The Complicated Art of Hello

I didn’t like it when that woman at the cafe didn’t bother to say hi before she took the check, and my credit card.

And that guy who started running–fast–on the treadmill next to the one where I was walking? I’d rather he hadn’t said hello. It was my first visit in an unaccustomed place, and I preferred to imagine my slow self unnoticed among the fit, experienced people around me. That man’s greeting created a bridge between us that made it harder–for me at least–to ignore his presence, just a few feet away.

Last week I waited outside someone’s office, waiting for the hello that would tell me it was OK to enter. It was her place, not mine, to issue that invitation. She was the one in charge of our interaction, and we both knew it.

You probably have your own hello stories, even from the last few days. Maybe you wondered whether to say it, in that hallway, or elevator, or sidewalk. Maybe you were surprised, or annoyed, when someone said it to you, or didn’t. Hello. Or hi. Or hey. We greet each other in many different ways. Yo. Good afternoon.

Between good friends, our hi (or lack thereof) is natural and uncomplicated. We don’t keep a tally on who says it first, or how quickly. It just happens. But beyond close friendships, there’s a kind of etiquette to our hello, and who’s responsible to say it first. There’s an overlay of power and privilege in all this. And if we’re going to be #FoolishChurch folk, it’s worth thinking about how those dynamics play out in church.

When you think very long about hello, you realize:

• The person who’s serving you has a responsibility to say it–except where custom makes them invisible (like, say, the hotel cleaning crew).
• The person who’s got more power than you gets to decide whether and how soon to say it.
• As the number of people around you grows, the need for a hello feels diminished.
• The longer we’re going to be in proximity with another human being, the more necessary some kind of hello seems.

When I look at that list and think about the church, I think every one of those statements says something important about the responsibility we have to say hello to those who show up in our midst. Hello has an inherent power dynamic, and if we are the regulars, the leaders, the ones who set the tone in that church, we’re the ones who have that power. This new person may be waiting (maybe unconsciously!) for a signal from us that they’re seen, that it’s OK to speak, and all the rest.

We’re also the servant in this moment. Our job includes greeting people. Ones we know and ones we don’t.

I do think that in a church with a lot of people, the rules relax a bit. We don’t have to say good morning to absolutely everyone. But for the people who sit nearby, there’s a certain awkwardness if no greeting has happened.

When I have this conversation, some folks will say they worry their hello in church feels intrusive. “Some people don’t want anyone to talk with them,” they might say. And they’ll describe that person’s posture, their deep attention to the church bulletin, or their phone, and the way they’ve turned away from where others might pass by. And there’s a certain truth there. We’ve all had those moments, where we work hard to signal, “Don’t talk to me.”

I’ve had this experience repeatedly at the prison, where it would be easy to think practically every person I pass is saying, “Leave me alone.” I’ll notice faces turned away, eyes refusing to make eye contact. Heads are obscured by stocking caps pulled far down and, increasingly, earbuds complicate the possibility of any interaction.

But here’s the thing. I’ve made it a practice practically from the start of my time, walking across the yard in the prison, to say hello to pretty much every person or clump of people that I pass. It’s not always easy to do it. I’m an introvert; part of me would rather just pull my own stocking cap down and walk up the hill in silence. But I do it anyway, with a sometimes faltering smile, and with a name when I’m sure enough of it to use one.

And most of the time, can you guess what happens? Most of the time (maybe 90% of the time!), this person who looked unapproachable and distant will soften, and she’ll say, “Hello,” with way more enthusiasm than I thought possible. Usually that’s the end of it, and she and I both go on our way, a little more connected than we were a moment earlier. Does it make a difference? I can’t prove it. But I feel it. And it seemed like she did, too, for at least a moment.

I have a theory about this. When we look like we’re saying, “Leave me alone,” maybe it’s because we figure no one is going to want to interact with us–either because we’re not worthy, or not important enough, or there’s something wrong with us–and we don’t want to feel the pain of that, so it’s simply easier to act like we don’t want that contact in the first place. Maybe we’re certain we won’t be welcomed, and our body language almost dares someone to prove us wrong. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, but we leave with our negative expectations vindicated.

Or maybe it’s me. Maybe when I sense that someone doesn’t want to interact with me, I’m just seeing signals that confirm my own desires. Maybe I don’t feel all that comfortable interacting with that person. And if I can find signs that make it their preference, rather than mine, it lets me off the hook.

#FoolishChurch says we put a premium on relationship, even where it feels like a stretch to initiate it. We take the responsibility as servant leaders and as people with privilege to make sure we’re the ones saying hello. Good morning. Hey, I’m glad you’re here. I so hope we are.