The Power of Hospitality in our Homes

In the Gospels, we find that Jesus is frequently expressing His invitation to know Him over a meal or gathering in someone’s home. (Luke 4:38, 5:17, 5:29, 7:36, 19:1) Often, we find Him giving His most important lessons in the house of a friend seated among those eager to hear His words and parables. Hospitality was Jesus’s most preferred ministry and it's still a call to believers today. 

When was the last time you invited someone over? 

Sadly, in a post-covid world, people visit one another less often. Yet, opening our doors for meals, coffee, dessert, a chat on the back porch, or just to hang out can be transformative to someone who doesn’t know the Gospel. Witnessing our ordinary moments lived as Christians has far more of an impact than we realize. Secular life, in contrast, looks and feels vastly different even in mundane homelife activities. 

Extend the invitation again. And again…

When we allow others to join us in our homes to build friendships and offer hospitality, we're communicating something more than just a chance to hang out. We're offering a place for a deeper connection. Inviting someone into the privacy of your personal space tells others I’m willing to be vulnerable with you. 

When nonbelievers begin to trust, feel valued, and recognize there’s something different about believers, this is the perfect opportunity to field their questions about the Gospel. Invite them to church or have them over for family Bible study. Opening the door to your non-believing friends during ordinary moments allows the Holy Spirit an opportunity to reach them. Matthew 5:14-16

Remember, people are not projects and relationships take time. Not everyone will accept the invitation to church, but almost everyone will accept your offer to pray with them. We aren’t responsible for their conversion–that’s the job of the Holy Spirit– but we are responsible for the follow-up. Call, text, reach out to your friends frequently. Listen to those quiet nudges from the Holy Spirit. Matthew 9:37

Relationships take time and attention. 

My husband and I chose our home with the intention of practicing Godly hospitality to believers and unbelievers alike. When we first toured our home a little over a year ago, the open living/dining floor plan and easy access to the back patio seemed like the perfect fit to host Bible Studies, Community Group, mentoring youth, couples over for dinner, and a wide range of visitors to come and sit, have their favorite cup, and share about what the Lord is doing in their life.

While the Lord’s ministry is a beloved one, the reality is that deep cleaning my home once a week is exhausting, planning and buying meals is expensive, tiptoeing around dietary limitations and preferences is taxing, hosting people over weekly is time-consuming, and of course, more than a few cancellation texts always seem to arrive at the last minute. It’s enough to dread the process and question the call. 

Your Obedience Doesn’t Rest on the Reactions of Others.

Yet, those of us committed to the ministry of home hospitality should be reminded that we are called to be faithful to Jesus, not our efforts. Last summer, I hosted a women’s Bible study in my home and in the last weeks, I received more last-minute cancellations than those in attendance. It was disappointing, especially after cleaning my home all day and preparing a meal. I felt guilty for having my daughter help me all day just to host a few people. 

Yet, the Lord asked me to remain faithful to what He called me to do. The dedication of the women to show up and participate was not my concern, that’s His concern. In practicing the ministry of hospitality, Jesus asks us to provide a space so He can work. And He did! 

The ones who showed up to the study in those last weeks, actually received the far better reward -just as Jesus told Martha so long ago– we all truly sat at the feet of Jesus in the most profound and spiritually moving time together. We witnessed a woman who’d been out of church for 30 years rededicate her life to Christ! Luke 10:38-41

While Jesus walked this earth, He chose the ministry of hospitality most often. 

When I consider that He is asking Me to join Him in this ministry now in my own home, my heart swells with gratitude and purpose. What an honor it is to host Him! To consider His invitation is the very presence of Jesus in my own home ministering to the lost and saints alike is a privilege unlike any other I will experience in ministry! Galatians 6:9

Your Home is a Hospital to the Hurting

Reframe your thinking: your living room is a conversion space, a place to equip saints, and a harbor for hurting brothers and sisters. Start small. Coffee and tea are easy. Back porch conversations are light. Put away the fine china and polished silver. This is about building friendships, not picture perfect homes.

Jesus asks us to provide a space, not a showroom. Yes, it's a lot of work, just ask Martha in Luke 10:38, but that’s not the important part here. The space we provide is to sit at Jesus’ feet. If the idea of tidying up and cooking a meal for near strangers sounds overwhelming, take this concern to Him in prayer. Our maturity in Christ rests upon our response to His call in ministry.  Not all of us can travel as missionaries to far away lands, but we can have a new friend over for a visit.

I’m reminded of the most meaningful hospitality gesture of my life. In 1981, at just 6 years old, I moved into a sprawling trailer park in Denton,Texas. By God’s magnanimous providence I found myself housed between two Baptist pastors. Their hospitality would result in my conversion to Christ. 

I was just a hungry, fatherless, wayward kid, but God saw me as His child and reached for me. Coming from an atheist home plagued with addiction and abuse, my conversion to Christ was literally the event that saved my life.

This invitation not only changed everything about who I was, but who I was to become. This simple act of hospitality set my life on a course to destroy generational curses, raise my own children in the church, marry a Godly man, and step into ministry. Our commitment to Godly hospitality cannot be understated. It is the place where the Gospel saves the lost. 

Read this excerpt from my (unpublished) memoir, The Prison Bird Curse, that details the day of my own conversion through hospitality.

(Names have been changed.)

The invitation from the Millers comes just the next morning. The sun shines early with a July heat, and I see the Millers in full Sunday dress settle into their car. Mrs. Miller in her leather pumps, polyester dress, her hair a translucent bottle-blonde orb framed around a pretty face and thick glasses. Mr. Miller is long and lean, in a mahogany business suit with a wide tie, folding himself into the car like a beach umbrella.

I wave to them from my front porch and Mrs. Miller beckons me to her car window. 

Chelsea, would you like to go to church with us?

I rush back in the trailer house to Mama’s bedside, bursting with request. My mother’s flat, unapologetic response, 

No.

Just this one time, please?

Mama sits at the edge of the bed, head in her hands, talking low under the rhythmic snores of my stepdad, Dan. She sighs deeply, and while I’ll never know whether she wanted a quiet couple hours to herself or she knew she owed me something from the loud, all-night party the night before, I’m out the door and down the steps before she can finish her concession,

Just this once. Don’t ask me again, Chelsea.

Landmark Baptist Church of Sanger, Texas is an ancient building. A limestone face leans heavy to the right, as if someone has given this sleepy edifice a nudge. Carved stone-face with stained glass and a bell tower of peeling white paint. The bell tower hosts the only working bell in town and wakes the entire countryside and valley of slumber every Sunday at noon. Inside, the building is a mixture of smells– Pine-Sol, mildew, dust and perfume lingering from female attendees.

Most congregants are Leonard’s age or older. Aged. Trembling hands. Trifocals. Hearing aids. Suits and ties, pantyhose and hats all sit patiently waiting for the sermon. Hosting bygone members, dedicated and solemn, spread sparsely among wooden pews. There’s no children’s group, youth services or any person in attendance who doesn’t already have a white halo of hair. Mrs. Miller tells me,

Church is like God’s house. It’s where He lives and He can live inside you, too.

I’m not sure what this means, but it looks like most people would rather be at God’s house across the street. Church of Christ. A modern building with air-conditioning, wheelchair access, a playground with a fenced area and Sunday School teachers fussing over playing toddlers. The cars are so plentiful from that church, they spill over into Landmark’s parking lot. 

Mr. Miller’s voice needs no microphone. Redemption and sanctification. Forgiveness and grace. Those words come from his mouth like a foreign tongue to my ears. Words fell out of his mouth in fluttering phrases, falling on nodding heads, eliciting a random Amen!from time to time. 

Dusty hymnals accompanied by standing and gathering. A deep and slow piano melody leads the parishioners in verse, refrain, verse, repeat. A song of heavy notes and rhythm altogether uniform. I realize I am watching an exercise. A dance practiced by participants and recited by memory, by heart. I watch Mrs. Miller for cues. When to sit, when to stand, when to sing in a whisper unsure of my own voice. 

And the song's end collapses softly. The piano plays quietly now, yet all are silent. The room mixes with a feeling in anticipation of its closure and with reverence of the moment. Mr. Miller leaves the pulpit and stands at the altar. His Bible in hand, speaking of Jesus,

Even youths grow weary and tired, but Jesus never does. His Word tells us, Come to Me, all you who are weary and heavy-laden and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am meek and lowly in heart and you shall find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and my burden is light. The invitation of Christ is open to everyone. Even you. 

A stirring in my mind and heart. I perceive something I had never realized before,

I am tired, too.

For a long, long time I have been tired. Weary. Heavy-burdened. I never once considered that the words of Jesus would be speaking to me, across time, and history, and oceans, and continents, generations and civilizations. Speaking directly to me. 

These words call to a yearning in my heart I didn't know I had. They sing a song whose melody compels me to respond. I do not know Jesus, but I know I am tired. I do not know what coming to Him means, but I know I feel a heavy burden. I do not know how I will find rest, but I know deeply, it's all I’ve ever wanted. 

I step out of the pew into the carpeted aisle and descend to the front altar among a hushed crowd. I walk to Mr. Miller and he leans down on one knee,

Chelsea, do accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?

Yes, sir. I do.

A crowd of men approaches and place their hands on my head and shoulders and I do not understand this. They pray quietly, some silently, thanking God for me, and I am astounded. No one no where has ever thanked God for me. Not even myself.

The hands pull away, revealing smiling faces behind glasses, age spots and dentures. I am greeted, hugged, and blessed by every member of the church. A slow mob of walkers and canes aim for me, a skinny first grader in cut-off shorts, a hand-me-down t-shirt and flip-flops with unbrushed hair. I have no idea what I’ve done to earn praise and Congratulations! from the church and I am a little afraid of their reaction.

When we return home after church, the invitation is extended to lunch. Mama allows it, though she grumbles, and after a quick change of clothes, I knock on the door to the Miller’s trailer house. The house is sleepy, warm, and quiet. Sunbeams shine in through pretty curtained windows spilling onto a leather couch, arm chair, and coffee table. Pictures displayed on wood-paneled walls show black and white photographs of younger years. Children in all stages, some in color, some in faded brown.

One picture grabs my attention. It is a reprint painting of Jesus. He is reclining, looking up with praying hands, framed in gold. I have never known anyone to hang a picture of Jesus outside a church, much less buy Him a fancy frame. Etched into the gold frame are the words, Jesus Prays to His Heavenly Father.

I think about words like Heavenly Father. I am not sure what this means. If it’s something like a wishful father or a fairy godfather or some other kind of father, I have no idea. My new cousin, Missy, Dan’s niece asked me recently if I missed my dad,

What dad?

Your real dad.

I never had a dad.

Everybody has a dad, stupid.

Well, I don’t.

Mrs. Miller pulls a pot roast from the oven and the room fills with warm steam waving off the glistening meat. I decide that the Heavenly Father is probably not real, but everyone wants Him to be real, like Santa. Jesus is real. Because He lived, wrote a book, and we have pictures of Him. Probably. When people love you, you should have a picture of them, frame it, so you can remember to love them back.

Mrs. Miller retrieves a pan of golden-baked bread from the oven and the room fills with a yeasty scent. I begin to salivate watching her ladle gravy across the top of the tender meat. She scoops fat cuts of potato, carrot, and scallion out of the pan onto a serving dish, waves of steam pouring off the vegetables.

I take a seat and scoot myself closer to my plate as Mr. Miller begins to carve portions of roast for each of us. My roast is served pooled in a delicate gravy saturated with spices. Mrs. Miller offers me two rolls already moist with melted butter. I hear Mrs. Miller talk about how she grew these vegetables in her garden, but I am not listening. I have just sunk my teeth into the roast, the salty and savory juices flavoring the vegetables with its rich, brown broth. My plate is clean within a few bites. 

I pull apart the flaky bread as Mrs. Miller taps my hand gently and seats herself next to Mr. Miller.

Bow your head, sweetheart.

Mr. Miller begins to talk to Heavenly Father. Thanking him for our food and for me and for his son, Jesus Christ. Amen. I look at Mr. and Mrs. Miller, they slowly raise their heads, but they are not in a hurry to eat. I am. I always am. 

And in this moment, I realize the contrast. In the quiet corners of their tiny trailer home, there is a stillness I’ve never felt before. Something I don’t recognize, a word whispered across my mind, peace.

There are no fights here. No cursing. No shouting matches across the room. Tables do not host last night’s empty beer bottles and ashtrays. Walls do not have holes where fists broke through in a rage. Fear does not paint their days in an alarming hue. Dread does not meet them in the early morning hours. There is no sense of urgency from one moment to the next. 

Mrs. Miller’s eyes meet mine and she smiles wide, Do you want some more?

It’s a question that does not get asked in my house. There’s enough for everyone. Barely. Don’t get caught taking someone else’s food, even if it’s all you’ve had today.

Mrs. Miller fills my plate again with brine-saturated vegetables that have crisp, roasted corners and sweet, soft, buttery insides. The scallion layers open like pages in a book under my fork and I taste their sweetness on my tongue. Mrs. Miller refills my sweet tea and adds a wedge of lemon to the icy drink. I gulp down the sweet and sour drink, letting the cool, earthy flavor hydrate my salty mouth.

Mrs. Miller offers me another slice of roast and I stab my fork deep into the potato and meat mixture, savoring every bite and then cleaning the plate of gravy with another buttered yeast roll. I sop up the brown juices, saturating my warm bread. Mrs. Miller begins to clear the dishes and I rise to help clean up the kitchen and gather silverware from the table.

No, no, dear. Please sit down. You are our guest.

I sit. Processing these words, our guest. I have never been anyone’s guest before.

Would you like some dessert?

Mrs. Miller takes a cooling cake pan from the kitchen window and begins to cut little serving pieces of what she calls pineapple upside down cake. I begin to imagine all kinds of reasons for serving cakes upside down. Mrs. Miller serves her husband first and then sets a plate in front of me. A cubed wedge of golden cake with a sunny circle of pineapple baked inside with a bright, red cherry in the center. My fork breaks the bubbly, sugary crust and dips into the sponge-like cake. It’s soft and delicate in my mouth, and the pineapple has a sweet and sour taste that makes my mouth water instantly.

Do you want seconds?

I eat seconds of the pineapple upside down cake in some kind of ecstasy. I finish every last crumb. Mr. Miller presents to me a red-leather bound Gideon’s Bible. Emblazoned on the front in golden script, New Testament, Psalms and Proverbs. He tells me to read a little everyday and to ask Jesus to forgive my sins. He reminds me since I’ve accepted Christ into my heart, I will one day live with Jesus and Heavenly Father forever. I hug both of them and thank them for lunch. Then, came the words that I had hoped to hear from the moment I came over this morning,

Would you like to come to church with us next Sunday, too?

I am the newest and youngest member of Landmark Baptist Church at age 6.

I return home, tiptoeing inside– not knowing what mood Mama might be in. She may be mad at me for going to church. She may be mad I’ve been gone so long. She may just be mad. Mama has been cleaning the house and I know she will be mad I haven’t been here to help. Dan is laying on the couch watching sports.

I grab a mop and bucket, filling it with hot water from the sink and dumping in half a cup of bleach, already adjusting to the Sunday schedule of our home. Party’s over, time to clean up and get ready for the work week. Mama enters the kitchen through the backdoor, laundry basket under her arm,

How was church?

Her mood settled, I venture into territory usually off-limits.

Good. Mama, you believe in Jesus? Heaven and stuff?

She dumps sun-dried laundry on the dining room table, separating and folding, neat stacks piling up under her quick hands.

Baby, when you’re dead, you’re dead. And when you’re gone, you’re gone. End of story.

I return to my mop bucket, pondering Mama’s words. I don’t know who to believe, but I know whatever I felt in church this morning is right and true. In the deepest parts of my heart, the words of Jesus sounded like a song I’ve always wanted to hear, and had somehow always known. A quiet whispering guiding me all the days of my life to come was exactly the kind of yoke I wanted to bear. If there was a Heavenly Father, I know He saw me today and gave me what I never had before - rest. Rest within His promises to me. 

The next week, Mr. Miller lets me ring the bell tower at noon. I grab the thick rope and pull down as hard as I can, rocking the heavy bell back and forth, until I find its rhythm and yank harder on the upswing. CLANG CLANG BONG CLANG

I throw my head back and stare up at the big, black bell oscillating over my head. Its gaping mouth calling across all the hills and valleys of North Texas. Singing its way into the tiny homes and towns that dotted the sleepy landscape. Ringing across miles, across time. The vibrations reaching down into my chest, my lungs, my heart. Playing a song I will long to hear all the days of my life and marking time for all my steps.

***

Kristy Loye Key