Hospitality

Last summer, I was blown away with how God could use silk flowers and candles and chocolate and frilly tablecloths to break through, for the first time, to the down-and-out teenage girls who come to the church plant. Those small considerations made people who don't even feel welcome in their own homes feel like they belonged somewhere, like they were wanted and loved. The events of that night moved hospitality from a sideline interest to a central kingdom tool, in my mind. And ever since then, it's a BIG deal to me.

So fast-forward to tonight, when circumstances conspired to derail my best laid plans for the youth Christmas service/party. It was cosmetic, really. The important elements were in place-- the nativity story, Christmas carols, with lyrics on Powerpoint, a horde of expectant teens and kids; it just looked wrong, slapdash. I couldn't set the tables or serve mulled cider or decorate the way I had planned.

So, rather than adjust like a rational person and let the little things go, I panicked. They'll think we don't care about them, I thought. They'll think we don't want them, that they're not as important as the adult guests. They're not welcome.

But once we started singing and marvelling at the story, from creation to ascension, I got over myself. The kids were enthralled. Nobody whispered or passed notes. Nobody seemed to notice the bare tables or lack of refreshments. They were too caught up in the Christ story.

Afterward, we shooed them over to the next room, where we slapped together a buffet of cookies and cupcakes and cider, and passed out the gift bags we had prepared. Our young guests were content. They were warm and welcome. The were loved, without all the stupid trappings I deemed so important. Heart hospitality was ever so much more valuable to them than the outward.