Slow Havamal: 133

[kylec]

Verse 133 tells us that we who reside in the house will rarely know much about the stranger who knocks, but no man is so good as to be flawless, and no man so bad as to be worthless.

There isn’t much left of the culture of receiving strangers. We don’t have a hospitality code that gives us clear guidelines—or rather, our codes of hospitality pertain to other situations more commonly faced. Up until very recently in history, though, it would not have been unusual for a traveler to seek a pallet in the barn, a meal, or directions to a hospitable place.

Given that the person is a stranger, we can hardly know much about them in advance, and usually nothing more than confronts us. Our tendency to make quick judgments of others based on their appearance, clothing, mannerisms, etc. is not a shallow act of laziness. It’s an age-old instinct that helps us to survive. We need to determine in as little time as possible, and to a reasonable degree of accuracy, when something might pose a danger to us. A stranger at the door makes this skill especially pertinent. Often it’s better to send away a harmless soul than to invite in a criminal, and so these determinations tend to err on the side of dismissal.

Instead, we’re cautioned to look for the complexities in the situation that an off-the-cuff assessment might not allow for. No man is so wonderful that we should not expect some aspect of his living to hit a sour note. He may be perfectly harmless, but an irritating guest in other regards. Conversely, even the worst of men have some spark of humanity in them, something decent. That doesn’t mean we should invite them in. It’s incumbent upon the host to determine what each visitor might be good for, how they may pose dangers, and offer a hospitality that keeps the family safe while affording what help and dignity we can. Maybe the best thing is a referral to some other shelter, or a person with more skills than us. But maybe the man can perform some task within his capacity in exchange for a meal. If there’s truly nothing worth risking, at least we might offer some word of advice as to where he could find a place to lie down out of the rain and wind.

When the literal sense of some verse of Havamal no longer applies very easily to our culture, it’s never much of a stretch to find something analogous. I would truly be wary of a stranger at the door asking for a place to sleep these days. There’s almost zero chance I would offer him a bed, even one outside the house. But what if we simply extend the metaphor to any person in need who happens upon us? We shouldn’t be so starry-eyed as to assume their angelic nature, nor should we write them off without good reason. There is light and darkness in each of us, and we’re the tides between the two. Let’s set aside our hasty judgments, at least when our necks aren’t immediately on the line, find the flaw that spoils our illusions, as well as the goodness that grants each person his or her worth.