This article first appeared in Our Sunday Visitor magazine. Subscribe to receive the monthly magazine here.
In the last few years, I have suffered some deep relational wounds. I know I am not the only one. And because so much of my life is lived within the community of the Church, many of these wounds — most of them even — have been within the very community whose aim is to bring us closer to Christ.
Many people, mostly those outside the Church, have encouraged me to leave, to find community elsewhere, to find people who will appreciate me. But how can I? Just as St. Peter replied when Christ asked if his disciples would leave him, I cry out, “Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life” (Jn 6:68).
These wounds have brought me closer to Christ, and I know that without the Church, I am lost. And we are the Church. There is a saying, attributed to St. Teresa of Avila, that goes: “Christ has no body but your body; no hands, no feet on earth but yours.” We are broken and bruised, catty and uncharitable at our worst, but sound and sacred, gracious and generous and a glimpse of glory at our best.
I am not going anywhere.
I want to reflect Christ’s glorious body more clearly. Instead of dwelling on problems, I want to shine light on goodness, beauty and truth. I want to be part of a Church where a spirit of generosity flows effortlessly as an act of worship to our Savior. I speak of a life lived in the Spirit. Yet how can we cultivate a culture within the Church that reflects this goodness? How can the Church tell the story of how we can live?
Look to the arts
The Church has a history of looking to artists to give us a window into the transcendent, an ideal of how to live this life before the gaze of Christ, abundantly. In Van Gogh’s paintings, the world is alive with color and pulsates with God’s presence. In Bach’s concertos, earth soars to meet heaven, and the two become united for a brief moment. And in Shakespeare’s words, we get a glimpse into what it means to be truly human. Through the beauty of art, music and literature, we see the life we were meant to live.

But what about the rest of us? Those who work in technology at the post office, as psychologists, or in the health care industry. Although I would consider myself a creative person, my husband, who is an attorney, may not consider himself one. And yet, of course, we both are commissioned to cultivate the culture of our Church.
In “How to Think Like a Poet” (Wiseblood Books, $6), Ryan Wilson presents a lens through which those in the Church who do not consider themselves creatives may view life. Wilson, whose poems often explore our fear of the unknown, proposes that we consider the Greek concept of xenia, hospitality. He reminds us that in the ancient world, hospitality “was of the utmost importance.” This is why, when three strangers, who were actually angels, appeared to Abraham, he stopped all his work to serve them (cf. Gn 18:1-8).
Wilson shows how, through hospitality, we discover the truth about the world and those living in it. In “The Odyssey,” Odysseus returns to Ithaca disguised as a peasant. He wants to test the hospitality of the people of Ithaca before he reveals himself. In Shakespeare’s “Measure for Measure,” the duke of Vienna disguises himself as a poor friar to test the hospitality of his deputy, Angelo.
These human stories reflect the ultimate story of salvation history: that God himself took the form of a helpless baby, not a prince but a poor child. In the Incarnation, God met us in a space of hospitality. He invited us into relationship with him. And God calls us to meet him there still.
Wilson points out that, as much as society and even the Church talk about diversity, “we’re scandalized by difference.” We attempt to bend others to our will. We often seek to control others, which reflects our sin of pride. This is why it is important for the very “health of the human soul” to demonstrate xenia “to all that is unfamiliar, or strange.” It is not good for our souls to attempt to enslave others or transform them into duplicates of ourselves. We should be curious about and delight in others, fostering the good, true and beautiful within them.
This is where I need to take a good, hard look at myself. Are many of my own wounds caused by pride? Are they there because I wanted to bend others to my own will? Did I not want to bend my own knee to the will of God? In many cases, yes.

Wilson applies this openness to creating art, but “the implications of this xenia are far-reaching.” We can invite the stranger into our life of freedom. We can invite others to participate in the abundance of Christ. We can challenge ourselves to see the image of God — which we boast of within ourselves — reflected in others.
Our notion of creativity should be more expansive. The creative life isn’t just for artists, writers and musicians; it is a way to see the world. Hospitality isn’t simply inviting people into our homes to feed them and give them rest, although it can be. It is a way of viewing people, conversations and the spaces we inhabit, giving dignity to each interaction. When we practice creativity with this intentionality, it becomes a virtue, a behavior that molds our hearts to be more like Christ, to be holy.
Create community
When I look around the pews on Sunday, I see many who share this lens of hospitality. My parish is in an urban downtown setting. Many homeless people and those struggling with mental health issues walk into our services — some in the middle of a crisis. There are several of our parishioners — a man named Joseph is one — who have given themselves to the ministry of presence: to be available and walk through the episode with the individual. For Joseph, most of this work is simply being present. He welcomes the guest and sits with him or her. When the crisis has passed or, sometimes, in the midst of it, Joseph will guide our neighbor toward the help he or she needs. We call this ministry Emmaus Companion, just as Jesus walked with the men on the road to Emmaus.
Another way I see hospitality thriving is at our parish coffee hour. Last year, it changed tremendously when a new parishioner took charge. Before, we lined up at a window to pick up a Costco muffin and cup of coffee and then found our places at long rectangular tables. I didn’t see much wrong with this, until Caroline reimagined it.
Caroline made the revolutionary choice of using round tables for coffee hour. These tables are already set with a tablecloth, coffee, cups and plates of fresh fruit, muffins and hard-boiled eggs. She has created a calendar where different parishioners make baked goods or she works with local bakeries to provide pastries. My favorite Sunday is when a Vietnamese couple wraps fresh shrimp salad rolls for the entire church. Parishioners sign up to decorate the tables with flowers from their garden or holiday decorations. One blind man who listens to Mass from his care facility each week sends colorful origami animals he folds with care for us.
Of course, Caroline accomplished all of this on a shoestring budget. I am uncertain how she does it, but she does, and it is nothing short of a miracle. We once lined up for food at a window like a relief or prison line, but now we sit down at a meal together in conversation. We can hear one another at a round table, and we linger longer in the homeyness of the environment.
I do not think it is a stretch to say that Caroline’s innovation, her heart for hospitality and all those who have come alongside her, have changed our church community for the better. Creativity often looks different than what we are accustomed to. Often, creativity comes in the form of problem-solving. And yet, Caroline’s creativity is more than problem-solving; she reestablished our church as our home — a place to eat, talk and meet Christ in the face of our fellow parishioner or in the face of a stranger.
It reminds me of a scene I walked in on at St. John the Evangelist Church in Bath, England. I had just stepped off the train at the station, just a few blocks away, after a long day of traveling. I arrived too early for my sleeping accommodation. It was winter and the snow was threatening, so I slipped into the church to warm myself, and I came across the coziest scene of a community at adoration. Possibly four generations of parishioners were packed into the pews on the side of the church praying the Rosary together. Old women with walkers sat on benches while small children knelt in front of them. Parents held a baby in one hand while fingering a rosary in the other. Their voices soared in sweet unison. And when the bell chimed the hour, every single person picked up a broom, mop or dust rag and began to clean. It was the most cheerful of cleanings as children smiled and grandfathers hummed as they made the space shine.

C.S. Lewis wrote, “The work of a Beethoven, and the work of a charwoman, become spiritual on precisely the same condition, that of being offered to God, of being done humbly ‘as to the Lord.'” I felt that acutely in the church that day as the merry scene unfolded around me.
A woman introduced herself to me, and I realized with my weathered clothes, large travel pack and knotted hair, I was quite a sight. And yet I was welcomed. She inquired about my accent and where I was from. Curious, others joined her until I knew I would return the following day for Mass.
Innovate at home
There is creativity in making space for others. No doubt, you can recall homes that reflect this goodness. Homes that create space for peace, for celebration; space for people to feel loved and known when they took refuge there. These homes do not need to be large or fancy to become this refuge, but you know it when you step into the house: You are safe. I’ve struggled to articulate how many families accomplish this sense of refuge and peace in what I can only describe as a theology of home.
Because we are created in the image of God, we hold an innate desire to create. Many of us collaborate with God and our spouses to create children, the ultimate palette with which to be creative. If we reimagine creative work in this way, we are all creative, as we create the kingdom with God.
As we form our families, we are the ones to decide what values to highlight. How will we teach these children integrity, compassion, courage and self-control? Within the sacred space of our home, we show our children and those who visit that we can be different, we can listen and be present as we discover the truth together. The values we instill in them will affect the culture of our home and those families and organizations our lives touch.

Once, I was visiting Lucy, the mother of a childhood friend, with my two sons. It was getting dark, and the drive home was long. I began to excuse myself when Lucy insisted that we stay for dinner. She didn’t want my boys to get cranky on the way home and mentioned I could just put them to sleep when I returned home. Lucy said it was no big deal; we’d all cook and clean together. She warmed up soup she had in the freezer and had my boys grate cheese for grilled cheese. She told me to use every vegetable in the crisper to make a huge salad. Lucy modeled for me that a meal doesn’t have to be fancy to be special. This dinner was over four years ago, and my sons still say they want their grilled cheese “Lucy Style” (a bit of mayo on the outside of the bread to slow down the grilling and allow the cheese to melt well). I felt cared for, supported and loved in a tangible way that night.
It reminds me of St. Peter’s words “Be hospitable to one another without complaining. Like good stewards of the manifold grace of God, serve one another with whatever gift each of you has received” (1 Pt 4:9-10). Have we forgotten how to be hospitable? Or do we think it must look like Martha Stewart or Joanna Gaines? God has given us all we need. We simply need to be creative with what he has given us. Our hospitality, in whatever form we offer, is a gift that we give to others, and as we give, we create the culture we want to live in.
Wonder at work
Again, it is a poet who gives us a lens through which to view the world.
Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote,
… for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.
We are Christ’s hands and feet, and often we experience his love and grace through the presence of another. For Hopkins, it is not work; it is play, the creative ways in which we live out the grace of faith, where Christ reveals himself. We should not separate our sacred life from our secular life. It is all sacred. Yes, even what we call work.
I know of a man who works high up in the federal government who views his job — with his particular skill set and education — as a vocation to serve God and his country. He believes God has been training and molding him to be in this position at this time. And there is a hairstylist whose talent for making her clients feel confident and beautiful is matched by how she holds space for the worries and fears they share with her during a haircut. Her work is holy.
St. Paul says, “Whatever your task, put yourselves into it, as done for the Lord and not for your masters” (Col 3:23). When we offer work as an offering, it changes the value of the work greatly. Each task, no matter how small or gritty or unpleasant, holds gravitas.
So much of this is about surrender. When we put our own pride and ego aside and are willing to take chances, surrendering to God’s plan for us and for our work, work becomes worship.
And even more so, it is learning to see. As St. Paul prayed for the Church at Ephesus, “so that, with the eyes of your heart enlightened, you may know what is the hope to which he has called you” (Eph 1:18). Living a life abundant with goodness, beauty and truth is the result of living in the Spirit; of letting God open the eyes of our heart to see. Within the Church, this should be more acute, as we build a culture, as we make the world what we want to see. The hope we have is a peek into heaven.

St. Paul goes on to write, “For we are his handiwork, created in Christ Jesus for the good works that God has prepared in advance, that we should live in them” (Eph 2:10, NABRE). Ryan Wilson points out that the word used for handiwork, poiema, is the same Greek word from which we get the word “poem.” Wilson translates, “we are God’s poem.”
Wilson explains that through this lens there is “an eye toward learning how you may allow others entrance into your private vision, how you may use language with xenia, not merely to communicate but to create community, shared understanding, shared thought.” These human interactions, the body of Christ, his Church, are what ground us back in his presence. This is incarnational work. This is the touch of Christ.
As I look back out at those pews on Sunday, I see that perhaps I was the one who forgot how to see. Perhaps I was the one who forgot to show hospitality. I pray that God would enlighten my heart, that I might see my brothers and sisters as he sees them: his handiwork, his poem.