A Word About Hospitality
St. Paul’s is the fourth church where I have worked—three as a member of the clergy and one as a lay professional—and all four have been downtown churches. All downtown churches face some of the same challenges—older buildings, limited weekday parking, security concerns—but each one also is a part of its own unique community. One of the churches where I worked was surrounded by skyscrapers at the center of a bustling downtown. Another was an historic icon in a downtown that had lost some of its charm over the years.
Although expressions of hospitality have varied with each congregation, all four have sought to provide a genuine welcome to whoever walks through the doors. For the most part, at St. Paul’s anyone is welcome to worship with us, participate in a class, and share in a meal. We want to be a church that ministers not only to the needs of the people who are officially members but to anyone and everyone we can help. That is not merely an operational policy. It is a fundamental expression of who we are, which is why anyone who threatens our ability to provide hospitality evokes a clear and urgent response.
Many years ago, when I was first ordained, a man started hanging around the church where I worked. His name was Billy Ray, and he was very friendly. He would walk into the sitting area beside the reception desk and rest on the couch for a while, always warmly greeting the receptionist and anyone else who walked by. He learned the names of the staff and some regular volunteers and made himself at home among the congregation. I do not recall that he ever went to a worship service or a Bible study, but quickly we all got to know Billy Ray as a fixture in the church.
After a few weeks of coming by most days, Billy began asking us for financial assistance. First, he asked the clergy if we would help him with the cost of a hotel or a meal. We explained that we were not willing to help with short-term needs but would be happy to provide the first month’s rent if he could find an apartment. Having been turned down by the clergy, he started lingering outside the parish hall and hanging out in the parking lot, asking parishioners for money.
Panhandling was not allowed on the premises, and his presence had gone from irritant to impediment, so the staff decided that the next priest who saw him at the church would ask him to move along to another spot. Perhaps by chance, the responsibility fell to me.
Looking out the window from my office that Friday afternoon, I saw Billy Ray approaching the building. I knew what I had to do. I got up from my desk and walked down to the reception area, prepared to ask him to leave. As soon as he opened his mouth, I interrupted him and told him that he would need to leave. Frustrated at my dismissiveness, Billy said, “Won’t you even give me the decency of hearing what I have to say? I haven’t asked you for anything yet.” Taken aback by his frankness, I apologized. “You’re absolutely right, Billy Ray. I’m sorry. How can I help you?”
“I know you won’t give me any money,” he continued in a condescending tone. “I know better than to ask you for that. What I need is a ride. Someone has offered me a job, but it’s across town, and I need help getting there.” “Well,” I said matter-of-factly, “we don’t help with rides.”
“You’re just like the rest of them,” he fired back in disgust. “You fat f---! You piece of s---!” And he spit on the floor in front of me as a sign of true contempt. “That’s Father Fat F--- to you!" I barked back at him. “Now get out of here and don’t come back.”
Actually, that last part is not true. I was not quick enough on my feet to think of a witty retort, but I did ask him to leave. In the retelling of the encounter, a parishioner with a flair for drama added the part about “Father Fat F---” and no matter how many times I tried to set the record straight, the legend only grew.
I think about Billy Ray from time to time. Almost twenty years later, I still struggle with knowing how to balance the needs of the poor with the congregation’s need to gather without being interrupted by requests for charity. As a downtown congregation, we are frequented by unhoused guests. Every Monday and Wednesday, we serve lunch to anyone who wants a meal. When someone asks for Sunday-morning breakfast or Wednesday-night dinner, we let them eat without asking them to pay. We are a better church because of the regular presence of guests who do not have the luxuries and privileges that most of us enjoy, but there are limits to our ability to provide them welcome.
Two weeks ago, in the middle of the Adult Forum, two guests whom I did not recognize joined in the discussion. Their appearance suggested that they were experiencing homelessness, but that did not matter. St. Paul’s is accustomed to making space among us for people from different economic backgrounds. Their first contribution to the discussion was a little off-topic, but it was within the realm of a theological conversation. The second time one of them received the microphone, however, something was different.
I cannot remember exactly what words he used, but I immediately recognized that he was using the microphone and the adult forum to ask for financial assistance. Honestly, it had not occurred to me before he started his story that he would ask. Although we frequently have unhoused guests among us, we rarely get a public request for assistance. Without hesitation, I cut him off. I thanked him for being with us but made it clear that the class was not the appropriate place for a request for support. He tried again, but, again, I interrupted—even more forcefully—and announced that under no circumstances would we entertain any request for help but that I would be happy to talk with him after church was over. I told him to give the microphone back, and we moved on to the next person’s comment.
As the class continued, I began to second guess myself. I worried that I may have cut him off too soon. Although I had not initially anticipated a request for money, I reacted to the start of his story very quickly—before he had actually asked for anything—and I remembered my exchange with Billy Ray, when I did not allow him to get his request out before trying to ask him to leave. Had I overreacted? Should I have let him finish his story before deciding how to react?
I learned later on that they had also asked Sara for financial assistance with a hotel room, and I concluded that my instincts were probably correct. Still, I wonder whether some of the parishioners in the room were unnerved by my quick, decisive, and harsh response. Aren’t we supposed to help people in need? Doesn’t the Bible tell us to welcome the poor into our midst? Doesn’t Jesus tell us that, by caring for the least of one of his siblings, we are actually caring for him?
Yes—the answer to each of those questions is yes. We are supposed to help people in need. We are supposed to welcome anyone and everyone who comes into our midst, and we are supposed to allow their unmet needs to become our unmet needs. But, practically speaking, there are limits to our ability to provide assistance. In fact, upon reflection, it is the threat to our ability to welcome and care for our guests that led me to respond so harshly and cut off even the appearance of a request for assistance.
At some point, if we allowed people to interrupt our classes or worship services with requests for assistance, we would no longer be able to gather for anything except to receive those requests. We are not perfect, and we could always look for ways to expand our generosity among our neighbors in need, but it is reasonable and even faithful for us to prescribe particular times and circumstances in which we will receive those requests, and it is reasonable and faithful for us to define times when we will not receive them. With regards to faithfulness, the issue is not a matter of availability but of motivation.
If our principal desire is to remove poor people from our midst because we do not like the way they look or smell or because we do not want to sit at a table with them, we are not being faithful to Jesus, who regularly spent time with societal outcasts. But, if we set aside time for worship, prayer, study, and fellowship and refuse to allow even urgent, deserving requests for assistance to interrupt them—as long as we are willing to receive those requests at other times and make them central to our identity as Christians—we are being faithful. Even Jesus snuck off away from the demanding crowds in order to pray, rest, and recover.
Here are some guidelines for our hospitality at St. Paul’s. These are not perfect, nor are they intended to be hard and unbreakable rules, but they might provide some clarity for how we welcome people into our midst.
1. Anyone is welcome at St. Paul’s. If someone wants to join us for a service, a class, a meal, or another gathering, they are welcome. Even if their participation is different from ours, they are welcome, and we should help them feel welcome.
2. Requests for financial assistance are not allowed on Sunday mornings, on Wednesday nights, or during Community Meals. That includes formal requests made to the clergy and informal requests made to parishioners. Those are times that we have set aside to gather for other purposes. Individuals are welcome to join us during those times, but requests for assistance must be made at other times.
3. Requests for financial assistance should come through the church office and not be made to individual parishioners. If you want to help those in need, consider giving to the clergy discretionary fund or to an agency that is set up to provide emergency assistance, include CEO or 7Hills. We are able to respond to requests in a coordinated manner. We are able to keep track of how often assistance is provided. And we are able to help out in a meaningful way that is designed to make a long-term investment in someone’s life.
4. Loitering in the building or on the grounds is not allowed, especially when programs are taking place at St. Paul’s. We make exceptions for cold or stormy weather, but individuals who stay in the Welcome Center or Parish Hall with no desire to participate in the communal life of the parish make it harder for others to do so. Folks who want to come in and use the bathroom or rest for a few minutes are welcome, but, unless someone wants to participate in a service or other program, their visit should be brief.
Sometimes we need to make exceptions to rules like these, and I pray that we will have the grace and flexibility we need to do so. In fact, we often ignore these rules altogether, but sometimes the demands placed upon us become so outsized that they interfere with our ability to provide hospitality at all.
Recently, a few individuals have been taking massive amounts of food at breakfast. For the most part, it is not the cost of an individual’s excessive meal that matters. But, when someone takes several plates of bacon and sausage week after week, leaving none for those who come after them and creating a long-term financial strain on our budget, we begin to wonder whether we will be able to continue to provide meals to those who cannot not pay for them, and to stop feeding hungry people would be to lose a sense of who we are as a parish.
Similarly, there are lots of people who sleep on the grounds at St. Paul’s every night. When I come to the church after hours or arrive extra early in the morning, I see people sleeping in every doorway. As long as they are willing to pick up after themselves and move out of the doorways before other people show up for church, I do not mind. But, when their possessions become a hazard to children playing on the playground or their presence outside the narthex prevents someone in a wheelchair from coming into church, I respond decisively because I know how easily one person could upset our ability to provide hospitality to many more.
I do not always get it right, and I depend upon others to help me and our parish be responsive to the needs of our neighbors. Ultimately, I want us to be a parish where everyone is welcome and where the needs of others are understood to be our own needs. I want to be a church that responds generously to whatever needs are identified among us, and I have a feeling that, in the months ahead, those needs will only grow. Making space to receive those who have unmet needs must remain central to our identity, but we must not be overwhelmed by them to the point where we choose to become indifferent to them. Then, we lose touch with what really matters.
Yours faithfully,
Evan D. Garner
