There was a time where my dad thought there was nothing more frivolous than throw pillows. He would look at a throw pillow with a bit of disdain as he tossed it off of the couch, clearing space so he could watch tv unimpeded. It had no use and presented itself more as an impediment. A methodical computer engineer, my dad alphabetizes and categorizes his personal study into a library catalog, enjoys planning a vacation just as much as going on it, and values efficiency and good sense. My mom, as soon as my dad would remove a throw pillow, would place it back in its proper loveseat nook, adding a few additional pillows to the couch for good measure. A lover of beautiful things and any fun occasion, my mom lights candles for dinner meals, always has something baking in the morning to greet her house guests, and is always chomping at the bit to break out Christmas decorations before November 1st.
Being raised by these two opposing views put me into a conundrum, a tug-of-war between pragmatism and the domestic arts. Whether it be throw pillows, baking bread, or cultivating a vegetable garden, it is often hard for me to consider the value of such things amongst the demand of a cost/benefit analysis spreadsheet. When you think of it, there is no dire necessity for decorative pillows. It is an extravagance to hand-make bread or grow vegetables in a garden when it is more cost efficient and time savvy to buy your groceries from a store. When you can access necessities so easily, what is the worth of these things? Is there a place and value for the domestic niceties in a world where it pays to be pragmatic? There are arguments to the practicality of these things, but in constantly considering the practical to be the highest good, we neglect the necessary communication these bits of domestic art can bring.
The domestic arts leave an imprint of living, inviting us into a space where we can be in community. The existence of a curated garden, a decorated room, or a homemade treat testify to the lives that live in that space. Humans cannot help themselves but to create and curate, leaving evidence of themselves, and in the best of these instances, making spaces more habitable and hospitable than when they found them. It is a way we live into the creation mandate, tending to the garden we have been given with consideration. I look at the abandoned field of thistles in my backyard and consider how long the place has been neglected, the wildness choking out anything but the small footpath made by passersby. You are poked and scratched with every step you take, the spiny weeds pushing any animals, humans, or plants out of reach. There is no easy welcome in a thistle patch. Like the abandoned field, a neglected space lacks hospitality. Humans tend to their spaces, hopefully making it a welcome and livable atmosphere with the colors, textures, smells, and sounds at their disposal. The addition of a new texture and pattern, the warm smell of baking in the oven, and the rustle of trees leave a subtle impression of life-lived and invite others into that space.
Domestic arts also exhibit a beauty that draws us into community. In Exodus 35 and 36, craftsmen imbued by the Holy Spirit set to work on the construction of the Tabernacle, using beautiful colors, metals, dyes, and other dazzling materials in their work. The Tabernacle, a structure where Israel could meet with God, invited Israel in through a presentation of beauty. Colors, textures, and even smells were part of an act of invitation and hospitality, welcoming God’s people into communion and relationship with him. One of beauty’s chief characteristics is that it has the power to draw us in. It pulls at us, invites us to come closer, and, when used rightly, brings us towards good communion. We live in the days of under-curation where the concern for the easy and efficient outweighs the necessity a beautifully hand-crafted touch has in creating a home and hospitable space. With every evidence of color and sensation, we not only feel like we are not alone, but that in the beauty of a hospitable space, we are cared for and invited in.
Hospitality is a necessary way in which we illustrate the Gospel, inviting people in as we have been invited into communion with God. There is something of hospitality in domestic niceties, something felt and experienced, a junction of care, life, and beauty. So I eventually bought myself a throw pillow—just one. It is small and kind of silly, but it serves as an invitation and reminder to those who pass through my door. It says they are cared for, they are welcome in, there is a space just for them, they are not neglected, they can meet with me, and I’ve been waiting for them, just as God does.