One of Capita’s stated values is our commitment to “deep hospitality.” This matters to us not simply in terms of our own work—how we welcome guests to our events, for example—but in the kind of society we seek to shape: one that welcomes children and families, immigrants, the historically marginalized, and the poor, both in spirit and in material means. In my own tradition, we would describe such a society as one that exhibits the “preferential option for the poor”, a society that doesn’t merely “tolerate” those who live on the periphery but actively welcomes them, makes room for them, and, in fact, places them at the seat of honor around our tables, literal and metaphorical. 

When I think of “deep hospitality,” three “snapshots” immediately come to mind, scenes that have impressed themselves upon me, shaped my commitment to hospitality, and continue to guide my work at Capita. 

First snapshot: The monastery and the Abbot 

In my late teens and early twenties, I became captivated by Thomas Merton (1915 – 1968), the American Trappist monk and prolific spiritual writer. This fascination sparked a profound interest in the traditions of Western monasticism. At 18, I went on my first weekend retreat at Mepkin Abbey, a Trappist monastery in South Carolina, where I met the Abbot, Francis Kline.

Abbot Francis was a remarkable man who passed away far too young in 2006 at 57. Trained at the Juilliard School in New York, he had recorded the complete organ works of J.S. Bach. He was poised for a successful musical career when he chose monastic life at the Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky, the same community to which Merton had belonged. After studies in Rome and service as Master of Novices (Merton’s former job) at Gethsemani, he was elected Abbot of Mepkin in 1990.

Abbot Francis was the kind of person I aspired to be. His life radiated a blend of deep spirituality and rich culture, and at the heart of his personality was a profound commitment to hospitality. This ethos infused the entire monastery. All of the monks I met lived out the Benedictine principle that every guest should be welcomed as Christ himself.

But Abbot Francis brought something unique to this practice. He cultivated a life in the monastery that was at once humbly set apart from the world and a haven of culture. His hospitality bore witness to transcendent values in a society fixated on glitz and glamour. He taught me that hospitality isn’t about luxury but about authenticity and realism. One can feel more warmly welcomed in the simplicity of a monastery than in the most luxurious hotel.

Through his example, I learned that it is possible—indeed, necessary—to embrace both silence and Bach, a Renaissance painting and the humble work of cleaning a chicken coop, a delicious and glorious Italian feast and the simplicity of a monastic diet designed to tread lightly on the earth. Monastic hospitality, as he lived it, affirmed goodness, beauty, and truth. Though austere, monastic life doesn’t reject what is good; instead, it offers an invitation to go deeper, to see beyond surfaces and into the heart of things.

This experience has profoundly shaped how I think about hospitality at Capita. Hospitality is not simply about hosting but about creating a space where people can go deeper— together.

At Capita, we strive to create “temporary communities,” places where individuals can freely explore values and imagine how to build a society rooted in flourishing and well-being. It’s not just about gathering; it’s about modeling what such a society might look like, even briefly.

As a young and impressionable university student, Abbot Francis showed me that the monastery is more than a place of solitude and prayer—it is a “school,” a sacred space where brothers and sisters can encounter one another and, as Joseph Ratzinger put it, “awaken the memories of goodness and thus open the doors to hope.” Abbot Francis showed me that such memories are not confined to monasteries; they can be cultivated in society.

Indeed, we can aspire to build a society where the memories of goodness become a potent and transformative force in politics, economics, and culture. Abbot Francis’s life and witness remain a persuasive reminder that such a vision is not only possible but essential.

Second snapshot: Christmas Lunch with the Poor 

For the poor, the elderly, those without close family, or those sleeping on the streets, Christmas Day can be a time of profound loneliness, a sharp reminder of exclusion and isolation in a culture consumed by materialism and consumerism. In 1982, the Community of Sant’Egidio sought to address this by inviting 20 of Rome’s poorest residents to a Christmas lunch in the Basilica of Santa Maria in Trastevere. What began as a modest gathering in Rome has since grown into a global tradition. By 2018, this initiative brought together approximately 240,000 people for Christmas lunch across more than 600 cities in 78 countries.

Each year, hundreds of volunteers step away from their own Christmas celebrations to share the holiday with those who are poor, elderly, disenfranchised, or alone. The goal is not merely to provide food, but to extend the spirit of Christmas to “the darkest and coldest corners as well as to the most dispersed and forgotten places.” These gatherings are a gesture of solidarity, creating a shared celebration that bridges divides. In fact, the location of the lunch in one of Rome’s ancient and most glorious churches, rather than a dingy soup kitchen, emphasizes the point that all of us, regardless of material wealth, need beauty to flourish. 

Though rooted in the Christian tradition of the Community of Sant’Egidio, the Christmas Lunch embodies a universal “prophecy” of a more just and inclusive society. It goes beyond charity or philanthropy. Volunteers do not simply serve meals and then return to their families for their “real” Christmas; they sit and eat together, the table is shared, creating a space where everyone is equal. In doing so, they demonstrate a vision of the common good—a world where ‘rich’ and ‘poor’ come together and are reconciled in one community. This simple yet profound act offers a glimpse of the society we could build: one defined by fraternity, dignity, and shared humanity.

Third snapshot: My mother

My mother, who died in 2017, was a paragon of hospitality and care.  This was evident not only in our family life but also for those around us, as evidenced by the hundreds of people who joined us for her funeral and the many stories we heard after her death of charitable contributions, personal concern, and care. My mom never failed to send a birthday card to her nieces and nephews, to acknowledge the death in the family of a close friend, to give a thoughtful gift, or to buy dinner for me and my brother’s visiting friends. 

But when I reflect on hospitality, it is her dying that is most notable. On December 14, Mom was told that her prognosis was poor. She died exactly two months later. In that time, she was visited by many people and on each visit her concern was always for the other person. She asked about their families and, of course, memories were shared. What there was not was self-pity. 

Remarkably, in her last two weeks of life, while in significant pain from metastasized cancer in her bones, Mom hosted a meeting in her nursing home room with a longtime friend, who was an interior designer, to plan our rehearsal dinner, which, of course, was growing very unlikely she would attend. But her attention to the details of hosting a party while dying taught me that gathering—and gathering well and intentionally—isn’t trivial, but one of the most important things humans do. In that way, she welcomed our family and friends for the celebration of our marriage even in her absence. 

Among my Mom’s books, one I inherited is called Radical Hospitality. It makes the point that hospitality is about making room, “room in your heart, room in your life, room in the moment for one person, with no strings attached.” We will, inevitably, do this well at times and poorly at others. But at Capita, our goal is to make room for strangers and friends, for those we enjoy and those whose company we find a struggle.

Deep hospitality, or making room, isn’t so much about what we do as about who we are and, most importantly, who we want to become.

Joe Waters is Capita’s Co-Founder & CEO