might offer one eye and ear to you, they keep the other on alert for either an out or a better offer. Consequently, I was occasionally given the cold shoulder, even in the same moment that I was schmoozing and stalking with all my might.

I'm not bitter; I get the game, and I get the rules of the game. Every once in a while, however, the game is thrown a curve, and the players are left wondering where the playbook went. This happened to me when I inadvertently bumped into one of the most influential people in the whole place. I covered my ignorance with a cheeky grin and admittedly slick eye contact, and I put out my hand for the conventional Western greeting.

This venerated elder took my hand and shook it, and shook it, and shook it. He shook it like a Polaroid picture, if I might borrow an analogy. I tried to let go, and then tried to regain my dignity by reengaging his handshake--again and again and again. It may not have been the longest handshake in recorded history, but it was strikingly long and seemingly impossible to break. I felt like the Millennium Falcon, caught in the tractor beam of the Death Star. Might as well kill the engines and go where you're led.

Almost immediately prior to this encounter I had been reading the first half of Miroslav Volf's Exclusion & Embrace, which offers ethical parameters to individuals and even whole cultures for our interactions with one another. In contrast to exclusion, the way of the world that disempowers others by dehumanizing and marginalizing them, Volf characterizes authentic encounter as an embrace in four acts:

Act one: You open yourself to the Other, perhaps by spreading your arms or, in my case, extending your hand.

Act two: You wait for the Other to reciprocate your advance by willingly entering into your embrace.

Act three: You close the gap between one another to establish the embrace.

Act four: You release your embrace and allow the Other to continue being Other.

To leave out any of these four creates a breach:

• By not opening yourself, you refuse to let down your guard and can't fully enter into relationship.
• By not waiting for the Other to reciprocate, you trespass on the person of the Other and trample on their dignity.
• By not closing the gap, you reject the opportunity to be vulnerable to the Other, and the authenticity that accompanies that vulnerability.
• By not releasing the embrace, you colonize the Other, disregarding their uniqueness and again trampling on their dignity.

I had these ethics of embrace in mind as I endured the eternal handshake of this venerated elder, but to be honest, I found his colonization of my uniqueness endearingly gracious: by keeping the embrace going longer than social convention would expect, he was effectively transferring some of his own dignity onto me. We later even shared a delightful meal together, completely stripped of the agendas that tainted so many other meals throughout the week. I must confess that I saw him in a different light from other subjects of my schmoozing and stalking; here was a whole person, whose significance extended beyond his utility to me.

I'm reminded of Jesus' encouragement to his followers to always take the lower seat at a feast table. It's not so much an ethical command as a nugget of advice: you can't know in advance whether your host wants you to take the seat of honor or "the least important place," so it's infinitely better to be invited up than to be cast down, to be embraced rather than excluded. The advice works in reverse as well, I suppose: be attentive to all your guests--from the powerful to the powerless, from the naive dreamers to the disillusioned schemers--because you never know which one you'll wind up embracing as a friend.

Hospitality 101: All Those Who've Ever Burned Chicken Welcome

I am, unfortunately, not a very hospitable person in the traditional sense of the word. I like the idea of having people over, and I generally have fun while they're there, but I don't entertain with ease. I worry about almost every detail: getting the apartment clean, making sure people have what they need, figuring out who should sit where, keeping the conversation flowing, etc., etc.

If the event involves cooking a meal, the stress factor gets bumped up about sixteen notches, because I'm not a great cook. The various dishes probably won't be ready at the same time, or something might be a little undercooked, or it might be a little black and crispy and stick to the pan . . . Unless we just eat cookies. I make good cookies, and good homemade chai. But let's just say, no one has ever asked me to serve on a hospitality committee. And I haven't volunteered.

I've been realizing more in the past few years, though, that as Christians, hospitality must define us. Not necessarily (and thankfully) being able to cook a Martha-Stewart-approved meal, but the much broader and deeper meaning: the art of welcoming people in, just as they are, of listening well with openness and compassion, and then responding with grace and truth. This kind of hospitality, I'm learning, is core to who I'm called to be as a follower of Christ.

I'm reminded of that truth even more powerfully right now, as we've intentionally pondered Christ's final week on earth and the pain it entailed, and then celebrated his resurrection and victory over death and sin. No one will ever give us a stronger picture of hospitality than Christ, who invites us with deep love and mercy to come to him with all of our messiness, brokenness, sinfulness; who knows the hardness of our heart, the ways we've denied him, the lies we've told, the ways we’ve hurt others, the ways others have hurt us. And he doesn't just listen well and offer compassion; he actually takes on our sin and claims it as his own, offering us full forgiveness and freedom and life. Only with Christ can we be completely ourselves, fully open about who we are, because he knows us in every way anyway, and still joyfully, lovingly calls us to himself.

As his followers, we have the perfect example of hospitality to imitate. Yet, without having done any polls, I am pretty certain hospitality is not the first word that springs to mind when people think of Christians. Two bumper stickers I saw on one car illustrate well the reality of our level of hospitality. One read "The [denomination name that isn't really important because it could be any one] welcomes you." Okay. That's friendly when you're stuck in traffic, right? And then, above it, the other bumper sticker: "My poodle is smarter than your honor student." Gee, I feel right at home. Totally welcome. Don't you?

The reality is, offering hospitality is hard. It's hard to listen well to someone whose point of view is different from ours. It's hard to welcome someone whose needs feel bigger than we have time to address. It's hard to welcome someone whose sin has hurt us or someone we love. But it is one of the greatest gifts we can give to others and one of the most powerful paths to reconciliation and understanding.

As hard as offering hospitality is, though, receiving it--sharing my messiness with others and letting them offer me grace and truth--is even harder for me. Being an extraordinarily private person, I'd rather keep my brokenness and sinfulness and ugliness and confusion to myself, thank you very much. But a few close friends who are willing to share with me who they are--good and bad--are teaching me the power of letting my mess be known by them as well, and the freedom, grace and growth that come as a result.

I long to be that safe person for others--the hospitable, compassionate, grace-and-truth-filled friend who invites others in just as they are. However, I know that until I am more willing to really show others who I am--a scared, not-so-put-together twentysomething who is a little confused about how to love and live this life she's been given--it will be hard for them to feel comfortable coming to me just as they are.

But this keeps me working at it: Christ on the cross, taking my sin on himself; the risen, victorious Christ appearing to his disciples who betrayed and denied and deserted him, speaking words of peace and forgiveness and promise of the Spirit to come and the ways he would use them; Christ ascending and interceding for us; Christ constantly whispering to me "Come to me, come to me, come to me."

So come on over if you want to. I'll put the chai on and resist the urge to clean before you arrive. You bring your messiness and your joy, and, with some patience from you, I'll do my best to invite you into mine.

And Christ--the risen, living, loving, perfectly hospitable One--will be there too.