The 24 Rhythms of Hearth & Hinterland: The Way of Radical Hospitality

Jesus taught that the sure mark of spiritual advancement is not found in our pursuit of knowledge, wealth, or influence. The fruit of spiritual maturity is found in the way we bring justice, peace and welcome to the world around us that seem least deserving.

True spiritual growth isn’t measured in the number of prayers we utter or in the theologies we master. Instead, Jesus echoed the prophets when he taught that the heart of the Father does not beat to the rhythms of power but to the kindnesses extended to strangers, the bread broken for the hungry, and the space made for the weariest of travelers.

Following Christ is to align ourselves with the rhythms of the upside down mysteries of a relational God. It is a hearth-fire faith that warms the lost and gathers wayfarers under its glow.

The Way of Hearth & Hinterland sees the fruit of a spiritual life not in reputations of personal holiness, but in the reputations earned for the way we welcome the lost, lonely, and left out.

We find our worth not in pursuing our own ambitions but in the cultivation of potential we see in those our culture deems the least among us. To follow Christ by walking this way of Hearth & Hinterland is to be formed not for spectacle but for sustenance, not for dominance but for dwelling.

Throughout scripture, we find this holy hospitality woven into the fabric of God’s unique call to humanity.

The Torah instructs, “You shall also love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt” (Deuteronomy 10:19). The prophet Ezekiel admonishes that the sin of Sodom was, “This was the guilt of your sister Sodom: she and her daughters had pride, excess of food, and prosperous ease but did not aid the poor and needy (Ezekiel 16:49). Jesus expands this call, teaching us that whatever we do “for the least of these,” we do for Him (Matthew 25:40).

Hospitality is not an optional virtue.
Hospitality is the sacrificial form and evidence of God’s divine love in our life.

St. Benedict, whose rule shaped monastic hospitality throughout the West, commanded that every guest be received as Christ Himself. In the Celtic Christian tradition, the welcoming of the stranger was considered a sacred duty—for in the wandering pilgrim, it was believed that Christ Himself walked the roads.

In the Eastern Orthodox tradition, this way of living is called philoxenia—“the love of the stranger.” The Desert Fathers knew that in welcoming the unknown guest, they welcomed the very presence of God. Abba Macarius once said, “If we see our brother in need, and shut ourselves from him, how can the love of God dwell in us?”

Radical hospitality is an act of defiance against a world that measures worth by productivity, welcoming only those who are valuable to our own individual or collective ambition.
Radical hospitality is a refusal to participate in the economy of exclusion, choosing instead to build a table large enough for the forgotten, the exiled, and the forsaken.

To live a life of radical hospitality is to embody the Beatitudes in a deeply incarnational way.

It is to welcome the poor in spirit and recognize them as the rightful inheritors of the kingdom because they bear physically the spiritual reality that we have all inherited.

It is to open the doors of our homes, our churches, and our hearts to those who have been told they do not belong, perhaps even by others who call themselves our brothers and sisters in Christ.

But this practice is not without cost.

Radical hospitality demands we let go of our need for control, for reputation, and even at times our own security. It requires an openness to interruption, an acceptance (and even an expectation) that love will upend our schedules and our comfort.

Like the pilgrim who sets forth into the wilderness, we must loosen our grip on certainty and trust that grace will meet us in the unknown. It is in that acceptance and obedience we will realize our true inheritance as co-heirs with Christ.

In fact, there is a deep awareness within Celtic spirituality that hospitality is not merely a human obligation but a reflection of the way God welcomes us into his presence.

The early Celtic monks, known as peregrini (Latin for “pilgrim”, “wanderer”, or “resident foreigner”), would set out in small boats on the open sea, allowing the Spirit to carry them where it willed. Wherever they landed, they made a home—a place of refuge and prayer—where all were received equally.

This is the way of Christ.

Jesus Christ did not build fortresses but walked dusty roads.

He did not establish elite institutions but sat at taboo tables with sinners and outcasts.

His way was one of invitation, of breaking bread, and calling the despised and forgotten into belovedness.

And so, we are called to do the same—to create spaces where the lost are found, the lonely are embraced, and those cast aside are restored to the dignity they were born into as God’s image bearers.

The call of Christ is echoed in each additional place we set at our table.

It is whispered in the welcoming sounds of broken bread.

It is present in the warmth of our fires.

These are not mere spiritual gestures. These actions are the holy architecture of a Kingdom that is coming and is already here.

But how do we live this radical hospitality in our time and places?

We embody radical hospitality by cultivating a posture of availability.

Radical hospitality is not always about inviting others into our homes, though that is part of it. It is about creating a way of life that is open to the interruptions of grace wherever we are.

It is in the willingness to listen to those nobody wants to acknowledge.

It is in a willingness to make eye contact with those the world looks away from.

It is in a willingness to offer what we have even when it is inconvenient.

St. Aidan of Lindisfarne, a great bishop in the Celtic church, was known for his refusal to ride a horse. Instead, he chose to walk so that he might truly see and engage with those he passed along the way. His journeys were slow, deliberate, and filled with divine appointments.

But it was not convenient.
Radical hospitality is rarely convenient.

In a world obsessed with efficiency, we would do well to recover such a sacred slowness, recognizing that the best ministry often happens in the unplanned moments when we simply make ourselves present and available.

This is the heart of radical hospitality.

Hospitality is not about grand gestures but about faithfulness in small things. It is setting an extra place at the table, in remembering a name, in the willingness to sit with someone in their sorrow without rushing to fix them.

It is sharing our resources with an open hand, knowing that what we have is not ours alone but given by God for the good of all. It is the warmth of a candle in a window, the steadying offer of bread and soup, the welcome that expects nothing in return—these are the quiet revolutions that build the upside down Kingdom of a God that still desires to walk with us in the cool of the evening.

This is the way of hearth & hinterland—not a spirituality of self-advancement, but of rootedness, of cultivating goodness in the places where we have been planted. It is a call to live not for ourselves but for others, to measure our success not by personal achievement but by the depth of our active love for the least.

The hinterland may stretch wide, full of mystery and uncertainty, but the hearth remains a steady beacon, a place where all are invited to come and find belonging.

And in this, we find the paradox of the gospel: in giving, we receive; in welcoming the stranger, we encounter Christ; in making room for others, we find ourselves truly at home.