Hospitality when everything feels scarce

What is the smell of God’s mercy? For me, it’s the scent of holy basil (Ocimum tenuiflorum), sometimes known by its Hindi name, Tulsi. In 2021 tulsi was the first fragrance I could smell after a bout with COVID, and its clove-like perfume always reminds me of that first deep breath: relief, delight, and gratitude.

Holy basil grows abundantly in heat and humidity and self-sows generously, so for the last two years I haven’t had to purchase a single seed. This week hundreds of tulsi volunteers emerged from the beds in which I’d already planted other summer crops. Yesterday I uprooted at least a hundred the seedlings, relocating some elsewhere in our garden, and then posting in my local “Buy Nothing” group that I had plenty to share.

From this post, at least four new neighbors have come to my house for holy basil seedlings. Last night I walked to a neighbor’s house with a yogurt pot full of them, and I have four more plants potted up for friends at church.

I feel so rich when I give these little plants away: knowing how good they smell, how well they grow, how they make a delicious tea and a spirit-calming tincture. I’m so glad to share them, eager to introduce others to this incredible gift from God. I imagine this is how the servants of Lady Wisdom feel in Proverbs 9, when they into the streets, calling strangers in to dine at their lady’s table.

When we give our time, attention, space, or resources to others, it’s normal to feel like we’re giving from our “just enough” — or perhaps even that we’re giving sacrificially, offering more hospitality than we really feel able to give. So much beauty can come from our willingness to give through pain, or to make space for others when our own lives feel cramped.

It’s easy to let scarcity dominate our perceptions of our own power and resources: from groceries to housing, everything feels expensive, and so in turn we spend the majority of our time and attention either working to pay for or manage life’s necessities. Such is the human condition, tilling the ground with pain (Genesis 3:19).

And yet, the Gospel welcomes us into God’s economy, a community which operates on foundations of abundance and gift, rather than scarcity or competition. Our Creator owns the cattle on a thousand hills (Psalm 50:10), and has the power to summon something out of nothing. He could have fed the hungry crowds (cf Matthew 14, Mark 6) by snapping his fingers and summoning food for nothing, but he waited for our participation. He waited for a little boy who, feeling the abundance of a loving mother who packed him a lunch, offered his riches to Jesus.

The disciples scoffed at a little boy’s lunch of bread and fish— “what are they for so many?” (John 6:9)—and we can hardly blame them. We don’t get to experience God’s abundance fully in this life, but the Kingdom of God is nevertheless “at hand,” perhaps more than we realize.

Sometimes Jesus reveals this abundance to us in an outright miracle, but more often it is our work to notice what God has already given us. In very practical terms, a foundational practice of hospitality is putting ourselves in the way of abundance, cultivating plants, relationships, and activities that multiply with ease and joy.

Plant the holy basil once, and let it bless you year after year. Have the neighbors over for lemonade on the porch swing, and build a network that will be ready to help in the day of trouble. Bake the bread daily—it really doesn’t take that long—and you’ll always have a loaf ready for the visitor at church.

Following the way of Jesus demands much from us, and we must be prepared to sacrifice, even to suffer, for the sake of others. This is true in committing to hospitality as much as any other duty of the Christian. But let us not forget that Jesus could endure the cross “for the joy that was set before him” (Hebrews 12:2), and that joy waits for us, too. It waits for the glorious completion of Christ’s return, and in the meantime, it waits for us in so many small miracles of God’s handiwork: like tulsi in the garden, fragrant with mercy.