A call with natural limits

America is no stranger to riots over immigration. During the 1840s and 1850s, several major northeastern and midwestern cities saw crowds erupt in violent protest against Catholic newcomers. Several decades later, San Francisco erupted in a three-day riot fueled by animus at Chinese migrants who were driving down wages. This summer, though, however fierce the anti-immigration rhetoric on social media, the crowds hitting the streets have been protesting in defense of immigrants.

For many, this demonstrates the advance of America’s national morality. In contrast to our bigoted ancestors, we should pride ourselves on our Christian charity and hospitality. For others, however, it is a sign of our national weakness and decadence. Illegal immigrants are seen as “invaders,” whom we have a duty to repel in defense of our homeland.

How should Christians navigate this hyper-polarized environment?

The language of “hospitality” actually offers us a useful framework—far more useful than many of its proponents often realize. Undoubtedly, Christians do have a responsibility to offer hospitality to the stranger and the sojourner; this basic principle is deeply embedded in the Biblical witness, from the admonitions of the Law of Moses to the examples of New Testament saints like Lydia. Indeed, a family that never shows hospitality is not only cold-hearted, but will have a cold and lifeless home, just as a nation with closed borders is usually not a pleasant place to live. However, notice that to speak of hospitality at all presupposes a difference between home and the outside world, between residents and visitors.

To show hospitality in my own home, I must have a home—that is, a house with four walls and doors that open, close, and (ideally) can be locked. To invite people into this home, I must maintain a clear distinction between residents and guests—and indeed between invited guests and uninvited guests, between well-behaved guests and drunken hooligans. To speak of hospitality presupposes a commitment to discriminate between these various categories. If any passing drug addict can simply crash on the couch, I may be running a worthy ministry, but I am not running a home. A home that shows unlimited hospitality will not only soon be economically bankrupt, run-down, and unpleasant for residents and guests alike, but it will lose its distinctive character and culture—it will no longer be a warm place to invite others to enjoy. In other words, it will not be able to show genuine hospitality.

All of these principles apply to the nation as well. A nation, too, has a responsibility to welcome guests, and share its blessings with strangers in need. But it will soon have little to offer either residents or visitors if it does not place appropriate limits on this hospitality. A nation without borders is no better than a house without walls. It must distinguish between guests that have been invited to stay and those who have simply crashed the party. And of course it must distinguish between those who are good guests and those who flout the nation’s laws or smuggle in illicit drugs. Common sense alone, then, shows us that like every creaturely good, hospitality (whether by household or nation) is made possible only by its limits.

To be sure, hospitality in the home is usually short-term and temporary, more analogous to a nation’s welcoming tourists than long-term immigrants. That said, sometimes a family may welcome an orphan, a sick relative, or even a stranger in need of foster care into its home for many years; sometimes, indeed, the foster-child is adopted as a member of the family. So too with nations and immigrants, and such long-term guests cannot simply be thrown out on the street because of the rowdy behavior of a few ill-mannered visitors. But the decision to take in such guests and commit to care for them is certainly not one to be taken lightly, nor one that every family is able to undertake.

These points cut against the frequently careless use of “hospitality” language on the Christian left, which frequently treats our moral duty to immigrants as a blank check to welcome whoever wants to come for as long as they want to stay. And yet the language is also a warning against the temptation to become bitter or hard-hearted. We’ve all, no doubt, had plenty of experience with individuals who abused our hospitality and took advantage of kind gestures. But this can never justify us in closing our hearts and our homes to others, especially those in need. Here, as so often, the demands of Christian morality call us to a “both/and” that defies the simple polarities of political rhetoric.