Hospitality scares me. You, too?
Did you grow up in a home where everything had to be
magazine-perfect when guests were coming? And now, when after
a soccer game, your husband turns to the couple standing next
to you on the sidelines and says, "Come by our house; let's
cook out," you die a thousand deaths. Because you know there
are no guest towels in the foyer bathroom, and you know the
kitchen floor is sticky under the bar stools by the island.
And you know you hadn't really budgeted for an impromptu
cookout. But he's smiling warmly and they are offering to
bring something, so you also know this is going to happen.
Die, you tell yourself. Die to your perfectionism. Die to
your pride. And don't you dare start barking orders at your
children as if you could whip things into shape quickly
enough to keep up the image that your household is perfect.
It's not. And you know it.
Instead, shove aside your Martha Stewart imagination and
resolve this one thing: Offer hospitality without a side of
sin. Offer gracious hospitality. Offer grace-filled
hospitality.
In 1 Kings 17, the prophet Elijah goes to Zaraphath and drops
in unexpectedly on a widow, who has only a handful of oil and
a little water with which to feed herself and her son. The
prophet asks for a cup of water and some bread. She explains
that she has very little, even as she goes off to prepare
something for him. And he assures her all will be well.
I think it's safe to assume the widow is remarkably
unconcerned about guest towels and sticky spots. She is a bit
concerned about quantity, because she barely has enough for
herself and her son. She extends herself anyway, offers
hospitality to Elijah and is blessed beyond her wildest
imaginings. You can't outgive God.
But you can stand rooted in pride and miss the opportunity to
both give and receive blessing. The key to hospitality is
humility.
In order to truly extend hospitality we must put away our
pride. We must be willing to open our doors, no matter the
state of homes or our wardrobes, and to graciously seek to
make our visitors feel welcome and at ease. When we do this,
we allow people to see us as we are. We put away the pretense
and we offer ourselves with all our weaknesses. When we offer
ourselves to other people and allow them to see our
imperfections, we take a chance.
A chance is all God needs.
He'll step into the space you create in that chance and He
will bless it. It may not look perfect. It very well could be
disastrous by magazine standards. (I've had that happen
exactly once in 28 years, and I'm still learning from that
particular experience.) But it will be blessed.
As we begin to practice the ministry of hospitality, we allow
ourselves to be vulnerable; we live genuine humility. We open
our doors and our hearts, and certainly some people will come
through those doors who don't view our efforts through the
same lens of charity. On occasion, we will hear a critical
comment; we will be judged according to the world's
standards. We will feel as if we've come up short. But we
haven't truly. Those are the times the hospitable hostess
will offer to Christ, imperfect and heartfelt, knowing that
He will redeem the time and the effort.
When it's 11 a.m. and you're still in your pajamas and the
doorbell rings and it's your neighbor, let her in. Clear a
spot on the couch. Find a clean mug and make tea.
Take a chance.
In every guest, see Christ. Open your heart wide; risk
allowing people to see your weaknesses. For it is in that
very weakness that His power is made perfect.
Foss, whose website is elizabethfoss.com, is a
freelance writer from Northern Virginia.