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Paradox is the only basket large enough to hold the truth.
—Robert Farrar Capon
When setting sail for adulthood, many people in the West quietly hope for a plot line that reads like this: Find your spark—finish school—land a job—locate a sweetheart—buy a forever home—stay put—the end.
Forever home. When I hear the expression, I picture a timeless family residence, something brick with a wide black door and lush ivy tracing a trail above the garage. I see something that wraps itself around generations. I imagine walls that stand for decades, greeting newborns, witnessing childhoods, and hosting weddings. I hear rowdy laughter rolling up from the basement and see neighbours dropping by unannounced for all the right reasons. Oh, to throw a party in that kitchen. This is the kind of house I crave: heaven on earth.
But then I imagine all that this requires. The sheer investment of it all makes me consider anew Jesus’s words from the Sermon on the Mount: “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. . . . For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Two chapters later, when a teacher of the law tells Jesus he’ll follow him wherever he goes, Jesus answers, “Foxes have dens and birds have nests but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” Nowhere to lay his head? That doesn’t sound like forever home material.
Perhaps it feels trite or cliché to note that Jesus had another kind of forever home in mind. But as I look around my city—and as I take stock of my own desires— I wonder if we simply find Jesus’s teaching and example too strange, too uninhabitable, too difficult. It sounds impossible, like having a proper uninterrupted adult conversation in a house full of hungry, irritable children. Or like riding a camel through the eye of a needle.
But what if, in seeking to follow Jesus’s teaching and example more faithfully, our understanding of home and hospitality could actually expand? What if by laying down our polished, world-inflected visions we could take hold of something more nourishing and real, something formed to point to Christ’s perfection and not our own pursuits? How different would our world be?
I wonder if Western Christians are a little too taken by the vision of a forever home here on earth.
For a bevy of reasons, my husband Steve and I lived on the move for a decade, almost entirely surrounded by other people’s furniture. We had little say in the matter as foreign students, weary nomads, long-term guests, and part-time tenants in furnished spaces. God ushered our family down a peculiar path leading far from any standard living situation, never mind the forever home we imagined. In doing so, we learned to look beyond appearances and see God at work in our various dwellings. We came to understand that by remembering how temporary our spaces were we could establish a habitat more in line with Jesus’s forever home. Our once narrow vision of house and hospitality expanded like a peony in full bloom. Where we once saw scarcity—no property, minimal furniture, dwindling sanity—we now see absurd abundance. The dream of owning a forever home is slowly loosening its grip on me. Slowly.
On Home and Hospitality
Thomas Merton wrote, “If you want to identify me, ask me not where I live . . . ask me what I am living for, in detail, and ask me what I think is keeping me from living fully for the thing I want to live for.” If Merton asked my newlywed self to state what she was living for, she would have answered with stunning clarity: “Loving God and loving people. Specifically, practicing hospitality in the home.” I took the mantle seriously. I still do.
But if Merton asked what was keeping me from my call, I would have squirmed. Too often, the hurdle was my home, all it was and all it wasn’t.
I will never forget the meal that shattered my domestic pride. While living in Vancouver, my husband and I bumped into a friend from grad school. We hadn’t seen “Brian” for months. He didn’t seem his usual gregarious self. We asked if he was up for grabbing lunch and he quickly agreed.
We wandered up Burrard Street. Every eatery was closed. “Maybe we should just go home?” Steve said with a shrug. I froze. NO WAY, I thought. The apartment was a disaster. Moving boxes, crumpled paper—the works. I wanted to settle in and make it cozy before inviting people in. Back then, food was everything. I had recently finished culinary school. I seized almost every opportunity to entertain friends with carefully plated meals on delicate china. I lived for hospitality. Or so I thought.
So when we struck out that morning, panic struck. I felt a snag in my heart, like God was convicting me of swatting away his invitation to host a friend. Still, I rationalized my disdain. Was the kitchen even functional? Did we have enough food? What were we supposed to eat? Scrambled eggs and whole wheat toast?
I caved. Steve got to work clearing boxes and making coffee while I prepared a bare-bones breakfast. Within minutes, Brian cracked and shared heavy news. The room seemed to groan. That’s the reason we’re all here, I thought. He’s been carrying that all morning. Steve and I looked at each other, wide-eyed, concerned, and also relieved. What a tragedy that we almost defaulted to Thai food in a noisy setting and let the moment pass. Thank God the restaurants were closed. When Brian left, Steve and I vowed that going forward, we would prioritize people over appearances at all costs.
There is a German proverb I’ve carried with me for years: The house shows the owner. I sometimes wonder if people dislike the reflection they see in their homes. I wonder if this is why we hesitate to bring people into our spaces and into our lives. Glossy magazines and Instagram feeds worship an impossible ideal. I used to work in marketing, so when it comes to tapping insecurities and influencing purchases, I’ve seen how the sausage is made. The house shows the owner. . . so don’t look messy or outdated or cheap . . . or else.
I used to struggle with this. I would look around my apartment and see little more than unfinished projects and dust that lay so thick it ought to be paying rent. It’s easy to let our dwelling spaces sink their teeth into our identity. What if it isn’t good enough for them? we think. What if I’m not good enough? How easy to lose sight of our God-given birthright as secure and beloved children with everything to gain and nothing to prove.
Many of us are lonely people, perhaps lonelier now more than ever. Our frantic modern life rarely offers pause to gather and break bread in meaningful ways. I wonder if we experience a compulsion to get everything flawless—our homes, ourselves—because we have so few opportunities to meet. We forget that authentic fellowship is the oxygen required to flourish. We forget that, most of the time, the most hospitable events are not events at all. They are everyday, understated exchanges of kindness set against a messy backdrop.
When I was a kid, hospitality was rarely messy. I come from a long line of seasoned hosts. I’m grateful Mom taught me to set a gorgeous table, plan menus, and create a beautiful spread for guests. Order is beauty, she says. You eat with your eyes, she says. And she’s right.
But genuine hospitality stretches farther. The word stems from the Latin hospitalis, from which we get “hospital” and “hospice.” Its ultimate goal is to satiate the need to be seen and heard. It is attentive healing presence, words and deeds that say, “I see you. Your life matters. Tell me your story.” Food and setting facilitate this nurturing care, sure, but they shouldn’t headline.
Jesus embodied hospitalis. He welcomed interruption. He abandoned formalities and fed multitudes with humble means. He dished up campfire breakfast to his disciples and served healing conversation. He even committed the cardinal sin in my grandmother’s book: He invited himself over, willingly passing the reins and letting others play the role of host. His example is our blueprint.
In The Art of Gathering, Priya Parker writes, “Gatherings crackle and flourish when real thought goes into them, when (often invisible) structure is baked into them, when a host has the curiosity, willingness, and generosity of spirit to try.” Parker is talking about premeditated events, but her words also lend themselves nicely to spontaneous occasions, like our meal with Brian. I have learned that the “structure” of which Priya speaks can simply be the firm decision to routinely ditch buttoned-up hospitality. We don’t need a head-turning home or unforgettable meal. We need to get over ourselves and participate in God’s good work, hands and heart open.
Steve and I have had many opportunities to practice hospitalis since that afternoon with Brian. The most memorable event surprised us during a Boxing Day gathering with acquaintances in Hamilton, Ontario, a city we never intended to call home.
That fall, our family was banking on a job offer in Sydney, Australia. We sold all furniture in preparation for leaving Toronto. When the opportunity went bust, we were left hopeless, rootless, and empty-handed. We couldn’t return to Vancouver. Toronto’s pace wasn’t our idea of a good time. We decided to explore a city we’d only heard about. Friends told us it was more affordable, like the Old Navy to Toronto’s Banana Republic. There’s great coffee, they said. Donuts too. It was an easy sell considering we were fresh out of options and needed to eat our feelings.
God provided an affordable rental home at a moment’s notice. Furnishings sprung up out of two surprise sources: a young professional who was leaving the country and friends in Sweden whose wedding gifts were gathering dust in their parents’ basement fifteen minutes from our new house. We went from lacking everything except clothing, portable speakers, and a coffee press (because: priorities) to having a semi-furnished home in under a week. Were the provisions anything we would have chosen? Not really. Did it bother me? No. In fact, the absurdity of it all only made for better conversation. God was our interior designer. He gave my daughters the fluffy pink pillows I never would have purchased. We all won.
The only hurdle that day was seating. The living room was mostly empty. A vintage teak dining set arrived at Christmas—a gift from sympathetic family—but we hadn’t properly used it. Who cares, we thought. We’ll just pull up chairs. We weren’t about to let furnishings undermine our efforts again.
Vulnerability exits the building when abundant living fits neatly under one enormous watertight roof.
Our guests arrived just as the scent of rich sticky buns filled the kitchen. We gathered around the dining table, pulled out seats, and sat down. Crack! The sound of splintering rock-solid upholstery foam. Yellow dust rained from the ancient seat cushions and littered the floor. We howled like school kids. Broken chairs! What a memory. We relocated to the living room, where the space provided exactly three proper seats for ten people. We, too, littered the floor, swapping stories for hours. We welcomed them into our mess. They welcomed us into their lives.
The house shows the owner. I read this now as a call to arms. As Christians, we can unapologetically open our doors and show who owns our hearts and, by extension, our homes. We can resist vanity and draw people into the lives we actually have, not the ones we project. We can nurture Spirit-filled sanctuaries and break bread (or chairs) together in our perfectly imperfect spaces, reminding ourselves that we too are works in progress, far from a forever home but still worthy of redemption and upkeep.
On Self-Sufficiency
I was stirring a fragrant pot of tomato basil soup when my phone interrupted. Hey friend. I hate to bother you. Do you happen to have two eggs? I’m making muffins for home group. If I run back to the store, I’ll be late.
Without hesitation, I opened the fridge. Absolutely! Anything else? I was honoured to help. There is a season for every purpose under heaven: a time to have eggs and a time to have none, a time to request and a time to provide.
I’m embarrassed when I consider how many times I’ve stood paralyzed in my kitchen, anxiously in need of eggs and answers and all that I lack but for which I am too afraid to ask. Who wants to be seen as vulnerable and needy? I want to be self-sufficient, dammit. That’s how the modern world raised us. Our culture often sees lack as liability, not opportunity. I wonder if this is part of a forever home’s appeal. There is room for every egg we could possibly need. Vulnerability exits the building when abundant living fits neatly under one enormous watertight roof.
The early church shows a different picture of abundance. In Acts 2, we see a devoted community that “sold their property and possessions and shared the money with those in need. They . . . shared their meals with great joy and generosity all the while praising God and enjoying the goodwill of all the people.” This is hardly a community that worships self-sufficiency.
In his book Faith, Hope, and Carnage, musician Nick Cave says, “To be truly vulnerable is to exist adjacent to collapse. In that space, we can feel extraordinarily alive and receptive to all sorts of things, creatively and spiritually. . . . It is a nuanced place that feels both dangerous and teeming with potential.” Teeming with potential. Oh yes. This hits a little too close to home.
From July 2016 to August 2017, my husband and I navigated life adjacent to collapse as a functionally homeless family with two small children and a baby on the way. We had just returned to Vancouver from a five-year academic stint in Scotland. God transformed us during our time in St. Andrews. We experienced a vibrant new way of offering abundant care with less. We felt a pressing urgency to bring our transformed hospitality home with us and share it, like some bottomless supply of sacred international candy.
Suddenly our housing situation folded. We couldn’t sign a lease and whip up a nest of our own. Life morphed quickly into a nail-biting suspense thriller, plot twist after plot twist. I wrote a sort of press release and shared it online. Acquaintances and strangers as far as Knoxville, Tennessee, realized our plight. They opened their homes. Two weeks here, six weeks there. My children laid their little cherub heads on twenty-two different pillows that year.
Having no certain place to call home was terrifying, confusing, isolating. In some ways, I’d rather not repeat it. Also: It was one of the richest faith-building seasons I have ever experienced. God is such a show-off, I hear Anne Lamott say. Each location was orchestrated with spine-tingling accuracy. God is both poet and comedian. He provides. Not all at once, but in time.
“Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear,” says Jesus. “Seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.”
The season highlighted the ways in which I had been conditioned to prioritize self-sufficiency. It helped me to see our family’s lack as opportunity. The experience exposed my long-held privilege and fostered tremendous empathy for those less fortunate. We learned to accept audacious provision the way Jesus and the early church did, with joy and without apology. I came to see that when generosity flows in only one direction, it robs others of the joy that comes with sharing. For everything there is a season, a time to cheerfully give and humbly receive. Collectively, we can follow the early church’s lead. Abolish self-sufficiency. Foster the forever home of communal interdependence.
On Eternal Equity
My husband and I are both in our forties now. We have never owned a home. Given the outlandish markets that follow us like a shadow, I honestly don’t know how or if we ever will. Affordable housing is like a speeding subway rushing to leave the station without us. One minute it’s there. The next it’s gone. The situation weighs on us. “Inheritance” has a nice ring to it. We faithfully save, but our reality leaves little margin. My friends would tell you I’m a textbook optimist, but when it comes to homeownership, my hope looks like it could use a four-day weekend.
In my head, I know a home is a home, rental or otherwise, but I can’t help but wonder: Wouldn’t we influence more lives by putting down roots in one place? Real estate is a wise investment. We could financially support more holy work. When I let my imagination run free, I picture my husband and myself literally rooted as a pair of cherry trees. Neighbours would know exactly where to find us and could provide welcome shade. Our roots would spread further each passing year.
When our little family was piecing life together like a paper chain, I remember lamenting our lack of home. One day my sadness crept out in five little words. “The kids have no home,” I said to Steve.
He disagreed. “Home is where the family plays,” he said. “We’re here. Many kids are lonely in beautiful houses. They are financially set but effectively homeless.” We witnessed this while living in Toronto. The cost of ownership paired with the heavy burden of faithfully raising a family is no joke. Sky-high expenses often pull parents from their families, physically and emotionally. Renters have fewer obligations and can pivot resources into non-tangibles. Real-estate investment may yield a high long-term return but at what cost? Is it worth it?
When I feel like Steve and I are falling behind in our world’s game of Life, the truth that settles my spirit is this: Christians fundamentally play a different game. Life is a follow-the-leader faith operation, not winner-takes-all Monopoly. We are ultimately pilgrims here, not long-term settlers. “To be a Christian is to be a traveller,” says Kallistos Ware in The Orthodox Way. “We live in tents, not houses, for spiritually we are always on the move. . . . It is a journey out of time into eternity.”
When I feel like my husband and I are falling behind in our world’s game of Life, the truth that settles my spirit is this: Christians fundamentally play a different game.
When I ponder how life would change if my family bought a home and stopped moving, my heart lurches in my chest. I’m greeted by an unexpected sinking feeling: sadness. Moving has refined my character in countless unexpected and beautiful ways. It’s freed me from the illusion of permanence and control. It’s unravelled my desire for material possessions. It’s fostered compassion for fellow travellers and underscored the importance of forging strong community. It’s gifted me with a global network of radiant friends and provided ridiculous opportunities, far beyond what I could have imagined. Most poignantly, it’s become an embodied spiritual practice, an ongoing act of surrender. Moving demands that we participate in a real-life pilgrimage. I want to broaden the definition of home, not fence it in. I want to keep my nomad legs.
Christians inherit wild stories of God’s faithfulness to obedient nomads. We stand on the shoulders of risk-takers, fools who’ve taken God at his word and stepped out against the odds. I think of Moses, Abraham, Ruth, and many others. Their stories provide comfort when life’s terrain causes us to trip. The wilderness between Eden and eternity is anything but straightforward, and Christians are called to walk by faith, not sight. I remind myself every time I’m faced with yet another precarious move. Faith is not passive, I tell myself. Pack the damn boxes, Elissa. Ultimately, the pilgrim pursuit is to trust the Father, imitate the Son, and follow the Holy Spirit.
I’ve come to see our family’s unusual story as alternative equity. Many of us may never own property or possess keys to a forever home, but we can leave our children with a different inheritance: a mountain of spectacular tales showcasing God’s heroism. We can highlight specific ways in which we shared in Jesus’s humble way of life. We can point to our Manna List and illustrate how God provided. Not necessarily our way, but the best way. This equity is treasure moths and rust and leaky pipes cannot destroy.
Is it wrong to wish for a forever home while roaming the earth? Is it bad to plead with God for a beautiful house of my own if I promise to share? I’m not sure. I know the tension is palpable. I want to bake bread in a predictable oven. I want to remain in town long enough to feast with people whose stories are interwoven with mine. I want to greet the peonies I plant in hope.
But more than these desires, I want to dwell in a home that shows Christ as the owner. In the end, living well boils down to stewardship, not ownership. May those of us who are called to uproot frequently be content to nest well along the journey. May we all remain faithful, vulnerable, and hospitable neighbours, remembering that our fixed address is far from the corner of stability and convenience. It is with Christ. Our true forever home will be worth the wait. Just think of the fun we’ll have in that kitchen.